by Alys Clare
As he stood in the doorway, he turned back to me and beckoned. ‘A word, Lassair.’
I wondered what he wanted to say. I got up and followed him outside.
My father turned to face me. ‘You should go back to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘You’re due back with your teacher round about now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. My father’s suggestion was making me feel very guilty over my thoughts of that morning, when I’d been longingly imagining being back with Gurdyman. ‘But what about poor Morcar?’ my conscience made me ask. ‘He’s grieving, and there’ll be the funeral to endure, and—’
‘Edild and I will look after Morcar,’ my father said, quietly but with the sort of tone that informed me it was not my place to take the discussion further. ‘You will return to your studies in Cambridge tomorrow. We’ll go to Lord Gilbert first thing in the morning, and I’ll ask his permission to take you.’ He fixed me with a stare. ‘I will not let you go unprotected, Lassair.’
Part of me sang with joy, despite the dreadful circumstances. The prospect of a day alone with my beloved father was a rare treat. But then I wondered why he was suddenly so eager for me to return to Gurdyman.
Anticipating the question, my father looked down at me, his eyes full of love and concern. ‘My daughters and my sisters,’ he said, repeating his earlier words. ‘Of them all, the most precious is you, child.’ It was, I well knew, an admission he had never made before and would never make again; torn from him, I’m sure, by the emotion of the moment. ‘How can I keep you safe here?’ he demanded, his voice raw and angry. ‘I work all the hours the good Lord sends, and so do you, and I am not close enough to protect you if he ... if danger comes. Yet in Cambridge, according to Hrype, you live in a house so well-hidden that even he occasionally has trouble finding it.’
‘It’s a wizard’s house,’ I said softly. ‘I expect concealing it comes easily to someone like Gurdyman.’ I didn’t think my father heard; if he did, he did not acknowledge the remark. It was, I expect, implicit of things he didn’t really want to think about.
‘You’ll be safe in Cambridge,’ my father reiterated.
He was right. Without being aware of the details of how it was achieved – I wasn’t sure I wanted to know – I was quite certain, beyond any doubt, that no bearded stranger, even a giant one, would be able to harm me once I was under Gurdyman’s roof.
The fact that my father was apparently aware of this, too, suggested that perhaps he thought about arcane and magical matters rather more than I’d imagined.
Early the next morning, my father and I presented ourselves up at Lakehall. Lord Gilbert’s reeve, Bermund, greeted us – if opening the big door the merest crack and peering out with a look of deep suspicion qualifies as a greeting. Bermund may be secretive and withdrawn, unsmiling and a bit rat-like in his appearance, but he’s reasonable. Once my father had explained our presence, Bermund had a think, sniffed, then nodded curtly and opened the door a little wider. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said with obvious reluctance. ‘I will enquire whether Lord Gilbert is willing to receive you.’
I did not dare meet my father’s eyes, and I’m sure he felt the same. After a moment, Bermund returned and, without a word, jerked his head in the direction of the big hall. Lord Gilbert sat at a large table by the hearth, alone, a muddle of tattered and much-handled pieces of vellum spread out in front of him, a quill in his hand and ink all over his fingers. He looked up at us with a smile, as if any distraction from his task was welcome.
‘Good morning, Wymond!’ he exclaimed. ‘Eels thriving?’
‘They are, my lord,’ my father replied gravely.
Lord Gilbert turned to me. ‘And, er ...?’
‘Lassair,’ I prompted.
‘Lassair, Lassair, yes, Lassair,’ Lord Gilbert said enthusiastically, perhaps hoping that repetition would at last commit my name to his memory. ‘Our apprentice healer!’
At least he recalled my profession. ‘It is time for me to return to my studies in Cambridge, my lord,’ I said quickly, capitalizing on the moment. ‘With your permission,’ I added respectfully.
‘Of course, of course,’ Lord Gilbert responded. ‘The more you know, the more use you are to your own community. Eh, Wymond?’ He turned to my father.
‘Indeed, Lord Gilbert,’ my father said. Then, his face intent, he went on, ‘My lord, I have come to ask your leave to escort my daughter to Cambridge. There have been certain attacks on members of my family, and I am concerned—’
‘Yes, yes, so I hear,’ Lord Gilbert interrupted. ‘Bermund has kept me informed, and I had half-expected you to come before now, Wymond. I am always here, when my village faces a threat!’
It was true, I reflected. Up to a point.
‘There is nothing I would ask for, my lord, except this one concession,’ my father said. ‘I would not risk my daughter’s safety by making her travel unprotected from here to Cambridge.’
‘And nor shall you,’ Lord Gilbert said grandly. ‘You have my permission to escort her, Wymond.’ Turning to me, he wagged an inky finger. ‘Take care that you work hard, child, so that you repay our faith in you!’
I bowed my head, pretending meekness, and muttered, ‘Yes, my lord.’ I kept my head down; I didn’t want Lord Gilbert to see my expression. I did not need a bumbling fool like him to tell me to work hard. Gurdyman would not give me the option of doing anything but my best, and the most vital stimulus of all was my own hunger to learn.
My father dug me in the ribs, and I managed a sincere-sounding, ‘Thank you, Lord Gilbert,’ as we turned and hurried out of the hall. Once we were out of the courtyard and on the track leading back to the village, my father leaned down and said quietly, ‘No need to antagonize him, Lassair. You and I both know you are a great deal cleverer than him, but there’s no need to tell him.’ I heard a smile in his voice, and glanced up to verify it. ‘Our masters hold the ordering of our days in their hands, be they worthy of the responsibility or not,’ he continued, ‘and there is nothing we can do about it. Be thankful, child, that Lord Gilbert has a wise wife, and enough sense to listen to her.’
My father was right, as he usually is. Lord Gilbert’s wife is Lady Emma, and I’m sure I’m not the only resident of Aelf Fen who appreciates that it is she who is responsible for the good things that happen to us. She agreed with my aunt when Edild suggested I should be trained as a healer; I’ve never known if Lady Emma spotted some latent talent in me, or if, knowing and trusting Edild, she was prepared to take her word for it. The latter, I suspect. Then, when the chance arose for me to study with my Cambridge wizard – not that anyone except Hrype, me and Gurdyman himself would refer to him as such – I’m all but certain it was Lady Emma who pointed out to Lord Gilbert the advantages that my new knowledge would provide for their family and the village.
It’s just as well, I suppose, that in addition to hinting at magic so potent that it makes me shake with fear, Gurdyman also instructs me on more practical matters. I like and admire Lady Emma, and it would not feel right to deceive her.
My father and I were back in the village. I ran inside our house to bid farewell to my mother, then I picked up the bag containing my few possessions. My father took it from me, swinging it up over his shoulder as if it contained no more than a handful of feathers. He gave me a smile. ‘Ready?’
Excitement bubbled up in me. ‘Ready!’
The day was fine, the going was easy, and we made good time. We picked up a ride for the long stretch that runs south-east of the Wicken peninsular, and, by the time we stopped at midday to eat our bread and cheese, there were only a few miles to go.
It was a rare delight to have my father to myself. Walking along side by side, we talked incessantly. He works so hard, and makes such strenuous efforts to care for and protect his family, that the deep, thoughtful side to his character is easily missed. A man like Lord Gilbert, for example, would doubtless think that his favourite eel catcher’s head is as empty of anything othe
r than the basics of day-to-day life as his own. Not many people know of my father’s true nature, and I’m only thankful that I am one of them.
My father spoke of Alvela. I had assumed, since he had rarely seen his late sister and did not appear to have much to say to her when he did, that they had not been close; not in the way that he and Edild are. Alvela, I had always thought, was of the same level of importance as my father’s two elder brothers: all three kin, and therefore always linked to him through the blood, but not necessarily people with whom he chose to spend his small, precious amount of free time. To hear him speak of his youngest sibling – Alvela was marginally the younger of the twins – made me appreciate that love takes many forms. Through his eyes, I saw the nervous, tense woman I knew as my aunt as she’d been when a girl, worrying because she could not grasp things as quickly as her sister. I saw her as a young adult, secretly in love with the flint knapper who would become her husband, and desperate because she believed he hadn’t even noticed the self-effacing girl who adored him from afar.
I think that sharing his memories with me was my father’s way of grieving for her. My mother hadn’t liked Alvela – they just didn’t get on – and I imagine that my father’s tender reflections would have received short shrift at home. When finally he fell silent, I saw him wipe tears from his face. I gave him a moment to recover, then quietly reached out and took his hand.
Once or twice, as we walked and talked, I felt as if part of me was trying to catch my attention. Trying, perhaps, to warn me. I ignored it. I was with my big, strong father. No harm could possibly come to me when he was there to protect me.
Gurdyman did not seem surprised to see me. After a short pause, he opened the door in answer to my knock, his round face smiling, his eyes bright. I detected a faint aroma about him: musk, I thought. We had clearly disturbed him in the middle of some preparation or experiment down in his crypt. He ushered us along to his sunny little courtyard, and bade us both sit down on the bench while he fetched refreshments.
‘You are welcome to stay with us overnight and journey back in the morning,’ he said to my father as he poured out a mug of frothy, fragrant ale.
‘Thank you, but I must return before nightfall,’ my father replied. He paused to take a long draught of the ale. ‘That’s good,’ he murmured. He glanced at me, then at Gurdyman. ‘There has been some trouble,’ he said briefly. ‘Lassair will explain, but, in short, I’d not rest happily tonight away from my family and my home.’
Gurdyman nodded. ‘As you wish. We will not detain you, then.’
My father wolfed down the meat pie that Gurdyman had set out, drained his ale, then stood up. Face to face with Gurdyman, who is not even my height, he looked taller than ever. ‘Look after her,’ he said, his expression intent. ‘Your house is well-hidden, here in this maze of alleyways, and I am reassured by that, but ...’ His voice trailed off and he shrugged, as if not sure how to go on.
‘Do not worry,’ Gurdyman said calmly. ‘The old stones of my house have protected those within from many foes and evils over the years, and they will do so again.’ He met my father’s eyes, and I had the sense that something more than words passed between them. ‘Do not worry,’ he said again. ‘While Lassair remains under my roof, she is safe.’
My father went on staring down at him for a moment. Then, nodding, he turned to me. He wrapped me in a bear hug, kissed the top of my head and murmured, ‘May the good Lord above look after you.’ Without another word – he was, I guessed, finding this as painful as I was – he let me go, and hurried away up the passage towards the door.
Gurdyman went after him. I stood alone in the open court, surreptitiously wiping my eyes. By the time Gurdyman returned, I was ready. With a smile, I said, ‘I’ll take my satchel and my bag up to my room, then I’ll come down to the crypt to help you with whatever you’re doing.’
He looked at me kindly, his eyes crinkled up with affection. ‘It is good to have you back, Lassair,’ he said. ‘Already your enthusiasm fills this house like a stream of light. I appreciate your willingness to get straight down to work, but I think we shall take the rest of the afternoon off.’ I began to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘We shall sit here together in the sunshine, finishing the food and this jug of rather fine ale, and you shall tell me what has so alarmed your father. I judge,’ he added, seating himself in his big chair with a wince and a creak of bones, ‘that he is a man not easily thrown off his stride, and yet here he is, escorting you on a journey you have done many times by yourself.’ He reached for his mug, took a drink and fixed his eyes on me. ‘Proceed,’ he said, with a wave of the hand holding the mug. ‘I am listening.’
I obeyed, concentrating on doing as he had taught me: telling the tale in the right order, succinctly, yet leaving out none of the important facts. When I had finished, he studied me for a few moments. As I looked into his eyes, I had the strange yet certain sense that none of this was news to him.
Before I could put the suspicion into words, he was already responding to it.
‘Quite right!’ He gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Indeed, I have been informed of these events. Well done, Lassair!’ He chuckled again. ‘You are learning to trust your instincts. As I have so often told you, the more you do so, the more reliable your instincts will become.’
‘Who told you?’ I demanded. One look at his smiling face informed me that he wasn’t going to reveal his source, so I puzzled it out for myself. When I was sure, I said, ‘Hrype,’ managing not to make it sound like a question.
‘Hrype,’ Gurdyman agreed.
My self-congratulatory smugness was rudely interrupted by a frightening thought: if Hrype had been here in Cambridge telling Gurdyman about the deaths of Utta and Alvela, and the alarming attacks on the dwellings of my family, who had been back in Aelf Fen looking after Edild? Oh, and I’d been so sure; so happy, to think of Hrype slipping unnoticed into Edild’s little house, protecting her with his strength and his strange powers!
Gurdyman waited patiently while these panicky thoughts ran their course. Then he said, ‘Child, do not underestimate Hrype. His presence is not necessarily required in order for a shield created by him to maintain its efficacy.’
My mind filled with questions. How could my aunt be kept safe, even by some magic shield of Hrype’s, if she was left all alone? And what of my father, so desperate to protect those he loved, and who had been reassured – untruthfully, it now appeared – by his dear Edild that somehow she was being guarded? That question led straight to the next: did my father know about Hrype? No, no, and you must not tell him! came the instant reply, although I had no idea from where.
As I tried to frame the words to demand some answers, I sensed Gurdyman’s resistance. I stared at him, and saw in his face that it was no good.
I could ask as many questions about Hrype as I liked. I wasn’t going to get any response. With a resigned sigh, I got up and emptied the last of the ale into our mugs.
Gurdyman was watching me. He said, very softly, ‘Magical protection or not, Hrype would take no chances where your aunt is concerned. It is perfectly safe for him to leave her, for her nephew is still staying with her.’
Morcar! So he hadn’t yet left Aelf Fen.
Despite the fact that I was already prepared to believe in Hrype’s shielding powers – Gurdyman had a very persuasive way with him – all the same, it was good to know that Edild had a flesh-and-blood protector too.
FIVE
In the morning, I woke refreshed and ready to work. Gurdyman had retired to his crypt the previous evening, and I knew he would be down there all night. He tells me he does sleep – he has a cot and blankets always set ready – but I have my doubts. He has a capacity for concentration that astounds me, and is able to keep going, without a break for food, drink or rest, for a length of time that one would have thought unendurable.
He had instructed me to come and find him when I was up, dressed and fed, and accordingly, once I had tidied away the remains of
my breakfast, I trotted off through the house, heading towards the door that opens on to the alley, and, just before it on the left, the twisting passage leading to the steps down to the crypt.
The passage wasn’t there. Where the arched entrance normally was, I found myself face to face with a blank wall. I stopped in amazement, totally confounded. Stupidly I put my hands up, feeling along the stonework, as if my fingers could find what my eyes could not see. What had happened? Where was the passage? Oh, dear Lord, where was Gurdyman? Had he somehow walled himself up in his crypt, destined to remain in that dark, deep, windowless place till he slowly starved to death?
I banged against the wall, fighting panic, listening for the hollow sound that would indicate an empty space on the far side. Nothing. I banged again, feeling a frantic sob rise in my throat. I drew a deep breath, preparing to shout, to scream.
There was a sharp click, and as if by magic the outline of a door appeared in the stones. The door opened, and Gurdyman’s smiling face came into view. He swung the door fully open, pinning it back somehow so that it was no longer visible. He had put it, I guessed, in its usual position. Observant as I pride myself on being, I had never noticed it before.
He must have seen that I’d been alarmed, which is putting it mildly. He said, his face straightening, ‘I’m sorry, child. I did not mean to frighten you.’ His smile crept back. ‘Did you think I had performed some powerful magic, Lassair? Some spell that made a door, doorway and passage vanish as if they had never been?’
Since it was exactly what I had thought, I made no reply.
He took pity on me, emerging from the arch of the doorway and coming to stand beside me. ‘Magic spells can achieve many things, child,’ he said gently. ‘Making doorways disappear as if they had never been is not one of them, or, if it is, it’s magic beyond anything I have ever heard of.’ He patted me on the shoulder. ‘You’re quite pale,’ he observed. ‘You really were frightened, weren’t you?’
