Mist Over the Water

by Alys Clare

How much did Lassair know?

  Knowledge such as this was dangerous. He knew then that he would protect her, whatever happened.

  He said, carefully choosing his words, ‘He is someone of great importance, although he does not know it.’

  ‘He does, and I’d already guessed as much,’ she said. He detected a hint of irony. ‘People don’t normally make such a fuss about a carpenter’s son from a small fenland village.’ She turned to stare at him. Her eyes looked green in the bright light. ‘He has gone, Rollo. Whatever you, or they, want him to be a part of, he will not do it. I told him they killed his mother, and even if he hadn’t made up his mind before he did then.’

  He sighed. ‘I had nothing to do with the death of his mother,’ he said. ‘It is true that the slaying of his father was the work of the faction to which I belong –’ was that right? Did he belong with the king’s party? Just then he did not know – ‘but I was not involved. Four years ago I was a thousand and more miles away from eastern England.’

  She nodded quickly. ‘I believe you.’ He was surprised at how much pleasure those three words gave him. ‘Why did your people kill Gewis’s father?’

  He paused. Should he tell her? This was the most dangerous part of the secret, but then she knew so much already and he did not think she would rest until she had uncovered the whole story. ‘Because the blood of kings ran in his veins. He was of the bloodline of the House of Wessex, and from that house came Edward the Confessor, the last Wessex king. Many men who support the old regime want to see a Wessex king back on the throne of England.’

  She did not speak for some time. She whispered, almost to herself, ‘My kinsmen fought and died for the old regime.’ Then aloud she said, ‘Gewis, too, must be of the bloodline.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘He’s aware that he belongs to some ancient family, but does he know what an elevated one it was?’

  ‘No. Or, rather, he did not know yesterday, although I have reason to believe he was taken to see someone last evening who was in a position to enlighten him.’

  She frowned. ‘He did see someone last night. He ran away from whoever it was, and he found his way to us.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I’m quite sure he didn’t mention the House of Wessex.’

  Then, he thought, they probably didn’t tell him.

  She was very quiet, and he knew she was thinking hard. Then she said, ‘Why is your faction so determined that the House of Wessex shall not rise again?’

  He sighed, for the answer was complex. ‘The old kings made this country,’ he said, ‘but they had their time and now it is over. The Normans are not universally popular –’ her snort of derision suggested she agreed – ‘but they are strong, and they will make England march according to their rules. They are fair, in their way, and they have the might to stamp out rebellion before it takes hold and tears the country in two. That is why they will not permit the existence of a figurehead out of the elder days to whom men could rally.’ She did not answer. He leaned closer and said, ‘Lassair, does anybody truly want another battle like Hastings?’

  She winced, and he knew he had hit home. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Did you lose many of your kin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She could not have been born then, he thought, but no doubt the memory of the fallen was kept alive and vibrant by the family story tellers. Not that there was anything wrong with that; the living ought to sing the praises of their dead warriors, no matter on which side they had fought.

  He waited to see if she would elaborate. Eventually, she sighed, but when finally she spoke it was not what he had expected. She said, ‘You can’t kill Gewis. He hasn’t done anything, and he doesn’t want to lead anybody, let alone some resurgent Wessex faction. He’s just not the type.’

  ‘He looks like his forebears,’ Rollo said. It had been the boy’s cream-coloured hair that had been his chief identifying feature.

  ‘He may well do,’ she retorted, ‘but that’s no reason to say he’ll agree to be a new Wessex king.’

  Rollo sensed she was right. The boy might have the right blood in his veins, but that alone did not make him a leader of men. And, anyway, how could anybody promote him to such an exalted role when he had disappeared? He wondered where the boy had gone. Was he in the same place as her cousin Morcar? And was this place . . .

  He was struck by such a horrible thought that he felt a chill run through his body, and instinctively he clutched her closer to him. ‘What is it?’ she asked, and he knew from her voice that she had picked up his alarm.

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. Her hair smelled sweet. He had known her such a short while, but already she was infinitely precious . . . He realized he could not tell her what he had just thought. It was bad enough for him to know, and if he told her he did not know how she would react.

  No. He would bear the responsibility. He would not let anything happen to her.

  He hugged her close. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m cold – let’s go and find something hot to eat to warm us up.’

  There were so many things I ought to have been worrying about and for which I should have been busy making plans but just then, walking along beside him in the watery sunshine, I could think of nothing but him. Rollo. His name was Rollo and he came from somewhere a thousand miles away. He was tough and strong – when I had leaned against him the muscles of his chest and shoulder had felt like iron – and when he’d kissed me and I’d responded, it had felt as if we had been doing it forever. I shall enjoy this day, I told myself, for I am with him and it may be the only time we shall have.

  I don’t know why I thought that.

  The workmen were now pouring through the abbey gates in a flood, and appetizing smells snaked out on curls and swirls of steam from the food stalls. I remembered that I had been up all night and for most of that time full of anxiety, mainly for Hrype but also for Gewis and, of course, for my poor friend Sibert. I was, I realized, aching with hunger.

  We bought fresh bread, delicious little patties made of spiced, ground pork bound with egg, honey-apple sweet cakes, all washed down with ale. It was a better breakfast than I had enjoyed in a long time – certainly a more costly one – and I wolfed down the food quite undeterred by Rollo’s amused presence beside me. When we had finished we found a quiet corner beneath the abbey walls and stood side by side, our hands linked, both of us lost in our thoughts.

  Eventually, he said, ‘I must go, Lassair. I am here to do a job, and I am answerable to those who sent me.’

  I thought I knew what he meant. He was a Norman – or, at any rate, he supported their rule. I guessed that somehow word of this threat posed by the House of Wessex had reached the ears of the king’s advisers and they had dispatched Rollo to come to Ely and find out if it was true, if it really was a threat and, if so, what should be done about it. The obvious conclusion was that Rollo had orders quietly to remove Gewis if he endangered the king, but I baulked at thinking about that.

  ‘You must tell them that Gewis presents no danger,’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘He doesn’t. I give you my word.’

  He smiled, as well he might. ‘You do, do you? I’ll remember to tell King William. I’m sure he’ll believe you.’

  I thought he was joking and I laughed. ‘Seriously, he’s the last person to lead men in a rebellion.’ Something occurred to me. ‘Are you absolutely sure he is who you all think he is? It’s not very likely, surely, that the House of Wessex survives only in a tiny cottage in a forgotten village in the fens?’

  He acknowledged that with a wry grin. ‘It’s not likely, no, but I am assured by those who make it their business to know such things that it is true.’ Suddenly, he looked surprised, his eyes wide, as if something had just struck him. But before I could ask, he went on, ‘As to his being the only surviving person of the Wessex blood, there is another, but he has abandoned the ties of kinship and thrown in his lot with the Normans.’

  I barely heard that. I was st
ill wondering what he had thought of that had so taken him aback.

  ‘We must—’ I began, but he put his lips to mine, very gently, and I was temporarily silenced.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said, and there was a new urgency in his voice. ‘You have a place where you are lodging?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Go back there,’ he urged. ‘Keep out of sight. Don’t venture out, and certainly not by yourself.’

  ‘Why?’ His alarm was infectious and I was afraid. ‘Why is it dangerous all of a sudden?’

  His face twisted. ‘It has always been dangerous, for so much is at stake.’ He looked me full in the eyes. ‘The difference is that now there is you.’

  I didn’t know what to say. My heart was singing he cares about me! but the image of myself meekly waiting in the little room while some looming, unspecified and highly dangerous threat rose up to shadow me and pounce on me was not one I could readily believe in.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I whispered. He was holding me close against his chest, and I could feel his heart thumping.

  He hugged me. ‘To make it safe.’

  ‘How? What are you going to do?’ Now it was I who feared for him. Other than the barest of facts, I had no idea who he was or what it was he did but I knew in my bones that it was dangerous.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. ‘I’ve outwitted better enemies than these.’

  He sounded strong and confident, sure of himself and what he was about to do. Why, then, did I feel so fearful? Why, when I looked up at him, did it seem as if a cloud had just obscured the sun?

  Gently, he unwound my arms from around his neck, and he took a step back. Away from me. He raised a hand in farewell, and then he turned and hurried off. Although I stared after him, and tried as hard as I could to keep him in sight, within a couple of heartbeats he had melted into the crowd.

  I wondered if I would ever see him again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  G

  ewis’s sense of unease deepened steadily as the day went on. It was not that the people in the settlement were not being kind to him; they were. The young man, Sibert, had taken him to a small and well-kept cottage, which he said belonged to Lassair’s family. It was soon after dawn when the two of them arrived, and a middle-aged man had come to the door in answer to Sibert’s knock, rubbing at his tousled hair and staring out at them in puzzlement. Sibert had given only a sketchy explanation, but he had said at least twice that Lassair had said it would be all right and the family were to take Gewis in and look after him.

  Gewis couldn’t actually recall Lassair having given any such instructions, but now did not seem to be the time to point it out. Sibert had melted away, and the man, who had been introduced as Lassair’s father, had ushered Gewis inside. The rest of the family had woken up – there was a woman with a long, fair plait who was the man’s wife, an old grandmother, a young man of about Sibert’s age, a lad and a child of around three. All six of them had stared at Gewis with round eyes, and then the lad said, ‘Are you a monk?’

  ‘No,’ Gewis replied firmly. ‘I’ve been living in an abbey, and they disguised me as a novice, but I’ve taken no vows.’

  The woman with the plait got to her feet. ‘Then we’d better find you some different clothes,’ she said, eyeing him closely. ‘Haward, we’ll need something of yours – your garments will be a little generous because you’re taller and broader than this lad here, but we can hitch up the tunic with a belt, and we’ll find a cap to cover that shaven spot on the crown of your head.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gewis said gravely.

  The woman smiled kindly at him. ‘I expect you’re hungry,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘I hungry too!’ piped up the little child; it was, on closer inspection, a boy.

  ‘Hush, Leir, I’ll see to you later,’ his mother said softly. ‘Go back to sleep – it’s early yet.’

  The child slipped his thumb into his mouth with a soft plop and, yawning, went obediently back to his cot in the corner. The young man went to rummage in a wooden box and emerged with a brown wool tunic, patched and darned but clean, a pair of woven hose and a floppy felt cap. Silently, he handed them to Gewis, who turned his back, stripped to his underlinen and put them on.

  The grandmother gave a quiet cackle of laughter. ‘Where’s that monk gone then?’ she said. ‘Welcome to the family, lad. What did you say your name was?’

  Gewis was moved by their kindness and their generosity. It was clear they did not have much, but what they had they shared willingly with him. He reckoned they must have a great deal of trust in their daughter to admit a total stranger into their cottage on her word alone. They must also love her very much, he realized; in the course of the day her mother, her father, her grandmother and her elder brother all found a quiet moment to ask if she was all right, and the young boy, whose name appeared to be Squeak, said that if Gewis saw her soon he was to give her his love and tell her the blackbird with the broken wing had died.

  As the day passed he uncovered the source of his unease. His mother was dead, killed by the four tough men who had taken him to Ely and guarded him there. His memories of her were by no means universally happy – like his father, she had been deeply embittered, and her dissatisfaction with her life had been demonstrated with a hard right hand around her son’s ear on far too many occasions. It had always been difficult, not to say impossible, to please her. She had once expressed the opinion that you must not praise your children because if you do they will become complacent and stop trying. For sure, she had never praised Gewis, so he wondered how she could have been quite so certain.

  Yes. She had not been a caring, loving mother. She was nothing like this capable, brusque but devoted woman whom Lassair was lucky enough to have as a parent. But she was his mother, nevertheless, and now she was dead. He could not stay there in safety knowing how, and probably why, she had died. He did not have sufficient faith in himself to believe he could avenge her, but at the least he must go to Lord Edmund, who must surely have been behind the death, and register his protest. I will report him to the sheriff, Gewis thought, carried away. He will be arrested and put on trial, and other men will judge him where I cannot.

  It was a good plan. It made him feel better.

  Late in the afternoon, wishing he could explain to Lassair’s nice family and say goodbye, he waited until he was unobserved and slipped away.

  Rollo spent most of the day putting together everything he knew about Lord Edmund, known as the Exile. The king had briefed him well, revealing that he believed Lord Edmund was the power behind the Wessex faction and that it was he who would organize and lead the attempt to raise the Wessex banner and summon supporters to the cause. Rollo had verified that the king was right; he had also uncovered a great deal more about Lord Edmund than had been known to King William. Or more accurately, he thought with a private smile, that the king had known perfectly well but had chosen not to reveal. Well, it did not matter either way now. Rollo had found out what he needed to know, and, as always, he trusted discoveries that he had made himself far more than facts told to him by others, even – perhaps especially – if those others were kings.

  In the comfort of his room, Rollo thought about the pale boy, Gewis. Was he who they claimed he was? Rollo still had not made up his mind. Logic suggested the boy was no more than a simple, unsophisticated village lad, the result of generations of people just like him. But there had been that moment in the old Saxon church, when Rollo had the extraordinary thought that a spectral hand from the past had reached out because it recognized its own.

  That, however, was fanciful, and Rollo did not deal in fancy. The Wessex faction must surely be convinced of Gewis’s identity, he thought instead, for they were going to a great deal of trouble on the lad’s behalf. Rollo had been trying to keep thoughts of Lassair out of his head – it was not that he did not want to think about her, only that she was a distraction – but now
he remembered how she had thought that Gewis’s unwillingness to have anything to do with Lord Edmund and his scheme was the end of it. She was wrong, but then she did not move in circles where people like Lord Edmund operated. She did not know how ruthless and cruel a man like him would be. But then, he thought, she knows Edmund had Gewis’s mother killed, so perhaps she does.

  Contemplating Lord Edmund’s nature was not something he ought to do at that moment. Against his will he recalled the moment early this morning when he had suddenly realized that Lassair knew where Gewis was and that, were so much of a whisper of that fact to reach Lord Edmund, he would find her and do whatever it took to make her tell him.

  That did not bear thinking about.

  And here I sit now, he thought bitterly, doing what I know I must but wishing with all my heart that I could hurry to her side and take her away to somewhere they will never find her.

  That was impossible, and he knew it. Instead, he must remove the threat. That meant staying right where he was and preparing for every possible eventuality until he was ready.

  Then he would act, and she truly would be safe.

  He went out into the midday crowds milling around the marketplace and, by asking a few innocuous questions here and there, discovered where Lord Edmund was lodging. Then he found a place where, while hidden himself, he could observe the house and the comings and goings. He stood quite still, and he was all but sure that nobody spared him a glance. As he watched, he occupied his mind going over the alternatives. He could approach Lord Edmund and somehow convince him that Gewis was nothing to do with the House of Wessex. He believed he could achieve this, for the king had told him where, when and how the rumour that connected Gewis to his illustrious ancestors had originated and it would be possible to concoct a tale that questioned the connection. Would Lord Edmund allow himself to be convinced? Rollo had his doubts, for everything he had learned of the man suggested he was a fanatic, and fanatics were not normally renowned for being open to reason.