Land of the Silver Dragon

FOUR

After a restless night, I got up early and set about helping my mother prepare the first meal for all of us. I had barely slept, and I was grumpily — but silently — asking myself how on earth I’d managed to get a decent night’s rest in the days when I’d lived permanently at home, in the midst of my large family. You can, I suppose, get used to anything. The trouble was that I’d become accustomed to the luxury of peaceful nights, either just with Edild for company or, when living in Cambridge with my teacher, Gurdyman, alone in my little loft.

My mother looked exhausted. My heart went out to her and, putting aside my self-pity, I took the large stone vessel out of her hands and went outside to fetch water.

My father was looking thoughtful as he ate his porridge. I had told the family the previous evening about the disturbed graves and about my hasty (and highly foolhardy, according to my father) dash across the marsh to check on Granny out on the island. I guessed this was what was occupying him and, when at length he spoke, I was proved right.

‘It’s no longer common practice to bury grave goods with the dead,’ he mused. ‘Hasn’t been for many a long year. Not something the Church approves of, telling us as they do that we go to meet our maker mother-naked, just as we entered the world.’

My mother gave him a swift, impatient look. She is a woman who always keeps both feet firmly on the ground. If anyone had the temerity to ask her opinion on some question broadly to do with the realm of gods and spirits, she would brush the question aside with some sort of dismissive comment, such as, ‘I know what I believe and that’s good enough for me.’ She does not waste her time pondering unanswerable questions, and has little patience with those who do.

I thought I knew what my father was thinking. I often do. ‘The giant intruder has exhausted the places where the living members of our family could have hidden whatever it is he’s searching for,’ I said quietly, just to my father. ‘You’re thinking, too, that he’s been driven to looking in the graves of our dead?’ It was just what I’d concluded the previous day.

‘I am,’ he agreed softly. He smiled grimly. ‘Just as well he doesn’t know about the island, isn’t it?’

I nodded. It was, of course, because it would have been dreadful if, like the relatives of the disturbed dead in the churchyard, we’d been faced with the desecration of a loved one’s grave. Had it happened, it would in any case have been all for nothing.

I saw my granny in her grave and I knew there was nothing buried with her except for some of her most treasured possessions and a scattering of flowers. By now the flowers would be turned to dust, and the few simple personal objects had already been worn down by a lifetime’s hard use when they went into the ground. A bone comb, beautifully carved but with half its teeth missing. A prettily crafted drinking cup, mended at least twice. A soft woolly shawl, much darned. There was surely nothing in the grave with Granny that anyone else would take such extreme steps to retrieve.

I reached out and took my father’s hand. He had loved his mother dearly. I was so glad, for all of us but especially for him, that her eternal sleep had not been interrupted.

I worked hard all day with Edild, my thoughts fully occupied so that there was little time for wondering whether my father would relent and let me return to sleeping at my aunt’s house. When I did briefly dwell on it, it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t only thinking of me. If, as it seemed, it was my father’s children who were the objects of the giant intruder’s search, then my presence in Edild’s house might also put her in danger. Edild, I knew, was under Hrype’s protection, but I very much doubted that anyone else was aware of it.

Spring was getting into its stride. The worst of the various weather-related sicknesses was over, and soon I should start thinking about returning to my studies with Gurdyman. A part of me longed to be back with him in the twisty-turny house in Cambridge, engrossed in the fascinating things he was teaching me and with the lively, vibrant town all around me. But such thoughts seemed disloyal to my family, especially under the current circumstances, so I tried to suppress them.

We were just clearing up for the day when there came the sound of running footsteps on the path leading up to the door. There was a perfunctory knock, then the door was flung open and my cousin Morcar burst into the house.

There was no need for even the swiftest glance at his poor, haggard face to know that something terrible had happened. Distress radiated out of him, reaching me with such force that I staggered back. Edild ran to him, took his hands in hers and, on a huge sob, he cried, ‘My mother’s dead!’

Instinctively, Morcar had come first to Edild, his mother Alvela’s twin. But Alvela had had other siblings, and one of them was my father. Even as Edild led Morcar over to the bench beside the hearth and gently persuaded him to sit, I gathered up my shawl and ran across the village to my family home. By the time Morcar was ready to tell us what had happened, he had the meagre comfort of his uncle’s, his aunt’s and his cousin’s presence while he related his tale.

‘I’d been working on a job some way from home,’ he began. Morcar is a flint knapper. His and Alvela’s neat little house is up in the Breckland. ‘I finished off this morning, sooner than I’d reckoned, and I headed home with coins in my purse, hoping to surprise Mother.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘She was lying there, amid the wreck of all the bits and bobs she’d cared for so well. They didn’t amount to much, but she loved them.’ He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. He is by nature a reserved, taciturn man, and to see him torn apart by his grief was hard to bear. Alvela had doted on him, and I had always assumed he’d found her fussing something of a trial. Watching him now it was clear that, even were that true, he’d loved her deeply.

He raised his wet face and looked at my father, then at Edild. ‘Whoever broke in beat her, very badly,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Her poor face was …’ But he couldn’t bring himself to tell us. He waved a hand vaguely in my father’s direction, shaking his head in anguish.

‘Never mind that now,’ Edild said gently. ‘Do not distress yourself further by making yourself think of it.’

‘But why did they hurt her?’ Morcar asked, his brow creased in a perplexed frown. ‘She was a small woman, and not strong. Once he’d broken in, he could have taken all he wanted and she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.’

‘He?’ my father asked.

Morcar glanced at him. ‘Yes. Great big fellow, bearded, built like an ox.’

‘Somebody saw him? Edild demanded.

‘Yes, yes, a couple of our neighbours had heard the commotion and gone to see what was up. The man ran off just as they arrived.’ He paused. ‘They found Mother lying there, but it was too late to help her. She was already dead.’ He dropped his face into his hands again.

I saw my father and my aunt exchange a glance. Then my father looked at me. I understood. ‘It’s as if her killer had been trying to make her tell him something,’ I whispered, the words barely more than a breath.

My father heard. His expression grim, he nodded.

Morcar must have heard, too. Perhaps — probably — he had already arrived at the same conclusion. ‘I don’t know what he thought she could tell him!’ he cried, tears running down his face. ‘If he was after some treasure, some object of value, that he believed we had hidden away in our house, he had been wrongly informed. And now she’s dead.’

We fell silent. In Edild’s warm, fragrant little house, the heart-rending sound of a grown man’s weeping was the only thing to break the silence.

My poor father was quite clearly torn between staying with Edild and me while we tended Morcar — well, it was Edild who patiently went on trying to calm and comfort him, while I set about making a remedy to dull the agony of his shock and grief — and returning to protect his family home. In the end, perhaps frustrated by his indecision, Edild said firmly, ‘Go home to your wife and your sons, Wymond. You should send word to Ordic and Alwyn, who must be informed of our sister’s death.’

My father looked at her uncertainly for a moment. Then, his face working, he said, ‘Goda wounded, old Utta dead, Elfritha’s dormitory searched and two nuns hurt, my family’s home — where Lassair is temporarily living — ransacked, and now this — poor Alvela. It’s the women,’ he added in a low, furious voice. ‘My daughters, and now my sister.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What sort of a man attacks women? What is worth finding, for which he’ll kill so casually and thoughtlessly?’ His eyes, normally warm with affection and humour, were suddenly cold as ice. There was, I realized, another side to my father; one that an enemy would do well to fear.

I think it was Edild’s remark about informing Ordic and Alwyn that finally persuaded my father to leave. Although the third-born son, he is the acknowledged head of the siblings, probably because he’s both the wisest and the biggest of the brothers. He got up to go, leaning over Edild and muttering something I did not catch. She looked up at him with a smile, made a soft reply and nodded towards the door. She murmured something that sounded like a reassurance. Whatever she said seemed to convince him.

As he stood in the doorway, he turned back to me and beckoned. ‘A word, Lassair.’

I wondered what he wanted to say. I got up and followed him outside.

My father turned to face me. ‘You should go back to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘You’re due back with your teacher round about now, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. My father’s suggestion was making me feel very guilty over my thoughts of that morning, when I’d been longingly imagining being back with Gurdyman. ‘But what about poor Morcar?’ my conscience made me ask. ‘He’s grieving, and there’ll be the funeral to endure, and-’

‘Edild and I will look after Morcar,’ my father said, quietly but with the sort of tone that informed me it was not my place to take the discussion further. ‘You will return to your studies in Cambridge tomorrow. We’ll go to Lord Gilbert first thing in the morning, and I’ll ask his permission to take you.’ He fixed me with a stare. ‘I will not let you go unprotected, Lassair.’

Part of me sang with joy, despite the dreadful circumstances. The prospect of a day alone with my beloved father was a rare treat. But then I wondered why he was suddenly so eager for me to return to Gurdyman.

Anticipating the question, my father looked down at me, his eyes full of love and concern. ‘My daughters and my sisters,’ he said, repeating his earlier words. ‘Of them all, the most precious is you, child.’ It was, I well knew, an admission he had never made before and would never make again; torn from him, I’m sure, by the emotion of the moment. ‘How can I keep you safe here?’ he demanded, his voice raw and angry. ‘I work all the hours the good Lord sends, and so do you, and I am not close enough to protect you if he … if danger comes. Yet in Cambridge, according to Hrype, you live in a house so well-hidden that even he occasionally has trouble finding it.’

‘It’s a wizard’s house,’ I said softly. ‘I expect concealing it comes easily to someone like Gurdyman.’ I didn’t think my father heard; if he did, he did not acknowledge the remark. It was, I expect, implicit of things he didn’t really want to think about.

‘You’ll be safe in Cambridge,’ my father reiterated.

He was right. Without being aware of the details of how it was achieved — I wasn’t sure I wanted to know — I was quite certain, beyond any doubt, that no bearded stranger, even a giant one, would be able to harm me once I was under Gurdyman’s roof.

The fact that my father was apparently aware of this, too, suggested that perhaps he thought about arcane and magical matters rather more than I’d imagined.

Early the next morning, my father and I presented ourselves up at Lakehall. Lord Gilbert’s reeve, Bermund, greeted us — if opening the big door the merest crack and peering out with a look of deep suspicion qualifies as a greeting. Bermund may be secretive and withdrawn, unsmiling and a bit rat-like in his appearance, but he’s reasonable. Once my father had explained our presence, Bermund had a think, sniffed, then nodded curtly and opened the door a little wider. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said with obvious reluctance. ‘I will enquire whether Lord Gilbert is willing to receive you.’

I did not dare meet my father’s eyes, and I’m sure he felt the same. After a moment, Bermund returned and, without a word, jerked his head in the direction of the big hall. Lord Gilbert sat at a large table by the hearth, alone, a muddle of tattered and much-handled pieces of vellum spread out in front of him, a quill in his hand and ink all over his fingers. He looked up at us with a smile, as if any distraction from his task was welcome.

‘Good morning, Wymond!’ he exclaimed. ‘Eels thriving?’

‘They are, my lord,’ my father replied gravely.

Lord Gilbert turned to me. ‘And, er …?’

‘Lassair,’ I prompted.

‘Lassair, Lassair, yes, Lassair,’ Lord Gilbert said enthusiastically, perhaps hoping that repetition would at last commit my name to his memory. ‘Our apprentice healer!’

At least he recalled my profession. ‘It is time for me to return to my studies in Cambridge, my lord,’ I said quickly, capitalizing on the moment. ‘With your permission,’ I added respectfully.

‘Of course, of course,’ Lord Gilbert responded. ‘The more you know, the more use you are to your own community. Eh, Wymond?’ He turned to my father.

‘Indeed, Lord Gilbert,’ my father said. Then, his face intent, he went on, ‘My lord, I have come to ask your leave to escort my daughter to Cambridge. There have been certain attacks on members of my family, and I am concerned-’

‘Yes, yes, so I hear,’ Lord Gilbert interrupted. ‘Bermund has kept me informed, and I had half-expected you to come before now, Wymond. I am always here, when my village faces a threat!’

It was true, I reflected. Up to a point.

‘There is nothing I would ask for, my lord, except this one concession,’ my father said. ‘I would not risk my daughter’s safety by making her travel unprotected from here to Cambridge.’

‘And nor shall you,’ Lord Gilbert said grandly. ‘You have my permission to escort her, Wymond.’ Turning to me, he wagged an inky finger. ‘Take care that you work hard, child, so that you repay our faith in you!’

I bowed my head, pretending meekness, and muttered, ‘Yes, my lord.’ I kept my head down; I didn’t want Lord Gilbert to see my expression. I did not need a bumbling fool like him to tell me to work hard. Gurdyman would not give me the option of doing anything but my best, and the most vital stimulus of all was my own hunger to learn.

My father dug me in the ribs, and I managed a sincere-sounding, ‘Thank you, Lord Gilbert,’ as we turned and hurried out of the hall. Once we were out of the courtyard and on the track leading back to the village, my father leaned down and said quietly, ‘No need to antagonize him, Lassair. You and I both know you are a great deal cleverer than him, but there’s no need to tell him.’ I heard a smile in his voice, and glanced up to verify it. ‘Our masters hold the ordering of our days in their hands, be they worthy of the responsibility or not,’ he continued, ‘and there is nothing we can do about it. Be thankful, child, that Lord Gilbert has a wise wife, and enough sense to listen to her.’

My father was right, as he usually is. Lord Gilbert’s wife is Lady Emma, and I’m sure I’m not the only resident of Aelf Fen who appreciates that it is she who is responsible for the good things that happen to us. She agreed with my aunt when Edild suggested I should be trained as a healer; I’ve never known if Lady Emma spotted some latent talent in me, or if, knowing and trusting Edild, she was prepared to take her word for it. The latter, I suspect. Then, when the chance arose for me to study with my Cambridge wizard — not that anyone except Hrype, me and Gurdyman himself would refer to him as such — I’m all but certain it was Lady Emma who pointed out to Lord Gilbert the advantages that my new knowledge would provide for their family and the village.

It’s just as well, I suppose, that in addition to hinting at magic so potent that it makes me shake with fear, Gurdyman also instructs me on more practical matters. I like and admire Lady Emma, and it would not feel right to deceive her.

My father and I were back in the village. I ran inside our house to bid farewell to my mother, then I picked up the bag containing my few possessions. My father took it from me, swinging it up over his shoulder as if it contained no more than a handful of feathers. He gave me a smile. ‘Ready?’

Excitement bubbled up in me. ‘Ready!’

The day was fine, the going was easy, and we made good time. We picked up a ride for the long stretch that runs south-east of the Wicken peninsular, and, by the time we stopped at midday to eat our bread and cheese, there were only a few miles to go.

It was a rare delight to have my father to myself. Walking along side by side, we talked incessantly. He works so hard, and makes such strenuous efforts to care for and protect his family, that the deep, thoughtful side to his character is easily missed. A man like Lord Gilbert, for example, would doubtless think that his favourite eel catcher’s head is as empty of anything other than the basics of day-to-day life as his own. Not many people know of my father’s true nature, and I’m only thankful that I am one of them.

My father spoke of Alvela. I had assumed, since he had rarely seen his late sister and did not appear to have much to say to her when he did, that they had not been close; not in the way that he and Edild are. Alvela, I had always thought, was of the same level of importance as my father’s two elder brothers: all three kin, and therefore always linked to him through the blood, but not necessarily people with whom he chose to spend his small, precious amount of free time. To hear him speak of his youngest sibling — Alvela was marginally the younger of the twins — made me appreciate that love takes many forms. Through his eyes, I saw the nervous, tense woman I knew as my aunt as she’d been when a girl, worrying because she could not grasp things as quickly as her sister. I saw her as a young adult, secretly in love with the flint knapper who would become her husband, and desperate because she believed he hadn’t even noticed the self-effacing girl who adored him from afar.

I think that sharing his memories with me was my father’s way of grieving for her. My mother hadn’t liked Alvela — they just didn’t get on — and I imagine that my father’s tender reflections would have received short shrift at home. When finally he fell silent, I saw him wipe tears from his face. I gave him a moment to recover, then quietly reached out and took his hand.

Once or twice, as we walked and talked, I felt as if part of me was trying to catch my attention. Trying, perhaps, to warn me. I ignored it. I was with my big, strong father. No harm could possibly come to me when he was there to protect me.

Gurdyman did not seem surprised to see me. After a short pause, he opened the door in answer to my knock, his round face smiling, his eyes bright. I detected a faint aroma about him: musk, I thought. We had clearly disturbed him in the middle of some preparation or experiment down in his crypt. He ushered us along to his sunny little courtyard, and bade us both sit down on the bench while he fetched refreshments.

‘You are welcome to stay with us overnight and journey back in the morning,’ he said to my father as he poured out a mug of frothy, fragrant ale.

‘Thank you, but I must return before nightfall,’ my father replied. He paused to take a long draught of the ale. ‘That’s good,’ he murmured. He glanced at me, then at Gurdyman. ‘There has been some trouble,’ he said briefly. ‘Lassair will explain, but, in short, I’d not rest happily tonight away from my family and my home.’

Gurdyman nodded. ‘As you wish. We will not detain you, then.’

My father wolfed down the meat pie that Gurdyman had set out, drained his ale, then stood up. Face to face with Gurdyman, who is not even my height, he looked taller than ever. ‘Look after her,’ he said, his expression intent. ‘Your house is well-hidden, here in this maze of alleyways, and I am reassured by that, but …’ His voice trailed off and he shrugged, as if not sure how to go on.

‘Do not worry,’ Gurdyman said calmly. ‘The old stones of my house have protected those within from many foes and evils over the years, and they will do so again.’ He met my father’s eyes, and I had the sense that something more than words passed between them. ‘Do not worry,’ he said again. ‘While Lassair remains under my roof, she is safe.’

My father went on staring down at him for a moment. Then, nodding, he turned to me. He wrapped me in a bear hug, kissed the top of my head and murmured, ‘May the good Lord above look after you.’ Without another word — he was, I guessed, finding this as painful as I was — he let me go, and hurried away up the passage towards the door.

Gurdyman went after him. I stood alone in the open court, surreptitiously wiping my eyes. By the time Gurdyman returned, I was ready. With a smile, I said, ‘I’ll take my satchel and my bag up to my room, then I’ll come down to the crypt to help you with whatever you’re doing.’

He looked at me kindly, his eyes crinkled up with affection. ‘It is good to have you back, Lassair,’ he said. ‘Already your enthusiasm fills this house like a stream of light. I appreciate your willingness to get straight down to work, but I think we shall take the rest of the afternoon off.’ I began to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘We shall sit here together in the sunshine, finishing the food and this jug of rather fine ale, and you shall tell me what has so alarmed your father. I judge,’ he added, seating himself in his big chair with a wince and a creak of bones, ‘that he is a man not easily thrown off his stride, and yet here he is, escorting you on a journey you have done many times by yourself.’ He reached for his mug, took a drink and fixed his eyes on me. ‘Proceed,’ he said, with a wave of the hand holding the mug. ‘I am listening.’

I obeyed, concentrating on doing as he had taught me: telling the tale in the right order, succinctly, yet leaving out none of the important facts. When I had finished, he studied me for a few moments. As I looked into his eyes, I had the strange yet certain sense that none of this was news to him.

Before I could put the suspicion into words, he was already responding to it.

‘Quite right!’ He gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Indeed, I have been informed of these events. Well done, Lassair!’ He chuckled again. ‘You are learning to trust your instincts. As I have so often told you, the more you do so, the more reliable your instincts will become.’

‘Who told you?’ I demanded. One look at his smiling face informed me that he wasn’t going to reveal his source, so I puzzled it out for myself. When I was sure, I said, ‘Hrype,’ managing not to make it sound like a question.

‘Hrype,’ Gurdyman agreed.

My self-congratulatory smugness was rudely interrupted by a frightening thought: if Hrype had been here in Cambridge telling Gurdyman about the deaths of Utta and Alvela, and the alarming attacks on the dwellings of my family, who had been back in Aelf Fen looking after Edild? Oh, and I’d been so sure; so happy, to think of Hrype slipping unnoticed into Edild’s little house, protecting her with his strength and his strange powers!

Gurdyman waited patiently while these panicky thoughts ran their course. Then he said, ‘Child, do not underestimate Hrype. His presence is not necessarily required in order for a shield created by him to maintain its efficacy.’

My mind filled with questions. How could my aunt be kept safe, even by some magic shield of Hrype’s, if she was left all alone? And what of my father, so desperate to protect those he loved, and who had been reassured — untruthfully, it now appeared — by his dear Edild that somehow she was being guarded? That question led straight to the next: did my father know about Hrype? No, no, and you must not tell him! came the instant reply, although I had no idea from where.

As I tried to frame the words to demand some answers, I sensed Gurdyman’s resistance. I stared at him, and saw in his face that it was no good.

I could ask as many questions about Hrype as I liked. I wasn’t going to get any response. With a resigned sigh, I got up and emptied the last of the ale into our mugs.

Gurdyman was watching me. He said, very softly, ‘Magical protection or not, Hrype would take no chances where your aunt is concerned. It is perfectly safe for him to leave her, for her nephew is still staying with her.’

Morcar! So he hadn’t yet left Aelf Fen.

Despite the fact that I was already prepared to believe in Hrype’s shielding powers — Gurdyman had a very persuasive way with him — all the same, it was good to know that Edild had a flesh-and-blood protector too.