Land of the Silver Dragon

TWO

I hurried back to Aelf Fen, eager to find my mother and reassure her that Goda wasn’t about to die. I found all my family at home — it was evening by now — and so was able to give them the news together.

‘She’s all right,’ I panted as I burst in — I’d run the last half mile. ‘A cut and some bruises, but not badly hurt.’

My mother, my father, my brother Haward and his wife Zarina, with her ten-month-old son in her lap, and my two younger brothers all breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Sit down here by the fire and have a drink,’ my father said solicitously, elbowing my little brother Squeak out of the way. ‘Yes, Squeak, I know you’ve had a hard day,’ he said in answer to my brother’s mutinous look, ‘but Lassair’s just walked to Icklingham and back, and she’s had to deal with Goda. She truly is all right?’ he added, a big, firm hand on my shoulder as gratefully I sat down.

‘Yes. But Utta …’ I paused, glancing at my brother Leir. He was not yet seven.

‘They all know Utta’s been killed,’ my father said quietly. ‘We’d like to know what happened, Lassair.’ Then, just for me, he muttered, ‘No gory details, mind.’

I nodded my understanding, then briefly repeated what Goda had told me.

My mother’s face was creased in perplexity. ‘It was a robbery, then?’

‘Apparently so,’ I replied. ‘Goda thought the intruder was looking for something specific, but, as she said, she and Cerdic haven’t really got much that’s worth taking.’

‘What about Utta?’ my brother Haward asked. ‘Might she not have some savings, or something, that she’d brought with her when she moved in with Goda and Cerdic?’ He looked at my mother. ‘Isn’t she … er, wasn’t she a skilled weaver or something?’

‘She was a wool worker,’ my mother said, nodding. ‘She made cloth of a very smooth, soft quality.’

Suddenly I remembered something: an image from six years ago, when I’d gone to look after Goda. ‘She made Goda and Cerdic two beautiful blankets for a wedding gift,’ I said.

‘Well, then!’ Haward exclaimed.

My father gave a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘Well then, what?’ he said with a smile. Please don’t think my father callous; it’s the last thing he is. But none of us had anything more than a bare acquaintance with Utta, and to put on long-faced grief at her death would have been dishonest.

‘Oh.’ Haward frowned, putting his thoughts in order. ‘Er, she probably made lots of money making and selling her nice blankets, and that’s what the thief was after,’ he said. ‘Her bag of coins!’ he added, as if to make sure we all understood.

‘It’s possible,’ I said, smiling at Haward. I love my brother very much, but I didn’t really think his theory was very likely. ‘Although I don’t think Utta was by any means rich.’

My mother got to her feet and, picking up a ladle, began to stir the stew that was bubbling aromatically over the hearth. ‘Supper’s ready,’ she announced. ‘Going to stay and eat with us, Haward, Zarina?’

Haward glanced at his wife, and she gave a little nod. ‘Thank you, Mother, yes please,’ he said. He and Zarina haven’t long moved into their own little dwelling, built on to one end of my family home, and I know Zarina tends to be sensitive over any implication that she doesn’t keep house as well as my mother. Haward, bless him, often appears torn between accepting our mother’s food whenever it’s offered (she is an excellent cook) and not offending his wife (she isn’t).

We settled down to eat, and for a while were too busy with our food to talk. Then, as the platters gradually emptied and the sounds of knives and fingers scraping against wood ceased, my father said, ‘Let’s hope there are no more such incidents in Icklingham, or anywhere else for that matter. The intruder must have realized Goda saw him, and could describe him, so maybe that will have persuaded him that it’s in his best interests to get as far away as he can.’

There were several murmurs of agreement.

‘Has any action begun to find the killer and bring him to justice?’ my father went on, turning to me.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I was busy tending Goda, and did not think to enquire.’

My father smiled understandingly. ‘You probably had your hands full,’ he observed. ‘Still, I bet they’ll have organized some sort of a search by now. They’ll find him and deal with him, and that’ll be that.’

If only we’d known.

Next morning, I woke up in my usual place in my aunt Edild’s house, my father having walked me back there after supper. Despite his confident words, he must have been less sure than he made out that the vicious intruder was now far away.

Since Edild and I work together, the decision was made some years back for me to live with her. At the time when I moved in, it relieved some of the pressure on the family house, then accommodating my parents, my three brothers and me, not to mention my beloved Granny Cordeilla, although she was tiny and didn’t really take up much room. She died, two years ago, and we all miss her very much. Often I see her, sitting in the corner of the room where her little cot used to stand. Invariably she gives me a smile, her deep, dark eyes crinkling up. Her smile could always light up even the dullest day.

As Edild and I ate breakfast, I told her in more detail what had happened in Icklingham, having only provided the briefest outline the previous evening and concentrating on the news that Goda was not badly hurt. Not one to gossip or speculate, now Edild listened in silence, nodded, then suggested we ate up and got on with our day’s work.

We dealt with the usual crop of minor hurts and seasonal ailments — for some reason, half the village seems to develop sore throats and runny noses as soon as the weather warms up — and I found that having my hands and my mind fully occupied drove yesterday’s disturbing incident out of my thoughts. It was thus something of a rude shock when, as dusk was falling and we were tidying up after the last of our patients, Hrype arrived on the doorstep and said quietly, ‘There’s been another attack.’

Edild took one look at him, then grabbed his arm and drew him inside, closing and barring the door. Clearly, she did not want to be disturbed by some latecomer demanding the services of the healer. She sat Hrype down beside the hearth, took his hands in hers and, turning to me, told me curtly to prepare one of her restorative drinks. Torn between handing him the remedy as quickly as I could and giving the two of them a few private moments to mutter together (they have long been lovers, a secret known to only the three of us) I opted for speed.

If ever a man needed a restorative drink, it was Hrype. He looked exhausted, and the deep frown line between his brows suggested some serious anxiety. Edild waited till he had finished his drink, then she said, ‘Tell us what has happened.’

She sat down on the bench beside him, once more holding his hand. I crouched on the floor at his feet. Looking from one to the other of us, he drew a breath and said, ‘I was over on the western side of the fens, and I heard a rumour that there has been violence at Chatteris.’

Chatteris is the abbey where my sister Elfritha is a nun. The previous year, there had been trouble there; a nun had died, and my beloved sister had also come close to losing her life.

And now this!

Hrype was leaning down towards me, his silvery eyes intent on mine. ‘No harm has come to Elfritha,’ he said. He must have seen doubt in my expression, for he took hold of my shoulders and said firmly, ‘Lassair, hear me! Elfritha is quite all right.’

Slowly I nodded, and he let me go.

‘Is anyone else hurt?’ Edild asked. I admired the control in her voice.

‘Two nuns were thrown to the ground. One has a broken arm and the other has slight concussion,’ he said. ‘It appears that someone broke into the abbey very early this morning, when the nuns were at prayer, and ransacked the dormitory. The two who were hurt had returned to their cells after prayer, where they disturbed the intruder in the middle of his search, and they had the courage to challenge him. He was a huge man, tall and brawny, and very fair-skinned.’

‘You said the nuns interrupted his search,’ I said, a chill of fear making me shiver.

Hrype looked at me. ‘Yes. The sisters said he seemed to be hunting for something, for he had turned over the nuns’ cots, ripped open the straw mattresses, and strewn their bedding and their few personal possessions all over the floor.’

‘It’s the same,’ I whispered. ‘It’s like at Goda’s house, yesterday.’

A glance passed between Hrype and my aunt, and I heard her muttering to him. I remembered that he hadn’t been in the village yesterday, or, if he had, he’d kept well out of sight. He did not know about Utta’s death.

My mind seemed to be behaving oddly. Instead of facing up to this new worry, I found myself puzzling over how it was that Hrype can come and go pretty much at will. None of us are meant to leave the village without Lord Gilbert’s permission, but somehow this rule does not apply to Hrype. When he’s in the village, he looks just like the rest of us, performing his work alongside the other villagers with nothing to distinguish him. He has a talent for blending in with his surroundings, and with the people around him, that is truly exceptional. I suppose that it’s the very ordinariness of his appearance that aids him, for if he seems exactly like everyone else, nobody looking on would be able to tell if he’s here or not. It would be like the addition or removal of one tree in a forest.

I don’t know why Hrype absents himself so frequently. I have my own ideas on the subject, but they are only vague. He is far too fearsome a man for anyone to dare to ask him. When he stops being a lowly peasant and stands straight and proud in his true skin, he appears tall and lordly; you could almost believe him to be the descendant of kings. As if all this were not enough, he is also a very powerful magician.

My aunt’s voice brought me out of my reverie. ‘… better ask Lassair, since it was she who went to care for Goda,’ she was saying.

I looked up at Hrype. His eyebrows went up in a silent question.

‘Goda said it looked as if the intruder there was looking for something,’ I said. ‘She reckoned that her mother-in-law got killed, and she herself injured, simply because they were in the way.’

Hrype nodded. ‘Whatever this man wants, he wants it very badly,’ he observed.

Edild’s face creased in a frown. ‘You are assuming the two intruders are one and the same,’ she said.

Hrype turned to her, his expression kind. ‘I think they must be,’ he said gently.

‘But …’ My aunt’s protest stopped before she could utter it. ‘Of course,’ she whispered, her horrified eyes turning to me.

‘Yes. It was the area of the dormitory where Elfritha sleeps,’ Hrype murmured.

And then I, too, understood. I also understood why they were both looking at me with such anxiety.

The intruder had just broken into the places where two of my sisters lived. One person was dead, three injured. Unless this fearsome man had already found what he was after — which didn’t seem likely, since proceeding to Elfritha meant he obviously hadn’t got whatever it was at Goda’s, and Elfritha surely didn’t have anything anyone could want — then he would go on with his violent attacks.

‘Haward is second in age after Goda, followed by Elfritha,’ Edild said. ‘Yet no intrusion has occurred at his home.’

And I came after Elfritha, followed by Squeak and little Leir …

Hrype stood up. ‘I shall go to Wymond and Essa’s house immediately to warn them, and Lassair shall come with me,’ he announced. Turning to me with a smile, he went on, ‘Your father is a big, tough man, Lassair. He is also fiercely protective of his children, and you and your two younger brothers will be safe under his roof. I’ll suggest that Haward and his family move back into the family home, for the time being anyway. There’s safety in numbers, and it would take a desperate man to force his way into a house where there were two grown men and a pair of fierce boys.’ My little brothers would have been delighted at the description.

Hrype swung his heavy cloak around him and headed for the door, raising an eyebrow at me. Reluctantly I got to my feet. The prospect of a night — or, more likely, several nights — crowded in with all my family back at home was not very appealing. Much as I love them, I had become used to the peace and calm of Edild’s little house. Hrype was looking quite determined, however, and it did not seem that I had any choice.

Later, trying to get to sleep, I wondered suddenly if this giant’s interest in my family was restricted to my generation, or if Edild too was in danger. She was all alone, and -

Then I understood, as if I had just been told, that she wasn’t alone. Nobody outside my family knew that Hrype was back in the village, and we would keep it to ourselves. For this night at least, Hrype could sleep not where his conscience dictated — in the home of his late brother’s frail and dependent widow — but where his heart lay. With Edild.

We were lucky, in a way, for our house was ransacked while there was nobody within to get in the giant intruder’s way. It must have happened some time in the late afternoon. I was working with Edild; my father and Squeak were out on the water studying the movements of the eels; Haward had taken Leir out to the higher ground, where Haward was working that day; and my mother had gone to help Zarina with the washing.

I was the last to return home, and by then my capable mother had dried her tears and was already rearranging all her precious domestic possessions while my father set about repairing the broken leg of Leir’s little stool. Haward and Zarina were looking on helplessly.

‘I’ve offered to help,’ Zarina whispered as I went to stand beside her, ‘but your mother says it’s best if she does it all herself as she’ll never be able to find anything if anyone else tidies up.’

I suppressed a smile. My mother defended her right to be solely in charge of her own hearth like a she-wolf protecting her den full of helpless young.

My mother had stopped in the middle of rearranging the straw-stuffed mattress and bedding on Squeak’s cot. She was holding up a woollen blanket, displaying a large hole in one corner. ‘Why did he have to do that?’ she demanded furiously, poking her finger through the hole. ‘It’s nothing more than spiteful, wanton destruction!’

I agreed with her. Whatever the intruder had been hunting for, it would hardly be hiding within the weave of a blanket. I was suddenly very glad that the precious shawl that Elfritha made for me hadn’t been lying around waiting for similar treatment. I went over to my mother, gave her a hug and took the blanket out of her hands. ‘I’ll darn it,’ I offered. She eyed me dubiously. ‘Yes, I know you’d do a better job, but you have enough to do.’

She gave me a swift smile, then returned to restoring order to her wrecked home.

When we finally sat down to eat, the house looked much as it had done before. That was the advantage of everything you possessed being old, worn and mended; one more repair didn’t really make much difference.

My father had asked all of us to check through our own small sum of belongings, to see if anything was missing. As one by one we all reported that nothing had gone, his expression went from puzzlement to fury.

‘Then he’s caused us all this work and distress for no reason,’ he muttered. His light eyes narrowed, and, as his right hand closed into a huge fist, I reflected that I wouldn’t want to be in the intruder’s boots if my father ever caught up with him. This phantom stranger might well be the giant that he was claimed to be, but then my father was scarcely small.

I studied him as, still muttering under his breath, he returned to his food. My father is the middle child of the five who were born to my Granny Cordeilla and her husband. I never knew my grandfather, for he died before I was born, but apparently he was a quiet, mild man, hard-working and steady. My granny, or so they say, had been a sparkling, enchanting girl, full of magic and mystery, lively as a tree-full of starlings, and everyone fervently hoped that early marriage to a steady but dull fenland fisherman would calm her down and keep her out of mischief. Knowing my granny, I doubt very much that it did.

She bore her husband two sons, Ordic and Alwyn, both of whom were made in their parents’ exact mould: slender, dark, and not very tall. In their temperament, however, the little boys were faithful copies of their father. A few years passed, and Granny’s third child was born: my father, Wymond, in whose blood ran the echo of his three huge uncles, Granny Cordeilla’s brothers. To complete her family, Granny bore twin girls, my aunts Edild and Alvela.

Everyone always says parents don’t have favourites, and I dare say that’s true. You would have had to be blind, however, not to see the truth: Granny Cordeilla might well have loved all five of her sons and daughters equally, but there were without doubt two with whom she preferred to spend her time. Edild was one, for she and Granny were so attuned that they rarely had need of words. My father — my big, strong father with his sea-coloured eyes — was the other. When Granny became too old and frail to manage on her own, nobody even thought to ask which of her children she would go to live with. We all knew.

My father’s voice broke into my reverie. We’d all been virtually silent as we ate, even Squeak’s usually high spirits squashed by the prevailing mood of depression. As one, we turned to look at my father.

‘I can’t for the life of me think what we’ve got that he’d want!’ he said, echoing Goda’s sentiments of two days ago. ‘We’ve got no treasures, no store of coins, no valuable possessions, no mighty sword or shield handed down from father to son from the glory days!’ He glanced around, looking slightly sheepish. It was as if only now, as the echo of his words faded away, did he realize how loudly he had spoken. ‘We’ve only got what everyone else like us has, and yet two of my daughters’ dwellings, and now our own family home, have been searched as roughly and as thoroughly as if we possessed the riches of King William himself.’

Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Zarina, newest member of our family, cleared her throat. Quietly and, I thought, tentatively, she said, ‘You do have treasure, Father.’ I love the way she calls her father-in-law father. She once told me her story, and it was very sad; her own father had been a terrible man, and I’m glad she has found a better one. Her eyes going from my father to my mother and back, she whispered, ‘You’ve got a house full of love. That’s the best treasure of all, believe me.’

My father looked embarrassed for a moment, then reached for Zarina’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

Squeak gave a noise that sounded like someone trying not to be sick. Haward leaned over and lightly cuffed him.

Then, of all people, little Leir spoke up. ‘We’ve got Lassair’s stories,’ he said. ‘I like Lassair’s stories.’ He grinned up at me, his sweet face still round and babyish. He’s growing tall, and sometimes I forget he’s only six.

My mother grabbed her baby boy and settled him on her lap. ‘Lassair’s tales, eh, Leir?’ He nodded solemnly. ‘You reckon they’re a treasure?’

Leir nodded again. ‘They’re our family treasure,’ he said.

It was a lovely thing to say. Had he not looked so comfortable on our mother’s capacious lap, I’d have grabbed him and given him a hug.

Squeak, further disgusted by all the sentiment flying around, made another being-sick noise and muttered, ‘I’d rather have a sword.’

Squeak is thirteen. From both his own and everyone else’s viewpoint, it’s a ghastly age for a boy.

I had hoped that, since our house had now received the attentions of the giant intruder and presumably he’d finished with us, I might be allowed to return to Edild’s. I remarked in an offhand way, over breakfast in the morning, that I’d probably stay with my aunt that night, hoping my father would just say all right, then.

He didn’t. He stopped eating, fixed me with a penetrating stare and said, ‘One more night with us, Lassair.’

I was about to protest, but then his expression softened and he added, ‘Please?’

I’ve always found it very hard to disobey my father, especially when I know that to do so would mean hurting or disappointing him. Meekly I nodded. ‘Very well.’

Edild and I had a hectic morning. Spring might be on its way, but nobody had told the elements, and the raw day was one of misty rain blown on a spiteful easterly wind. By midday we had treated so many people for the usual phlegmy cough that afflicts fenland people — it’s the perpetual damp that causes it — that we had run out of Edild’s expectorant medicine. I knew then how I would be spending the remainder of the day: in assembling all the ingredients and preparing them so that Edild could work her magic on them and turn them into a healing elixir.

On the shelves where we store our ingredients I found most of what I needed. We were having to rely on dried herbs, which in the main lack the potency of fresh-picked plants. Nothing much was growing yet; another reason why we were all longing for spring.

One element was missing. Recently Edild had passed on to me an unlikely piece of medicinal lore, which she herself had been taught by a very old woman who claimed she was from Viking stock. In the far north, the old woman said, the people used a special lichen to treat chest ailments; a lichen that was the food of a deer that lived in the snowy wastes where little else grew. This lichen did not grow in the fens, but Edild had discovered a similar moss-like substance thriving in the thin soil beneath the line of pine trees away over on the fen edge. After experimenting on herself, she found that it was very good at bringing up catarrh from the lungs and throat, and she had taken to including it in her remedy.

The jar in which we kept it was empty.

With a sigh — for the misty rain had grown heavier — I collected my shawl, put on my boots and, wrapping myself up tightly, set out on the mile-long trudge to the water.