Blood of the South

by Alys Clare

Gurdyman hadn’t given me the lapis for protection. He’d given it purely and solely to heighten the chance that my first attempt to see inside the secrets of the shining stone would be successful.

  And I hadn’t told him how well it had worked.

  THREE

  The next day, Gurdyman tactfully refrained from mentioning the shining stone. Since I much preferred to put the whole worrying incident to the back of my mind, I tried to forget all about it. But I kept seeing those two ravens, flying like arrows towards me. Two ravens … now what did that make me think of? I don’t want to know! I told myself.

  It was easy to keep busy. Gurdyman takes his role as my teacher and mentor very seriously, and I do not have much time to retreat inside my own thoughts. He was currently instructing me in the art of mixing certain ingredients in precisely the right proportions to enhance their ultimate potency. I was already familiar with the concept, having been well taught by my healer aunt, Edild, when I first became her apprentice. Gurdyman, however, was not only a healer but a magician too, and, under his tutelage, I was beginning to learn the more arcane aspects of the art, such as the exact time that a plant must be picked and, perhaps most mystical and strange of all, the correct way to address the herbs before they are added to the mix.

  We were preparing the Nine Herbs Charm: plantain, mugwort, lamb’s cress, betony, chamomile, nettle, chervil, fennel and crab apple. Edild had taught me about many of those herbs: mugwort’s sweet flowers are tied in bunches as an insect repellent, and it is also used to flavour beer; plantain heals cuts and sores, and you make a thick, syrupy infusion sweetened with honey to ease coughs, especially in children; fennel is used for stomach ailments and indigestion; crab apples ease constipation, and old lore maintains that the bitter, unripe apples drive out worms.

  I knew of betony, since Edild occasionally uses it to treat diarrhoea and cystitis; she does not regularly keep it in her store room because she says it’s overrated. I have since learned – from Gurdyman, of course – that it is a magical plant; this, I suspect, is why my aunt is wary of it. Edild tries not to rely on magic, and treats the superstitious fears of the Aelf Fen villagers with courteous but ruthless disdain.

  Beside me at the workbench, Gurdyman was grinding ingredients with a pestle and mortar, muttering under his breath. He had taught me how to make a paste of ashes and water, which we would then boil up with fennel. We worked steadily, and I tried to copy the neat, economical movements of his hands.

  Suddenly he turned to me and said, ‘We have insufficient crab apples. Hurry and fetch more – a dozen will serve.’

  I nodded, wiped my hands on my apron and leapt up the stone steps leading out of the crypt. I ran along to the kitchen to fetch a bag, then left the house and emerged on to the narrow lane outside. I knew where to go for crab apples: there is a tree on one of the tracks leading down to the river, and its fruits were already ripening, falling on to the path beneath its spreading branches. I was not entirely certain whose tree it was. It stood on common ground, but land rights are fiendishly complicated, and it probably belonged to somebody. I did not think he – or she – would miss twelve crab apples, particularly when much of the crop was being trodden underfoot and going to waste.

  In the event, there was nobody about to witness as swiftly I bent down and thrust a dozen small red apples into my bag, checking them carefully for blemishes and the marks of insect infestation. Gurdyman is very strict about such things. Ingredients must be untainted, and his crypt – as I well know – must at all times be spotlessly clean. I often reflect, at the end of a long day, how many hours of my apprenticeship with Gurdyman I spend with my hands in a bucket of soapy water, washing down utensils, surfaces and floors.

  I was on my way back – crossing the corner of the market square – when somebody called out to me. Turning quickly, impatient to take the crab apples to Gurdyman, I saw that it was Mattie.

  ‘Oh, Lassair, I’m that glad to see you!’ she panted as she hurried up to me. ‘I’d have sought you out, only I don’t know where you dwell.’

  No, she didn’t. I had made sure of it. Gurdyman is virtually a recluse, and, for reasons of his own safety, prefers not to broadcast the whereabouts of his twisty-turny house, hidden away in its maze of narrow alleyways. I understand his reasoning. Some of the things he gets up to down in his crypt would make his fellow townspeople’s hair stand on end if they knew, and it’s amazing how swift men can be to turn on the outsider, the one who is different, the person perceived as a threat. I always do my best to protect Gurdyman’s privacy, although at times it makes my own life difficult. When, for example, a friendly soul like Mattie asked where I lived because she wanted to show me her baby – newly recovered, thanks to medicine I had prepared, from a nasty cough – and give me a basket of apples as a thank-you.

  I looked into Mattie’s plump, anxious face. ‘What can I do for you?’ I asked. I wasn’t going to explain why I had to be so secretive about the whereabouts of my lodgings.

  ‘It’s that woman, the one with the veil,’ she said, a note of indignation entering her voice.

  I smiled. ‘Hasn’t she paid you?’ I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Oh – yes, yes she has,’ Mattie said. ‘Eventually,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘It’s not that – it’s her baby, her little boy.’ Now her face creased in distress.

  ‘Is he ill?’ Already I was calculating my next moves: back to Gurdyman with the crab apples, fetch my satchel, then straight to the veiled woman’s inn.

  But Mattie was shaking her head. ‘He’s not ill, not so far as I can make out, although you’re the expert and it’s not for me to say.’

  ‘What, then?’ Mattie hesitated. ‘Oh, come on, Mattie!’ I pressed her. ‘I’m out on an urgent errand, and I’ll get into trouble if I delay!’

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ she said hurriedly. ‘The thing is, see, the baby’s sad.’

  That brought me up short. ‘Sad?’

  ‘He suckles well, takes a decent feed, and his bowels function nicely, but when I’ve fed him, winded him, changed him and he’s got no reason not to close his sweet little eyes and have a bit of a nap – because I can see he’s sleepy – he just lies there, staring around, for all the world as if he’s looking for something, and can’t let himself drop off till he’s spotted it. And the look on that dear child’s face! Oh, it fair twists my heart.’

  Kind, sentimental Mattie’s eyes filled with tears, which rolled slowly down her plump cheeks.

  ‘You’d like me to come and have a look at him.’

  ‘Yes, I would.’ She wiped the tears away. ‘That Jack Chevestrier, he said to come and find you.’

  ‘He did?’ I was surprised. Having resolved the problem of the appropriated bread and found accommodation for the veiled woman, I’d have thought his involvement would have ended, although his fat little sheriff had commanded him to look after her …

  ‘Yes. Seems he’s been keeping an eye,’ Mattie said darkly. ‘Maybe he suspects she’ll slip out and nick another loaf if he doesn’t put in an appearance now and again, to remind her of the difference between right and wrong.’

  I suppressed a grin. There spoke a totally honest woman. ‘Of course I’ll come,’ I reassured her. ‘I must first complete my errand, then I’ll go straight to the inn.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mattie breathed. ‘I won’t come with you. I’ve just come from there, and the little lad won’t be needing me for a while.’ She sighed, shaking her head.

  Impulsively I leaned towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Go home to your own children,’ I said. ‘They need you.’ She looked at me doubtfully. ‘Mattie, your own sons and daughter are your main responsibility. You’ve done your best for the veiled woman’s baby. I will help, if I can. Go home,’ I repeated.

  She nodded. Then she squared her shoulders and strode off in the direction of her house.

  I flew down the steps to the crypt and laid the crab apples on the workbench. Then I explained to Gurd
yman what had just happened. I had half-thought he would command me to finish the preparation of our herbal charm, but he said, ‘You must go, Lassair. I will finish this.’

  ‘I’m sorry to abandon the lesson,’ I said. ‘Will we have to begin again, another time?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. But it doesn’t matter – preparing even something very special must take second place to tending to the living. Off you go.’ He waved a shooing hand at me.

  I ran back to the steps. Just as I was hurrying up them, he added, ‘Oh, and Lassair, you might pick up something hot for our supper on your way home.’

  As I swiftly picked up my leather satchel and once more left the house, I was grinning. My dear Gurdyman might be deep in the mystical process of murmuring magical words over a precise mixture of very particular ingredients, but, nevertheless, a part of his wide-ranging, capable and highly intelligent mind was on his stomach.

  I reached the inn. The same white-coifed woman showed me along to the veiled lady’s room. I knocked on the door. There were sounds of movement – I heard a sort of rustling – and a voice said, ‘Enter.’

  She was sitting on the stool, one elbow resting on the table beside her. She had been sewing; hemming her skirt, it seemed, for she was smoothing it down as I went in, her needle stuck into a little pincushion. Her headdress and veil were in place, and I wondered if the sounds I had heard were her movements as she adjusted them. I understood that women of the east, if that was where she came from, habitually wore veils, so that only their own close kin saw their faces. Above the veil, her black eyes stared fixedly at me, their impact almost overpowering in the small room. I wondered if she had enhanced their effect by the use of some sort of paint; her long lashes seemed to glisten, and the fine skin of her eyelids was very dark.

  But the veiled woman was not my chief concern.

  I looked towards the bed. The baby lay there, well wrapped, relaxed and calm, except for the steady, repetitive movement of his head. Mattie was right: he looked as if he was staring round the room, searching for something.

  Or perhaps someone.

  I had an idea who the someone might be.

  I turned back to the veiled lady. ‘Madam, I have been given to understand by concerned people that your baby may need my attention,’ I said stiffly. Her steady, unblinking gaze was unnerving.

  ‘Concerned people?’ Her husky voice echoed and mocked my words, managing to make them sound risible. ‘Who are these people? And why should your attention be required?’ Again, she used emphasis with cruel efficiency, as if it was unbelievable that anyone in their right mind could think I could be of any help.

  ‘I am a healer, madam,’ I said coldly. ‘As I believe you are aware.’

  She sniffed, drawing herself up. ‘I am not unwell.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ I was holding on to my temper with difficulty. ‘You, however, are not the only person here.’

  She looked across at the narrow bed. ‘He is in good health,’ she pronounced. ‘He feeds, he does not cry unduly.’ She shrugged, as if to say, So why are you here?

  ‘May I not look at him?’ I asked. I tried to smile, but found that it was impossible.

  She shrugged again. ‘If you must.’

  I went over to the bed, and the movement caught the baby’s attention. The light blue eyes turned to me, and I was quite sure I saw expectation in them. Then he gave a sad little sigh and turned away.

  I picked him up, holding him close to me. I murmured to him – silly nonsense, intended to soothe – and kissed the top of his head. He smelt sweet and clean; Mattie was doing a good job.

  ‘It is not my embrace he needs, madam,’ I said quietly. I glanced at her. ‘He had, I imagine, a nurse?’ For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine the veiled lady ever having held her son in her arms. It was not her he pined for.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And that nurse is no longer in your employ?’

  ‘There is another one who comes.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ It was I who found her for you! I wanted to yell. Dear Lord, was she still in shock? Had something so awful happened on the way here that her mind had been affected? I took a calming breath. It would not help either the veiled woman or her child if I became agitated. ‘The new wet-nurse will not be familiar to your son,’ I said, trying to speak kindly. ‘It will take him a while to get used to her. She will smell different from the previous nurse, and her milk will not be quite the same.’ The veiled woman gave a distinct shudder of revulsion. She is a grand lady, I told myself firmly. It is not her fault that she has been brought up to believe such ordinary, human functions are not only beneath her but also slightly disgusting. ‘Madam, would you not hold him?’ I suggested. ‘In the absence of his old nurse, you are someone he knows and recognizes.’ I stepped closer, ready to put the baby in her arms if she showed the slightest sign of being willing to receive him.

  She turned away.

  I went back to the bed, laid the child down and sat down beside him, gently stroking my fingers across his forehead. His skin was cool and smooth. As far as I could tell, he was indeed perfectly well.

  He was just, as Mattie had so accurately said, sad.

  I stared at the veiled woman, and, as if she felt my eyes on her, she turned to face me. ‘What is his name?’ I asked.

  She glared at me. There was a long pause, and I was just deciding that she was going to refuse to tell me, and, moreover, order me out of her room for my presumption, when she spoke. ‘Leafric.’

  ‘Leafric,’ I repeated under my breath. I was surprised, for it was a Saxon name; one of the old names that had been in use before the Normans came. There were Leafrics in my own ancestry. I had inherited the role of bard from my Granny Cordeilla, and one of my responsibilities was to memorize the long list of our forebears. I should have expected such a name, for the baby’s light eyes and fair hair had already suggested to me that his other parent must have originated a lot further north than the veiled woman.

  I risked another question, although I held out little hope that she would give me an answer. ‘Your boy was named for his father, perhaps?’

  Again, the long pause, while she fixed me with her dark-rimmed, black-eyed stare as if calculating how much to reveal to this brash and forward stranger sitting on her bed beside her son. ‘Not his father.’ Another pause. ‘But, yes, an ancestor. Of my late husband,’ she added.

  She was a widow, then. That alone should have made me more compassionate. The baby was no more than six months old, so this poor woman’s loss must have been quite recent. ‘I am sorry,’ I murmured.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For the death of your husband.’ Surely it was obvious?

  ‘Oh.’ The veiled woman lowered her head. Then – and it sounded as if she had to force out the words – ‘Thank you.’

  There was much more I wanted to know. My thoughts were whirling. Things that I had just been observing were reminding me of matters which Edild had touched on, as together we treated and, later, discussed the patients who beat a steady path to the door of her little house back in Aelf Fen.

  I was tempted to begin asking questions there and then. As if she sensed it, the veiled woman said, with a note of cold command in her voice that expected instant obedience, ‘And now you will leave. I wish to rest.’

  I managed not to slam the door. There was the baby to consider. I strode off along the passage, the heavy satchel in which I carry the requirements of my craft banging painfully on my hip, and flung myself out of the inn, all the while muttering under my breath, calling the veiled woman the sort of names that would deeply have shocked my parents.

  Out on the street, my failure to see beyond my own fury made me temporarily blind, and I marched right into a man coming the other way. I came off worse, for he was so stocky and hard-muscled that it was like walking into a stone wall. I lost my footing, and a strong hand caught my elbow, holding me upright.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, that was entirely my fault
. I wasn’t – Oh!’

  I had just bumped into Jack Chevestrier.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, restoring the strap of my satchel to its place over my shoulder.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You appear to be cross about something.’

  It seemed he’d heard my cursing. ‘Er – yes.’

  He nodded in the direction of the inn. ‘I think I might be able to guess the cause of your anger.’

  I smiled. ‘You’d be right. She’s not an easy woman to help.’

  Sudden sharp interest flared in his eyes. ‘You’d gone to help her?’

  ‘Well, her baby more than her. Mattie sought me out – she said you’d told her to.’

  ‘It wasn’t a command, Lassair,’ he said mildly. ‘I said if she happened to see you, she might ask if you’d give your professional opinion concerning the baby.’

  I studied him. To look at him – not over-tall, sturdily built, thick with muscle and habitually grave of expression – you’d take him for the sort of powerful, unsophisticated and boneheaded strongman with whom the great lords who uphold the law like to surround themselves. His apparel supported this, for he was armed with sword and knife, and the sleeveless jerkin, made of sturdy leather, was marked with what looked like the scuffs and scars of old fights. Yet I sensed there was far more to him than that. For one thing, his manner of speech was not that of a common thug – he had just made a courteous remark – and, for another, I had the feeling that there was a fine intelligence inside his round, close-cropped head.

  He appeared to be waiting for me to speak. I brought myself back to the matter in hand. ‘Mattie said the baby wasn’t ill, but seemed sad,’ I said. ‘Now that I’ve seen him, I agree.’

  ‘Can you—’

  He was interrupted by a gaggle of women shoving their way along the street, laughing and chattering, making so much noise that he’d have had to shout to make himself heard. His face creased in impatience, and, once they had passed, he said, ‘We’ll go somewhere quieter. If you can spare the time?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’