by Alys Clare
Where could he be?
He was not still at the ale house, I was sure, because I had just passed it and no lights showed, nor were there any sounds of human activity within. The drinkers had left, and those who resided there had turned in for the night. Had Sibert fallen into conversation with someone and, desperate to know more, gone home with him or her to continue the exchange? Oh, he might have told me!
But you weren’t here to be told, my reason protested. You were out on an errand of your own that Sibert did not know about. It’s entirely possible that he came home hoping to find you and was as disappointed, puzzled and, yes, alarmed as you are now.
I collapsed on to my straw mattress. I thought about going to look for him, but I had no idea where to start. Besides, someone had been on watch at the abbey gate and to go out again was surely pushing my luck too far. I was so tired that I knew I would not get far, and the fact that my mind was exhausted too meant I was highly likely to make stupid decisions.
Go to sleep, said a voice in my head. I smiled; someone with more sense than I appeared to be guiding me. I slipped off my boots, loosened my belt, pushed my knife under the mattress within easy reach of my hand and lay down, drawing my cloak around me. There was a moment when I held on to wakefulness – Sibert, where are you? – and then I let myself go.
It must have been very late when I drifted off, or perhaps I was more in need of sleep than I had realized, for when I woke the light streaming in through the small window told me that it was getting on for noon. I stretched and yawned. I was thirsty, and my stomach was growling with hunger. I pushed the cloak off me – I was too hot – and was turning my thoughts to food when I remembered.
I shot up, twisting round to look at Sibert’s straw mattress so fast that my head spun. He was not there, but someone else was.
My mouth opened and closed again as I tried to form the words. He beat me to it; with a cool smile Hrype said, ‘Good morning, Lassair. I was starting to think you were enchanted and would never wake up.’ The smile widened. ‘You are all right. You have not been harmed.’
It was a statement; Hrype did not need to ask, being able somehow to sense hurt or malaise in the auras that he claims he sees around all sentient beings, humans included.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I agreed. I knew what he would ask next, and I steeled myself to tell him the truth.
He already knew that too; apparently, he knew much more than I did, which admittedly would not be difficult. ‘Sibert has left the island,’ he said softly, as if he were chanting the words; it was the voice he used when he was describing what his inner vision showed him. ‘He seeks someone, one who he hoped was to send for him, for he grows impatient and will not wait.’ Then, relief flooding his stern face, he said in his normal tone, ‘But it’s all right; she is not ready to be found.’
‘I’m not sure he—’ I began, but he raised a hand and I fell silent.
Then, as if the short and strange exchange had not happened, he said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s go and find some dinner.’
I hurried to get up, brushing straw off my gown and surreptitiously trying to tidy my hair. He waited patiently until I was ready, and then we left the little house and, side by side, set off up the alley.
TWELVE
T
he food stalls were crowded, catering to the needs of a workforce of hungry men who had been busy since first light. Hrype led the way to one where the queue was long enough to suggest that the food was good but not so long that it would be ages before we were served. We stood in silence while we waited, and when it was our turn Hrype ordered steaming bowls of cabbage soup and rye bread sprinkled with poppy seeds. We found a place to sit down – a partly demolished wall over on the abbey side of the market square – and tucked in. The cabbage soup had been thickened with barley and flavoured with pork stock; it even contained some quite generous pieces of the meat. I dipped in my bread and sucked in my first mouthful. The soup was delicious, and very quickly I had eaten the whole bowlful.
With a smile, Hrype tipped some of his into my bowl. ‘You, evidently, are more in need than I,’ he remarked.
I hesitated fractionally, purely for the sake of politeness, and then resumed eating.
When I had finished, Hrype asked me to tell him all that had happened since Sibert and I had arrived in Ely. I did so, concentrating hard to make sure I told him the important facts without too much elaboration or speculation. I forced myself to think only about the pale youth and the murders to which his presence on the island had led. I knew that if I so much as let the thought of Sibert’s private mission cross my mind then Hrype would somehow spot it and pounce.
‘So you see, it really looks as if this pale monk is at the heart of some dangerous secret, although he claims to have no idea at all what it could be,’ I concluded.
Hrype was silent for quite a long time. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘Pale.’
It was a pretty typical Hrype remark: enigmatic and, as a conversational contribution, not in the least informative.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked after a pause during which I cast around frantically – and fruitlessly – to see if I could divine what he meant.
‘Describe pale,’ he ordered.
Ah, yes. ‘His face is white, but not the greyish pallor you get when you’re very sick or in great pain.’ Edild suffers from the dreaded hemicrania, often with disturbed vision and nausea, and I know from one look at her when the pain is bad because her face goes corpse-white and her eyes seem to sink in her head. ‘He just looks as if he’s naturally white-skinned. His eyes have very little colour. The light was poor so I could not determine exactly, but I’d say they were very light grey. His hair is cream.’
‘Cream,’ Hrype echoed.
‘Yes, cream. Not white, like a grandmother’s, not blonde like a child’s. Cream,’ I insisted.
Hrype smiled. ‘Yes, all right, Lassair, I do not doubt your word.’
That was a relief. I sat waiting for him to comment, but he said nothing. Eventually, I could not contain my impatience. ‘Hrype, I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your thoughts, but what should we do? This pale boy was forced inside the abbey by four big, strong men who may or may not be monks, and it appears that they watch him closely even now he’s tucked away inside the walls. They saw me talking to him last night –’ I said that quickly, hoping to minimize the shiver of fear that shot through me when I thought of those four bulky forms advancing through the dusk – ‘and, although as I explained I was dressed as a nun, it’s still very likely they know who I am. They might have followed me, or—’
‘You are not in danger at the moment,’ Hrype interrupted, ‘but it might nevertheless be wise to leave Ely.’
‘But the pale boy’s all alone in there, and he doesn’t understand what is happening!’ I protested. ‘Those men have killed already, and they might be planning to kill him too!’
A smile twitched at the corner of Hrype’s long mouth. ‘I think not,’ he murmured. ‘Although there is indeed much danger . . .’ His eyes went unfocused, as if he were contemplating distant things, then he snapped back to me and said, ‘You care about this boy?’
‘I—’ Did I? I had become entangled with the mystery at which he was the heart, that was for sure, and my curiosity was thoroughly aroused. I pictured his face. I saw him trembling with fear. I imagined them holding him down, coldly planning how to dispatch him. It hurt. ‘Yes, I care,’ I admitted crossly.
Now Hrype’s smile spread. ‘It is nothing to be ashamed of,’ he murmured.
‘I’m not.’
He waited while my anger subsided. It did not take long. ‘What will you do?’ he asked softly.
I like to think the idea was mine alone, although my experience of Hrype leads me to believe that he could easily have put the thought into my head. He had, after all, just said it would be wise to leave Ely. ‘I’m going to see if I can find out something about him,’ I said decisively. ‘I’m going
to Fulbourn.’ In case he thought I was running away, I added, ‘But I’ll be back!’
It was about sixteen miles to Fulbourn, and I knew the way, having enquired of the ferryman who rowed me across from the island. It lay a few miles east of Cambridge, and for much of the way the path to take was the Ely to Cambridge road. The only slight problem was the rain-drenched land, which meant that some of the lower-lying tracks were under water. I hoped there would be opportunist boatmen ready to make a few coins wherever this had happened.
It was only when I was well on my way that it occurred to me to wonder what Hrype would do while I was absent. I didn’t have to wonder for long, and indeed I was cross with myself for having walked right into his little trap. Something had brought him to Ely, and I did not have to think very hard to work out what it was. Sibert was trying to discover what had happened at Ely when his father took the wound that had ultimately killed him; even without Hrype’s extraordinary ability to see into the minds of others, it would have been clear to him that Sibert had other business on the island apart from escorting me as I went to tend my cousin Morcar.
I had been so proud of not letting Hrype catch a glimpse of what Sibert was up to via the medium of my thoughts. My care and my caution had been quite unnecessary, I now realized, because he’d known all along. Now, by either suggesting or agreeing to go to Fulbourn – I was not sure which – I had given Hrype all the time and the space he needed to go after his nephew and stop his enquiries when they had barely begun.
I was so sorry. I spoke to Sibert silently, inside my head, warning him that Hrype had arrived in Ely and was no doubt trying to find him. I also sent him my humble apologies. I don’t know if he heard but it made me feel very slightly better.
Then, with some effort, I put Sibert, Hrype and the puzzle of their past to the back of my mind and strode out for Fulbourn.
The road to Cambridge was busy, and I got a ride on the back of a farm cart in exchange for giving the farmer a pot of chickweed, camomile and foxglove ointment for his piles. It still surprises me the way complete strangers reveal intimate facts about themselves as soon as they know I’m a healer; I hadn’t been in this man’s company for more than half a mile before he began telling me much more than I wanted to know about his back passage. Still, we both got what we wanted. He would soon have relief from his pain, and I had saved myself ten miles of walking on muddy, soggy ground.
I said goodbye to my farmer just outside the town, setting off on a path that skirted around it to the east and then branching off down a track to the village of Fulbourn. Everyone else, it seemed, was making for Cambridge – my farmer had said there was a market there today – and the winding track was deserted. At least it was dry, although black water lapped, at what seemed to me to be a worryingly high level, in the ditches on either side. It was not raining right now, but the skies were dark and lowering.
If it rained I would get soaked, for the sparse and leafless alders and willows that grew in places along the track offered no protection. But there was nothing I could do about the weather.
I trudged on, my boots already caked with dark mud and weighing twice as much as when I had put them on. Presently, I saw a huddle of buildings in the distance. If my bearings were right, this ought to be Fulbourn.
The narrow path crossed the remains of an ancient track, and for a moment I stood to contemplate it. In the winter-bare landscape I could follow its line as it stretched, straight as a die, into the distance on either side. For some reason I felt a shiver of awe. Or was it fear?
I think some instinctive part of my mind had picked up the danger before I was aware of it because, without my volition, suddenly I found myself hurtling towards a thicket of hazel and bramble that had grown up some twenty paces down the straight track to my right. It was not much of a cover but better than nothing. I got down on hands and knees and wriggled under the dying vegetation. I felt the prickle of a bramble cut a deep scratch into my scalp and crouched lower, my face pressing against the cold earth. I covered myself with my cloak, drawing up my hood, and left just a small space to peer out.
A man was coming along the path from Fulbourn. He was broad and powerful, walking purposefully as if he marched to a beat I couldn’t hear. Even before I saw his face, I knew who he was. I tried to curl up even more tightly, making myself as small as I could.
He was almost at the place where the path crossed the ancient track when he called out. I shut my eyes, in that instant of pure terror reverting to childhood and the belief that if I couldn’t see him then he could not see me. I held my breath, my heart pounding and sweat breaking out all over my body. How would he kill me? With a knife? With his hands around my throat choking the life out of me? I put my hand down to my waist and, trying to stop the tremor in my fingers, drew my knife from its sheath.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
I heard the man talking. What was he saying? Was he asking his gods for strength to do what he must and kill me? I raised the edge of my hood a tiny amount and looked out.
Now there were two men. Another of the quartet from Ely had come to meet him.
I pushed the heavy hood back so that my ears were clear and listened.
The man who had come from the village was nodding his head in answer to something his companion had asked. The companion asked again, and this time the first man said, loud enough for me to hear, ‘It is safe now.’
This seemed to satisfy the other man. He said something – I think he was complaining about a wasted journey – and the first man gave a harsh laugh and said, ‘I told you I could do it alone. It was your choice to follow me.’
They were already moving off. I risked another look and saw that they were not going in the direction of Cambridge, behind us to the west, but up the straight track – which, I had reckoned, went almost due north. Well, if they were striking out back to Ely then it would be a more direct route.
I watched them stride away. They moved fast, and quite soon they were no more than two dark shapes in the distance. I waited a little longer. When at last they were out of sight, I crept out of my hiding place, brushed myself down and hurried on to Fulbourn.
The faint shiver of dread was now escalating very rapidly into all-encompassing fear.
The village had grown up around the church and the green. Rows of small, dark houses huddled close to each other as if for security from the wide, flat land all around. I smelt bread and my nose led me to a baker, busy extracting fresh loaves from his oven. I wished him good day and asked where I might find the carpenter’s house.
He wiped his sweaty face with the back of his wrist and gave me a grin. ‘Which one?’ he asked.
Oh. ‘Er – the carpenter I’m looking for has a son of about fifteen,’ I said, embarrassed. I hadn’t prepared for the possibility that there would be more than one carpenter in the village, which was pretty stupid of me.
To my relief the baker was nodding. ‘I know who you mean now,’ he said. ‘Young Gewis is about that age and he’s Edulf’s son and Edulf was a carpenter, only Edulf died . . . ooh, let me see, now.’ He paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his cheerful face. ‘Three, four years back? Four, I’d say.’ He nodded, as if agreeing with his own estimate.
Gewis’s father was dead. I hadn’t prepared for that, either. Perhaps it was the wrong family; there was an easy way to find out. ‘Gewis lives in the village?’
‘Aye, that he does.’
I cursed silently. ‘And he’s here now?’ I would have to look elsewhere for my pale youth’s family.
The baker scratched his head. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t reckon I’ve seen him for a few days.’ His frown deepened. ‘A couple of weeks, maybe . . .’ My hopes shot up again. ‘His mother’ll be at home,’ the baker went on, and my optimism rose even more. ‘I saw her yesterday evening. She bought a flax-seed loaf and we spoke about whether there’d be more rain before nightfall, and she said—’
‘Where would I find her?’ I tri
ed to cushion my interruption with a smile.
‘Now that I can tell you,’ the baker said helpfully, taking my arm and drawing me so that together we were looking along the street. ‘Go up to the end of the row, past the church and round Norman’s Corner, then head on down that row and you’ll come to four cottages all together. Asfrior’s is the third one.’
Asfrior. Edulf. Gewis. I memorized the names. ‘Thank you,’ I said to the baker, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’
He beamed at me. ‘I like to be of assistance to a pretty maid.’ He reached out a swift hand and pinched my bottom.
I spun around and hurried away.
As I made my way to the quartet of cottages I planned what I would say. I would tell the pale youth’s mother that I had come from Ely and was concerned about her son, worried in case he was in the monastery against his will. I’d say we had talked, her son and I, and that I’d sensed he was uneasy. If she, too, were worried about him, this would surely give her the chance to reveal her anxiety to me in the hope that I might be able to help.
I approached the four cottages. They were well kept, the walls and roofs in good repair, and smoke spiralled up out of the reed thatch of three of them. I went up to the third one and tapped on the door. There was no answer so I tried again, harder this time. I was just about to call out when the door of the cottage on the far side opened, and a short, plump woman of almost my granny’s age emerged on to her immaculately swept step. She wore a gown of some dark-brown shade, over which she had tied a voluminous apron. She wore a neat, white headdress; her face was round and red; and her small, dark eyes bright with interest.
‘If you’re after Asfrior, she’s not at home,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ The disappointment was crushing; somehow I had not thought for a moment that I would find nobody at home. ‘Do you know where she is?’
