Mist Over the Water

by Alys Clare

  I took his hand and gently led him away. I muttered a farewell to Yorath, catching her looking with deep sympathy at Sibert. ‘We will see you tomorrow,’ I said, and she nodded. Then Sibert and I were outside in the alley, and I hurried him away.

  TEN

  S

  ibert’s tension did not dissipate as we made our way back up the alley and across the marketplace. I was not surprised, for I understood how hard it must be for him to sense the mystery of his past so close but still outside his reach. When he cast a longing look at the alehouse and asked if I minded if he went back to talk some more with those within, I said no, of course I didn’t.

  I watched him go, my heart flooding with sympathy. If he thought it would help to drink a lot of ale, so that eventually he would fall asleep on the floor of our little dwelling in a beery stupor, then I could not blame him.

  I walked on to our room, planning how I would fill in the remainder of the afternoon and the long evening that stretched ahead. I would take the unexpected free time to have another tidy up, I resolved, and when I had done that I would go through my satchel of remedies and medicaments. It was not often that I had access to an apothecary’s shop, and it made sense to check my supplies and think about whether there was anything Edild and I needed back at home.

  I swept out the room, shook up the straw and prepared Sibert’s and my own sleeping places, then I fed the fire to make a good blaze and banked it down with ash so that it would burn long and slow. Next I sat in the light from the partly opened door, unfastened my leather bag and started going through the contents. I was already aware, in the back of my mind, that this task would not take much time and that the remainder of the evening loomed ahead with nothing to fill it. It was probably this that prompted me, for when I picked up the bottle of Edild’s special remedy for pain in the joints – it is full of comforting, warming herbs such as ginger and cinnamon, with a good portion of willow and a little devil’s claw – I suddenly knew how I was going to spend the rest of the day.

  I had a good supply of oil, and it did not take long to prepare several bottles of the warming rub, diluting Edild’s remedy in the proportion she had instructed. Then I set to preparing myself.

  I always carry lengths of clean, white cloth folded at the bottom of my satchel, for use as dressings and bandages. Hoping I had some large pieces, I spread them out and soon found what I wanted. Then I took my knife and, with its sharp point, cut out the shapes I needed. I fetched needle and thread and sewed the seams, testing the fit and, when I was satisfied, neatly hemming the raw edges. Then I unbraided my hair, brushed it back off my face and wound it in a tight, severe bun at the back of my head. I put on the wimple I had just fashioned, relieved to find how closely it framed my face. I put my cloak on over my gown and pulled up the wide folds of my hood; the fabric was dark, the material inexpensive and, like all my clothes, well worn. I stood up, wishing I could see what I looked like and fervently hoping that I looked sufficiently like my sister Elfritha: like a nun. I did not suppose I would have fooled one of Elfritha’s superiors, but I trusted that the average Ely monk would only have a sketchy idea of what a Benedictine sister wore.

  I knew, because they had told me, that the monks did not let women inside the abbey without a good reason. Did the same rule apply to nuns?

  I was just about to find out.

  The monk on duty at the abbey gate greeted me with a smile and said, ‘Good day, sister, what can we do for you?’ which was promising.

  ‘Good day to you, brother,’ I replied, careful to keep my eyes cast down. ‘I have been sent with supplies of a new remedy for the joint and muscle pains that torment so many of the elder members of our community.’ So far, I had spoken the truth, except that nobody had actually sent me. ‘Many of the sisterhood are badly afflicted in this persistent wet weather –’ that too was true; Elfritha had mentioned it last time I had visited her – ‘and if I may help any of the brethren, then I would dearly like to do so.’ I was a healer; I wanted to alleviate suffering wherever I found it.

  The monk was looking at me with interest. ‘A new remedy, you say?’ I nodded. I had noticed that nuns didn’t speak unnecessarily. ‘Your own creation?’

  ‘No.’ I smiled modestly, as if to imply that I was far too lowly to be allowed free rein to experiment in the herb store.

  ‘Many of the older brethren suffer greatly,’ the monk said. He paused, then said, ‘You may enter.’

  He ushered me inside a tiny room just inside the gate and, calling out to a monk emerging from one of the buildings, asked him to fetch someone called Brother Philius. I waited, trying to make my face calm. Elfritha’s fellow nuns always manage to look serene, as if they’re confidently waiting for something lovely that’s just about to happen.

  Brother Philius appeared. He was young, dark-eyed and quite short, with a restless air as if he was eager to get on with God’s work. He bustled into the little room, his energy instantly making it feel cramped. ‘Sister—?’

  I bowed my head. ‘Sister Hilde.’

  ‘You have brought a new remedy for damp-induced pains, I’m told?’ Already, he was hurrying me out of the room and marching off in the direction of a passageway that ran between two low buildings.

  Thankful that his professionalism had made him ask straight away about the remedy, where I was on safe ground, rather than my credentials as a nun, where I most certainly was not, I agreed that I had.

  Brother Philius fired questions at me as we marched, and I described the different elements that Edild and I had prepared for the remedy. When he got down to the exact proportions of these elements and the details of how they were blended, I had to confess ignorance. Edild had not permitted me to watch, although this was, I was pretty sure, because she had uttered a power spell as she worked and it was dangerous for someone as inexperienced as I to listen.

  I certainly wasn’t going to tell Brother Philius about that.

  We had reached a small building tucked away behind the clamour of where the men were working on the new cathedral. With a wry smile, Brother Philius opened the door and said, ‘Come in. It’s remarkably peaceful in here, given the present circumstances.’

  I preceded him into the room. It was long and narrow, with three simple cots down each side. A fire burned in a hearth at the far end of the room, making the temperature pleasantly warm. Two of cots were occupied by very old monks.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Brother Philius muttered. I thought he sounded furtive, almost guilty. Wondering why, and also wondering what he thought I was thinking, I did not speak but sent him an enquiring look, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s a great luxury to have the fire,’ he said, ‘and in truth there is no need of it for someone like me, blessed as I am with good health and vigour.’ He leaned closer and I caught his smell – of herbs, oils, incense and all things clean, which was so typical of healers. I bent my head to hide a smile; I liked Brother Philius. ‘The warmth is for the old ones,’ he whispered. ‘They are both very poorly. They protest sometimes, for they have spent all the years of their adult lives vowed to poverty, but we tell them that the heat aids them and so releases those who nurse them for other duties.’

  Yes, it made sense. It was clever to have manipulated the old men’s instinctive selflessness in such a way. ‘Wet and cold are the true causes of their pain, are they not?’ Brother Philius added, sighing. ‘And here we are on an island in the midst of water.’

  I opened my satchel and took out a bottle of the new remedy. I held it up and Brother Philius, his face eager, took it from me. He drew the stopper and, tentatively at first, sniffed at the contents. A slow smile spread over his face. ‘I can almost smell the potency!’ he said softly.

  Again, I had to hide a smile. Edild had explained how the energy that the healing spirits bring can be captured in a remedy and that it bursts out, eager to get to work, when the jar or bottle is opened.

  Brother Philius was striding over to the patient in the cot to his left.
‘Brother Anselm, we have a treat for you!’ he exclaimed as the old man struggled to sit up. ‘The sister here has kindly brought a new remedy, and I’m going to try it out on your hip!’

  Either Brother Philius had forgotten that, although garbed as a nun, I was still a woman, or else he was treating me as a fellow healer used to bare male flesh. Whichever it was, he swiftly unfastened the old man’s robe and pushed it down so that it sagged below his hips. Brother Anselm rolled over on to his side and I had a glimpse of his aged genitals beneath the fringe of white hair. Then the scent of Edild’s new remedy filled the air, and I watched, fascinated, as the hands of a true healer got to work.

  You could tell from Brother Anselm’s groans of pain that quickly turned to moans of pleasure that the remedy and the strong hands were doing good. Brother Philius was clearly impressed. After only a short while he turned to me with a huge grin and said, ‘Whoever made this is all but a miracle worker!’ I saved that up to tell Edild. He returned to his work but then, as if the thought had suddenly struck him, he spun round again and said, ‘Have a go at Brother Matthias over there.’ He indicated the monk in the opposite cot. ‘His pain is in his left shoulder,’ he panted – massage is hard work – ‘extending up into his neck and down under the shoulder blade.’

  I nodded. I knew that pain; I suffer from it myself when I spend too long hunched over my work. It sometimes feels as if someone is sticking a knife into me.

  I reached for another bottle of the remedy and crossed the room. The second old monk was perched on the edge of his cot and had already bared his shoulder. With a smile, I put down my satchel, took off my cloak, rolled back my sleeves and poured oil into the palm of my hand. I rubbed it between my hands to warm it a little and then advanced on my patient.

  I worked on my old monk for some time, gently at first and then, as I felt his flesh warm and soften beneath my hands, more vigorously. I was embarrassed by his thanks; I did not really deserve such profound gratitude when I was here on a mission of my own and the healing was only to cover up my true intentions.

  Word of my presence must have spread. Several more old monks appeared and, before Brother Philius and I were done, we treated nine men. When we had finally finished, we stood together wiping our hands, both of us red-faced and sweaty.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Hilde,’ he said. ‘I understand that you cannot reveal the recipe of this wonder remedy, but . . .?’ He left the question unspoken, hovering in the air.

  I reached for my satchel, extracting a bottle. ‘This is the concentrate,’ I said, giving it to him. ‘Mix it with oil in the following proportions –’ I described various concentrations for different ailments – ‘and remember it is strong, so don’t be tempted to use more.’

  He held up the bottle as if it were the Holy Grail. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘On behalf of my old monks, thank you so much.’

  I rolled down my sleeves and reached for my cloak. ‘May I make a request?’ I asked. I felt mean, as if I were taking advantage of his gratitude and choosing the exact moment when he couldn’t refuse me.

  ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘Name it.’

  I squashed down my guilt, reminding myself firmly why I had needed to get into the abbey in the first place. ‘I have heard tell that St Etheldreda’s church is being demolished to make room for the new cathedral,’ I said. ‘Would it be permitted for me to look?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Brother Philius replied. We were at the door now, and I saw that afternoon had merged into evening. ‘There won’t be many workmen there at this hour, for it’s getting dark.’ He glanced back inside the room. ‘I need to get back to my patients – it’s time I saw to their supper. If I show you the way, may I leave you to look round on your own?’

  It was what I’d been praying for. ‘Very well,’ I said meekly.

  He led me along a dark passage that abruptly opened into a huge open space. Skeletal walls rose up in the distance and high above our heads a frame of wooden falsework stretched up into the evening sky. The detritus of demolition and the tools of construction were all around but, other than a group of workmen huddled around a brazier and a carpenter planing a length of pale oak, the site was deserted.

  ‘The little Saxon church stood just there.’ Brother Philius pointed. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I must leave you.’ I bowed my head in acknowledgement. ‘Farewell, sister – it was a good day for my old monks when you came along!’ He grinned, gave me a wave and hurried away.

  I stood in the soft light, staring round me. Where should I look first? Where might the pale monk be at this moment? The immediate thing was to get out of sight so that, with any luck, everyone would forget I was there in the abbey. Then I could pursue my quarry until either I found him or they found me and threw me out.

  I slipped into the deep shadow cast by one of the new walls, already high above my head. Then I set about my exploration.

  I had failed. I had tiptoed up what seemed like dozens of passages, and I had forced myself into countless hiding places when footsteps echoed and discovery loomed. Each time I had prayed that the footfalls would be those of the pale monk, and each time I had been disappointed. It was hopeless and I knew it.

  I seemed to have gone round in a big circle, for now I was once again approaching the building site. Now only a couple of watchmen remained, seated either side of the brazier and muttering in low voices. I slipped behind a pillar, working out a route to the gate that would keep me out of their sight. Go there, I thought, to that ancient stretch of wall out in the middle of the site, then dodge over to the far side, keeping behind the screen made of the wooden falsework. It looked easy.

  I gathered up my skirts and ran light-footed to the old wall. I was about to hurry on but just at that moment I sensed something snag at my attention. A stab of horrified fear sheared through me, instantly followed by pain so severe that it was all I could do not to cry out. Then I was assailed by a fury so great that it drove me to my knees.

  I crouched on the ground, huddled down in the shadows. I covered my head with my arms in a futile attempt to defend myself, although I knew enough about the deep, dark mysteries of the spirit world to recognize that it was no living hand that threatened me. Slowly, the dread faded, and in time I was able to straighten up.

  I stared at the ground around me. I could see the outline of the Saxon church; it had been quite small, with narrow aisles on the north and south side forming side chapels. It was the wall of the south side chapel that I stood beside. Immediately to my left, at the west end of the church, I could make out the scar where the foundations of the tower had been ripped out.

  The wall of the south side chapel was where the old bones had been stored. Every bit of common sense and self-preservation told me to get out of there, but I watched, almost as if I were outside myself and a mere observer of my own actions, as my hand stretched out to investigate.

  The shock went through me so fast that at first I thought it had come from whatever it was within the wall that I had just touched. An instant later, I realized that somebody stood beside me, someone warm-blooded, mortal, someone who had just grabbed my arm.

  I spun round. He was white-faced, white-haired and his eyes – his strange, pale eyes – were wide with horror. He whispered, ‘Did you see it? Oh, is it true then? It really exists?’ Then his grip on my arm weakened, and I watched in horror as he slumped to the ground at my feet.

  Gewis knew he must open his eyes. He had set out for what was left of the little Saxon church without permission, and if they found him there he would be punished. He did not understand why, any more than he understood any of what was happening to him. He’d been brought here, and he had to pretend he was a monk. His mother had approved, and they had told him he would be safe here. Safe from what? And how long would the threat last? Would he have to stay here for ever?

  He groaned and, without his volition, his eyelids fluttered. No, he thought, no! It is better to remain unconscious, for reality is too much to bear.
<
br />   Then he remembered where he was and what he had seen. The terror grabbed him in its fierce claws. Instinctively, he rolled himself into a ball, seeing again that looming, white shape with its face of horror and the blood, oh, the blood . . .

  Hands were on him, strong hands, and a scent of sweet oil was in his nostrils. ‘Do not screw up your limbs so violently,’ said a soft voice, ‘for you will do yourself damage.’

  He froze. Had the spirit spoken? If he found the courage to open his eyes, would he see it bending over him, stretching out its hand to drag him into whatever hell it inhabited?

  Ghosts do not speak soft words, the voice of reason said in his head. Nor do they smell of ginger and rosemary.

  With what felt like a huge effort, he opened his eyes.

  A young woman was leaning over him, her expression anxious. She wore a white wimple, and over it what looked like a black veil. A nun then. He stared back at her.

  She was slender, her figure quite boyish. She was around his age, perhaps a little older. Her skin was very smooth, pale in the dim light. Her features were fine, the nose small and straight, the mouth wide and well formed. There was a haunting beauty in her face, and her watchful eyes held intelligence. Her eyes . . . He stared into them, for they fascinated him. They must surely be blue, or perhaps green, but in the twilight they appeared silvery, the irises surrounded by a rim of indigo . . .

  It was the face of someone who watched carefully, observing others while holding back their own essence. It was a face that could easily make others uneasy.

  Gewis, alarmed all over again, shrank back. But then she smiled, and suddenly everything changed. She reached down and stroked his shoulder, and under her touch he felt his limbs unclench. She went on stroking him for some time, rather like an intuitive groom with a frightened horse, and a sense of calm spread through him. Finally, he felt able to speak. ‘Who are you, sister?’ His voice was barely above a whisper and, to his shame, it shook.