Mist Over the Water

TWENTY-ONE

Gewis’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.

His thoughts ran on. The Wessex plot depended on both Lord Edmund, who was the driving force behind it and in addition its financier, and also, of course, on Gewis, and on the boy being who they said he was. If one or the other were to be removed then the plot would collapse. Rollo could not remove Gewis; for one thing he did not know where the lad was, and for another there was Lassair. If there was no other solution, he would just have to remove Lord Edmund.

He felt calm descend on him. It was always the way; all the time he was undecided, and several courses of action presented themselves, he felt as tightly stretched as a bowstring before the arrow flies. However, once he had made up his mind it was different. He had learned long ago to take all the time he needed to go through each and every possibility so that, once the decision was made, he knew it was the right one and he never undermined it by entertaining second thoughts.

In the middle of the afternoon, two of the big guards came hurrying along the street and were quickly admitted into the house where Lord Edmund was lodging. Rollo stiffened, his full attention fixed on the spot where the two men had just disappeared. They were worried. He had seen that in the way they moved and in the anxious glances they shot over their shoulders. Something had unnerved them; what was it? He ran over several possibilities. He would wait to see what happened next before he made up his mind.

Within a short time there was more activity outside the house. The two guards reappeared and checked up and down the street, then one beckoned behind him and from within the house a tall, thin, cloaked figure appeared, the hood drawn forward to conceal the head and face. The cloak, however, was of expensive material and the man’s boots were of supple leather and polished to a shine; he was a man of wealth, and Rollo knew his identity. He watched as the other two guards fell into step behind him, one carrying a large bag, and the five of them set off hurriedly along the street.

Rollo emerged from his hiding place and followed them. They hastened across the marketplace, one of the guards swearing at a fat woman with a basket who got in the way and raising a hand to cuff her out of their path, and made straight for the abbey gates. The pair of guards in the lead summoned the monk on duty, and he came to speak to Lord Edmund. There was a muttered conversation, the monk nodded quickly a few times and then Lord Edmund was escorted inside.

Nobody was looking Rollo’s way, but nevertheless it seemed wise to leave quickly. He was almost certain that the guards suspected the presence of an enemy within the town — which was why they had encouraged their lord to move inside the greater security of the abbey and its strong walls — but he doubted that they knew yet who this enemy was and what strength of men and arms threatened Lord Edmund and his faction.

Rollo smiled wryly. Unwittingly, Lord Edmund had, in seeking the safety of the abbey, done the very thing that Rollo wanted him to. Out here I am one man alone, he thought, armed with my sword and my knife, and my strength is not in might but in stealth. Inside the abbey, however, the situation would be different, for the odds would alter in his favour.

King William had explained the nature of the monks of Ely. Traditionally, the abbey had supported the House of Wessex. The last Wessex king, Edward, known as the Confessor, son of Aethelred, had spent his childhood in Ely and was educated by the monks; the link between the House of Wessex and the abbey of Ely was rumoured to endure still, although these days it was not safe to speak of it. King William, however, had eyes and ears in unlikely places, and he had told Rollo that Ely’s prior was a Wessex man receptive to any plot that would bring back the old regime. However, the king’s informants understood that many of the younger monks wanted no truck with the old ways. Feelings still ran high at the Conqueror’s crippling reprisals against the abbey in the aftermath of the 1071 rebellion. Had the monks given away the secret of the safe ways on to the island sooner, the abbey would have held on to its vast wealth. The more worldly monks recognized that there was no point in fighting the might of the Normans and the surest route to a secure, peaceful life was to support the king. Moreover, the huge new church now soaring up within the abbey walls was without doubt an indication that Ely would rise to the heights, provided no further murmurs of rebellion reached the ears of the king. .

King William had provided a name. If you require support, he’d said to Rollo, seek out the master of novices, whom they call Brother Mark.

Rollo silently repeated the name. Then he turned away and was swallowed by the crowds.

I spent much of the day shut up in our little room with Hrype and Edild. Hrype was very weak and still in pain — I told Edild the exact details of the draught I had given him, and she blanched and said he’d better not have any more pain relief for the time being — but he bore the agony bravely, and I did not hear him complain. Edild cared for him with a tenderness that spoke eloquently of her love for him. Now that I recognized what they felt for each other, I was amazed that I had never spotted it before. They must, I decided, have been very, very careful. In a little village like Aelf Fen, where everybody knows everyone else and we all watch one another like hawks over a cornfield, it was no mean feat to have been so discreet that not one word about them had ever been breathed.

It was left to me to prepare food and drink when Edild ordered it. She tried to make Hrype take a few mouthfuls to build up his strength but, although he tried, he barely ate a thing. He did, however, gulp down several cups of my honey mixture. Edild said it would do him good. I wished I had the wealth to go out and buy for him the sweetest, finest wine. It would have put heart in him far more effectively than warm water and honey.

He seemed better by twilight. Edild was sitting behind him, so that his head and shoulders rested in her lap. She held his hand in hers, and with her other hand she stroked his forehead. He was obviously enjoying it, and I had the distinct sense that she was putting her own strength into him to hasten his recovery.

It was hard to watch them. When, finally, Hrype muttered something to the effect that I must surely feel restless after a day closeted inside, I took the hint and announced I was going outside for some air and to stretch my legs.

I had told Rollo I would stay inside. While I appreciated that he had insisted on this because he was worried about me, it was not he who had been forced into the position of third party to a pair of lovers all day. As I pulled on my cloak and eased out of the little house, it was such a relief that I could have sung.

I didn’t have anywhere to go. I wondered where Rollo was. He had implied he had some important task to do, and I believed he meant he was going to leave the town. It did not occur to me to go and look for him. I felt instinctively that I would not find him unless he wanted me to.

I thought about Gewis. My family would make him welcome, I knew that very well. They would be desperate to ask about Edild, Hrype and me but I thought — I hoped — they would be too polite to press him if he did not volunteer anything. I was far from ready to go home, but I did not like to think of my parents and my granny worrying about me. I reassured myself by remembering that they knew Edild was with me. They were not to know that, far from carefully watching over her niece, my aunt lay with her secret lover enjoying a rare moment alone with him. They would never find out from me either. Edild had kept many of my secrets in the past, and now it was time for me to do the same for her.

Poor Gewis. He would still be coming to terms with the death of his mother. I did not envy him. I hoped my mother was finding some way to comfort him. He was young still, and he had the look of someone who found the world a hard place.

That thought led me directly to Sibert.

My friend had been told something that devastated him. Yes, he had suspected that there was something odd about the time his parents and his uncle had spent in Ely together, but I was quite convinced that he had got nowhere near the truth, even with his wildest guesses. To learn after nearly nineteen years that his dead, hero father was no such thing — a hero, yes, but not his father — and that his mother had conceived him with her brother-in-law, Sibert’s uncle, must have driven him to the verge of madness. He was, as I have so often thought, not really equipped to deal with too much reality.

I still did not understand why his reaction had been to attempt to kill Hrype. Why? Because for him to impregnate Froya had been a sin? Because it had been the worst possible betrayal of poor, wounded Edmer? Or because — and I thought this the most likely — Sibert had had to find out the truth for himself?

It would have taken a very brave man to say to the young Sibert, There is something you must know. I slept with your mother as her husband lay dying, and you are my son, not his. But Hrype was a brave man. Why had he kept silent?

Because of Froya, came the answer. I suppose I provided it myself, but at the time it sounded as if the words were spoken in another voice that could have been Hrype’s.

I thought about that. Yes, it sounded believable. Froya was delicate, her equanimity readily shattered, and both Hrype and Sibert had to work hard to restore her calm when she got upset. If she had begged Hrype not to tell Sibert the truth, I thought he would have restrained himself, even if he thought it was wrong.

Froya. Oh, dear Lord, her secret was out now. Had Sibert gone to confront her? For a moment I was horrified that he had, but then I was suddenly quite sure he hadn’t. He would not face her on her own. He loved her, I did not doubt it, and deep down that would not change, no matter what she had done. He was probably beside himself with fury at her now, but he would not attack until Hrype was there to protect her. It had, after all, been both of them who had done wrong.

They were his parents. I still found it all but impossible to believe, but Hrype and Froya were Sibert’s parents.

That was something else I was going to have to keep from the inhabitants of Aelf Fen.

I found that my aimless wanderings as I thought about my friends had led me past the row of dwellings and towards where the water lapped at the foot of the track that bordered the lower edge of the meadow. Just along there was the place where Sibert had borrowed the boat. He had taken it three times now, and it was still missing. It was just as well that its rightful owner did not appear to have any use for it at the moment or we would all be in trouble.

I watched the dark water. It was still high, and I could smell rain on the air. The dark, heavy clouds in the west had been building up all day. Ely Island would soon be a little smaller as the water rose and. .

There was a boat approaching. I heard it before I saw it, and as it emerged from the gloom I saw that it was the one Sibert had purloined.

One person rowed it. It looked like a boy, and he wore a worn tunic and a shapeless felt hat pulled well down so that it covered his hair. I thought I recognized that hat. .

Clumsily, the boy shipped his oars and the boat slid alongside. I reached down and grabbed the rope, making it fast. The boy stood up, and I held out my hand to him.

‘It’s holed,’ the boy said apologetically, shaking the water off his boots. ‘I ran over a submerged branch, and I’ve been baling half the way back.’

Then Gewis took my hand and, with a sheepish smile, stepped out of the boat and on to the damp grass.