Blood of the South

ELEVEN

I woke grumpy and out of sorts, and my head ached. I was still feeling cross; with Hrype for bullying me into looking into the shining stone, with Edild for letting him, and, most of all, with myself for being too feeble to say no. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get to know the stone; far from it. It fascinated me, and I think I was already beginning to fall under its spell. But I wanted my explorations to be on my own terms, preferably conducted when I was by myself.

Edild seemed to read my mood and she left me alone. After we had cleared up our simple breakfast and tidied away our bedding in preparation for the day, I announced I would go out to the little still room and catch up with the never-ending task of washing out empty jars, pots and the many vessels we constantly use in our preparations. She agreed, a little too readily. Presumably she preferred my absence to my company, and I couldn’t say I blamed her.

I took out my ill temper on giving the little room the sort of extremely thorough tidy and clean that only a woman taking out her anger on inanimate objects can achieve. I managed not to break anything, which was quite a triumph. I opened the low door that gave on to the rear of the house and Edild’s herb garden, for the morning was mild and sunny and the warmth would, I hoped, help to dry the freshly scrubbed room. I was just finishing off, putting all the gleaming pots and vessels back on the immaculate shelves, when a shadow fell across the sunlit floor and I turned to see Jack standing in the doorway.

‘Your aunt is busy with a white-faced man clutching his belly as if his bowels are about to burst,’ he remarked, ‘so, since I didn’t think either of them would welcome a witness, I came round the back.’

I pushed my hair back under my cap and wiped my hands on my apron. ‘I’m sure both patient and healer appreciate your tact.’

‘It’s you I wanted to see, anyway,’ he went on, his clear eyes roaming around the shelves that lined the room. ‘I’ve been talking to …’ But his interest in the surroundings overtook his need to explain his visit. ‘You prepare all these things? All these ointments, medicines, remedies and potions?’ His hand was reaching up to the high shelf where we keep the poisons.

‘My aunt and I do, yes. I shouldn’t touch that,’ I added as his hand closed round a tall, slim bottle.

‘Why?’

‘It’s thung, but you may know it as monkshood or wolf’s bane.’ From the way he instantly withdrew his hand as if it had been scalded, I guessed he did. ‘It’s one of the fiercest poisons.’

‘Why do you keep it, then?’ He sounded genuinely interested.

‘If you greatly dilute it, it’s a very good pain reliever.’

He nodded. ‘Anything else potentially fatal up there?’

‘Hemlock, which calms and sedates; savin, which is a sort of juniper and used externally to treat warts; deadly nightshade, which induces sleep, and woody nightshade for coughs and shortness of breath; yew, to treat snake bite; buckthorn, useful as a purgative and to ease chronic constipation-’

I was only halfway along the shelf, but he put up his hands to stop me. ‘Enough!’ He grinned. ‘Do you ever make mistakes?’

‘Not so far.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back, sending up a quick, silent prayer. ‘I’ve only started using the dangerous preparations recently. That’s why they’re on the top shelf. You’re not allowed to use anything you can’t reach.’

He nodded again. ‘So an undersized healer will never handle anything poisonous?’

It was my turn to smile. ‘You wanted to see me,’ I reminded him.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. His expression suddenly grave, he said, ‘Lord Gilbert still refuses to let me ask Lady Rosaria about her maid. In fact, he won’t let me speak to her at all today – he says she’s ill. A headache, sickness; I wasn’t permitted to hear any more details.’

‘You think he’s making it up as an excuse to keep you away?’

‘He doesn’t need an excuse,’ Jack said bluntly. ‘He’s the lord, she’s his guest and a lady. I’m the sheriff’s officer.’

‘But you have good reason to think her maid may be very sick, or even dead,’ I persisted, indignant on his behalf.

‘Lord Gilbert, if I had the temerity to press the point, would no doubt inform me that Lady Rosaria’s servants are her responsibility and nothing to do with anyone else, particularly me,’ he said. ‘He would probably add that, after all, the woman we want to know about is only a maid.’

Only a maid, and therefore not important. I wondered if that was fair to Lord Gilbert. Probably, I decided, although the same did not apply to Lady Emma, who was a decent and humane woman.

‘So, what do you want me to do?’ I asked. Anticipating his reply, I added, ‘I can’t go crashing in offering to treat Lady Rosaria if she hasn’t sent for me. Besides, it’s usually Edild who is summoned to treat the nobles of Lakehall.’

‘No, that’s not what I was going to ask. The important thing is to locate Lady Rosaria’s kin because, once she’s safely in the bosom of her family, she’ll relax, stop being so prickly and defensive, and be more prepared to explain what happened to her maid.’ He was staring down at the floor – the immaculate floor – and seemed a little abashed.

‘What do you want from me, then?’ I prompted.

He looked up. ‘Lord Gilbert’s lot are having no success in trying to find Lady Rosaria’s father-in-law’s kin, which is, I imagine, because they have little idea how to go about it, other than visiting the grand households suggested by their lord and asking if anyone knows the name Harald Fensman. If it were left to me, I’d suggest widening the search and asking some of the ordinary people.’ He paused, then went on, ‘I’ve mentioned to you before, I believe, the value of observation in my sort of work. The importance of using the evidence of your eyes and ears, and making a considered picture. I also pointed out -’ now he was studying the floor again – ‘that you have a talent for it.’

‘You want me to come and help you look for this Fensman clan?’ I regretted the words instantly. I was going to look and feel such a fool when he said, No, that wasn’t what I meant at all.

But he didn’t. He just said, ‘Yes.’

He had anticipated that I wouldn’t be able to refuse. He’d left Isis and his beautiful grey gelding tethered to a stumpy hazel close to where the path up to Edild’s house branches off the main track through the village. I went up to Isis, patting her graceful neck and putting my face close to hers, and she nuzzled her soft nose into my hand. The gelding, his dark eyes wide with interest, pushed up against me, and I reached out a tentative hand to stroke his long mane. ‘Pegasus,’ I whispered to him.

I’d have had no idea how to go about our search, but fortunately Jack did. The plan was to ride to the many villages and settlements dotted around the fen edge, locate some central figure such as the smith or the priest, and simply ask after the name Fensman. Harald alone was just too vague; it’s a far from uncommon name.

We kept to the high ground as much as we could. There were a few hamlets out on the marshy ground, in places where small areas of raised land permitted people to live without the constant fear of the encroaching water, but just now the prospect of finding a way to them was daunting. The flood was subsiding slowly, but in many areas the paths and tracks were still under water. In any case, there were enough places to visit without wasting time plunging up to our necks in mud.

We enquired at one village, and another. A couple of hamlets; a settlement of half a dozen hovels. A big village, almost substantial enough to be called a town. To my embarrassed gratification, I was recognized in quite a few of the places. I hadn’t realized how far people travelled to come to consult my aunt and me. I’d imagined, if I’d thought about it at all, that most of our patients were relatively local, and that other people usually either treated themselves or discussed their ailments with their own village healer. Coming across familiar faces ten or twelve miles away was something of an eye-opener.

The down side of being recognized, of course, was that quite a few people suddenly discovered that their bad back had flared up again, or their piles were itching, or their wife had been moaning about a rash on her neck for more than a week now and would I have a quick look, seeing as how I was in the vicinity? I didn’t really mind. I always carry my healer’s satchel, well supplied with the things I use most, and handing out some remedies and a bit of advice didn’t take up much time. As it happened, dealing with complaints gave me the perfect opportunity to ask people about Harald Fensman, since, to a man or woman, they all asked me what I was doing so far from home.

The beautiful evening, with the daylight slowly fading and a clear, still twilight approaching, found us on our way back to Aelf Fen. We had come across any number of Haralds – I did say it was a popular name – but nobody seemed to have heard of any family who had adopted the name of Fensman, with or without a son who had left the area.

I was turning over something in my mind, and had been quiet for some time, when Jack said, ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Er – it’s probably nothing.’

He grinned. ‘When people say that, what they mean is, I’m pretty sure I’ve come up with something important but I don’t want to admit it in case I’m wrong.’

I laughed. ‘I don’t think it’s important, exactly, but it may be relevant. It’s bothering me, anyway.’

Jack looked enquiringly at me. When I didn’t respond, he said, ‘Speak up, then!’

‘It’s the name, Fensman. What occurred to me is that everyone here could call themselves that. All of us are fensmen, or fenswomen, and for someone to use the name as a way of distinguishing himself just wouldn’t work.’

He nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘We know from Lady Rosaria that her father-in-law Harald left his fenland home to make his fortune overseas somewhere, and we know she began her voyage back to England in northern Spain.’

‘Corunna,’ Jack put in.

‘So, what I think is that he only adopted the Fensman name once he settled in Spain, and he left here as plain Harald.’

‘In which case, you and I have wasted a day asking for someone called Fensman,’ Jack concluded, with understandable frustration.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to-’

‘You have nothing to apologize for,’ he said swiftly. He turned to me and smiled. ‘And even if today was a waste as far as we’re concerned,’ he added, his mouth twisting in a grin, ‘I’m sure the old woman with the phlegmy cough and the man with piles are most grateful we, or rather you, happened by.’

I felt myself blush. I’ve grown used to the more intimate and personal ailments people present to me, and take them all in my stride. I wasn’t, however, quite capable of hearing someone outside my profession speak of them without feeling embarrassed.

‘We must think, Lassair,’ Jack said after a moment, ‘what else we know about Lady Rosaria’s husband’s family. Did she tell us anything else that might help discover where they originated? Was there any hint as to a specific location? Any mention of other kinsmen?’

I was thinking very hard, trying to remember everything that the veiled woman had ever said. Since she was one of the most rigidly reserved women I’d ever come across, nothing much came to mind. ‘I can’t recall anything,’ I confessed after quite a long silence. ‘What about you?’

‘No, I can’t either,’ he agreed. ‘But I do have the advantage, in that I’m going to be staying under the same roof as our mysterious foreign lady tonight. I’ll try to speak to her. I’ll leave her in no doubt that we’d find her family a lot more quickly if she’d tell us a bit more about them.’

‘Rather you than me,’ I said.

He grinned. ‘No, I don’t relish the prospect, I must say.’

We reached the place on the track where the path leads up to Edild’s house; the spot from where we’d set out that morning. I dismounted, feeling the long day of riding in my sore thighs and backside. Sensing his eyes on me, I looked up.

‘You have several shelves of remedies in that little room,’ he said. His eyes were bright with laughter. ‘Don’t try to tell me there isn’t some wonderfully effective liniment which your aunt can rub on for you.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said with dignity. ‘By the time I go to bed, every ache will have been eased. And,’ I added with a grin, ‘it’s not me who’ll be trying to gouge information out of Lady Rosaria.’

I handed Isis’s reins to him then, with a wave, set off up the path. After a moment, I heard him mutter a few words to his grey, and two sets of hoofbeats pounded the ground as they cantered away.

As evening fell, the veiled woman in the comfortable guest chamber at Lakehall went over to the narrow window and looked out on to the gilded landscape. The long rays of the setting sun made the scene quite beautiful, but Rosaria was in no mood to appreciate it.

She had tried praying, hoping for relief from her torment. She had imposed solitude upon herself, and her hosts were too courteous to intrude. The local woman was taking adequate care of the infant, leaving Rosaria with little to do except worry.

She had thought it would be easy.

My family in the fens, Harald had said countless times, are numerous and mighty; we are people to be reckoned with! He used to speak proudly and lovingly of his home: of wide acres spread under a huge sky; of waterways – streams and little rivers – so rich in fish that you had but to put your hand in and grab hold of your supper. He spoke of warm hearths where kinsmen gathered, of hospitality, of sheltering walls and a stout roof. And as they had listened wide-eyed, hanging on his every word as he described that faraway land, he had elaborated, describing the long, low hall, the fires that always burned, the stacked sheepskins and furs in which to snuggle on a cold night, the feasting, the conviviality, the open-handedness of a secure, wealthy family willing and able to offer hospitality to friend and kinsman.

Rosaria’s soul had responded, and she had longed to be a part of that rich, comfortable, safe life which Harald described so well.

Now she was here, in Harald’s own land, and it ought to have been easy. She had imagined, in her innocence and ignorance, that Fen was a place; that, once delivered to the nearest port, it would simply be a matter of locating the homestead of Harald Fensman’s family and announcing, Here I am.

But Fen wasn’t a place. It was a huge watery, marshy, confusing and half-flooded wilderness, and she had no idea how to find the household she sought. Oh, yes, this Lord Gilbert was trying to help, although Rosaria was certain it was only because he wished to be rid of her. What did that matter, though, as long as the right result was achieved? If – no, when – the day came that they brought her the wonderful tidings that the Fensman clan were ready to welcome her and the child with open arms, and one of them was indeed standing in the hall with a smile on his face ready to take her away, she would thank Lord Gilbert with a pretty little speech, take herself off and he would never have to bother with her again.

That day will come, she told herself firmly. It will. It must. It is only a matter of waiting.

But, oh, how tired she was of the wait; of the constant effort of being a guest in a household that had neither expected nor invited her. How she longed for a place to call her own. A household where, as a daughter-in-law of one kinsman and mother of another, they would welcome her, make much of her, sympathize with her and tend her …

She allowed her mind to slide off into a happy daydream. It was the only comfort she had.

After a time, shivering suddenly as the temperature began to drop, she moved away from the window, allowing the heavy hanging that covered it at night to swing into place. She paced up and down the room, eyes roaming over the luxurious bed, the heavy, colourful tapestries lining the walls and the fresh rushes on the clean flags of the floor. Would her new home be like this? Harald had implied as much, and her impression had always been that his home in the country of his birth had been sumptuously luxurious.

Oh, she thought, oh, how I long to be there.

She had paid a price: a huge price. Allowing herself just for an instant to think the unthinkable, she wondered what would become of her if that price proved to be all for nothing.

But straight away her mind screamed out in protest. Stop!

She could hear voices in the great hall. The servants were starting on the preparations for the evening. There would be the meal – they ate well here – and perhaps an entertainment. One evening, there had been singing. Another time, someone had told stories. A polite invitation was always issued to Rosaria to join the household, but usually she declined. Food was brought to her room, and she would listen to the sounds of merriment which she could not share.

She wandered across to a large wooden chest that stood against the far wall. A lamp stood on it, and, stooping, she lit a spill from the glowing fire in the little hearth and set it to the lamp’s wick. A pool of brilliance spread out, and a ray of light struck the shiny surface of the mirror that had been put down beside the lamp.

It had been kind of Lady Emma to supply it. Rosaria never carried a mirror, and would have refused the offer if she’d dared. It was a handsome object. The reflecting surface was a plate of brass, highly polished, in size perhaps the width of a hand with the fingers widely spread. This plate was set into a piece of beautifully carved cherry wood, which formed the handle. It was a costly, luxurious item. Rosaria recognized and loved fine quality.

She stood quite still, staring down at the mirror. In the short time that she had been a guest at Lakehall, she had stood like that many times before, for the mirror was always on her mind and she could not forget it.

It was a constant, agonizing temptation.

You must not look, they had told her.

She knew they were right; she understood the consequences of disobedience. They meant it for her own good, for she would suffer if she yielded.

She watched as her hand stretched out towards the mirror’s handle. She saw her long fingers close around it, and her eyes widened in alarm.

Her free hand was clutching at her veil, unfastening the ties that held it so firmly and permanently in place. She never removed it when there was even the remotest chance that anyone could see her face. When she took it off as she went to bed, she replaced it with a close-fitting cap which merged into a high-necked collar, and the collar included a fold of the same soft fabric that could be drawn up over her mouth and nose.

Do not let them see you.

The mantra was so deeply entrenched in her that it had become a part of her.

Her fingers were on the veil, slowly, gradually drawing it away from her face, pulling at the ties so that the veil inched slowly downwards. Now it was under the bridge of her nose. Now it was halfway down, and in the lamplight she could clearly make out the curve at the top of a deeply etched nostril. She gave a little gasp.

She felt as if something outside herself was forcing her hand. Making her act, when everything in her cried out Stop! The veil had caught on the tip of her nose, and, in a sudden, violent movement, she tore it away.

She stared into her own deep, dark eyes. She watched as the tip of her pink tongue wet her full, beautifully shaped lips.

She took a deep breath and looked herself full in the face.

Then she began to weep.