by Alys Clare
I leaned back, stretching my neck, shoulders and back, making myself relax, about to wrap the stone in its wool and put it safely away. But it hadn’t finished with me.
Out of nowhere, I saw those narrow eyes again. Now the fierce intent glittered out of them, and the features of the face clarified into an unreadable mask. This was a man intent on violence – of the most brutal, irrevocable sort – yet he was detached; whatever terrible act he was about to do, it would not be performed out of any deep emotion.
Who is he? I asked the question inside my head, praying the stone would answer. I saw a swift succession of images – the track leading out of the village; the drowned woman; Jack and me by the pool where she’d been found; the derelict monastery where we’d slept in the hay. Was this man her murderer? Had I been right when I’d felt his eyes on me, heard the whistle of the knife flying towards me to take my life?
I couldn’t bear any more. Swiftly I covered the stone with my hands, blocking it from my sight. I didn’t know what to do: should I stay where I was, hidden among the bare willows? Should I break cover and run as fast as I could back to the village? But the ground was waterlogged, and fast running all but impossible. He’d spot me instantly, and even my best speed would be no match for that silver blade …
Then I realized something. It might have been the stone, communicating with me; it might have been my own common sense, fighting to be heard, but, when I made myself stop to think, I noticed that I wasn’t afraid. Whoever it was, watching and waiting his moment, just then he was no threat to me. I was safe; but I wasn’t the only one who mattered.
I had to go …
I looked down at the stone. Did I trust it? Did I trust myself?
As if I was watching someone else, I saw myself put the stone back in its bag and stand up. I brushed down my skirts, wrapped my shawl around me and strode out from under the willows, setting off for the village at a steady pace that was nowhere near a panicky run.
I had my answer.
It was late afternoon when I reached the village. I’d been out for hours; far longer than I’d thought. I wondered if the shining stone somehow altered the perception of time. It seemed quite possible. I let myself into Edild’s house, and saw straight away that she was not back. I poked up the fire, building it up until I had a cheery blaze, then set water on to boil in order to prepare food. I was ravenous, and Edild would need to eat when she came in.
Presently there was a knock on the door. I got up, opened it and saw Jack standing outside. I felt a huge wave of relief. I’d known it would be him. ‘Come in,’ I said.
He did so, settling on the floor beside the fire and holding out his hands to the flames. ‘That feels good,’ he murmured. Then, raising his eyes to look at me, he said, ‘I came looking for you earlier. Nobody was at home.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
‘I thought you might have come with me again to help me look for Harald Fensman’s clan,’ he said. ‘I wanted—’ But then he stopped, and whatever he’d been about to add remained unsaid.
‘Did you have any luck?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘And you were going to talk to Lady Rosaria last night – did you?’
‘Not for long,’ he replied. ‘Lord Gilbert is very protective. A sheriff’s officer is not permitted to interrogate a lady.’ His tone was carefully neutral.
‘Do you think she’s recovering?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I can say, since I’ve never known what’s wrong with her. What do you think, healer woman?’
I made myself concentrate. It wasn’t easy, when other things were batting about in my head, clamouring to be said. All in good time, I told myself. ‘Undoubtedly she’s had some very bad experience,’ I said. ‘She, her baby son and her maid took ship from their home in northern Spain to Bordeaux, where they changed vessels and came up to Lynn aboard The Good Shepherd. The maid was very sick, and had to be helped ashore at Lynn. Lady Rosaria and her son then went on to Cambridge alone.’ I looked at Jack. ‘Can it be that the maid falling ill and perhaps dying was enough to cause Lady Rosaria’s state of deep shock?’
He shrugged. ‘What else is there?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Did she speak of her circumstances back in Spain? She mentioned her husband’s father, but was there anyone else?’
‘There was his old father, who was called Leafric – she did reveal that last night – but he died years ago,’ Jack said. ‘If there were other family members, she’d surely have turned to them rather than set out for England.’
‘She told you her husband’s grandfather was called Leafric?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, that tallies. She told me her son is named after a forebear of her husband’s.’
‘Is that relevant?’
Slowly I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure.’ Funny things were happening inside my mind. I had the feeling that we’d just stumbled on something important.
I said, ‘We too have a Harald whose father was called Leafric.’
There was quite a long silence. Then he said, ‘Are you sure?’
I smiled. ‘I’m the family bard.’ I remembered all those endless hours with Granny Cordeilla, and how she would test me over and over again until I stopped making mistakes. ‘My father’s mother was called Cordeilla, and it was her youngest brother who was called Harald. Along with his two elder brothers, he fought at the great battle, and he was the only one who survived. The family never saw him again, and my granny always said he’d left his homeland rather than bend his neck before the conquerors.’ As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I’d been more diplomatic, since the son of one of those conquerors was sitting beside me. ‘Harald and Cordeilla’s father was called Leafric.’
After a pause, Jack said, ‘So your family has a missing relative called Harald, who left England and might well have ended up in Spain. His father’s name was Leafric. Now here we are, with a woman who claims her father-in-law was called Harald Fensman, and his father was called Leafric. Do you think it’s possible we’re referring to the same man?’
‘Possible, yes,’ I agreed, ‘but highly unlikely. For one thing, nobody in the family heard from Harald after he disappeared. There’s nothing whatsoever to suggest he went to Spain, and, as far as we know, he didn’t. Why would he?’
‘As far as you know,’ Jack repeated softly. ‘But what do you know?’
I was stumped. ‘I’m not sure.’ Had there ever been any hint of what had happened to Harald? If he had contacted anyone in the family, then the most likely person was his sister Cordeilla, my grandmother. She’d always said they were close. It was too late to ask her, but I could do the next best thing: I could speak to her two favourite children, my aunt Edild and my own father. ‘I’ll ask,’ I said, ‘and—’
‘What’s the other thing?’
‘Huh?’
‘You said, for one thing, and that usually suggests there’s going to be at least one more.’
‘Oh, yes. The other thing is that my great-uncle really couldn’t be Lady Rosaria’s father-in-law, because he wasn’t rich and his kin didn’t have wide estates and luxurious houses. He came from kin just like mine.’
I hoped he would nod his head in agreement, and we’d finally abandon the idea of Lady Rosaria having anything to do with me and my family.
He didn’t.
‘Harald Fensman became a man of position and status, that’s for sure,’ he said instead. ‘But how do we know what his circumstances were when he first arrived in Spain?’
I had a horrible feeling that I knew what he was going to say. ‘Don’t,’ I muttered.
He must have picked up my distress. He leaned closer to me, and I felt my hand being enclosed in his. ‘Does it upset you so much?’ he said gently.
‘The thought that Lady Rosaria’s late father-in-law was my Granny Cordeilla’s youngest brother, which means she is related by marriage to my fam
ily, and we’ll have to look after her when all the time she’ll be looking down that long nose of hers, dismissing my poor mother’s cooking and housekeeping, despising my beloved father’s lowly occupation and treating the rest of us like slaves? Oh yes, it distresses me, all right!’
To my shame, I found I was crying; great sobs were bursting out of me. Jack gave a soft sound of sympathy, put his arms round me and drew me tightly against him.
He felt so strong.
After a while, I sat up and dried my eyes. ‘I’m better now,’ I said.
He smiled, and I tried to respond, but failed. Then he said, his mouth quirking as if trying not to laugh, ‘You don’t know she’s got a long nose.’
‘What?’ I was already grinning.
‘None of us have seen her without that veil,’ he pointed out. ‘For all you know, she may have the most pert and lovely little nose.’
If his intention had been to cheer me up, he had succeeded. He had released me from the hug, but now he took hold of my hand again. ‘I’m not belittling how you feel,’ he said. ‘If I were in your position, I’d feel just the same. The thought of Lady bloody Rosaria as a permanent house guest is abhorrent.’
‘And you don’t even know how small my parents’ house is,’ I put in.
‘Oh, I expect I do,’ he replied. ‘But, dear Lassair, I think you may be overlooking something.’
‘What?’
He paused, then: ‘It’s not only Lady Rosaria who’s looking for a kind, loving family to take her in, is it?’
I knew what he meant. Instantly the outlook became a lot better. ‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s the baby, too.’
‘And you’ve developed quite an affection for Leafric.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Wouldn’t it make her more tolerable, if he was also part of the arrangement?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Whatever has happened, and whatever she has become, he’s not to blame.’
‘Indeed he’s not,’ Jack agreed, and I was surprised at the vehemence in his voice. ‘The innocent never are, yet so often it’s they who suffer most.’
I looked at him. Something had sparked off a memory, and it clearly wasn’t a happy one.
It was my turn to squeeze his hand. I went on holding it, even after the need for a kind touch was past, for the moment seemed right to speak. ‘Jack, there’s something I must tell you.’
‘Hm?’ He didn’t sound very interested; perhaps his mind was still on his memories.
‘It’s important,’ I went on. ‘We’re in danger.’
Now I had his attention. His green eyes fixed on mine and he said urgently, ‘What makes you think that?’
I don’t think, I know, I said silently. The shining stone doesn’t deal in uncertainties. ‘Remember, beside the pool where the drowned woman was found, we speculated that her killer might be watching us?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘That wasn’t the only time I’ve sensed eyes on me. Today, I felt his presence again –’ it hadn’t been quite like that, but I wasn’t ready to explain about the stone – ‘and I am certain he means to harm us.’ I met Jack’s intent stare. ‘To be precise, he means to harm you.’ Before he could interrupt, I hurried on. ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? If he’s worried because he thinks we’ve found out something that incriminates him, then it’s you, as the lawman, he’ll want to get rid of.’
I’m not sure what I expected; it certainly hadn’t been that Jack would smile. ‘I appreciate your concern,’ he said, ‘and I’m grateful.’ He was getting up, preparing to leave.
‘But—’
He looked down at me, staring right into my eyes. ‘Lassair, if I took account of all the men who wish me harm – who wish to kill me, no doubt – I’d never leave the safety of my house.’
I stood up too, and stood face to face with him. ‘I really do believe your life is at risk.’ I hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you why, but please don’t dismiss it.’
‘I’m not dismissing it!’ The denial came so swiftly that I knew it was sincere. ‘And I’ll be careful. I promise.’
Something in his direct gaze was disturbing me; I turned away. ‘I’ll walk with you some of the way,’ I muttered.
He went as if to stop me, but then, with a shrug, nodded.
There was rain in the air; it was not yet falling, but it would very soon. We were passing the church when I felt eyes on me. I spun round, my heart thumping in alarm, but then I saw who it was. ‘Just a minute,’ I said to Jack. I ran across the track.
Standing deep in the shadow beneath the ancient yew tree in the churchyard was Hrype, cloaked and hooded, his face concealed and his silvery eyes glinting in the fading light.
‘Why are you hiding?’ I whispered.
‘I have my reasons,’ he said gruffly. Then, glancing out to where Jack stood waiting, he said acidly, ‘I won’t keep you from your friend.’ Only he could imbue that pleasant, inoffensive word with such dark meaning. ‘You’re to come out with me tonight. There’s a task you must perform.’
‘Must?’ I repeated, instantly angry. ‘On your orders, Hrype?’
He gave a sound expressing his impatience. ‘No. The prime concern isn’t mine.’ He hesitated. ‘There is someone else; someone who—’
‘Lassair?’ Jack called. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Get rid of him!’ Hrype hissed.
‘No!’ I hissed back.
Hrype muttered a curse, and then, as both of us stepped out from the shadows, I witnessed the extraordinary thing I’d seen once or twice before: Hrype changed his appearance. Somehow, using no more than adjustments in how he stood, his attitude and how he held his head, he turned from a tall, straight and proud man in vigorous middle age to a cringing, crippled peasant, worn down to decrepitude by decades of toil. In a thin, reedy voice quite unlike his own, he looked up at Jack, bowed and said, ‘Good evening to you, sir.’ Pulling his hood forward to conceal his face, he slipped away.
I knew why he had stopped me. He wanted me to look into the shining stone; to attempt once more to extract what he so badly wanted to know. My first reaction was to feel distressed and afraid.
Then, as I stood staring after Hrype, another emotion stirred. The shining stone was rightfully in my keeping; my own grandfather had told me so. It had been in his possession and he had given it to my Granny Cordeilla, trusting her to keep it safe until the right hands were ready to receive it.
Those hands were mine.
I wanted to be left alone with the stone. To form my own links with it; to explore it slowly, waiting to see what it offered in return. Discovery promised to be an exciting, seductive and mysterious path, and, that very afternoon, I had made my first solo steps on it.
I was no longer prepared to use the stone at someone else’s bidding, even that of a man as powerful and persuasive as Hrype. I raised my chin, squared my shoulders and gave a nod.
Beside me, Jack gave a soft laugh and said, ‘Have you finished?’
I spun round, to see that he was studying me closely. ‘What?’ I demanded sharply.
‘You’ve just been going through some personal crisis, I’d say,’ he replied, his tone mild. He jerked his head in the direction in which Hrype had melted away. ‘That man asked you to do something, and you don’t want to. At first you looked cowed, and you started chewing on your thumbnail in the way you always do when you’re worried. Then you made up your mind you were going to be strong – I saw it in your face – and refuse him.’
Chewing on my thumbnail? Really? Surreptitiously I glanced down at my hand: four decent nails on the fingers, and the one on the thumb nibbled down to its limit.
I looked up, straight into Jack’s clear, honest eyes. He said softly, ‘Lassair, you can tell me it’s nothing to do with me, but I’d like to help you.’
I didn’t answer. I just went on looking at him.
‘I’m trying to tell you that you can trust me, which isn’t really fair when you know next to nothing about me,’ he said. ‘You know whe
re I live and what my work is. As I said, I was once a soldier, and the change from fighting man to lawman was an obvious and relatively easy step.’ He hesitated, weighing his words. ‘I dislike and distrust the man who gives me my orders – Picot is a crook and a rogue, out to make his own fortune – but I believe it is right to have laws, and that those laws must be upheld and defended. The alternative is every man for himself, and, under that regime, the strong prosper and the weak are trampled in the dust.’
I nodded. Rollo had once said something very similar.
My thoughts veered away from Rollo as if I’d been burned.
Jack shrugged, and I sensed his passionate explanation of himself had made him uneasy.
Then, thinking back, I remembered something he had said earlier: the innocent are never to blame, yet so often it’s they who suffer most.
I looked at him. As if he was prepared for my scrutiny and wanted to stand firm before it, he stared right back at me. He stood easily, yet, even at rest, his broad shoulders and chest revealed his solid strength. What had he been through to be such a champion of the weak, the innocent and the powerless? Had he been a Saxon, I could have understood, for you didn’t have to walk many miles to find people who had suffered appallingly when the Normans came; people whose lives had been changed in a flash from comfort and security to wretched poverty and brutal violence. In the red-hot mood of conquest, William the Bastard, his lords and his soldiers had had neither the time nor the inclination to be merciful.
But Jack Chevestrier hadn’t even been born back in 1066. No blame could attach to him personally for William the Conqueror’s barbarities.
Still he did not speak. He was waiting, I thought, to see what I would do. Whether I would trust him or keep my secrets to myself.
After what seemed a long time, I said, ‘I have made up my mind about something.’ I paused, for I wanted this to sound right. ‘I do believe you wish to help me, and I’m grateful.’ He began to speak, but I stopped him. ‘I’m not ready to tell you what it’s about,’ I hurried on, ‘but please understand that it’s not because I don’t trust you. I do.’
