Blood of the South

by Alys Clare

  I wondered if we were heading for the small stone-built house by the Great Bridge. It was the place where the port officials were to be found, and I knew of it because I had occasionally been there on errands for Gurdyman, when goods he had ordered and paid for were temporarily impounded: Gurdyman’s list of necessities contains some quite unusual items. Thinking of him made me wonder where he was, and if he had succeeded in keeping the promised eye on me. I glanced around, but the streets were busy and I could not see whether or not he was following. You would think that Gurdyman, being short, rotund and habitually dressed in a brightly coloured shawl which he drapes over his sombre gown, would have been easy to spot. In fact, when he wants to, he manages to blend in with his surroundings remarkably well.

  The sheriff, the veiled woman, the baker and his friend and I strode on, past the port officials’ house and over the Great Bridge. Once or twice the woman stumbled – she didn’t seem much better at walking than she was at holding her baby – and each time the nearest deputy reached out a hand to steady her. I noticed that she didn’t thank him.

  Suddenly I knew what was the matter with her. The costly blanket and garments in which the baby was wrapped should have given me a hint, and, now that I had belatedly realized, her own cloak and richly decorated headdress supported my conclusion. I glanced down at her feet: she was wearing soft little boots in a gorgeous purplish-blue shade, the leather so shiny and supple that it looked like a second skin.

  She was, of course, a rich woman. Rich woman weren’t called upon to do much for themselves; other people set out their clothes, helped them into the garments, fetched horses or carriages to transport them, tended and carried their babies. For some reason, the veiled woman was here alone with her child, separated by some mischance from husband, kin and servants. No wonder she seemed so ill-equipped for managing the world on her own; usually, she never had to.

  Smiling to myself, proud of my astute summing-up of the situation, I followed the sheriff, the veiled woman and the more senior of the deputies as we walked on. We passed the large plot where a vast gang of men were busy building the new priory, and then turned to stride up Castle Hill to the intimidating wooden structure crowning its summit. Our little procession made its way up a steep, narrow walkway made of stout planks that led to the castle’s first-floor entrance, and, my heart in my mouth, I stepped from the sunshine into the chilly, dimly lit interior. The baker and his companion shuffled in behind us, and the last of the deputies slammed the door.

  We were in a stone-walled anteroom. It looked as if it was the sort of place where lesser men filter callers, dealing with minor matters themselves so that the man at the top isn’t constantly bothered by trivialities. The veiled woman settled herself elegantly on the only seat: a bench set against the wall opposite the door. She spread the wide skirts of her cloak around her so that anyone else wishing to sit down would have had to move them out of the way. She made no move to take her son from me, so I held on to him. He was sleeping soundly now, and it would have been a shame to risk waking him by transferring him to those inept, inexpert arms.

  The sheriff ran his hands through his light brown close-cropped hair – some of the mud thrown at the veiled woman had missed its mark – and then opened a solid-looking door studded with iron, disappearing under a low arch that presumably led through to his inner sanctum. I heard voices: his, and another; the other man sounded at first irritated, then downright cross. Finally he yelled, ‘Christ’s bones, Chevestrier, you deal with it! It’s what I pay you for! It’s only a matter of one fucking bun!’

  Instantly I realized my mistake. Of course. If I’d stopped to think about it, I would have known full well that the man on the quayside wasn’t the sheriff of Cambridge. He was too young, for one thing; only a handful of years older than me; and, for another, the sheriff was hardly likely to have abandoned the cosy shelter of his private quarters to hurry outside on a chilly morning to attend to a minor rumpus over the alleged theft of a small loaf. No. Picot – for that was the sheriff’s name – was a self-serving, sly and reputedly deeply corrupt man, who our local monks referred to variously as a hungry lion, a prowling wolf, a dog without shame and a filthy swine: to a man, the monks did not approve of Picot. It was said – mainly by the monks – that he deprived the local populace of their rights to some of the common pasture, which he had appropriated for himself. Such actions do not win a man approbation, when so many go hungry to their beds at night. Assuming they have a bed …

  The man I had believed to be the sheriff, and whom I now knew to be called Chevestrier, returned to the anteroom. He must have been aware that we’d all overheard Picot shouting at him, but, far from being disconcerted, he was smiling to himself. He closed the heavy wooden door with exaggerated care, as if intent on saving Picot any further interruption, then turned to the rest of us and said, ‘The sheriff sends his apologies, but he is busy on important matters of state. He has entrusted this business to me.’ He added something under his breath; I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like, One fucking bun ought to be within my competence. From the quirk that twisted his well-shaped mouth, I guessed he was suppressing a chuckle.

  He turned to the baker. ‘Now, will you tell me what this woman stole from you?’

  The baker looked at the veiled woman, posed on the rough bench as if she were a queen on a throne and staring at the baker with cold eyes as if she would like to condemn him to the deepest dungeon. ‘Er—’ he faltered. His companion gave him a nudge, hissing something in his ear. ‘That’s right!’ he said pugnaciously, recovering a bit of his original umbrage. ‘I told her how much them little loaves cost, and she paid me for a single piece, then bugger me if she didn’t pick up a second one!’ He nodded for emphasis, glaring round at the assembled company. One or two of the deputies were grinning. Chevestrier, however, seemed to have conquered his amusement.

  He stared at the baker. His eyes, I noticed, were a bright, clear shade of green, untouched by blue or brown. He frowned in thought, then said, ‘She picked up a second loaf, you said?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right!’ the baker said, indignant all over again. ‘Blatant-like, with no attempt at all to cover it up!’

  Chevestrier nodded, as if something had just been proved to his satisfaction. ‘Is that how thieves normally operate?’ he asked quietly.

  I began to see what he was doing. The baker, however, did not. ‘No, it’s not!’ he replied hotly. ‘Normally they sneak things off my stall when my back’s turned, or they get some guttersnipe accomplice to attract my attention, and often I only realize I’ve been robbed when I stop to count up at the end of … Oh.’

  Realization, it seemed, had struck.

  ‘I think,’ Chevestrier said kindly to the baker, ‘that you may have acted a little hastily. Which is quite understandable,’ he added swiftly, as the baker’s face began to redden with angry embarrassment. ‘My lady –’ he spun round to face the veiled woman – ‘will you give your word that you made a genuine mistake? That you believed you had paid for two loaves, when you had in fact only paid for one?’

  The veiled woman twitched her head to one side, as if she was heartily sick of the matter. She gave a graceful shrug. ‘It is as you say,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘And are you now prepared to pay for the second loaf?’ Chevestrier went on.

  She shrugged again, then, reaching under her cloak to a beautiful, bejewelled little leather purse that hung from her belt, she shook out a couple of coins and flung them at the baker’s feet.

  It was a disdainful, insulting action.

  Chevestrier clearly thought so too. ‘And maybe,’ he said silkily, ‘if you were to add a small consideration for the good baker’s inconvenience, he might be persuaded not to press charges against you and let this unfortunate business drop.’

  It might have sounded like a mild suggestion rather than an order, but I don’t think anyone was fooled. The veiled woman certainly wasn’t; she shot Chevestrier a look from those dark
eyes that would have sent a superstitious man grabbing for his rosary. But then she extracted another coin, and this time, with Chevestrier still watching her, she got up and placed it in the baker’s hand.

  The baker muttered something that it was probably better I didn’t hear, then he turned, nodded his thanks to Chevestrier, spun on his heel and, flinging the door open, marched off down the walkway, his companion at his side. Chevestrier spoke quietly to one of his deputies, leading him and the others outside. The veiled woman, the baby and I were momentarily alone in the room.

  She sat gazing at the wall opposite to her. Not by word, gesture or glance did she acknowledge my presence. She might have been temporarily parted by some distressing circumstance from her own kin and attendants, but, as far as servants were concerned, she seemed quite willing for me to step up as replacement.

  For my own part, I wasn’t so sure. It was tempting to dump the baby in her lap and quietly slip away, but, on the other hand, I was intrigued by this veiled foreigner with her rich garments and her husky voice.

  I stood there, gently rocking to and fro – the baby was beginning to wake up – and waited to see what would happen next.

  The ensuing events lacked the high drama of what had just occurred. Chevestrier came back into the anteroom, and the expression on his face suggested something had just been arranged to his satisfaction.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, standing before the veiled woman and giving a quick bow, ‘have you somewhere to go? People who await you?’

  She stared at him for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘I am – alone,’ she murmured.

  ‘So I assumed, since nobody stepped forward in your defence out on the quay,’ Chevestrier said, more to himself than to her. ‘What is your business in Cambridge?’

  ‘In Cambridge?’ She looked surprised, although surely she must have been aware of the name of the port in which she had that morning arrived. Unless, of course, something else had gone amiss with her; something in addition to apparently losing every last one of her travelling companions and her servants. Was she ill? Had she lost her memory? Her mind?

  ‘This town is Cambridge,’ Chevestrier said gently. ‘In the country of England,’ he added. Perhaps he too was wondering if the veiled woman had parted from her wits.

  ‘I am aware of the country,’ she said loftily. ‘I seek a place, but the name is not Cambridge …’

  Chevestrier waited. I waited. Finally he prompted her: ‘Yes?’

  ‘I seek kin in Fen,’ she said at last. ‘Perhaps, Fens.’

  Chevestrier muttered under his breath. ‘The fens are over there.’ He waved an arm roughly in an eastwards direction. ‘But –’ he shot a glance at me – ‘the region is extensive, as this young woman could tell you.’ He knows where I come from, I thought. I didn’t know if to be intrigued or afraid. ‘If you want my help,’ Chevestrier went on, ‘you’ll have to be more specific.’

  She fixed her slanting, dark eyes on him. It was hard to tell, with her lower face covered, but I had a good idea she was scowling. ‘I have not asked for your help.’

  He sighed. It was hardly surprising; most men would have run out of patience with her ages ago. ‘Have you somewhere to stay?’ he repeated. His tone was definitely less kindly now.

  She gave that eloquent shrug again. ‘I must find my kinsman’s dwelling, but I do not know where it is. For now, there are inns on the quayside …’

  ‘I would not recommend them to a woman of means,’ Chevestrier replied. ‘But one of my men has a sister who works in a better class of tavern.’ The veiled woman looked as if she was about to protest, but he did not give her the chance. ‘A room is being made available, and I will take you there now.’

  Abruptly she stood up, the movement accompanied by the swishing sound of her cloak, her gown and what sounded like several layers of silk underskirts. ‘Do so,’ she commanded. She jerked her head towards me. ‘She will bring the infant.’

  I was about to protest, the angry words lining up, but Chevestrier did it for me. ‘I think it would be more polite to ask,’ he said with icy courtesy. He turned to me, giving me the exact same bow he had earlier given to the veiled lady. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name. I’m aware of your reputation as a fine healer and I know you by sight, but not how to address you.’

  ‘Lassair,’ I said.

  ‘Lassair,’ he repeated. Then: ‘We have taken up a good part of your morning, and I am sure you have your own affairs to attend to. However, it would be very helpful if you could accompany us over to the tavern. There will undoubtedly be practical tasks to be done for the baby, and—’ He stopped, spinning back to look at the lady.

  And I don’t think she’ll have the first idea how to start was, I imagined, what he’d been about to say. I grinned. I quite agreed with him. ‘I’ll come,’ I said.

  He bowed again. ‘Thank you.’

  Just then, the door to the inner room was flung open, and a short, pot-bellied, red-faced man stood glaring out at us from close-set eyes. This, I guessed, was Sheriff Picot. His gaze fixed on Chevestrier. ‘Christ’s holy bones, are you still here?’ he demanded, spittle flecking his thin lips. ‘I told you to—’

  He had spotted the veiled lady. With the quick intelligence of his kind – it’s said that the Conqueror chose for the office of sheriff men who shared his ruthless ambition and determined self-advancement – he ran his sharp, assessing eyes over her. The furious scowl changed to an ingratiating smile; no doubt the expression he habitually adopted before the wealthy and powerful.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, making a low bow – I noticed he’d carefully arranged his thinning, gingery hair across a big bald patch – ‘I am Sheriff Picot, and I am at your disposal.’ He straightened up, and his expectant grin suggested he was hoping for more than the lady’s look of cold disdain. Discomfited – you could hardly blame him – he spun back to Chevestrier. ‘Get on with it, you indolent sod!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t keep her standing here – help the lady!’

  I watched Chevestrier’s face. There was an instant when I thought he was going to give in to temptation and give the response that Picot deserved, but then it was gone. An expression of bland serenity ironed out the fury, and Chevestrier said calmly, ‘As you wish, sir.’

  Then he spun round and led the way out into the sunshine.

  TWO

  The tavern was not far from the market square, on one of the main streets that run through the centre of the town and close to St Benet’s church. I had never been inside, but I understood it to be a well-run, clean and decent place where ruffians intent on theft and trouble-making were unlikely to gain admittance. In acknowledgement of the old ways, a bundle of brushwood hung above the wide entrance into the courtyard: the ancient symbol for an inn.

  Chevestrier led the way inside, where a plump woman in a white apron, her hair covered in spotless white linen, was waiting. Our little procession was shown along the passage to a tiny, dark room, in which there was a bed, a three-legged stool, a table with a ewer of hot water set beside a basin and a worn but clean cloth for hand-wiping. ‘There’s the communal room, of course,’ the plump woman was saying nervously, ‘only I thought as how a lady would like a bit of privacy.’ The veiled woman looked around, gave a disdainful sniff, and then removed her cloak and flung it on the bed. Chevestrier thanked the plump woman and dismissed her.

  I barely noticed. My eyes were on the veiled woman’s gown, revealed in full now that she had taken off her cloak. The gown was gorgeous: deep blue velvet with a purplish sheen, tight in the sleeves and over the hips, then spreading out in generous flares and gores that swirled around her ankles as she moved. It fitted her beautifully, except that it was a little loose in the bust: no doubt she had lost the fullness in her breasts that comes with pregnancy and childbirth, and had not yet had the chance of ordering a seamstress to take in the seams.

  Breasts … That reminded me. I shifted the baby in my arms – he was winding up to cry, and already giving incr
easingly heart-rending little whimpers – and said, ‘My lady, your son needs to be fed.’

  She looked at me as if I was simple. ‘He was fed before we left the boat.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’ I held on to my temper. ‘But now he’s hungry again.’

  She looked around, as if hoping that whoever it was that normally cared for her child might appear out of the wood panelling. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  Chevestrier came to stand beside me. ‘I don’t suppose you know of a wet-nurse?’ he asked quietly. There was a note of desperate optimism in his voice.

  I smiled at him. ‘I do.’

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ he muttered. ‘Do you think she’s likely to be available?’

  I handed the baby over to him. After a moment’s hesitation – he had much more of an idea how to hold a child than the baby’s mother – he laid the increasingly noisy little bundle gently down on the bed.

  ‘I’ll go and find out,’ I said.

  I located the wet-nurse – a lovely, strong, sensible girl called Mattie, with three strapping young boys of her own and a delicate little daughter at the breast – and she was happy to provide her services for the lady in the inn. Understanding that her new charge was probably extremely hungry by now, she came straight away. I introduced her to Chevestrier and the veiled woman, and instantly she bent down to the baby, already unlacing her gown. Then I turned and left.

  Chevestrier, clearly not wishing to witness the intimacy of breastfeeding, hurried out after me. ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said.

  I smiled. ‘It was more for the baby’s sake than hers.’

  He smiled back. ‘Quite.’ Then he gave me a salute and strode away.

  I had forgotten all about Gurdyman. When I got back to his wonderfully well-hidden house – you have to fiddle your way through the lanes behind the market square, doubling back on yourself, and when I first went to live there, it took me many attempts till I could do it without thinking – it was to find him already installed in his sunny little courtyard, waiting for me to tell him my side of the morning’s events. ‘I saw you go into the inn,’ he said, ‘and then hurry off to fetch Mattie.’