by Alys Clare
I stroked his arm, trying to calm him. ‘I wasn’t going to ask for your professional advice,’ I said gently. ‘I just wondered if you thought we should summon the infirmarer from the abbey. This is really beyond my skill and—’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not the monks,’ and even though he was whispering there was no ignoring the emphasis.
‘But—’ I began, then stopped. This dreadful injury to his uncle seemed to have unhinged poor Sibert, and if I insisted on involving the abbey infirmarer it might make matters worse. There was, in any case, an alternative.
I took Sibert’s hand and led him over to his own mattress, where I gently pushed him down and then sat beside him.
‘Very well then,’ I said, keeping my voice level and steady, ‘we won’t ask the monks.’ I felt him slump with relief. ‘But I do need aid from someone, Sibert. I can’t manage this by myself, and I won’t risk your uncle’s life.’
He turned to look at me, and I was horrified by his expression. ‘What must we do?’ he whispered.
‘I will stay here with Hrype,’ I said firmly, ‘and I want you to go for help. You remember the boat you borrowed when you took Morcar off the island?’ He nodded. ‘Well, you must borrow it again. The water’s not quite as high as it was then but it’s not far off. Go back to Aelf Fen and fetch my aunt Edild.’ Just saying her name calmed and reassured me.
‘Your aunt Edild,’ Sibert echoed.
‘Yes, that’s right. Tell her that Hrype has what looks like a deep sword cut and, although I’ve stitched it and the bleeding has stopped, I’m worried because his skin is burning and there must be some bad infection.’
He repeated my instructions back to me, almost word for word. I knew then that, despite his shock, I could trust him. ‘Will she save him?’ he asked, his eyes full of pleading.
‘She will do her very best,’ I said staunchly.
He got up and headed for the door. I noticed that he could not make himself look at Hrype. He stopped, his hand on the latch, and said softly, ‘Should I bring my mother?’
Why should he ask that? I had no idea. In fact, Froya was pretty much the last person I wanted in the little room. She might once have been Hrype’s pupil, and had worked side by side with him as they’d tried to save Edmer, but I guessed she had changed since then, or perhaps life had changed her. I judged her to be easily frightened and someone who would lose her head in a crisis.
But she was Sibert’s mother, and it would have been unkind to say so. I smiled at him and said, in what I hoped sounded a reassuring tone, ‘No, I shouldn’t – just bring Edild.’ He still looked anxious so I added, trying to make a joke, ‘I don’t suppose that leaky old boat would hold three of you!’
He tried to smile back, but it was a poor attempt. Then he opened the door just enough to get through the gap, quickly closing it behind him.
Alone with my patient again, I knelt beside Hrype and tried not to think how long it was going to be before my aunt Edild arrived.
EIGHTEEN
T
hey came for Gewis at dusk. All four of his guardians stepped into his cell, and in the first anxious moment he had the impression that they had taken pains to smarten themselves up. The dark robes had been brushed free of dust and food stains, and the men had washed their faces and hands. One of them still had damp hair.
The largest of the quartet indicated to Gewis to get up off his bed, then said, ‘Come with us.’
‘Where are we going?’ Gewis’s voice was little more than a squeak.
There was no answer. The four men fell into step around him and as they marched him along – he noticed with a hysterical desire to giggle that, walking two abreast, their broad shoulders brushed against the walls of the narrow passage – he heard the clink of metal.
His guardians were armed. In what must surely be a brazen flouting of the rules of the abbey, all four wore swords.
Gewis’s fear increased.
They emerged from the maze of passages and into the huge open space where the new cathedral was being built. Gewis risked a quick look. His eyes fastened on the ancient wall and from out of nowhere he felt a sudden surge of strength, as if someone had slipped in beside him and silently offered their support. It was a heartening sensation, and he welcomed it.
The guards escorted him through the abbey gate, the one in the lead giving a brief nod to the monk on duty there. Then they were out in the marketplace, quiet now with the day’s business over and only a few people still about, and they set off down a street leading off it.
Gewis suddenly remembered what the prior had said about the need for him to have more exercise out in the fresh air. So that is the explanation for this excursion, he thought. They have waited until now, when the town is settling for the night, to minimize the risk of my calling out to someone for help and . . .
But he had guessed wrongly, for the guardian on his right had stopped in front of a stoutly built and well-maintained house a few yards along the street. He knocked on the door, which was opened almost immediately by a manservant dressed in good wool hose and a fine tunic. The servant inspected the four guardians, and then his glance fell on Gewis. His eyes widened, and then he looked away. With a jerk of his head he ushered them inside and firmly closed the door, putting a bar in place to secure it. Then he said, ‘Follow me, please.’
He led the way across a stone-flagged hall and then into a small room that led off it. A fire blazed in the hearth, and there were torches set in brackets on the walls. Two elaborately carved wooden chairs stood either side of the hearth. One was unoccupied and in the other sat a thin man dressed in a flowing gown of deep-red velvet that must once have been beautiful but now showed signs of long wear. He had grey hair that reached his shoulders and pale blue eyes. The flesh of his face was drawn tightly over the bones of his skull, and his hands on the arms of his chair were as skinny as claws. On the middle finger of his right hand was a heavy gold ring that bore a huge red stone. He sat straining forward as he stared at Gewis, giving him the air of a hungry bird of prey.
Gewis did not know who he was, although he thought he could guess. Instinctively, he feared him.
‘Gewis, how good it is to welcome you to this house,’ the man said, in a voice that tried too hard to cover desperate need with feigned friendship. ‘Come, sit by the fire –’ he indicated the other chair – ‘and let us offer you food and drink. What will you take? Are you hungry? Do you prefer beer or wine?’
Gewis did not really want a drink, and he did not think he could have forced food down his dry, contracted throat. He noticed a pewter jug set down by the hearth and, from the steam rising from it and the delicious smell, thought it must be hot, spiced wine. ‘Is that wine?’ he asked.
‘Yes indeed,’ said the man, beaming, ‘fine red wine from France, sweet and spicy! Will you have some with me?’
‘All right.’
The man snapped his fingers and a servant appeared. He was a different man from the one who had opened the door. He bore a tray on which there were two silver goblets, which he filled from the jug and handed to his master and Gewis. Gewis looked at the goblet. It was old, and the lively, swirling decoration of stylized animals was, although worn, still quite clearly the work of a true artist. Gewis sipped the wine. He tasted ginger, cloves, cinnamon, honey. It was delicious. He took a second, larger sip and gulped it down, the sound of his swallow too loud in the room. He felt the heat rush into his face and dropped his head, embarrassed.
‘Drink, drink, my young friend!’ the man encouraged him. ‘The night is cold, and you have lived for many days on the adequate but basic fare of the monks.’
‘I have no complaints,’ Gewis said stiffly.
‘Good, that is good, but nevertheless I must apologize for the fact that we had to lodge you there.’ The man’s face wore an expression of regret that was like a parody. ‘Our only concern was for your safety, and—’
Emboldened by the wine, Gewis burst out, ‘Why must I be kept in safet
y? Who is it that threatens me?’
The man studied him for a long moment. Then he said, ‘Yes, it is time, I think for explanations.’ He glanced at the four guardians, who shuffled outside the room and closed the door. ‘Now then. First, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Edmund. I am known as Lord Edmund the Exile, for I have spent much of my life far from this land where my ancestors long lived and flourished.’ His face clouded as if with some bitter memory. ‘From afar my kinsmen and I have been forced to witness the rape of our homeland by our enemy. Always our minds and our hearts have bent towards England, but we are few, our bloodlines weak and diluted by time and ill fortune.’ He sighed, running a hand over his lean face. ‘We have maintained our purpose by our hope in the future. We prayed to the gods and to our forefathers that the day would come when one would step out of the shadows and lead us back to our rightful place. We observed, we recorded the crucial events, we saw our hopes raised and then dashed. Now the moment has come at last, and everything is being set in place for our triumphant return to glory.’ He beamed at Gewis.
I have no idea what he is talking about, Gewis thought wildly. Is all that supposed to mean something to me? He frowned in concentration, for the man – Lord Edmund – clearly expected him to comment. And slowly, emerging like a distant figure approaching out of the mist, Gewis remembered something.
He thought of his father, embittered, angry, struggling to complete a difficult piece of carpentry. He saw him throw down the tool, an expression of frustration on his face as he shouted at his wife cowering in the corner. Gewis saw the long days of his childhood and recognized the fear that had always hung about the house. He remembered his feeble, unsatisfactory conclusion: that somewhere, at some time, somebody had cheated his father, robbing him of something that would have allowed him and his family to lead a better, happier, wealthier, easier life . . .
Was that what this was all about? Was this man, this Lord Edmund, at last going to reveal to Gewis the secret of his past?
Praying that he had guessed right, Gewis said, ‘What has this to do with me?’
Lord Edmund looked at him with an indulgent smile. ‘Patience, Gewis, for soon you shall know. For the moment, I must ask you some questions – oh, they are not difficult! Do not look so alarmed! – and, according to how you answer me, I shall reveal the truth.’
‘I don’t know anything!’ Gewis cried, not in the least reassured by Lord Edmund’s words. ‘I’m just a carpenter’s son, and until recently I’ve never left the village where I was born!’
‘You were not, in fact, born there,’ Lord Edmund corrected him, ‘but let us not bother with that just now.’
Not born there? How did he know? Gewis felt his heart beating fast, although he could not have said whether it was in alarm or in sudden excitement. ‘I don’t—’ he began, but Lord Edmund held up a thin hand. It was his right hand and the jewel in the gold ring flashed like fire as the torchlight caught it.
‘You tell me you are a carpenter’s son,’ he said. ‘What is your father’s name?’
Gewis shot him a quick glance. Was this a trick question? Did he not know that Gewis’s father was dead? ‘My father’s name was Edulf,’ he said boldly, ‘and he died four years ago.’
‘How did he die?’ Lord Edmund was leaning forward again as if he could barely wait for the answer.
‘He was summoned to work on an important new building in some nearby settlement,’ Gewis said, ‘and while he was there he was busy on a carving when he slipped and fell, breaking his neck.’
‘His body was brought home for burial?’
That was the strange thing, Gewis reflected; it had puzzled him at the time, but, in his shocked and grieving state, he had not thought to question the voice of authority . . . ‘No. The priest came to see my mother and he told her that my father had been buried in the place where he died. It was summer,’ he added, as if trying to excuse the actions of others, ‘and the priest said the burial had to be done quickly before . . . er, before—’
‘Yes, yes, quite so,’ Lord Edmund said quickly. ‘And you have visited your father’s grave?’
‘No.’ Gewis hung his head. ‘My mother tells me repeatedly that we shall make the journey soon.’
‘But the day has not yet come?’ Lord Edmund persisted.
‘No.’
There was a short silence. Gewis felt deeply ashamed for, although he could not honestly say that he had loved his father, what sort of son was he that he had never knelt at the graveside and offered prayers to speed his father into heaven?
Lord Edmund seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Do not berate yourself,’ he murmured. ‘Try as you might you would not find the place where your father lies buried, for it is not there to be found.’
‘Not . . . What do you mean?’ Gewis was half out of his chair, horrified. How could there be no grave?
‘Calm yourself,’ Lord Edmund said soothingly. ‘There is no grave because those who murdered your father wanted no place where his supporters might make a shrine. They would have no hallowed spot where people would flock to uphold his memory.’
Gewis slowly shook his head, his incomprehension rendering him dumb.
‘Tell me, Gewis, was your father a good carpenter?’
‘No. He only got the plain work that other men didn’t want.’
‘Quite so. And—’
‘When he was called away for that special job he forgot his tools, and my mother had to go after him with them,’ Gewis added. ‘He’d only gone a couple of miles down the road, which was just as well because Mother didn’t know where he was bound, and if he’d got any further she might not have found him.’
‘I see,’ said Lord Edmund. ‘And just why, Gewis, do you think that a carpenter of your father’s standard would have been chosen to work on that grand new structure?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gewis admitted. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘It makes no sense because it did not happen,’ Lord Edmund said gently. ‘Your father was tricked, Gewis. His enemies needed to draw him away from his family and his village, for they wanted no witnesses. They made up this fiction of the new building as an excuse for your father to go with them, but all along they had told him a different tale.’
‘What was it?’ Gewis whispered.
‘Ah, Gewis, this is so sad,’ Lord Edmund sighed, ‘for they were clever and they played on your poor father’s secret dreams of glory. They told him they had come to restore him to his rightful place, but that in order to do so he must travel with them to some unspecified destination. That, of course, is why he did not take his tools when he left; he believed that, far from going to work on a building, he was at last going to receive the honour he had always known was his due.’
Oh, but it makes such sense! Gewis thought. His father’s lifelong resentment and barely suppressed anger at his lowly station in life would be explained perfectly if, all along, he had believed he deserved something far better.
Was it true? Could it really be that his father had been an important man? Somebody had wanted him dead, it seemed, and that somebody had succeeded. ‘Who killed him?’ Gewis demanded. ‘Why did he have to die?’
‘He was killed by his enemies,’ Lord Edmund repeated. ‘They had grabbed power in the land and a man such as your father threatened them, for while he lived there was always the chance that men would rally to his cause.’
‘Who was he?’ Gewis shouted.
But Lord Edmund shook his head. ‘Not yet, Gewis. First, I must explain my involvement in your affairs.’ He paused, his eyes unfocused. Then he said, ‘I have, as I told you, lived most of my life abroad, for my father served in the household of a prince in exile who, with his brother, was sent out of England apparently for his own safety but in reality so that he could be quietly killed. He received help, however, from an unexpected source and, by a circuitous route and through the kindness of strangers, eventually he and his brother settled in Hungary. His brother left no descendants, but my fa
ther’s prince married and had a son. This boy was still a child when my prince made his attempt to take the inheritance that was his due; an attempt that led to his death.’ Lord Edmund paused, momentarily covering his face with his hand. Then, with an obvious effort, he continued. ‘The prince’s son grew to manhood, and we had high hopes of him, for he was of the blood and he was ambitious. However, he failed us. Instead of accepting his part in the continuing struggle, he threw in his lot with the enemy. He is lost to us.’
‘Is he dead?’ Gewis was absorbed in the tale.
‘No, he lives, as far as we know. He supported Duke Robert of Normandy in the attempt to take England from King William, and when it failed he fled to Scotland, where his sister is wed to the king. Now they say he plans to fight abroad.’ Lord Edmund shrugged. ‘He is, as I say, no more a concern of ours.’ His look of disdain said more than his words.
‘So . . .’ Gewis let his mind run back over all that he had just heard. ‘You lead a faction that opposes the Normans and that—’
‘Hush!’ Lord Edmund hissed urgently, looking around him anxiously. ‘Do not speak such things, even in private, for there are spies everywhere and they are ruthless!’ Leaning closer, he murmured, his voice barely audible, ‘Agents of the Conqueror killed your father, and they will not rest until they have killed you too.’
‘Me?’ Gewis cried. ‘What have I to do with this?’
‘You are your father’s son,’ Lord Edmund replied. ‘The role that was planned for him is now for you to fulfil. How old are you?’
‘Fifteen, I believe.’
‘Fifteen. Yes, yes, quite old enough.’ Lord Edmund was beaming again. ‘We shall take you from here to the secure place where our supporters will be gathering, and there we shall reveal to you the full story.’
I do not want to go, Gewis thought. He did not understand – how could he, when this wily, devious man with his insincere smile and the hunger in his eyes refused to explain? – but every instinct was commanding Gewis to have nothing to do with him.
