Mist Over the Water

by Alys Clare

  Hrype sent a tentative probing thought into Yorath’s mind and saw the picture he sought. There was Aetha, looking much as he had pictured her and dressed in a patched old gown over which she had tied a coarse sacking apron. She carried a wooden bowl on one hip from which she was flinging out handfuls of grain for her hens. The tiny dwelling behind her was mud-walled and roofed with reed thatch, but it looked sound. The scene would have been tranquil except that Aetha’s deeply lined old face wore a frown.

  The frown sounded an alarm; Hrype stood up. ‘It has been good to see you, Yorath,’ he said. ‘You look well.’

  She smiled, suddenly looking much more like the pretty girl he remembered. ‘I look old, Hrype,’ she replied. ‘Life hasn’t been easy, not for the likes of us.’

  He knew what she meant. Memories were long, and the Normans were meticulous about recording who was with them and who was, or had ever been, against. Yorath and her mother had lost kin during the rebellion; Aetha had given far too much of herself trying to save the wounded and, when she failed, preparing their bodies for the grave. Ely had proved intolerable for her and so she had fled. Yorath had stayed right here with her memories . . .

  Hrype held out his right hand, extending the fingers wide. He held it over Yorath’s head. ‘I wish you peace,’ he murmured.

  She met his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  Then he turned and strode away.

  Some call it Bearton, he repeated to himself. The place of the bears? He wondered absently what ancient fragment of folk memory was embodied in the name. He made his way to where the boats ferried passengers to and fro across the water to the north-west of Ely, the direction in which March and Chatteris lay. He did not even try to find a ferryman who would take him direct to Bearton, instead jumping aboard a substantial craft that was about to cross to March.

  He deliberately stilled his mind during the crossing, not allowing the growing anxiety that threatened to gnaw away at him to gain the upper hand. Instead, he looked out calmly over the dark water, studying the places where islands broke the surface and noticing how the whole area appeared waterlogged.

  When he reached March he asked among the people busy on the quayside if they knew where Bearton was. Nobody did. Not discouraged, he went on up the slight slope that led away from the water. He kept his eyes on the line where the land gave way to the sodden mud of the foreshore, and presently he spotted a place where a narrow causeway ran out across the water. It began as roughly a straight line but soon began to twist and turn this way and that, like a snake in a river. He looked right along the causeway – in places it was submerged by the high water – to its far end, which melted into the softly swirling mist. He stood watching and after some time the mist parted and he caught a brief glimpse of a low, dark hump of land rising out of the marsh. He glanced around him to orient himself. Yes; the islet fitted Yorath’s description, for the causeway led out from March in the direction of Chatteris.

  He had found Bearton.

  He adopted his head-down, crouched pose and, careful to merge with the crowd and not draw attention to himself, soon reached the landward end of the causeway. Then he waited until the road was quiet, slipped over the low wall and set off.

  The going was fairly easy to begin with, although the ground beneath his feet was very wet and worryingly yielding; it felt as if he were treading on clumps of saturated moss. After perhaps a mile he came to a place where the path was covered by the water. He bent down, removed his boots and rolled up his hose, then, not allowing himself any time to dwell on what he was doing, splashed into the water. It was icy, and soon his feet were numb. But, fortunately, it was not too deep, never rising much higher than his knees.

  He waded on for another half a mile or so and then emerged on to land. He stopped, dried his feet, rolled down his hose and put on his boots. Then he made himself break into a trot, for he was by now cold all over and shivering to his bones.

  The islet of Bearton was tiny. There were the ruins of several abandoned dwellings and, beyond them on the far side of the hump of land, a tiny cottage with a line of low outbuildings. Hrype could make out the regular shapes of several vegetable plots, now all but bare of anything but a few cabbages. Smoke rose from the reed thatched roof; Aetha, it seemed, was inside.

  He hesitated, then, making up his mind, walked on. He was deeply apprehensive of what she would say to him, but it was surely better to know.

  As he approached the cottage he smelt freshly baked bread. The door opened just as he raised his hand to knock, and he found himself face to face with Aetha.

  ‘I thought it would not be long before you turned up,’ she said with a grim smile. ‘You’d better come in, Hrype.’

  She turned and led the way back inside the tiny room that was her home, and he followed.

  He looked around. He had always thought of Aetha as an efficient, tidy woman and the cottage supported that impression. The central hearth lay in a shallow pit, rimmed by carefully selected slabs of stone that were fairly uniform in size. The floor of beaten earth was swept clean. A stool was on the far side of the hearth, and roughly made wooden planks formed a set of shelves behind it. Along the far wall, supported by a simple wooden frame, was a narrow bed, on which sat a black cat with a white mark shaped like a star on its brow. The cat stared at him out of suspicious green eyes, and Hrype stared back.

  ‘That’s Callirius,’ Aetha said with a smile. ‘Take no notice of him.’

  Callirius, Hrype thought. She named her cat after the King of the Hazel Grove . . .

  He turned his mind to the purpose of his visit. She had just implied that she had been expecting him; because her daughter had told her that his nephew Sibert wished to see her? Or because . . . No. He would not think about that unless and until he must.

  ‘I have seen Yorath,’ he said as he sat down on the stool that Aetha had pushed in his direction. ‘She told me where you were.’

  Aetha snorted. ‘Only because you made her, Magic Man,’ she said.

  ‘I did not—’ he began.

  ‘Oh, I’m not saying you used force,’ Aetha snapped. ‘But I know you, Hrype. I know how your mind works on people.’

  He bowed his head. He was quite surprised at her challenge; usually nobody dared refer to his strange powers. As if she read the thought, she laughed again, a harsh, barking sound. ‘I have not long in this world, and I shall not be sorry to leave it and go to the ancestors,’ she said cheerfully. ‘If speaking my mind to you means I get there a little sooner that I had expected it’ll be worth it.’

  He froze. It seemed to him that two opposing desires fought within him: one that wanted to lash out at this straight-talking, challenging old woman and one that wanted to laugh.

  Laughter won. Soon she was chuckling with him. ‘I would not hurt you, Aetha,’ he said after a moment. ‘My memories of working alongside you are strong in me still.’

  ‘No, I never really believed I was in danger,’ she replied. She was looking at him intently. ‘Your power’s grown,’ she said shortly. ‘I would fear you if I did not know you.’

  He bowed his head as he considered her words. She was right in her assessment of his increased powers. In the years since they had laboured side by side he had studied hard and pushed himself to the very limit and beyond as he strove to open himself to the knowledge that the spirits offered. He had been wounded, he had fallen sick, he had suffered the extremes of terror and once or twice he had ventured far too close to death. Given all that he had experienced, it was no surprise that his power had grown. But it had come at a price.

  She had just said she would fear him if she did not know him. Did she know him? He risked a quick glance and looked into her watchful eyes, then returned his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap. She had known him well enough when they were at Ely. She had seen him at his very best and at his very worst. As to what she read in him now, he was not so sure. He was always careful to veil his inner self from others and, although he recognized that Aetha h
ad been bestowed with certain talents, they were surely nothing like those that the spirits had entrusted to him . . .

  He raised his head and stared into her eyes. She flinched but then gathered her courage and stared right back. For an instant it seemed to Hrype that two glittering swords met and clashed together. Then the lesser one dropped. There was a moment when he saw right into her mind, but then she managed to get her defences up and the image was lost.

  He knew he must not try again for he would risk hurting her.

  Slowly, deliberately, he let the fierce tension drain from him. He was aware of her panting, as if she had been running very fast, and he listened as her breathing gradually returned to normal. Then she said, ‘It’s cold outside and you’re shivering, Magic Man. I’ll brew you a hot drink to put some heat in your bones.’

  He was aware of her moving quietly around the room. He shut off the distraction, for he was trying to clarify the quick glimpse he had had into her mind. He had seen a tall, slender figure staring out along the very causeway he had just crossed. The figure was leaning forward, gazing into the mist; he was facing towards the islet, and the image had been from the far end of the causeway. Hrype was all but sure it was Sibert.

  He cannot have reached this islet, Hrype told himself. Aetha knows he wants to see her, for her daughter told her so, yet she refused, but if he had come here I would know.

  There would be signs for one such as Hrype to read had Sibert achieved his goal. The two were blood kin, and Hrype would have picked up his nephew’s scent, no matter how hard Aetha had tried to disguise it. In addition, he would have read in her mind that she had recently spoken to the young man; the image Hrype had seen of the slender figure suggested strongly that she had only seen him, at the other end of the causeway.

  Suggestion, however, was not enough.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ he asked softly.

  She paused in her work. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was trying to find you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you did not wish to speak to him?’

  ‘I . . . No.’

  Hrype smiled grimly. ‘How did you prevent him crossing the causeway?’

  ‘He was afraid to,’ she replied. ‘I saw him there, nerving himself to come to me.’ Hrype guessed she did not mean she’d actually seen him, for it was a substantial distance from March to Bearton, and even the most long-sighted old woman would surely struggle to make out any more than the line of the far shore. No; Aetha would have seen him in her mind.

  ‘Did you place the fear in his head?’

  ‘He was already anxious, for the water was high and in places the path across the causeway was submerged. There are fell creatures in that black water, Magic Man, as all fen dwellers well know.’ She smiled, revealing strong, yellowing teeth. ‘It was not much of a challenge to work on those fears a little.’

  ‘You knew who he was?’

  ‘I did, for hadn’t Yorath just been to tell me he was looking for me?’

  Hrype stared at her. ‘You would have recognized him even without her warning, I think,’ he murmured.

  She met his eyes for a moment and then her gaze slid away. She sighed. ‘Perhaps.’

  He longed to ask her why she would not permit a meeting between herself and Sibert. He had been given a reason – hadn’t Yorath said plainly that her mother had shut her mind to the past and wanted no reminders? Why, Aetha had taken the extreme step of abandoning the place that had always been her home and moving to this desolate islet in the middle of nowhere, cut off from humankind and with no company except her cat, her hens and her bees. Sibert, too, would not be just anybody, linked as he was with the terrible days of Hereward’s rebellion and its aftermath.

  It was enough, wasn’t it?

  Hrype’s mind was working swiftly. Should he confront her directly, or would that merely serve to arouse her curiosity and send her thoughts flying straight back to the one time and place Hrype did not want her to dwell on? Or should he thankfully accept that she had not spoken to Sibert, had no wish to, and undoubtedly would do whatever was necessary to make sure she didn’t?

  He was interrupted by Aetha’s quiet voice as softly she chanted the words of an ancient spell for protection. Then she said, ‘Do not worry. I remember it all, just as well as you do, but some things are best left in the past.’

  She set a coarse pottery mug down on the floor beside him, its contents sending up spirals of steam. He smelt the sweet aroma of honey, accompanied by something spicy. He glanced up at her, intending to thank her, and he surprised her in an expression that was the last thing he would have expected.

  She was sorry for him.

  FOURTEEN

  I

  was exhausted after my long day, and I slept soundly, despite worrying over the absence of both Sibert and Hrype. In a way, the fact that neither of them had returned eased my anxiety, for I told myself that they must surely be together and therefore much safer than if either had been alone. Well, Hrype was all right whether by himself or in company; he has a sort of infallibility about him, which I assume comes from being a cunning man. Not many men are willing to tangle with someone like Hrype. As for Sibert, he had certainly matured recently but he was still subject to fits of self-doubt when the least little obstacle could rear up like a tall cliff and stop him in his tracks, quaking with fear of what might happen. To think of him under the protective cloak of his uncle Hrype was very comforting.

  I stirred once, for I had heard a small sound. I thought it was the door opening and was reassured, imagining that one or both of my companions had just crept in. Then I went straight back to sleep.

  In the morning I discovered two things: I was still all alone in the little room, and someone had been inside during the night. I knew that without a doubt, for every night before I sleep I always make sure that everything is packed neatly away in my leather satchel and that the buckles are fastened. This morning, one strap was buckled but one lay loose.

  I got up straight away, arranging my clothing and brushing the straw out of my hair, for instinctively I felt that whatever I had to face I would be better prepared for it if I were fully dressed and tidy. Then I made myself eat breakfast and drink a hot infusion, for we all do battle better with food inside us. Then I sat on my neatly made bed and thought about what could have happened.

  There were no signs that anyone else had spent the night in the house, for the other mattress was undisturbed. I told myself the most likely event was that Hrype and Sibert – perhaps both of them – had returned briefly to our dwelling to fetch something from my satchel, and perhaps to check that I was safe, and then left again on whatever business he, or they, were pursuing. They would have seen me sleeping deeply and taken care not to wake me. Wouldn’t they? No doubt they would return soon and tell me all about what they’d been up to.

  Yes. That must be right.

  The alternative – that some stranger with malicious intent had opened the door, stared down at me and gone through my belongings as I slept – was just too frightening to contemplate.

  I reached for my satchel and, forcing my shaking hands to work, checked the contents. As far as I could tell, everything that ought to be there was there. Whoever had rooted through my potions, ointments, herbs and dressings had not disturbed them much, and nobody but me would even have noticed that they had even been touched. He – I knew instinctively that the intruder had been a man – had investigated the pieces of folded white cloth at the bottom of the satchel but only to the extent of pulling out a corner to identify the fabric.

  It still could have been Hrype or Sibert, I told myself firmly. Both of them knew what I carried in my bag. Both of them would also know that I wouldn’t object if they needed some herb or remedy and came to fetch it, and I tried to convince myself that, finding me so deeply asleep, they would have helped themselves rather than wake me up to ask me for assistance.

  The problem with that comforting picture was that, as far as I could tell, no
thing was missing from my satchel.

  I sat there drowning in my fear for several moments. Then, with a greater effort than I’m prepared to admit, I fought back. I’m still alive, I told myself firmly. Nobody has hurt me. Nothing has been stolen. Although I did not know who had entered the little room, and what they had wanted of me, I was determined to find out. I wished with all my heart that Sibert or Hrype were there to find out with me – but they weren’t, and there was nothing I could do about it. I tidied away my breakfast utensils, picked up my cloak, tied it firmly and set out into the morning.

  How would you go about trying to find out who had crept into your house during the night and what they had been after? I’ll tell you what I did: I tried to think why anyone might be interested in me, and straight away the answer flashed back that it must surely be to do with the pale youth. With Gewis, as I now knew him to be called. Yesterday I had gone to his village to find out anything I could about him. The four monks who guarded him must somehow have known where I was going. Perhaps they had made Gewis admit that he’d told me he was a carpenter’s son from Fulbourn. I did not allow myself to dwell on how they might have forced him to tell them. So, knowing I was curious about him, they had forestalled me, and one of them had gone there before me. He had found Gewis’s mother Asfrior in her little house and somehow persuaded her to set out with him; perhaps he’d concocted some tale about her son needing her so she’d gone willingly. Then he had struck her with something very hard, such as a lump of stone, and hidden her body under the trees. Again I heard those chilling words: It is safe now.

  Safe? What did he mean? I was all too afraid that I knew, for surely he could only have been saying that, with Asfrior dead, it was safe for me to go to Fulbourn for my only source of information concerning Gewis lay dead with her head staved in.

  Oh, oh, if I was right, what sort of men were they? What was it that had to be kept secret, so very secret that they had killed, and were going on killing, to prevent anybody finding out?