Music of the Distant Stars

TEN

In the morning Edild said as she stirred the breakfast porridge that I ought to go up to Lakehall and see how my patients were faring.

‘Patients?’ I echoed. I could only think of one. Claude.

Edild went on stirring. ‘You told me that you tended Lady Emma when she fainted,’ she reminded me.

‘I didn’t do much,’ I protested. ‘She sort of fell against me, and I bathed her face with cold water when she’d recovered from her faint. Anyone else there could have done the same,’ I added, modestly lowering my eyes.

‘Naturally, since what you did was common sense rather than healing skill,’ Edild said crushingly. I know she loves me dearly — I have good reason to — but sometimes she is all stern teacher, reminding me how far I have to go before I can call myself a healer. ‘However, it does no harm for an apprentice like you to make their mark with the lady of the manor,’ she continued, ‘and if, as it appears, Lady Emma is inclined to trust you, it would be wise to do what you can to develop her dependency.’

‘But you’re the village healer,’ I said. ‘It ought to be you looking after the lady of the manor.’

Edild gave me a small smile. ‘I am not really at home in the halls of lords and ladies,’ she murmured.

That was a surprise. I’d have said that my aunt, with her dignity, her grace and her slight air of aloofness, was happy anywhere the sick and injured needed her, be it a peasant hovel or a castle. As she ladled out porridge into a wooden bowl, stirring in a generous spoonful of honey from her own bees, I thought about what she had said. I realized quite soon that she was right. With the poor and lowly, the full force of her personality emerged. When she and I had gone to Lakehall to lay out Ida’s body, Edild, although perfectly polite, had sort of withdrawn into herself. I must have noted the difference in her without really thinking about it, and it was only now, when pointed in the right direction, that I understood.

As if she knew what I was thinking, she said gently, ‘The rich can buy the assistance of whomever they choose, Lassair. The poor have to make do with what they can get, and in many villages that amounts to some ignorant old woman who probably does more harm than good.’

Yes. One of my sister Goda’s friends had almost lost her baby — and her own life — because a village midwife hadn’t known what she was doing. Goda had had the good sense to send for Edild, who had saved both mother and child. We learned later that the woman had afterwards spent a lot of time on her knees in church praying to the Virgin Mary, most honoured of all mothers, to look favourably on Edild and take special care of her. Edild, when she’d heard of this, had smiled gently. I think that the Great Mother to whom Edild prays is far, far more ancient than the Mother of Christ, but no doubt she appreciated the sentiment. Maybe, in some strange and unfathomable way, the two are one and the same. .

Edild was instructing me on how to conduct myself up at the hall; I made myself pay attention. Then, when I had washed and put away our mugs and bowls, tidied our beds and swept the floor ready for the day’s work, I straightened my headdress, put on a clean apron, packed my satchel and set out for the hall.

As I passed the track that led up to the church, I looked over in the direction of Ida’s grave. I decided I would go and spend a few moments there with her on my way home. Preoccupied with working out who had killed her, I had forgotten the sheer sadness of her death. She was young, cheerful, pretty, and people had liked her. Loved her. She should have grown up to be cherished and adored by a husband and a whole clutch of children, in addition to the one who had died with her. Instead she had been brutally strangled, and now she lay in the cold ground.

I walked on, deliberately putting those thoughts to the back of my mind. You have to approach all healing work with the right mental attitude, and I knew I would do Lady Emma and Lady Claude no good at all if I was brooding about Ida. I began planning the questions I would ask and the remedies I would prescribe, and soon the healer had taken over from the emotional girl and the threatening tears had been firmly put in abeyance.

Bermund showed me into the hall with only the smallest hint of disapproval. I would not go as far as to say he was growing to like me, but then I don’t think he likes anyone, really. It was, I felt, a major achievement that he hadn’t kept me waiting at the bottom of the steps while he went inside to see if it was all right to admit me.

He held out a hand to stop me and walked on towards where Lady Emma sat on a dais at the end of the hall. She, however, had looked up at the sound of our footsteps and was already beckoning to me to approach.

‘Thank you, Bermund, that will be all,’ she said softly to him. Then, addressing me: ‘Good morning, Lassair. You have no doubt come to see Lady Claude.’

It would have been easy to bow and mumble meekly, Yes, my lady. Recalling Edild’s words, I walked right up to her, dipped my head and instead said very quietly, ‘I have also come to attend you, Lady Emma. You are quite recovered from your faint, I hope?’

She looked up at me and smiled. I could see just by looking at her that she was fully well again, for her face had a good colour, her eyes shone and her hair, neatly smoothed back under a thin gold circlet holding in place a fine silk veil, was glossy with health. ‘How very kind,’ she said. ‘I am indeed, although there is a small matter I would discuss with you.’

‘Of course, my lady.’ I swung my satchel down off my shoulder and was about to put it on the floor when she stood up and said, ‘My own little concern is not grave, Lassair; I would prefer it if first you tended to Lady Claude.’ Moving gracefully, accompanied by the swish of silk from the full skirt of her beautiful green gown and whatever she wore beneath, she walked regally across the hall, and I followed. We went through the curtained doorway and up the short flight of stairs, and once again I stood outside Lady Claude’s chamber. Lady Emma tapped gently on the door and called, ‘Claude? Are you there?’

I was not surprised when there was no reply. Lady Claude had made it very clear what she thought of people who lay in bed all morning. I had a very good idea where she would be. Lady Emma walked on up the passage and rapped on the closed door of the sewing room, so sure, it seemed, of an immediate response of Come in that her hand was already on the latch.

I did not want to go back into that narrow chamber with its lurid depictions of sin. I did not want to sit closeted with Lady Claude and breathing the close, fusty air while I asked about her headaches and her insomnia. To be frank, she smelt. Her breath had the faint odour of dead meat, and I suspected that lack of fresh air and exercise had resulted in a sluggish digestion. I had herbs that would swiftly relieve her constipation, but I hesitated to offer them unless she mentioned her complaint, and I did not think she would. Besides, she troubled me, and my instinct was to get away from her. That, I told myself very firmly, was no attitude for a healer. I recalled how she had been yesterday in the churchyard, standing by the grave of her dead seamstress, rigidly controlling her distress except for those tell-tale glances at Sir Alain. She wasn’t so bad after all, I realized. She might appear chilly and distant, but that little moment of weakness had proved that she was human after all.

A smile on my face, I waited to confront my patient.

Having received no answer, Lady Emma knocked again. This time when Lady Claude did not reply, she gave me a puzzled glance and opened the door.

The completed panels still hung on the walls, and I noticed that Lady Claude had stretched a new piece of canvas over the wooden embroidery frame. On it there was an outline of figures. I thought this one must be Envy; a skeletal, mean-faced woman with cruel, narrow eyes was depicted crouched at a doorway, one long, thin arm stretched out towards a plump baby in a crib. The woman’s fingers were curved into hooks, her hand poised over the baby’s round little head. One nail had already made contact, and there was the suggestion of a drop of blood. The image was shocking, its message plain: childless, eaten away by envy of another woman’s child, the woman was about to grab what she so desperately desired.

I turned away from it, sickened.

Ida’s narrow bed had been taken away. Perhaps it was too eloquent a reminder. Lady Claude’s stool stood to one side of the room, around it neat piles of linen and skeins of different-coloured wools. Of the lady herself there was no sign.

‘That’s strange,’ Lady Emma said. ‘Wherever can she be?’

‘Perhaps she is resting in her chamber and did not hear your knock,’ I suggested. It did not seem very likely, but Lady Emma nodded, strode back along the passage and opened the door to Claude’s room. The chamber was as clean and tidy as the sewing room and as empty of inhabitants.

Lady Emma seemed unreasonably disturbed by her guest’s absence. Pregnant women should avoid distress, so I took her arm, gently steered her back down the steps and into the hall and helped her sit down on her grand chair. She was frowning, a deep crease cutting the smooth skin of her forehead. Her hands clutched at each other, and I noticed she was biting the inside of her lip.

‘Lady Claude has probably gone outside to take the air,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s a lovely morning, and I dare say sitting too long over her sewing was threatening to bring back her headache. I expect she’s-’

Lady Emma interrupted me. With considerable force, she said, ‘Claude never goes out! She appears for meals promptly whenever she is summoned, although she eats very little and scurries back upstairs to her sewing as soon as good manners permit. Lord Gilbert and I have repeatedly invited her to join us after supper — we do not wish her to feel unwelcome — but again she excuses herself and insists she must get on with her work. We have suggested that she goes out for a ride, or accompanies me when I take my daily walk, but Claude will have none of it!’ There was a flush on Lady Emma’s face now, and I had the impression she was heartily sick of her uncongenial house guest. I felt very sorry for her. I know enough about the habits of her kind to realize that, if her husband’s second cousin had come for an extended visit, she had no choice but to put on a smile and say, How lovely, please stay for as long as you like! Among the titled rich, hospitality was an almost sacred requirement.

‘Well, she’s gone out now,’ I pointed out, ‘unless she’s hiding in some other chamber of the house!’ I made my tone light, trying to encourage Lady Emma to relax. Her tension was making me anxious for her.

She managed a grudging smile. ‘Not very likely,’ she murmured.

‘Would you like me to go and look for her?’ I offered.

Lady Emma’s mouth opened, and I was almost sure she had been about to protest. In a flash of understanding, I realized it must actually be a relief to have Claude’s awkward presence out of the house for a while. Then she thought better of it and said, ‘Perhaps you should. You have come to minister to her, Lassair, and I would not have it that you had made a wasted journey.’

‘I also came to see you, my lady,’ I reminded her gently.

She turned to me, and I could see from her expression that she was still worrying about Claude. ‘So you did,’ she said absently. ‘So you did. .’

I had been about to ask her if she would like to tell me about the small matter she had mentioned earlier, but I sensed she was too distracted. Well, if she wanted to talk about Claude, why not encourage her?

‘You are plainly disturbed by Lady Claude’s inexplicable absence, my lady,’ I said. ‘Do you fear for her safety?’

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Somebody had strangled Ida; that somebody was still out there somewhere. Was that why Lady Emma was so worried? Because she feared that Lady Claude might also fall victim to the unknown killer?

Lady Emma took my hand impulsively, gave it a squeeze and released it. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘It’s broad daylight out there, and people are working on the water, along the shore and in the pastures on the higher ground. Wherever Claude is, I’m sure nobody’s about to set on her.’

‘What is it, then?’ I prompted.

Lady Emma gave a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘I suppose, Lassair, I am a little aggrieved,’ she said. ‘My husband and I have done our very best to make Claude feel welcome, yet she has insisted on shutting herself away in that stuffy little room and working on her linens and her embroidery. Her industry is commendable, and I am sure Sir Alain will greatly appreciate her efforts once they are wed, but-’ I waited. ‘I am very surprised to discover that she has slipped out without a word!’ Lady Emma burst out. ‘Why, this very morning I suggested that the two of us take our sewing and go out to a pleasant, shady spot that I know of down by the water. I thought we could take the children and, if the weather remained clement, our midday meal could be brought out to us. Claude said — quite brusquely — that she preferred to work in her sewing room because the bright sunshine might fade the colours of the wools.’ Her incredulous eyes met mine. I had to agree, as an excuse it was feeble to the extent of being almost an insult.

I did not know what to say. Since speaking about Claude was clearly distressing her — or rather, I realized suddenly, it was the effort of not giving in to temptation and saying what she really thought of her guest’s rudeness — it seemed prudent to distract her. ‘You could move outside now if you wish, my lady,’ I said. ‘I would be happy to assist.’

Her chin went up. ‘Yes, why not?’ she said. Then, turning to me, ‘But there is no need for you to help, Lassair; you will no doubt have more important calls on your time. The servants will make the arrangements.’

I bowed my head. ‘Very well, my lady.’

Shortly afterwards, I was on my way back to the village. I had promised to make up a remedy for Lady Emma’s mild indigestion — the small matter — and run back with it later. I was puzzling over where Claude might be, and why she hadn’t told her hostess she was going out, when, drawing level with the church, I saw a sudden movement.

Recalling my resolve to visit Ida’s grave, my first thought was that someone else had had the same idea. Then I thought: it might be Lady Claude. If it was, I decided to suggest gently that Lady Emma was worried about her, hoping she would then go back to the hall and make a polite apology.

My imagination got busy with the scene back at the hall. I’d got as far as thinking Lady Emma might be grateful to me for sending her house guest home to her, when I recalled that she actually didn’t seem to like Claude very much. I was so preoccupied that it took me a moment or two to realize that whoever it was by Ida’s grave, it wasn’t Lady Claude.

It was a man, and I had never seen him before.

He was crouched on the grass beside the grave. His eyes were closed, and he was muttering to himself, although his words were inaudible. He was probably praying. I wondered if I ought to tiptoe away; it did not seem right to disturb him. I studied him. He was, I guessed, in early middle age; maybe seven or eight years younger than my parents. He was slight, not very tall and rather hunched, as if he habitually crouched over his work. His hair was long, its colour brown streaked with grey. He wore a soft leather belt fastened over a tunic that was too big for him, as if he had lost weight and had not bothered to have the garment taken in. His hose were of good wool but much darned, although there was a fresh hole in one knee. He carried a knife in a scabbard hanging from his belt.

Then I noticed his hands. They were quite large, the fingers long and strong-looking.

I had an idea that I knew who he was. Why not ask him? If I was right, then perhaps he would take comfort in speaking to the person who had found Ida’s body. I could tell him I’d found her in a sacred spot — well, it was sacred to my family, although possibly an outsider would prefer to have her lie where she now lay buried — and say that death would have been swift.

My instinct to give comfort overcame my diffidence. I moved forward and lightly touched him on the shoulder.

He spun round, his eyes wide with surprise and fear. Instantly, I said, ‘It’s all right! I mean you no harm — you’re Alberic, aren’t you?’

His face had been pale already, but now it went ashen. He tried to speak — then, when no words emerged, he wet his thin lips and said in a horrified whisper, ‘How did you know?’

I knelt down beside him. ‘We went to Brandon,’ I said, careful to keep my tone even and soothing. ‘My friend Sibert and I, that is. We knew that’s where Ida came from, and we wanted to find out more about her.’

His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Why?’

‘Because she died here, and we did not wish her to be buried like a stranger,’ I improvised. I certainly wasn’t about to say, Because she was pregnant and we wanted to find out whose child she carried; not when the likely father was right beside me. He might not know she’d been pregnant, and if I told him it would double his grief.

He had returned his gaze to the hump of earth over the grave. He stretched out his hand and stroked it as if he were trying to touch the dead girl beneath. ‘She was so lovely,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I’ve loved her since she was a lass. I wanted to marry her, you know,’ he added conversationally. ‘But I couldn’t, for I was already wed. I kept my love to myself, for Ida meant far too much to me for me to dishonour her by forcing my attentions on her when I was bound to another.’ I studied him. I had just caught him telling a lie, yet there was no sign of that in his demeanour. I am usually quite good at detecting when people are lying. Squeak, for example, looks me straight in the eyes and widens his own alarmingly, and my sister Goda always sounds even gruffer than usual. I’ve noticed other symptoms too, such as hesitation and overemphasis of whatever falsehood people would have you believe.

This man, this Alberic, had simply stated the fact, and my initial reaction was that maybe it wasn’t a lie after all. .

‘She worked for the Lady Claude,’ I said. ‘Lady Claude is sewing for her wedding.’

‘Ida sewed beautifully,’ he responded eagerly. ‘That Lady Claude was lucky to have her.’

I was inclined to agree. ‘Everyone seems to have liked her,’ I went on. ‘They speak well of her up at the hall where she and Lady Claude were lodging.’

He nodded. ‘She made friends wherever she went. She had that gift — people seemed to smile more when she was around. And she was so good — her mother died when Ida was young, and she cared for her old father with such love and devotion that the priest said she was an example to all of us of how a daughter ought to be.’

I risked a smile. ‘And people still liked her?’ It is my experience that it’s actually quite hard to be fond of a person who is held up as an example, especially when the one doing the holding up is a priest.

Alberic understood what I meant. Smiling too, he said, ‘That they did.’ He shrugged, still smiling. ‘There was just something about her.’

‘You weren’t here by the grave when she was buried, were you?’ It was a guess, for he could have been standing at the back with his head down and his hood up and I wouldn’t have known.

He shot me a quick look. ‘I keep to the shadows.’ It was an enigmatic remark, but he did not explain. ‘I shouldn’t be out here now,’ he added in a whisper, ‘only I wanted to see the place where she lies. See it properly.’

Again, I didn’t understand. ‘There were a lot of people here,’ I offered. ‘Most of the village turned up, or so it seemed, and there were plenty of outsiders as well.’ No need to tell him they’d undoubtedly come out of morbid curiosity because Ida was the victim of violent death. ‘Lady Claude came, and Sir Alain de Villequier, who she’s going to marry. And Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma, from Lakehall.’ I pointed. ‘They stood just there.’

He nodded, taking it all in. ‘She’ll be in heaven, won’t she?’

I hesitated. We are told that few people go straight to heaven, the majority having to spend several ages in purgatory while their sins are cleansed so that they are fit to go before God. I am not at all sure I believe it. In any case, it was scarcely what this grieving man wanted to hear. ‘She was good,’ I said gently. ‘I don’t think she had any mortal sins staining her soul.’

Strictly speaking, Ida had been guilty of fornication, for she was pregnant and not married. I studied Alberic closely. If it had been he who’d fathered her child then he’d know all about the fornication and he would surely not have been sufficiently naive to suggest she’d already be in heaven.

I reckoned I had nothing to lose by a direct question. I said, ‘Alberic, were you her lover?’

His head shot up, and he fixed me with such a piercing stare that I flinched. I saw several emotions flash across his face, fury and raw grief the main ones. He seemed about to speak — I could imagine the torrent of heated words that would probably have emerged — but then he shook his head and turned away. After a moment he turned back to face me and said calmly, ‘No, I was not. As I told you, I loved and respected Ida far too much to dishonour her by initiating intimacy when I could not be united with her in the eyes of God and his church. In addition — ’ for the first time there was the hint of a smile, albeit a rather grim one — ‘you didn’t know my wife.’ In a flash of memory I recalled the man in Brandon, who’d told Sibert and me how this same wife had tried to burn Alberic’s harp just because she thought he’d looked at a pretty girl.

‘I assure you,’ Alberic went on, ‘if I’d as much as taken Ida’s hand, Thecla would have known. She knew I was sweet on my lovely girl — I couldn’t help that. A man can’t always be watching his expression, and I only had to look at Ida and I’d feel myself smile. Thecla informed me in no uncertain terms that if ever I did more than look, she’d — well, I’m not going to tell you.’ I noticed that he was stroking his fingers along a deep scar that ran across the back of his right wrist. It looked as if someone had tried to cut his hand off.

And he was a harpist.

Horrified, I said, ‘She threatened she’d cut your hands off. Didn’t she? And at least once she did more than threaten.’

Slowly, he nodded. ‘I’d just got back from the fair. There had been music, and I’d been playing and singing. Ida joined in a duet with me on one of the old songs. Although I say it myself, we sounded good together. Thecla must have seen how I looked at her. When I came indoors, she was waiting with the axe. She swung it at me before I knew what was happening.’ He glanced down at his scarred hand. ‘Couldn’t play for two months,’ he added, his tone devoid of emotion.

I was so full of pity for him that I dared not speak. I watched him. He was stroking the earth again, his large hand tender in its touch. ‘My little Ida,’ he murmured. ‘She used to sing like a nightingale.’ Then he crossed his arms on the grave, bowed his head and began to weep.

Tears filling my own eyes, I crept away.