Mist Over the Water

by Alys Clare

  I squeezed Sibert’s hand. It was warm, human, living, and it squeezed back. I sensed the fear retreat a little. ‘Sibert, we must leave the island,’ I said. ‘It’s not safe, we—’

  ‘The ghost has only been seen within the abbey or, at the worse, just outside the walls,’ he said quickly. ‘We’re not in danger out here, or at least I don’t think so.’ He looked uneasily around the little room.

  ‘It’s not the ghost I’m afraid of.’ It was – of course it was – but I wasn’t going to admit it. ‘There’s something else.’ Briefly, I explained to Sibert what I had realized while he was in the abbey. ‘The killers must surely suspect that Morcar told us what he saw, and they’ll come for us. Morcar’s safe now, but you and I will be as helpless as chicks when the fox breaks into the henhouse.’

  ‘I can fight!’ Sibert protested, stung.

  ‘Four, maybe five of them?’ That was what Morcar had said.

  Sibert frowned. ‘Hmm.’

  Sensing a breach in his defences, I pushed on. ‘We needed to pretend I was still here looking after Morcar only for as long as it took you to get him to safety,’ I pointed out. ‘You managed that, and now he’s tucked up snugly in Aelf Fen, and you must admit it’s very unlikely the killers will find him.’

  ‘I went over the water,’ Sibert said musingly. ‘I left no trail for even the most expert tracker to pick up.’

  ‘There you are then!’ I exclaimed. ‘Morcar’s perfectly safe. It’s you and I who are in danger now.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, still in that thoughtful way. Then he spun round, looked straight into my eyes and said, ‘You can go if you want. I’m staying here.’

  I sighed in exasperation. ‘Sibert, why? It’s dangerous, you’ve just admitted that, and you said yourself that the pale monk hasn’t been harmed, so maybe Morcar was wrong and the boy isn’t—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the pale boy.’

  Surprised, I said, ‘What then?’

  A half-smile twitched at his mouth. ‘Don’t you know? You touched on it when we were on our way here.’

  Then I understood.

  I tried to recall exactly what he had said. I’ve always wanted to go to the island. There’s something strange about the story of what happened to my father.

  His father, poor Edmer, fatally wounded in the Ely rebellion. Yes, of course. There had always been another, deeper motive behind Sibert’s eagerness to accompany me on my mercy mission. I let my shoulders slump. Against the huge attraction of delving into a mystery from the past, what chance did my fears for our safety have?

  I straightened up and turned to him. ‘Come on then.’

  He was already smiling. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You won’t leave till you’ve done all you can to unearth what you need to know, and I won’t leave without you, so the sooner we start, the sooner we can go home.’

  It was past noon, however, and I was very hungry; Sibert was too, and he needed more than the heel of bread I’d thrust at him when I’d returned to find him waiting. I set about preparing a meal, and while I worked I recalled all that I knew of Sibert’s recent family history.

  His father Edmer, Hrype’s brother, had fought with Sibert’s grandfather under King Harold at Hastings. After the defeat, in which the grandfather had died, the family had lost their estate of Drakelow, on the coast near Dunwich. Hrype had taken his and Edmer’s mother, Fritha, and fled to the Black Fen, where eventually Edmer found them. Old men spoke with pride of the network of spies and informers that had operated all over the fens after Harold’s defeat as men loyal to him tried to regroup after the disaster; it was thrilling to think of how such secretive men had strived so hard to protect each other. Edmer, Hrype and Fritha had then made their way to the Isle of Ely, where Edmer wished to join the Saxon resistance under Hereward – although Hrype warned him repeatedly that this act would cost him dear.

  Edmer, however, would not – and did not – listen. Not only was he suffering from the profound mental wound of having fought and lost, and from being forced to watch his father die in the battle, but in addition he had a new wife: Froya. She had been Hrype’s pupil, and Edmer had fallen in love with her the moment he set eyes on her. Edmer fought for revenge, for the pride of the Saxons and for the future, for now that he had a wife he knew that he might also have a son. The rebellion was the first step to the recovery of Drakelow, the family estate, and Edmer did not hesitate.

  He took a Norman arrow in the thigh, and the wound became infected. Hrype did his best, with Froya right beside him fighting for her man, but they had to watch helplessly as Edmer’s life force began to fade. It was too much for his poor mother; Fritha had been gravely traumatized by the defeat and the loss of her home, and in the course of the flight across the fens she had suffered a seizure that left her partly paralysed. Her son’s wound was too much. She turned her face to the wall and quietly died.

  Hrype amputated his brother’s leg. As soon as he was well enough to travel, they found a mount and got him away, leaving Hrype behind pretending that he was still nursing his sick brother. Froya fled to Aelf Fen, but the safety of its sanctuary came too late for Edmer; he succumbed to his hurts and died in his wife’s arms. Her son, my friend Sibert, was born a few months later. The only kin he had ever known were his mother and his father’s brother.

  It was no surprise, really, that he was so very keen to find out more.

  We set out in the early afternoon. Once again Sibert arranged his scarf so that it hid his head and brow. I fastened my white cap over my braided hair and, for good measure, pulled up the hood of my dark cloak to cover it. Without actually saying so, both Sibert and I realized that if we were going to go about asking possibly awkward questions about the recent past, when Saxons had rebelled against the Norman invaders, then it would be best to do so as anonymously as we could. If it were to be discovered that two young people had been too curious, we did not want the trail to lead back to us.

  ‘Where do you plan to go first?’ I said softly to Sibert as we hurried up the alleyway.

  He grinned briefly. ‘Where do the gossips gather?’

  ‘In the alehouse,’ I answered promptly.

  ‘Quite so. There’s an alehouse on the marketplace, and it’s usually busy. We’ll start there.’

  I was content to follow his lead. It appeared that he had given some thought to his investigation, and I agreed with him that this was a good initial step. As we emerged from the alley into the market square we were all at once in a crowd, and I kept close behind Sibert as he shouldered a way through the throng. The alehouse was over in a far corner, the bundle of branches that marked it out now ragged and almost bare of leaves. It was a long, low building that occupied the entire corner of the square. A wide entrance opened on to a short corridor with rooms opening off on either side. It was clear from the noise which was the tap room.

  Sibert got mugs of weak beer for us and then stood looking around, a slight frown making a crease between his eyebrows. Then he nodded over to the left and, following the line of his gaze, I noticed a group of half a dozen old men sitting on crude benches on either side of an upturned barrel. Old they might be but several pairs of keen eyes looked out with lively interest on the comings and goings all around them.

  I edged my way over to the group. One of the benches had a little space and, with a smile, I asked its two occupants if they would move up so that I could sit down.

  ‘Aye, right gladly, my pretty maid,’ said the nearest old man, baring his gums and two remaining teeth in a smile. He shuffled his skinny bottom along the bench and patted the shiny wood in invitation. ‘You perch here beside me and . . . oh.’ He had just caught sight of Sibert, a few paces behind me and now preparing to squeeze in beside me.

  Sibert’s presence did not deter his flirtatious advances for long. Soon he had his scrawny hand on my knee, only removing it to pinch my cheek as he commented on my ‘rosy little face’. I bore it with a smile. For one thing, if I did
not discourage him it might make him and his friends more receptive to Sibert’s questions. For another, I didn’t really mind.

  Sibert exchanged a few general comments with the old men by way of an introduction. I joined in, offering an opinion on the weather and the likelihood of more rain. Then there was a short, reflective pause, and I sensed Sibert go tense.

  ‘It’s a bit of a disruption, that there,’ he offered, jerking his head in the direction of the abbey. ‘Going to be a monster, that new cathedral!’ His eyes popped with wonder, and I was impressed with his yokel-overawed-with-the-sights act.

  There was an exchange of rumbling, grumbling remarks among the old men. Then one of them, sitting on the other side of the one clasping my knee, leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘They’ve knocked down St Etheldreda’s chapel, you know. Her that’s been our beloved saint since time out of mind.’

  ‘Have they?’ Sibert whispered, wide-eyed.

  ‘Aye, lad, they have, with no respect for her that we all love nor no more for us that love her. What’s more, they—’ Whatever further sedition he was going to add was abruptly cut off by the old boy next to me, who dug him smartly in the ribs with a muttered, ‘Dangerous talk, Teb. Dangerous talk.’

  Silence fell. Then Sibert leaned forward – all six old men mirrored the gesture – and said, so softly that even I barely heard, ‘My father fought with the Wake.’

  The old men did not exactly leap up and welcome him like a long-lost grandson – they were too careful for that – but nevertheless you could see they were delighted. One or two of them nodded, and one muttered, ‘So did we, lad.’

  We all sat smiling at each other and then, when the initial euphoria had subsided, the old man next to me – Teb – leaned across me and said to Sibert, ‘Is your father with you?’

  ‘No,’ Sibert replied shortly. ‘He died of his wound.’

  There were mutters of God save him and God bless his brave soul. Then Teb said, ‘You’ve come to pay your respects, then, at his grave?’

  ‘He does not lie here,’ Sibert replied. I prayed he would not reveal the fact that Edmer was buried at Aelf Fen, and he didn’t; he must have known as well as I did that it would not be wise to give away the fact of where we lived, even to our new friends. ‘He received a Norman arrow in the thigh, and those who treated him could not save his leg. After the amputation my . . . his friends managed to get him away from the island and away across the fens, but it was no good.’

  The old men bowed their heads, and for some time nobody spoke. It was a mark of respect for a fallen warrior, I knew that, but not quite what Sibert must have hoped for. If he had been expecting the tale of amputation and flight to prompt one of the old men to leap up and exclaim, ‘Yes, I remember him!’ then he’d be disappointed.

  I thought of something. ‘Where were the houses of healing?’ I asked shyly, as if, being a mere girl, I was hesitant to speak in front of a group of men. ‘Where would my friend’s father have been taken?’

  Teb gave my knee a kindly pat. ‘Many were tended by the monks,’ he said. ‘Not that our holy brethren were all in favour of the rebels, oh, no. Still, the healers among them are decent men in the main, and they did not refuse their aid.’

  Edmer had not been treated by the monks; his brother and his wife had cared for him. ‘Was there any other place where healers gathered?’ I persisted, giving Teb what I hoped was a sweet and innocent smile.

  ‘Interested in healing, are you, pretty maid?’ he asked, patting my face.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ I said with total honesty. ‘I hope that I may make it my life’s work.’

  Teb nodded his approval. ‘Well, if you’d been here during the rebellion you’d have learned enough to last a lifetime,’ he said grimly. He glanced around him, then leaned closer to me and whispered right in my ear, ‘There was this man, magic they said he was, and it’s told that he could put a man into a deep, dreamless sleep and whip off a limb without his victim even noticing!’ He leaned back, triumph in his eyes, as if to say, what do you think of that?

  I knew exactly what I thought of that. I was aware, because Sibert had told me, that his uncle Hrype had somehow sedated Edmer before the amputation. The magic man whom my friend Teb had just described must surely be Hrype. Teb was waiting for my reply. It was not hard to sound thrilled as I said, in an excited whisper, ‘Oh! I wish I knew how he could have done that!’

  Teb gripped my knee and shook it warningly. ‘You mustn’t go blabbing about what I’ve just told you!’ he said urgently. His eyes flicked briefly in the direction of the abbey – it was as if he and his friends were aware of it all the time like a watching, listening presence – and he said, all but inaudibly, ‘Them monks are funny about things like that.’

  I understood what he meant. In the course of my long and ongoing training with my aunt Edild, she had told me repeatedly that many of the skills she was teaching me were frowned upon by the men of the church. They tended towards the view that if a man or a woman suffered sickness or grave injury it was God’s punishment, and it therefore followed that any alleviation of their agony was contrary to God’s will. The prime example was, of course, childbirth; Edild knew of several palliatives that could ease a long labour, so that there was less risk of mother or child – or both – dying because the mother was too exhausted by pain to go on. The church, however, was adamant: women must bear their children in pain because of Eve’s sin of disobedience.

  Edild and I did not see it that way.

  ‘I won’t breathe a word!’ I whispered now to Teb. I licked my finger, drew it across my throat and then sketched a cross over my heart.

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘That’s a good girl.’ I squeezed his hand, still on my knee but now quite a lot further up my thigh. It worked. Once again speaking right in my ear, he hissed, ‘The magic man lived in a little reed-thatched house at the end of the alley that runs east under the abbey walls. They’ll remember him there.’

  Then, laying his forefinger alongside his nose in the time-honoured gesture implying secrecy, he sat up straight again.

  I wanted to leap up there and then and hare off in search of the reed-thatched house, but it seemed wiser to wait. My old Teb seemed anxious that his information should go no further, so he was hardly likely to tell anyone what he’d just told me. But it was better to be safe than sorry, and if Sibert and I went on chatting to the old men about other topics then nobody would be able to say that we’d shot off like a couple of scalded cats the moment we’d been told about the magic man’s house.

  The magic man . . . While the superficial part of my mind gossiped with the old men and giggled with my elderly admirer, my deeper self was walking with Hrype.

  Finally, Sibert and I got away. There was no need for words as quickly we crossed the marketplace, which was still busy with townspeople, monks and the ever-flowing stream of workmen passing in and out of the abbey, and made our way down the alley that led off under the abbey walls to the east. At first houses and little hovels bunched tightly together in a mass of packed humanity, but quite soon the dwellings thinned. Right at the end there was a row of reed-thatched cottages.

  One had its door ajar. I went up to it and peered inside. A woman of around my mother’s age sat on a stool by the hearth. She was spinning wool. Without turning she called out, ‘Close the door, Mattie, it’s cold enough in here already.’

  I slipped inside, Sibert right behind me, and he closed the door. ‘Not Mattie, I’m afraid,’ I said softly.

  The woman turned. ‘So I see,’ she said. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘My friend here is looking for people who might remember his father, fatally wounded during the . . . er, in 1071,’ I said, keeping my voice low. We had no idea where this woman’s sympathies lay; she neither looked nor sounded like a Norman, but that did not necessarily mean she had supported the rebellion.

  She nodded slowly as she looked us up and down. ‘Who sent you here?’ she asked. Her tone w
as not unfriendly, merely wary. I did not blame her for her caution.

  ‘An old man in the alehouse said there was a healer who used to live here,’ I said.

  Again she nodded. ‘Aye, there was.’ She stared down at her hands, fallen idle in her lap. ‘He was a good man,’ she muttered.

  ‘You remember him?’ Sibert said eagerly.

  The woman gazed up at him. ‘No, for I was not here.’ I sensed the sag of disappointment that flooded through him. Then, as if she noticed too, her face spread in a tight smile, and she said, ‘You want to talk to my mother.’

  The woman’s name was Yorath. Although she did not admit as much, we gathered that her men folk had fought with Hereward. From what she said, it sounded as if her mother was a wise woman, and it appeared she had been both willing and eager to work with the magic man.

  As I listened to Yorath’s quiet voice speaking of the events of twenty years ago, I felt as if her words were casting a spell on me. Such was my enchantment that it was almost a surprise when I heard my own voice ask, ‘Who was he? Who was the magic man?’

  And Yorath said, ‘My mother never knew his name. He was here when they needed him, and he did not spare himself in his care of the sick and the wounded.’ She sighed, her eyes soft as she remembered the old tales. ‘Then he was gone, and none of them ever saw him again.’

  Her mother, who was called Aetha, lived somewhere out on the fens; Yorath did not specify exactly where. She undertook to send word to her to ask if she was willing to see us. If we were to return the following afternoon, she would give us her mother’s answer.

  We promised to be there. I sensed that Sibert wanted to stay; we were standing in the very place where his gravely wounded father had been brought, where Edmer’s brother had tried so hard to save his life, where Edmer’s wife, desperately anxious for her new husband, had done all she could to help. The central drama in his family’s recent history had happened right here. Had I been in his boots, I should have wanted to stay too.