by Alys Clare
Ancient walls. Old settlement …
Perhaps it was because for once my mind was idling, and not crammed with the day’s usual quota of things to learn, things to memorize, plans to make for the necessities of life, that something floated to the surface, and I understood how it was that Jack had known his way around the workmen’s village so well.
In all probability, he’d been born there.
He had told me, back in September, about his father, who had been a carpenter with Duke William’s army during the conquest of England. His father had worked on the construction of the wooden castles that William ordered to be built, whose purpose was to threaten the defeated foe with their looming presence and keep us under the Norman thumb. He had been sent here to Cambridge in 1068 and that was where he’d met Jack’s mother. It seemed highly likely that the family home had been in one of those lowly dwellings we’d passed. No wonder Jack had known about the chapel.
I dozed for a while, my mind rambling in that half-world between thoughts and dreams where the two flow easily into one another. I saw Jack as a boy, earnest, honest, protective of his mother; he’d told me he was only a boy when his father died. I saw his mother harassed, bullied, forced to do work that demeaned her. I saw Jack use his big fists to protect her. It’s too easy for a man to hit a woman.
I saw him leaning over her, his boy’s face full of distress at her hurts. The same expression he’d worn earlier, when he’d looked at me.
I wondered if he still lived in or near the workmen’s village. Had he perhaps restored one of the more sound houses? The one where he and his parents had lived, perhaps? I couldn’t remember if he’d mentioned any brothers and sisters … He’d said something about being the man of the family after his father’s death, but family could have meant just him and his mother.
I realized I’d very much like to ask him.
I was awakened by Gurdyman, gently shaking my shoulder. ‘Bedtime, Lassair,’ he said. ‘Up you get, and I’ll help you.’
I did as he bade, smiling to myself. Gurdyman can’t even climb the ladder up to my little attic without puffing and panting and going red in the face, so I very much doubted he’d have been able to shove me up it. Not that he needed to; all he was called upon to do was to watch from below, with obvious relief, as I clambered into my room.
‘Call out when you’re safely in bed,’ he said.
I hurriedly took off my outer gown and boots, then fell into bed. I sang out something that sounded like mminned!
‘Goodnight, then,’ came back Gurdyman’s retreating voice. He was already returning to his work.
Smiling, I turned over and went to sleep.
FIVE
I was awake very early, probably because I’d dozed and slept for much of the previous evening. My jaw was still sore and stiff, but my fingertip exploration suggested the swelling had gone down a little. I tried mouthing a few words, and was encouraged to think I stood a chance of making myself understood today.
I lay thinking about the dream I’d just had.
It was about Rollo. He stood up on a high promontory, looking down at a bay with deep blue water which sparkled in bright sunshine. There was an air of steely determination in his expression, as if he was making up his mind on a course of action he didn’t much want to take. He held a horse by the reins: a fine horse, big and powerful, with alert, pricked ears and intelligence in its face. It stood shifting from foot to foot, and in the dream I remarked to Rollo, You may not be eager to start but the same cannot be said for your horse.
Rollo smiled absently. Still he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Presently he sighed, and swung himself up into the saddle.
I wondered, as I lay reflecting, whether the strange and mystical process which operated my connection with the shining stone was also affecting my dream self. Or was it perhaps nothing more than my conscience, making images of Rollo turning away even as my interest in Jack Chevestrier deepened?
Did I want Rollo to turn away?
I had imagined, when I fell in love with him so swiftly and so thoroughly, that our future lay together. I’m not sure I envisaged marriage, although I once had a sort of vision of the child I would bear him one day. But it was a year and more since I had seen him, and Jack had held me in his arms only the previous day. Admittedly he’d had to do so in order to carry me home, but, no matter what the circumstances had been, I had found joy in being so close to his big strength.
Realizing that there was no point in distressing myself with my anxious and guilty thoughts, I decided it was time to get up.
Gurdyman was very kind and considerate, and would probably have let me spend an idle day had I not insisted I was fit to work. I could make myself understood now, more or less, and soon we were immersed in the astrological chart that he had drawn.
He didn’t let me go on working into the evening, however, sending me away and commanding me to sit out in the court and enjoy the last of the sun before retiring for an early night. I’ve no idea how he knew the sun was shining – you certainly couldn’t tell down in the subterranean darkness of the crypt – and perhaps it was just a lucky guess.
I sat in Gurdyman’s chair, eyes closed, feeling the sun on my face and thinking that in a little while I would prepare some broth. If I dipped my bread in it till it was soggy, I ought to be able to manage it. When I heard a knock at the door, I knew who it was. I had, I think, been expecting him.
‘Do you want me to come and look at another body?’ I said, forming the words carefully.
He understood. ‘There’s no real need,’ he said. ‘It is the same method of killing as with Robert Powl.’
‘I am willing to look,’ I replied.
He seemed pleased. ‘In that case, I’ll take you to see her.’
‘I’ll tell Gurdyman.’ I hurried off along the passage and down the steps, and quickly, before Gurdyman could ask any questions, explained where I was going and who with. He nodded, barely looking up.
The streets were not quite as deserted as they had been five days ago, but it was a good deal earlier and dusk would not fall for a while yet. We hastened round the foot of the castle hill and through the workmen’s village, and Jack led the way inside the chapel.
I stepped up to look at the dead woman.
Only she wasn’t really a woman; she was scarcely more than a girl.
‘She’s beautiful!’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘I thought—’
I thought she’d be a haggard old whore worn out by the life she has led, I almost said. But something in Jack’s expression stopped me.
‘She was a prostitute,’ he said neutrally. ‘But I don’t think she had been for long.’
I studied the face, then, folding back the sheet, the plump young body. I tried not to look at the savage wound. ‘Is there anything in particular you want me to look at?’ I said after a while.
‘No,’ he admitted.
Both of us stared silently down at the dead girl. I wondered why he’d wanted me to see her; then, straight away, I answered my own question. I’d been very surprised to find that she was young and beautiful. Like probably the majority of the people of the town, once I’d known what she did for a living, I’d leapt to the conclusion that she’d be the very opposite. Did Jack think, on finding I was wrong, that I’d be more shocked at her awful death?
I didn’t like the idea of him believing that.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, you know,’ I said quietly.
‘What wouldn’t?’ He sounded cagey.
I turned and met his eyes. ‘I admit it took me aback to see she’s not as I expected. I’m not closely acquainted with any prostitutes, and I didn’t know they started so young. They tend to keep away from healers, probably because they don’t want the lecture that goes with the remedy. But if you think I wouldn’t have been just as horrified, or not have the same urge to avenge her, had she been old and ugly, then you’re wrong.’
He looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Jac
k, we all do what we have to in order to put bread in our mouths,’ I went on. ‘I work hard for my living, so do you, and so did she.’ I rested my hand on the smooth young skin of the cold forehead. Gerda, I reminded myself. Jack had said her name was Gerda. ‘I know which one of our three occupations I’d want least.’
My voice had risen a little, and I made myself calm down. ‘So,’ I said after a moment. ‘What do you want of me?’
He met my eyes again, perhaps to make sure I’d finished with taking him to task. ‘What I’d really like you to do is come with me down to the quayside. I need to find out more about her, and I believe the men and women who have their livelihoods there would be more likely to talk to you.’
‘Of course I’ll come.’
We left poor Gerda lying as still and silent as Robert Powl, on the adjoining trestle.
The quay was busy; it seemed to be the only part of town that was. Perhaps the boatmen, the sailors and the tavern-keepers were harder to scare than the law-abiding townspeople. I kept close behind Jack as he made his way between the groups of men and their female companions, noticing the courteous way he addressed them as he asked them to let him through. He was clearly not a man who felt the necessity to lean on the authority imposed by his position and throw his weight around.
He led me to a building at the far end of the quay. Its doors were open, and lantern light and a babble of voices flowed out. It was a sizeable place, and what looked like a fairly new extension had been constructed to one side. It was raw and cheap, and I guessed it was for the use of the women and their clients. From within I heard someone crying out repeatedly – short, sharp cries – and then a burst of raucous and, I suspected, drunken laughter. Jack walked round this extension and, at the rear, we came to an entrance, the ground churned to mud by the passage of many pairs of feet.
I could see small doorless rooms – cubicles, really – leading off a main passage. The light was poor, and some of the recesses had curtains strung across. I didn’t want to look. It seemed an invasion of privacy. Here was evidence of a basic human urge being fulfilled; male demand, female provision of service provided; it was a business exchange. I just hoped, unavoidably overhearing, that some of the women really were enjoying themselves.
A little further up the passage, Jack had stopped and was speaking to a woman coming towards him, carrying a pile of soiled bedding. She pointed over her shoulder, muttered, ‘Margery’s in there,’ and then, shoving him aside, went on her way. I flattened myself against the wall to let her past.
Jack had gone into the furthest recess, and creeping in behind him, I saw an enormously fat woman reclining on a bed, propped up by a stack of cushions and pillows, the wide, full skirts of her brilliant purple gown spread out as if in expectation of admiration. The colour was indeed gorgeous, and I wondered what sort of dye had achieved it. It wouldn’t have come cheap, that was for sure.
She was watching Jack from small dark eyes set deep within rolls of fatty flesh. It was a shrewd look, yet at her mouth I saw humour lurking. She noticed me, and glancing swiftly back at Jack said, ‘Brought me a new girl, have you?’
I caught sight of Jack’s expression and smothered a laugh. Margery spotted my amusement, however; I had the impression she didn’t miss much. ‘This is Lassair,’ Jack said. ‘She’s a healer.’
‘I know who she is,’ Margery said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need to find out more about Gerda.’ At the mention of the dead girl, Margery’s face fell into sorrow. ‘I’ve brought Lassair with me because I reckon—’
‘You reckon my lasses will be more likely to open up to a slip of a girl than a hardened old man of the law,’ Margery finished for him. ‘And I dare say you’re right.’ Again, she studied me. ‘No trying to persuade them away from their work, mind. They’re here of their own free will, and I look after them as well as I can.’
‘No, I won’t do that.’
She nodded. Then, surprisingly, ‘How’s that disreputable old wizard who’s teaching you his tricks?’
How on earth did she know Gurdyman?
There was a sound like a distant rumble. Margery was laughing. ‘Oh, don’t you go jumping to conclusions,’ she said, still chuckling. ‘He has no use for what’s on offer here. Wizards are celibate, didn’t you know? Tell him I was asking about him.’
‘I will,’ I replied. Oh, of course I would! I could hardly wait, although I had no idea how I was going to raise the topic … On second thoughts – I felt my face flush – maybe I wouldn’t.
‘You can go along to the room off the taproom,’ Margery was saying to Jack. ‘There’ll be four or five of the girls in there having their break. They all knew Gerda.’
‘Thank you, we’ll—’ Jack began.
Margery reached for his hand, grabbing it. ‘Be kind to them,’ she said softly. ‘They all loved her, too.’
Jack nodded. Giving Margery a sort of bow, he turned and strode off along the passage, and I followed.
We returned to the entrance and then went back round the extension to the main building, going on to a small room with a lively fire and an appetizing smell of stew. Six women sat around the hearth, talking in soft voices. They looked up as we came in. ‘Hello, Jack,’ one said.
‘I’m very sorry about Gerda,’ he said, eyes roving round the group. ‘I’m going to investigate her death, and I’ll do my best to bring her killer to justice. I’ve brought Lassair with me, who is a friend of mine. If you are prepared to tell her everything you know about Gerda, it will be a big help.’
The women muttered to each other. One or two were eyeing me suspiciously. I made myself stare back, keeping my expression bland. ‘She’s not going to be all high and mighty and get holy on us, is she?’ one asked.
‘No,’ I said.
More muttering. Then the one who had first addressed Jack said, ‘Very well. We don’t like outsiders, but if it’ll help hang the bastard that killed Gerda, we’ll do it.’
‘Thank you, Griselda.’ Jack pushed me forward. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he murmured.
The women shifted their positions and, sitting down, I was admitted into their circle. For some time they just looked at me. I was starting to find their frank and distinctly hostile eyes disconcerting when one of them – a thin, nervous-looking girl with stringy blonde hair and poor skin – leaned in close to Griselda and whispered in her ear, the sibilance of her soft words rising into a shriek.
‘Hush, Madselin,’ Griselda soothed, wrapping strong arms round the girl and hugging her close. Madselin was crying now, harsh, jerky sobs that seemed to well up from some terrified core.
Griselda turned to me. ‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ she said, her eyes still hard. ‘We’ll all share everything we know about Gerda, but only if first you persuade Madselin here, and these other frightened little kittens’ – she waved an arm, indicating two other youngsters huddled together in the corner – ‘that the killer isn’t the Night Wanderer come back to haunt us. He’s no monster out of the old legends, but flesh and blood just like the rest of us.’ She raised her head, her chin jutting out aggressively towards me.
It appeared that at least one of the girls had been in the marketplace earlier. I could just imagine her: rushing home, filled with a mixture of excitement and horror, breathlessly pouring out her own version of what she’d just heard to her avid audience. And now the image of a mythological devil out to get them had become fact …
No wonder old Margery had been willing for me to come and talk to her girls. It could hardly be good for business to have them all quaking in a huddle when they were meant to be on their backs for the paying customers.
‘I can only tell you what I believe to be true,’ I began, my voice sounding far more confident than I felt. ‘I’ve heard the storyteller, and he’s good, I admit. But why do you think he tells such a convincing tale?’ I glanced round the circle.
‘Because it’s all true!’ hissed a chubby young woman who had crept forward to sit
at Griselda’s other side.
‘Because it’s how he makes his living,’ I corrected her. ‘He tells his stories, weaves his magic, and his accomplice goes round with the collecting cap. If the tale’s good, if it’s convincing and makes his audience laugh, cry or gasp in terror, the storyteller eats that day.’
I let that sink in. Griselda gave me an approving nod. Madselin sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Her tears had stopped.
‘Do you think it was a monster what killed her?’ asked a dark, dusky-skinned woman sitting at the back.
I looked at her. ‘I don’t believe in monsters.’
‘Who was it, then?’ the dark woman persisted.
I hesitated. Would they know about Robert Powl? If not, would it matter if I told them? No, I decided.
‘For what it’s worth, this is what I think happened,’ I said. ‘There was another killing, a few days ago, when a man called—’
‘Yes, we know about him,’ Griselda interrupted.
‘The storyteller was already in the area when Robert Powl died’ – I was sure of it, for hadn’t Jack warned me after that first death not to listen to the gossip and the stories? – ‘and he leapt at the chance to increase his takings by resurrecting the old legend of the greedy merchant. Robert Powl wasn’t a merchant, but he was rich. Then Gerda was killed, a young and beautiful woman, and the storyteller instantly altered his tale subtly to emphasize the beauty and the youth of the greedy merchant’s daughter.’ I had no idea if this was true, for I had only heard the latest version of the tale, but it seemed more than likely.
‘So you’re saying the storyteller altered the tale to fit what’s happened?’ Griselda demanded. ‘To increase his takings?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded. Far from reacting with indignation, her expression suggested she approved of the storyteller’s good sense. ‘And you reckon our Gerda was killed by human hands?’
