by Alys Clare
I stared down intently at her. I had expected angry denials, violence, a cat’s claw, hissing, scratching attack on my face. But Zarina stayed there, quite still, her expression impassive.
Then two tears spilled out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
I did not know what to do or what to think. Desperate now, I said, ‘Are you left-handed?’
She looked up at me in amazement. ‘Why on earth do you—? No. I favour my right hand.’ As if to demonstrate, she dipped into her pocket and extracted a torn piece of thin linen, with which she dried her tears. She held it in her right hand.
Slowly, I lowered myself on to the ground beside her. Our eyes met and held. I sensed her reaching out to me. I said, ‘Zarina, won’t you confide in me?’ Realizing that, bearing in mind the dreadful accusations I had just thrown at her, I was probably the last person on earth she would trust, I gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Whatever you’ve done, I’m quite sure you had your reasons,’ I said softly.
After what seemed a very long time, she removed her hand from mine and started to speak.
‘I related to you how I had to flee from Haglar,’ she began.
‘The man your father was trying to make you marry,’ I replied. ‘Yes. I remember.’
‘I told you, too, how he sent a man after me and Derman killed him?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘Good. Then you will understand, perhaps, if I explain how I never felt safe, even with the troupe of entertainers. We travelled all over, this country, that city, and always the fear lurked that, having sent one man who managed to track me down, Haglar would do so again and this time I would not be so fortunate as to have Derman on hand to conveniently remove him.’ She paused, her eyes full of the memory of that constant dread. ‘In the end I confided in one of the older women in the troupe,’ she went on. ‘Knowing what Derman was like, you will, I am sure, understand that it was not much comfort to talk to him. He would kill for me – he had killed for me – but his comprehension was severely limited. As long as he was well fed, warm, and the sun shone, he was happy. Until he met Ida,’ she added under her breath.
‘So,’ she continued after a moment, ‘I opened my heart to Mathilde. She listened in silence, although I could sense she understood and sympathized. When I had finished, she said that she, too, had been threatened with a marriage she did not want, and her way of avoiding had been simple: she had married someone else.’
As the surprise faded, I saw the sense of it. Haglar might still succeed in tracking Zarina, and he would no doubt try to have her abducted, but even if he did, she would be able to hurl in his face the fact of her being legally married to someone else and, unless or until he could contrive to have that marriage annulled, he would be powerless.
‘I was desperate,’ she went on. She was looking at me, her face flushed with embarrassment. ‘I was young, I was out of my mind with worry, I was alone –’ you had your brother, I wanted to say, but then, remembering what sort of man he had been, I realized she was right – ‘and I did what I did with barely a thought. Before I knew it, I was married and –’ her blush deepened, turning her cheeks to scarlet – ‘and because I was well aware that an unconsummated marriage can be dissolved, I did my utmost to make that marriage one of the flesh.’ She dropped her head. ‘I failed,’ she whispered.
I wondered what he had been like, this man from the troupe who had agreed to marry the young Zarina so as to keep her out of another man’s clutches. Why had he not succeeded in making love to her? Had he been very old, perhaps? I found it hard to imagine any other reason for a man not to leap at the invitation into Zarina’s bed. Or – I recalled something Edild had told me – perhaps this husband had been one of those men who are aroused only by their own sex, as the rumours said our reeve, Bermund, was.
Could I ask her? I waited, not speaking, and after a while she raised her head again and looked at me. To my surprise, she was smiling.
‘You do not know, do you?’
‘How could I?’ I flashed back. ‘I only saw your troupe on one occasion. How do you expect me to guess which man was your husband?’
Your husband.
The words sank in at last, and I understood. I stared at her, horrified. ‘You’re married!’ I whispered. ‘That’s why you can’t marry Haward!’ I saw my dear brother’s face, imagined him having to say goodbye to his hopes of happiness, and something in me broke. ‘You’re married,’ I repeated numbly. ‘Your reluctance had nothing to do with Derman.’
She reached out and took my hand again, holding it so tightly that I could feel the cracked, rough skin of hers. I felt a wave of emotion coming off her – a wave of love? – and I did not know what to do. I saw again the fall of my runes, that time I had tried to read the future for this extraordinary woman and my beloved brother. I remembered what I had seen. A very small, very faint hope began to shine.
Zarina put her face close to mine and whispered, ‘It has everything to do with Derman. Lassair, dear Lassair, he was already with the troupe when I ran away and joined them. He wasn’t my brother, he was my husband.’
I believe I knew it a blink of an eye before she told me. Nevertheless, her words still rocked me to my core. It all fell into place: You know nothing about me, she had cried. How right she was.
‘I regretted it almost straight away,’ she was saying softly. ‘My terrible attempt to make him consummate the marriage is something for which I can never forgive myself. He didn’t understand, you see, yet somehow I fear I planted in him the seed that would lead to his infatuation with Ida.’ She paused. ‘He was not formed as most adult men are formed,’ she said delicately.
‘I know,’ I said dully. ‘I helped my aunt lay him out, and I saw his body.’
‘Of course you did,’ she breathed. I sensed she was relieved. ‘Well, then.’
I could think of nothing to say. After a moment Zarina spoke again. ‘Life was not so bad,’ she said. ‘I loved the travelling, and I enjoyed my work as a performer. I learned to tolerate Derman and forgive him his shortcomings, which, indeed, were no fault of his. I knew that I could trust him, for he had already proved that he would do almost anything for me. In a way, I grew fond of him.’ She hesitated. ‘Then one Lammas time we came to a small settlement in the fen country and I fell in love with your brother.’ She glanced at me.
‘I didn’t kill Derman,’ she said after a while. ‘It would have been like killing a child. I swear to you, Lassair, on all I hold dear. I wanted him gone – of course I did – but I took no step such as you suggest to rid myself of him. He saved my life,’ she reminded me. ‘What vengeance would I have brought down on to myself, had I murdered my saviour?’
Slowly, I nodded. I understood. Some things in this world are simply unforgivable, and the retribution would have been terrible.
She was still holding my hand, and now I placed my other hand over hers. ‘I am sorry I accused you,’ I said humbly. ‘I know I was wrong.’
My head was down, and she bent so she could look into my face. ‘Do you?’ She spoke with sudden fervour.
‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘Really, yes.’
Her tense expression relaxed. She smiled. ‘I’m very, very glad to hear it.’
‘Why?’ I was smiling too.
‘Because I’ve just told your brother I’m going to marry him.’
The runes had been right. My heart began to sing.
TWENTY
Edild looked up with her finger to her lips when I went in. ‘He’s sleeping,’ she whispered, indicating Sir Alain. Quietly, she got up and crossed the small room to the door, leading the way outside. Pulling the door almost closed behind her, she said, ‘Lord Gilbert has heard that Sir Alain was attacked. He sent a messenger to ask after our patient’s state of health – no doubt Lady Claude is very anxious – and I told the man to say that he lives and I expect him to recover.’ She bit her lip, looking back towards the room she had just left. ‘I ought, I suppose, to report in person,’ she added s
lowly, ‘although in truth I do not want to leave him.’
‘I’ll go,’ I offered. Just then I was so happy that the last thing I wanted was to sit perfectly still in Edild’s small room, not even allowed to talk.
She looked at me, apparently only then really seeing me. ‘What are you so cheerful about?’ she demanded. She, too, was smiling. She’s like that, Edild; she seems to catch other people’s moods, which is fine if they’re good moods, but not so great when they’re bad.
I said, ‘Zarina has just told me she’s agreed to marry Haward.’
Edild did not appear nearly as amazed and delighted as I had hoped. ‘Well, of course,’ she said. ‘With poor Derman dead and no longer a problem, I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘But—’ I stopped.
Zarina’s confession regarding her true relationship to Derman had emerged with considerable pain and shame; that had been very evident. I could fully appreciate why she had been driven to such a desperate measure, and indeed, as she’d pointed out, she had been very young and extremely worried for her own safety.
Was there any need for anybody else to know? Haward, perhaps, although from what Zarina had said, it sounded as if Derman had only been her husband in name. Anyway, I did not agree with what I perceived as the usual male attitude: that it was fine for a man to have sown plenty of wild oats and slept with any number of women before marriage, yet for a woman to behave in the same way was almost as bad as if she’d cut several people’s heads off. I reckoned that Zarina had every right to keep that particular aspect of her past to herself. If she chose one day to confide in my brother, that was up to her. I wasn’t going to tell him.
Which meant, I realized, that I shouldn’t really tell anybody else . . .
Edild was looking at me curiously. ‘But?’ she prompted.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing?’
It is very difficult to hide your thoughts from my aunt. But she would, I was sure, be the first to agree that another’s secret is sacrosanct. I held my head high, looked her in the eye and repeated firmly, ‘Nothing.’
She raised an eyebrow, then, apparently accepting that the matter was closed, smiled at me very sweetly and said, ‘Thank you for offering to go and speak to Lord Gilbert. I accept. Oh, and Lassair?’
‘Yes?’
‘You could look in on Lady Claude while you’re there. Take some more of the medicaments you prepared for her, in case she needs them.’
I slipped back inside the house and fetched what I needed. Sir Alain, I observed, was still sleeping soundly. He had turned on to his right side, and I could see that the wound on his head was now uncovered. The swelling had gone right down; with any luck, he would be left with no permanent effects once the headache had gone.
It was good to have encouraging news to report up at the hall. As I set off up the track, I thought about what I would say. Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma would be relieved; Lady Claude too, I hoped. But something was niggling at me. I wondered if she really would welcome the news. If Sir Alain had died, she would not have to marry him and could revert to her true desire, to enter a convent. Maybe, when I reported that he was well on the way to recovery, Lady Claude would not be able to prevent the sneaky, evil little thought that if only Alberic had hit him slightly harder, she could even now be making her plans to take the veil.
Instantly, I reprimanded myself. The little I knew of Lady Claude told me that she was a God-fearing, devout woman, ever mindful that temptation was all around us and that we had to be on our guard all the time not to fall into sin. Even if she did entertain a fleeting regret that her future husband had survived the attack, she would no doubt instantly fall on her knees in prayer, begging for forgiveness and offering all sorts of dire, unpleasant and probably painful things in penance.
They were not really like us, the lords and ladies. I reflected as I walked along just how different my life was from Lady Claude’s. She had wealth; she was about to marry into a powerful and influential family; she would live in the most comfortable home that money could buy and probably want for nothing all her long life. None of which, I reminded myself, would really mean much to her when all she wished to do was answer her God’s call and be a nun.
I would not, I decided, have changed places with Lady Claude for anything.
I was shown into the hall, where I found Lord Gilbert, Lady Emma and the two children preparing for an outing. The nursemaid was in attendance to take care of the little girl, and the boy was sitting up on his father’s shoulders, kicking him with small, sharp heels and saying, ‘Come on, horsey!’
Lord Gilbert flashed me a slightly embarrassed glance, but Lady Emma, serene and more than equal to the moment, said smoothly, ‘Lassair, it was good of you to come to see us. What news of Sir Alain?’
I told her, and she expressed her relief. ‘Please, do go up to tell Lady Claude,’ she said. ‘She is in her sewing room.’ She glanced at her husband, who shrugged – as well as a man can shrug with a small boy on his shoulders – as if to say, You tell her.
Lady Emma turned back to me. ‘We had promised the children that we would all go out this afternoon. The weather is so lovely, and they have been indoors too long. I did try to encourage Lady Claude to join us for the midday meal – and, indeed, to accompany us on our outing – but she refused.’
I felt she was waiting for me to comment, so I said, ‘She will have been very worried about Sir Alain, no doubt. I expect she felt she would be poor company.’
Lady Emma’s face cleared. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure that is so.’ She sounded relieved to have her guest’s awkward manners explained. I remembered how I’d wondered if Claude was wishing Sir Alain’s injury had been more serious; fatally serious. Was Lady Emma thinking the same thing?
I could not, of course, ask her.
‘I will find my way up to Lady Claude’s room,’ I said.
‘Will you? Thank you, that means we need keep the children waiting no longer.’
‘Come on, horsey!’ yelled the little boy, heels flailing, and I heard his father emit a grunt of pain.
I watched as they all trooped outside. Out of nowhere, I had the sudden wish that I was going with them. They all looked so happy, so carefree, and here I was about to shut myself up with a nervy, brooding, sickly woman with whom I had not one thing in common.
I am a healer, I reminded myself. I do not have to like my patients; I just have to help them.
I straightened my shoulders, hitched up my satchel and strode determinedly towards the doorway leading to the steps and Lady Claude’s rooms.
I tapped on the sewing-room door and, after quite a long wait, I heard her voice say, ‘Come in.’
She had shut herself up tightly in there, and even the tiny window set high up in the wall was fast closed. The sweet summer air outside had been firmly forbidden entry. There was an unpleasant aroma of bad breath and stale sweat, and it was not only that which made me stop on the threshold; for an instant I sensed that an invisible barrier stretched across between the door posts. All my senses – steadily becoming more highly attuned, thanks to my rigorous sessions with Hrype – were shouting at me, Keep away! I paused, uncertain what to do. Then I gave myself a mental shake, commanded myself not to be so fanciful, and stepped into the room.
Without looking up, she said, ‘Close the door.’
She sat crouched on her little stool, hunched over a large piece of stout canvas stretched on the wooden frame. Beside her on a small wooden table was the black velvet bag that she normally wore hanging from her belt. The drawstrings at its neck that normally kept it closed had been loosened, and the contents were laid out on the table. She was, I saw, embroidering yet another picture – hadn’t she run out of Deadly Sins by now? – and the needle was threaded with a length of dark brown wool. The small, careful stitches were outlining a sinister figure that appeared to have wings. I watched as her hand stabbed firmly through the canvas, the needle disappearing only to emerge again
almost instantly from beneath, always in exactly the right spot. She was, I realized, a true craftswoman.
Inspired by her skill to a genuinely admiring comment, I stepped forward and said, ‘You embroider most beautifully, Lady Claude, and the images are so very artistic.’
Her only acknowledgement was a faint sniff. Did her stark and loveless view of the world disapprove of praise? She would probably disregard it as some machination of the devil, I reflected, designed to make a person so swollen-headed and pleased with herself that she stopped striving to do better.
I felt very sorry for her, stuck in that fetid room all by herself while everyone else was out in the sunshine having fun and Lord Gilbert was pretending to be a horse to amuse his little son. Crouching down close to her, I said, ‘Sir Alain is sleeping, Lady Claude. He was hit very hard, but fortunately there appears to be no permanent damage. He was awake earlier, and he spoke to my aunt and me perfectly rationally.’
She went on sewing.
I cast around for something to say that would draw her out. I thought I knew something of her turmoil. She wanted to be a nun, not a wife; she was extremely devout, perhaps to the extent of viewing the intimate life of husband and wife as a sin; she felt very guilty because her young seamstress would not now be dead had she not brought her here to Lakehall; and now, as if all of that were not enough, the man she was betrothed to had suffered a violent attack. No wonder the poor woman was suffering from headaches and insomnia.
I looked up at her, carefully at first, for I did not want her to know I was observing her. I realized quickly that she was totally absorbed in her needlework; I could stare as much as I liked. I studied her face. The stiff, white wimple seemed to have been drawn even tighter, its harsh edges biting into the flesh. The black veil looked as if it had been arranged with a meticulous, almost fanatical hand, so evenly did the folds hang around her. She was pale, so pale, and her skin had a sheen of grease, or perhaps sweat, for it was hot in that desolate little room. Her small, light eyes were deeply circled in grey. I knew without asking that she was not sleeping well, and I guessed she was in pain.
