by Alys Clare
Sibert and I both turned to Morcar. ‘What do you think?’ Sibert asked him. ‘Does that make sense?’
Morcar thought about it. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But why would it matter to anyone but the lad if he were made to be a monk when he didn’t want to?’ He glanced at me. ‘Who did they fear I’d tell?’
I had no idea. ‘Er—’
‘It would matter,’ Sibert said slowly, ‘if the pale boy is someone important.’
Silence fell as we all thought about that. Eventually, I said tentatively, ‘What, like some lord’s son who was supposed to make an influential marriage?’ We all knew how the wealthy and powerful in our land used their children as pawns in their complicated games, marrying them off where their presence would most benefit their fathers.
‘It’s possible surely?’ Sibert said. ‘And whoever is trying to shut him up with the monks doesn’t want this marriage to happen.’
It was possible, certainly it was. ‘Yes,’ I replied. With an effort I turned away from the interesting avenues of speculation that were flooding my mind. ‘We must work out the why later,’ I said firmly. ‘For now, we have something far more important to do.’ I edged closer to Sibert, lowering my voice. ‘Did you find a boat?’
He nodded. He was smiling, excitement thrumming through him. ‘Yes. It lies tethered to a post right at the end of the track, and it looks as if nobody’s been near it for years.’
‘Is it watertight?’ I demanded. It sounded too good to be true.
‘It floats,’ Sibert hedged. ‘But listen, I’ve got some really good news – it’s raining again, very, very hard!’
Morcar, hearing this, groaned aloud. Thinking of him, my poor, sick patient, I said sharply, ‘Why in the Lord’s name is that good news?’
Sibert looked happily at Morcar and me. ‘Because the water’s started to rise once more, very fast. Already, many of the lower-lying areas around the island are flooded.’
I still did not understand. Morcar did. He said kindly, ‘When it floods, Lassair, you don’t need to find a mule or a carter to take you from Ely to Aelf Fen. With a boat and a strong oarsman –’ he shot a grateful look at Sibert – ‘you can go by water all the way.’
I did my very best for my cousin. I checked the wounds in his foot, which were angry looking, the surrounding flesh red and swollen, but which showed no signs of putrefaction. I dabbed on more comfrey ointment and re-dressed the foot, wrapping a generous amount of linen around it to pad it. The wounds would hurt like fury if Morcar so much as touched his foot to a hard surface, and I knew I must do what I could to soften the impact. Then Sibert and I helped Morcar into his outer garments, wrapping him closely in his woollen cloak and putting the new short, hooded cloak over the top. I prepared a pack of food and medicines – not many of the latter, for with any luck he would be with Edild in a few hours – and Sibert slung it on his back. Then we gathered up Morcar’s blanket and the sack containing his tools, and together Sibert and I got him to his feet.
Sibert checked the alley outside. It was dusk and there was nobody about, which was hardly surprising as it was raining so hard that we could barely see three yards in front of us. I dived back for my own blanket and put it over Morcar’s head. He needed it more than I did.
We set off, keeping under the eaves of the hovels as much as we could, and Sibert led the way down to the isolated spot where the boat lay all but hidden in the rushes. Its bottom held several inches of water, which Sibert baled out as best he could with his cupped hands. Then we helped Morcar down into it, settling him on the thwart that ran across at the stern. The boat had a framework over the stern and the tattered remnants of a cover for it lay folded under the thwart. The cover was made of canvas, hard and brittle with age, full of dusty dried leaves, cobwebs, dust and general dirt; by the time Sibert and I had draped it over the frame we were both filthy as well as soaked. The cloth did a little to keep the worst of the rain off Morcar and as he looked up at me I could just make out his white face.
He must have seen my anxiety. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. I could hear his teeth chattering and I leaned out to him, trying to tuck his blanket more tightly around him, rocking the boat dangerously.’
‘Stop it, Lassair!’ Sibert said in a harsh whisper. ‘We’re wet enough without you spilling us into the water!’
I drew back on to the bank. I felt utterly miserable, worried out of my mind for my patient and not at all sure I was doing the right thing. It would do him no good if we got him away from the men who were trying to kill him only to have him die out on the fen in an open boat . . .
It was as if he read my thought. ‘I won’t die,’ he said with a grin. ‘Takes more than a drop of rain to see me off.’
His uncomplaining courage all but undid me. ‘Go on, get on your way,’ I called out softly to Sibert. ‘Take him straight to my aunt.’
‘I will.’ Already, Sibert had coiled in the painter, and now he was nudging the little boat away from the shore with an oar. As I watched he slid the other oar into the water and, as soon as he was clear of the bank, he began to row, quickly getting into a rhythm so that the boat gathered speed. The craft and its passengers disappeared into the teeming rain.
‘Goodbye. Good luck,’ I whispered.
They wouldn’t have heard me. Over the deafening sound of the rain on the water, they wouldn’t have heard me even if I’d yelled.
The little hovel seemed lonely and empty without them. I tried not to think about them out there on the fen; there was nothing I could do now to help them and they must take their chance, relying on Sibert’s oarsmanship and knowledge of the area to get them safely to Aelf Fen. It ought not to take long; going straight across the floodwater was much more direct than going the long way round on dry land. Edild would not mind being woken up in the predawn, and she would—
Stop it, I commanded myself.
I tidied the room, sweeping out the straw that Morcar had lain on and stacking it inside the door for disposal in the morning. I shook up the bed where Sibert had slept and spread out his blanket. I no longer had my blanket, having given it to Morcar, so I made up the fire, banked it carefully with ash to make sure it stayed in till morning, then wrapped myself in my shawl, pulled the end of Sibert’s blanket up over my legs and closed my eyes.
I had not realized how exhausted I was. The next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to daylight, sunshine was filtering through the cracks around the door and there were sounds of people stirring in the houses either side of me.
The new day was here.
I took advantage of being alone in the room. I heated water, stripped to my skin and washed, then quickly dressed again. I had spread my gown in front of the fire while I slept and now it was more or less dry. I combed out my hair and re-braided it, then I made myself sit down and eat some breakfast. The bread was dry, but I was so hungry that I barely noticed.
As soon as I had finished I set about my self-appointed task. I had remained in Ely to make the killers think Morcar was still there, being looked after by me; it was time to make a start. I tied a clean, white cap over my neatly braided hair and set off.
I knew where the apothecary’s shop was situated; I had spotted it as Sibert and I had searched for Morcar. Now I pretended to be the dullest-witted healer ever to walk the earth, asking again and again for directions and finally, with a flirtatious little smile, forcing a young merchant to walk me right up to the shop door. The more people that got to hear of the silly young healer who could not find her way, the better. From the apothecary I was careful to buy the ingredients I would have required to go on treating Morcar; I needed them in any case, having used up almost all of the supplies I had brought with me. Then I went up to the main gate of the abbey and, very meekly, asked if it were possible to speak to the infirmarer.
The monk at the gate said, ‘We do not permit the entry of lay women into the abbey save with special permission.’ He was a different type from the monk I had seen on my first d
ay, a nicer, more charitable type, for he managed to put regret into the official words, and he looked at me quite kindly.
‘I see,’ I said, eyes cast modestly down. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you, brother.’ I gave a sad little sigh.
As I turned to leave he said, ‘Wait.’ I stopped. ‘What did you want with the infirmarer?’ he asked.
I risked a quick look up into his face. ‘I am nursing my sick cousin,’ I said. ‘He fell in the ditch and has a fever, and he also has a deep wound in his foot.’ That ought to be sufficient to describe Morcar, if anybody were interested. ‘I’m doing my best to treat him –’ quickly, I reeled off the standard remedies for fever and grave wounds – ‘but I wanted to ask someone with much, much more experience than I have if I’m doing right.’ I bit my lip, staring at my boots.
There was a pause. Then the monk said, ‘Wait here. I will send word.’
I waited. I wanted to cheer with jubilation, but I restrained the urge. Presently, my monk returned. ‘He’s on his way,’ he muttered. Then he went back to guarding the gate, glaring out across the street as if pretending to be the very last monk in the abbey to be caught in a simple act of kindness for an anxious young healer.
I waited for some time. Then a gruff voice behind me said, ‘I’m Brother Luke. Are you the girl with the fever patient?’
I spun round to him, bowing my head as I admitted that I was. Curtly, he ran through his version of how I ought to care for my cousin, which was pretty much what I’d been doing anyway. When he’d finished, I thanked him profusely and, reaching into the little leather purse at my waist, took out a coin. ‘Please put this in the poor box, Brother Luke,’ I said.
He looked at it, surprise in his eyes. I had given him more than I could afford, but I wanted to make quite sure he remembered me and, hopefully, spoke of me to all his brethren.
It was almost midday before I returned to the little house. I knew someone was inside, for the leather strap that I had wound around the latch to hold it firmly closed was hanging loosely from a nail on the door post. Hoping it was Sibert, I went in.
Sibert lay fast asleep on the straw mattress, mouth open, snoring rhythmically. I found myself smiling broadly; it was such a relief to see him. I burned to ask him if Morcar was all right, but he needed to sleep. I left him to it and set about unpacking the clutch of small, linen bags containing the supplies I had purchased from the apothecary. You just never knew when you might need a fever remedy . . .
Sibert woke up late in the afternoon and said he was hungry and was there anything to eat? While he slept I had been out to find food, and I had prepared a generous meal. I’d visited the area where stalls had been set up to serve the huge workforce, buying dumplings made of flaked fish, flour and spices, a bread and mushroom poultice, a pot of honey-glazed carrots and slices of a sweet loaf flavoured with ginger, spices, berries and walnuts. I also had a jug of mead. I had spent far more than I ought to have done – we would have to exist on meagre supplies from now on, unless Sibert managed to go foraging – but there was something that I had to ask Sibert to do, and I badly needed him to agree.
We ate hungrily, having first raised our mead cups and drunk to Morcar’s good health. Sibert had already told me he was all right and had survived the journey; the first thing he’d said when he woke up – well, actually the second, after I’m hungry – was, ‘Don’t look so worried, Lassair, Morcar’s tucked up safely at Aelf Fen and both your aunt and my uncle are looking after him to the very best of their abilities.’
I made myself relax as Sibert and I worked our way through our feast. It was too good to waste by being so anxious that I didn’t notice what I was eating. When we had finished and were relaxing on our straw piles, I gathered my courage and said, ‘Sibert, we can’t stay here for ever pretending to nurse a man who isn’t here. Sooner or later someone will discover the deception, and besides I’ve got better things to do with my life.’
Sibert grinned. ‘Me too.’
‘We have to find out who tried to kill Morcar and why,’ I hurried on, ‘and so far the only thing we have to go on is that strange scene that he saw at the abbey gate.’
‘Yes,’ Sibert agreed. ‘The pale boy who doesn’t want to be a monk.’
It was a grand conclusion to draw from such a small incident but, as I had just said, all we had. If it had been this that Morcar had seen, and that the killers had to keep secret, then it was indeed the right place to begin. Before I could start to doubt myself I said, ‘You’ve got to go into the abbey, Sibert. You have to find this pale-haired boy and speak to him. If he’s there against his will, we’ll try to help him. Even if we can’t, we must tell someone –’ the abbot, I supposed – ‘and bring the whole thing into the open, because only then will the killers stop hunting Morcar.’
Sibert obviously followed the logic of this, nodding as I spoke. Then he fixed me with a glare and said, ‘You said you must go into the abbey. Don’t you mean we?’
I took a breath, slowly letting it out. Then I said, as calmly as I could, ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s an abbey full of Benedictine monks and they only admit lay women when they really have to.’
‘You’re not a woman, you’re a healer,’ Sibert protested.
I knew what he meant. ‘Yes, but I don’t think they make the distinction.’ I explained about my visit that morning and how, even having described myself as a healer, I had not been allowed in.
‘Oh.’ He sounded forlorn. Accepting, but definitely forlorn.
I reached over, the mead jug in my hand, and topped up his mug. ‘Come on!’ I said bracingly. ‘A man who has just rowed across half the fens and back again is surely not afraid of a bunch of monks!’
He grinned. ‘It’s not the same,’ he said vaguely.
No, I was sure it wasn’t. I dug him playfully in the ribs. ‘What’s the matter, afraid they’ll make you stay in?’
I had been joking, but from the sudden heat in his face I realized I’d hit the bull. He muttered something, his face still red, and I reached for his hand. ‘They won’t.’ I stated it flatly. ‘If they do, I’ll come and get you.’
His smile widened. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
He gave a deep sigh. ‘Very well. I’ll go in as soon as they open the gates in the morning.’
EIGHT
W
e made Sibert as unmemorable as we could next morning. I fashioned a cap for him out of the woven scarf he was wearing round his neck, pulling it forwards to conceal his forehead and brows. His tunic was muddy from his trip across the fens, and I resisted the urge to brush it clean; cleanliness stood out more than dirt among a hard-working population, and it would be better if nobody remembered any details about the man who had come looking for the pale-haired monk. Just in case.
I didn’t let myself think too much about just in case.
As we ate our breakfast we concocted a story: Sibert would say his name was Faol and he worked with his father, who was a rat catcher, and did the monks have any areas of the abbey that were infested? If they said no, then Sibert was to pretend to have seen ominous signs, upon which we hoped the monks would be alarmed into inviting him to have a good look round. Once inside, it ought to be easy. This was, after all, an abbey that at present was in the throes of a major redevelopment, with a huge, new cathedral rising in place of the little Saxon church. Workmen were going in and out all day, no doubt swarming all over the building site. Indeed, our first idea had been to have Sibert pretend to be one of them. We had, however, realized that this disguise would not give him the excuse to venture into the abbey’s private areas; hence the rat-catching plan.
I saw him off with a hug and an encouraging word. I watched him as he hurried off up the alley. Then I went back inside and started to pray.
The pale-haired boy lay on his hard bed. He knew he could not stay alone there for long. One of the worst things about this new life into which he had been so abruptly thrust was the almost total lack of privacy
. Not that he’d ever had much of that in his humble village home, but what he had always sought – and quite frequently managed to achieve – was solitude. Now every instant of the day and the night was spent in the close company of other people. Those people were monks, moreover, and to the last man senior to him in the religious life, which meant they were entitled to tell him what to do and make sure he did it. He had never in his life felt so many pairs of eyes studying his every move, and it unnerved him so badly that he barely knew himself.
As if that were not bad enough, he was terrified.
There was something quite dreadful within the abbey. He knew that without a shadow of a doubt. He had seen it. It had seen him, or it would have done if it had— No. He forced himself to arrest the thought. Wasn’t it enough that the fearful spectre haunted his brief snatches of uneasy sleep, without imagining it in his waking hours?
They called him Brother Ailred, but that was not his name. He was not sure that he ought to be called brother, for he was quite certain he had not taken any vows in the short time he’d been at Ely. But to whom could he protest? The other monks barely let him speak, and he was quite sure that if he tried nobody would listen.
As far as the pale-haired youth was concerned, his name was Gewis. He was fifteen years old, and he had been born and bred in a small village called Fulbourn, on the edge of the fens some five miles to the south-east of Cambridge. His home had been out to the south of the village, close to where the Gog Magog hills rose up. His father had died four years ago when Gewis was eleven. Gewis wished he had fonder memories of him, but the truth was that his father had been an embittered man, self-absorbed with little time and few kind words to spare for his young wife and son. His name was Edulf and he was a carpenter, or so he claimed, although Gewis had rarely seen a man less handy with the tools of his trade. As Gewis grew towards maturity and began to think about his childhood he realized that his mother Asfrior must have had an income of some sort, for otherwise the little family would surely not have survived. As soon as he was old enough, Gewis had picked up sufficient skill to take on carpentry jobs, at first only the simplest work that other men rejected as beneath them, then gradually progressing to more demanding tasks. The fact that the household depended on the young son and not the father for its income must, Gewis thought, have served only to increase Edulf’s anger with the world and resentment at his place within it.
