by Alys Clare
Outside there was a privy. No pump, well or trough, for the house stood so close to the water that there was no need. Trees grew profusely, in a thick canopy comprised of alder, willow and one or two oaks, beneath which grew the all but impenetrable carr of bushes and smaller trees. The marsh fern, rare in its ability to flourish beneath the thick carr, was now turning from bright green to rusty brown as the advance of autumn forced its life force to retreat into itself.
The dense vegetation stood as a frowning, overshadowing barrier. Accordingly, the fen water appeared almost black.
Hrype approached the narrow causeway just as the first pale streaks of light appeared beneath the skirts of cloud on the eastern horizon. He had left Aelf Fen in the middle of the night, slipping out of his bed without disturbing Froya or Sibert, with whom he shared the house, and he had been walking for several hours. He paused, feeling the usual strange reluctance to put his feet on to the narrow, perilous path. Do not be foolish, he upbraided himself. There is no danger here, only wonder. In addition it was, he reflected, as safe a sanctuary as he could think of.
He strode up the causeway. The stump of his feet must have sent vibrations deep through the earth and into the water, and some night creature, swirling and thrashing in protest, briefly broke the surface with a loud splash. Hrype jumped, then smiled at this demonstration of nervousness. It was indeed a strange place …
A faint light showed along the crack between the top of the door and its frame. Hrype tapped softly, and, when a voice within instantly answered, pushed the door open and went in.
‘You were expecting me,’ he said to the rotund figure sitting huddled in a brilliantly coloured shawl beside the hearth.
‘Indeed I was,’ agreed Gurdyman. ‘Here, warm yourself.’ He handed Hrype a pewter mug filled with hot spiced ale. Hrype accepted it gratefully and drank deeply.
‘Aaah,’ he said after a moment, settling beside Gurdyman, ‘he still brews a tasty drop.’
Gurdyman smiled but did not speak.
Hrype looked around. ‘Where is he?’
Gurdyman jerked his head in the direction of the low door at the back of the room and the passage to the workroom beyond. ‘Out there working. Where else?’
Hrype nodded. He let his eyes roam around the room. It was pin-neat and clean, with bedding rolled up and stowed in a corner, a scrubbed board on which stood one or two bowls, a third pewter mug and some rush lamps, a jar of tallow and a bunch of spills tied up with string set ready beside them. A woven basket full of precisely cut firewood stood beside the hearth. The earth floor was strewn with rushes, clean-smelling and obviously quite fresh.
Above the door leading to the workroom had been pinned a piece of parchment. On it was a drawing, and, narrowing his eyes, Hrype stared at it. It depicted a winged figure, a sword in the right hand, one side clad in knee-length tunic and hose, the other in a flowing skirt. The figure had two heads, crowned with a single crown. The feet in their mismatched shoes stood upon the back of a winged dragon with claw-like feet; the dragon, too, had two heads.
Gurdyman had noticed the direction of his glance. He studied Hrype without speaking. ‘He still devotes himself to the same perplexing study?’ Hrype asked.
‘Perplexing does not begin to describe it,’ Gurdyman said with a sigh. ‘He is wearing himself out. He breaks the bright flame of his intellect against it like a wave on a rock, over and over again, yet makes no impression.’
‘He will yield before the rock does,’ Hrype said very softly.
Gurdyman nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. That is what I, too, fear.’
There was quite a long silence.
Gurdyman stirred. ‘But I have not asked you if she is safe!’ he exclaimed.
‘Of course she is,’ Hrype replied with a smile. ‘As you very well knew, since I’d have told you the moment I arrived had it been otherwise.’
‘The Norman lawman escorted her to the village?’
‘Yes.’ Hrype paused. ‘His feelings for her go deep, although I sense that, as yet, she is not sure of hers for him.’
Gurdyman thought about that. ‘He does not remain at Aelf Fen?’
‘No. The present emergency’ – Hrype smiled wryly at the understatement – ‘has no doubt summoned him back to Cambridge.’
‘Have there been more deaths?’ Gurdyman’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘I don’t know,’ Hrype admitted. ‘I fear there will have been, but I did not wish to display my interest by asking Lassair.’
‘Quite right,’ Gurdyman said. Then, hesitantly, ‘Did she ask about me?’
‘Naturally she did,’ Hrype replied. ‘She is very fond of you.’
‘But you didn’t tell her where I am?’
‘No. I disclaimed all knowledge of your whereabouts, as you and I agreed.’ He turned to look at Gurdyman. ‘She knows, though, of my involvement.’
‘Hardly surprising, since you insisted on leaving one of your precious rune stones exactly where she’d be sure to find it,’ Gurdyman said somewhat caustically.
Hrype made a sound of impatience. ‘As I just said, she’s very fond of you. Did you really want her to worry herself to desperation in case you’d been spirited away by the Night Wanderer and left throatless in some hidden alleyway? She had to know you were safe, and leaving her my token was all I could think of to reassure her.’
His voice had risen. It was rare for him to show his feelings. Gurdyman smiled. ‘You have more heart than you pretend,’ he murmured. ‘In truth, Hrype, one might even imagine you cared for the girl.’
Hrype made no reply but a wordless ‘Hrumph!’
Gurdyman reached for the jug of ale and refilled their mugs. ‘I would guess,’ he said presently, ‘that she imagines your refusal to divulge my hiding place is because you, and perhaps I, do not trust Jack Chevestrier.’
‘Do you trust him?’ Hrype demanded.
‘I do. As Lassair would realize, if she turned her mind back. I told her quite recently that he was decent and honest; hardly words I would have employed to describe a man I did not trust.’ He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. ‘She may well work it out for herself, in which case she will understand that, although it is not Jack, there is indeed someone that I’ – he glanced at Hrype – ‘or, rather, we do not trust.’
‘She’s capable of that realization, I suppose,’ Hrype said grudgingly.
Gurdyman studied him, eyes narrowed. ‘Despite what I just said, you do persist in acting as if she is a splinter beneath your skin,’ he remarked.
Hrype chose to ignore that. ‘You still believe that you are correct in your suspicions?’ he asked.
‘The man is very obviously up to something,’ Gurdyman replied, ‘and I am informed that he has a newly full purse. Fuller, even, than normal, and the word is that he plans a costly extension to his already commodious dwelling.’
‘Mere gossip?’ Hrype suggested.
‘He also has a fine new horse.’
Hrype put down his mug on one of the hearth stones, the sudden sound ringing out in the quiet. ‘It is slim evidence on which to link a man’s name with such terrible crimes,’ he muttered.
‘Yes,’ Gurdyman agreed, sighing. ‘We are not, I fear, either at a resolution or an end to these horrors.’
With a groan and a wince, he got himself laboriously to his feet and, crossing to the far corner of the room, took out two bedrolls. ‘Let us sleep for what remains of the night,’ he said, handing one to Hrype. ‘In the morning, we will extract Mercure from his workroom and make him talk to us.’
Hrype snorted. ‘If luck and the gods are on our side.’
The two men lay down. The fire bathed them in warmth and soft light, and quite soon both were asleep.
I woke in the morning in my accustomed place beside my aunt’s hearth. Edild was already up and I could hear her in the little back room where, from the sound of it, she was busy washing pots and potion bottles.
I thought about the day – days – ahead. I w
ould have to help her in the healing work, and, although I didn’t mind, and in fact usually enjoyed the variety and the challenge very much, just now I knew my heart wasn’t going to be in it. Jack had brought me to Aelf Fen for my own good, because he was sure I wasn’t safe in Cambridge with a killer on the loose; moreover, a killer who lately seemed to have targeted people engaged in the same sort of activities as those I was engaged upon with Gurdyman. He, indeed, had already fled, and so I couldn’t argue with the fact that it made total sense for me to have done too.
But I didn’t want to be safe in Aelf Fen. I wanted to be in Cambridge, with Jack.
The morning progressed as countless others have done in my village, and as no doubt countless more will do in years to come. Edild and I saw a steady stream of patients requiring our help, the majority of whom were showing early signs of the usual phlegmy noses, sore throats and aching, inflamed joints and chesty coughs that always crop up in the fens when the weather loses its summer heat and the damp creeps out of the marshes to wind into bones and soft tissue. I threw myself into the work. If I couldn’t be where I wanted to be, I thought, at least I could let others benefit by my presence. Once or twice I caught Edild’s eyes on me, assessing, judging and, today, with the faintest hint of admiration. Or so I told myself.
Luck had ridden with Rollo, for, just as he had hoped and prayed, King William was in residence in his castle at Windsor. He was to depart imminently for Gloucester: had Rollo delayed by even a day or two, he would have had to follow his king westwards before he was free to go where his heart commanded.
He had sent word in to the king that he was there in the little settlement that huddled around the great castle and humbly begged audience. He knew he would have to wait, for nobody wrote directly to a king – certainly, no one of Rollo’s lowly status – and his carefully worded, bland-sounding missive would have to work its way up past many other pairs of eyes and many astute brains before it reached the king’s. But in fact a message came back very quickly, summoning Rollo to the king’s presence that morning.
Now Rollo stood in a corner of the dirty and crowded lodgings which were all he could afford, shaving and washing and, as best he could, banging from his garments the dust, dirt and assorted vermin of long travel. It was ironic, he mused, to have to go through the frustrating channels of bureaucracy in order to gain the king’s ear, since, when he finally did get to speak to William, the king would undoubtedly demand in a bark why he hadn’t got there sooner.
Rollo was in no doubt that the king would be more interested in what Rollo had to say than anything else he would hear that day; perhaps that whole week. He had journeyed too far, and at too high a personal cost, to have the time or the patience for false modesty.
His preparations finished, he ran a hand over his hair (still slightly damp) and his jaw (not bad for a shave with a blunt razor and cold water). He looked down at himself. At least, he observed with a grim smile, his boots shone from the buffing he’d given them. Then, filled with a nervous excitement to be at last at the very end of his long mission, he set out for the castle.
The king’s father had built it and it stood high on its hill above a bend in the River Thames. The Conqueror knew very well how to seek out and utilize a good defensive position, and, in addition, the site was close to a little village that had once been part of a royal Saxon hunting ground. The sport, they said, was still first rate. Not that sport had been on the Conqueror’s mind when he built the castle, for he was newly come to his kingdom in England and his prime concern was to defend what he had grabbed. Windsor Castle was one of nine, built in a ring around London and all within a day’s march of the capital. It had been constructed as a motte and bailey, with three wards surrounding a central mound. At the top of the well-protected timber keep, provision had been included for the king’s private apartments.
Rollo approached the outer defensive wall, a soaring structure of timber palings sharpened to points at their tips. Guards had seen him coming and were already moving out of the guard house to block the narrow, gated entrance. Rollo produced his summons, the king’s seal prominently displayed, and with a jerk of the head the officer in charge let him through. He sensed someone fall into step behind him as he crossed the inner ward. The gate guards were going to keep an eye on him until they handed responsibility to the next men in the chain.
Rollo glanced around. There were sounds of labour – the clear ring of a hammer on metal; the loud, shouted command of an overseer – and he saw that parts of the wooden structures were being replaced by stone. He began to climb the motte, was admitted through another palisade that ringed its base a little way up – here the guard tailing him was quietly replaced by another – and then he was inside the big square central tower.
William’s apartments, Rollo thought as he was ushered through a studded wooden door into the king’s private chambers, typified the man. While they had clearly been designed for practicality and the basic needs of a man engaged in a brutal process of conquest, that man’s son had other ideas. The second William might be as ruthless as his formidable father on campaign, contenting himself with simplicity in the interests of speed and efficiency, but in his own quarters, it soon became evident, he liked a little luxury. He also, Rollo couldn’t help but notice, liked the company of a band of young men, dressed in the height of fashion and smelling strongly of something vaguely flowery. Five of these were lounging in the anteroom to the king’s own chamber, and one muttered a remark which provoked gales of lusty laughter. He lacks the presence of a queen consort, Rollo thought, responding to the further jibes of the youths with a coolly polite bow.
Then abruptly the inner door was flung open and William stood there. His long robe was open at the throat, displaying a fresh white undershirt and quite a lot of gingery-fair chest hair, and his face was ruddy, as if he had recently been scrubbing it. ‘Come in, then!’ he said impatiently. Rollo hastened to obey and William slammed the heavy door in the avid faces of the courtiers. He muttered something that sounded like ‘Parasites!’
Rollo waited in the middle of the large room. A wooden-framed bed stood in the corner and several chests of clothing were placed around the walls. A small altar had been set up in a recess. There was thick dust on both the altar and the brass crucifix set upon it.
‘Sit,’ William said, waving a hand at a leather-seated chair beside the hearth. Rollo sat, and William pulled up his own chair close beside him. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘will there be an appeal from the east?’
Rollo hadn’t expected any courteous civilities: How was your journey?, Good to see you safely returned and Are you well rested? were not phrases a king used to his spy; or, anyway, this king didn’t. He was far too impatient. Knowing his master as he believed he did, Rollo had come prepared. Now, he launched into a swift and efficient distillation of all that he had learned in the Holy Land and in Constantinople, concluding with his own opinion: that Alexius Comnenus would have no choice but to ask the west for help, and that the request would not be long in coming.
What he believed would happen if the kings and the lords of north-west Europe answered the appeal, Rollo didn’t say. He had had a vision: a dreadful, haunting image of long, straggling lines of ordinary people, tired, hungry, diseased, far from home, dying. Far from the well-drilled, expensively accoutred and ultimately victorious army that others might predict, Rollo believed he had received a clear warning that the truth would be very different.
But since he wasn’t going to be among the rabble and nor was his king and master, there was no need to mention that fact.
When at last he had finished speaking, William sat for a long time in silence, his elbow on the beautifully carved arm of his chair and his chin in his hand. ‘Robert will go,’ he muttered, more to himself than to Rollo. ‘He won’t be able to resist. He’ll want to go in style, too, with a hundred matched horses, richly coloured silks and the loud bray of trumpets to announce his coming.’ He tapped the fingers of his other hand on
the chair. Short, stubby fingers, Rollo observed, with tufts of hair on the backs, and not made more elegant at all by the costly rings that adorned them. If anything, the opposite was true.
Quite unexpectedly, Rollo felt a sudden stab of compassion for his tubby, determined, capable and clever king.
‘Enough!’ William barked suddenly. Rollo jumped guiltily back into the present moment. It surely wasn’t done to feel pity for a king, and it was always dangerous to daydream in his presence. But then he realized that William’s exclamation must refer to whatever thoughts were going through his own head, not Rollo’s.
‘Pour wine for us,’ William commanded, pointing to the beautiful glass jug and the two fine goblets set on a board beside the bed. Rollo leapt up, poured the rich red wine, and returned to his seat.
‘You have done well, Rollo Guiscard,’ the king said, raising his glass in Rollo’s direction.
‘Thank you, my lord king.’
William went on staring at him, the eyes with their bright flecks intent. ‘You have earned your reward, and you shall have it.’ He reached down to the small wooden chest, bound with iron, beside his chair, turned the key in the lock and threw back the lid. Inside were many leather bags of varying sizes, and the king extracted one, handing it to Rollo.
It took all his strength not to pull open the drawstrings and look inside.
William sat back and sipped his wine, a broad smile on his face. ‘You trust your king to pay you well, then?’ he said.
Rollo bowed. It was, he sensed, a moment for honesty. ‘Indeed I do, my lord.’
‘You do my bidding precisely to the letter,’ said the king, ‘and you are utterly reliable. Both qualities, believe me, are rare and to be valued.’
Rollo bowed again. He wasn’t sure if he should speak; he opted for silence. It was certainly not, he thought with a private smile, the moment to mention his visit to Normandy …
‘What shall you do now?’ William asked.
