Music of the Distant Stars

ELEVEN

I said to my aunt as we ate our midday meal, ‘I do not believe Alberic fathered Ida’s baby,’ and I told her about Thecla and the axe.

Edild nodded, chewing thoughtfully. I had been all ready to back up my belief, but I wasn’t required to. Feeling a little warm glow inside that she should trust my judgement in something so important, I waited to see what she would say.

‘Could it have been Derman?’ she mused.

‘Shall I go and ask Zarina?’ I was crouched ready to spring up immediately if Edild said yes, but, with a soft laugh, she pushed me down again.

‘Oh, Lassair, don’t be so impatient!’ She smiled affectionately at me. ‘It’s not really your fault,’ she added, ‘too much of quicksilver Mercury in your stars. What would you do? Rush round to Zarina’s house and blurt out, Hello, Zarina, I’ve come to ask if your brother is capable of sexual intercourse and if he might have made Ida pregnant?’

Since I’d thought no further than that, I hung my head in embarrassment. Edild took pity on me and, reaching for my hand, she took it in hers and said, ‘It is something that we do need to find out, although we must be very tactful, as I am sure you very well know.’

She had given me time to think, and now I said, ‘The difficulty is that nobody except us seems to have known that Ida was pregnant, so we’ll have to raise the matter with Zarina without making her suspicious.’ An idea was taking shape in my mind; Edild waited patiently. Then, thinking as I spoke, I said, ‘I could say that I realized Derman had taken a fancy to Ida. Then I could say that maybe he’d imagined marrying her, and that grief because she’s dead, and his dream will never come true, is the reason he’s run away.’ I met my aunt’s eyes. ‘Do you think that might do? It would be sort of like asking if Derman could be a proper husband, if he can-’ I stopped, embarrassed all over again.

‘Lassair, you are a healer, and you must accustom yourself to speaking of sexual intimacy between man and woman without this silly awkwardness,’ she said briskly. ‘However, I think your suggestion is sound.’

I leapt up. ‘I’ll go straight away!’

‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘Zarina is in turmoil.’

Turmoil. Poor Zarina.

I found her down at the little pool where she and her washerwoman widow spend much of their day. She was alone. Looking up, she saw me approaching and smiled, her eyes bright. Then, apparently reading my expression, her face fell and she said, ‘No news.’

She’d thought I’d come to tell her they’d found Derman. I sank down beside her and took her hand. ‘No. I’m sorry, that’s not why I’m here.’

She had slumped against me but now, with a detectable effort, she straightened her back. ‘Why, then?’

I sensed her slight hostility. ‘Not to harangue you again about marrying Haward,’ I said, and was rewarded with a fleeting grin. ‘It is about Derman. I just wondered, Zarina — ’ I paused, choosing my words — ‘d’you think he hoped to make Ida his wife, and that his grief because he never had the chance to do so is why he’s run away?’

She looked up into the clear sky for a moment, her face working as she strove for control. Then she said, ‘It is a moving thought, Lassair, and it is indeed true that he loved her very dearly. But — ’ now it was her turn to search for the right words — ‘he is not as other men, as indeed you are aware, and he does not begin to comprehend the true nature of how a man and wife live in physical intimacy together. He-’ She paused, frowning. Then she said, ‘Think of him as if he were still a child, who observes a cat with her kittens or a hound with her pups and is filled with joy at the pretty young creatures, yet has no more idea of how they came to be there than if they’d appeared by magic.’

‘So he-’

‘He adored her from afar, Lassair,’ Zarina said gently. ‘He saw a lovely smile, long, shining hair, dimpled cheeks. He probably sensed a kindly heart and ready laughter. That was what he loved. I can assure you, the idea of touching her, of any sort of physical closeness between them, is just not possible.’

I studied her. Was she right, or was she telling me what she fervently hoped was the truth? Derman might still have been overcome with longing — he had the body of a man, that was clear to see — and he could have attacked Ida, raped her, impregnated her. Oh, but she’d conceived back in February or March, weeks before she’d come to Aelf Fen. It was, I supposed, possible that Derman had come across her when she had lived in Brandon — he did sometimes go off wandering, although it was a long walk to Brandon — but if he’d assaulted her then, surely she’d have accused him at the time? For sure, once she’d arrived at Lakehall and seen him, she’d have cried out against him and fled from his presence. She certainly wouldn’t have been kind to him.

It was still possible, if unlikely, that Derman had killed Ida, perhaps because she had stopped being kind. But it appeared that neither Derman nor Alberic had fathered her baby.

Then who had?

I sat with Zarina a little longer, then old Berta came hobbling down the path from her cottage, and I could hear the vulgar abuse she was hurling at Zarina when she was still fifty paces away.

‘Go!’ hissed Zarina.

‘I’ll explain to her!’ I cried, leaping up, filled with guilt because I’d got Zarina into trouble.

‘No you won’t, you’ll only make it worse,’ Zarina flashed back. Still I didn’t move. This was the woman I fervently hoped would be my sister-in-law, and I felt I ought to defend her. ‘I know how to deal with Berta,’ Zarina said firmly. She, too, had risen to her feet, and I noticed how much taller she was than the crude, fat old woman for whom she worked. ‘Go on!’ she repeated, and this time she was smiling.

I went.

Edild and I worked hard all afternoon. Midsummer is a busy time for us. Although the warm, dry weather means less serious sickness — for we believe that the all-penetrating damp of the fens is the cause of many of the illnesses that crop up again and again — nevertheless, late June is the time when many plants are at their best, and we dare not waste the opportunity to harvest what we will need for the remainder of the year. The struggle to remember the hundreds of facts with which my aunt daily bombards me often wakes me in the night, when I lie there in the dark telling myself silently hemp nettle for open wounds, use the flowering stems, and woodruff flowers for ulcers, rashes and heart palpitations. I was heavy with fatigue by the time we stopped work, more than ready to eat, drink and, above all, rest. However, when the long day finally ended, we had a visitor: Hrype.

I had the usual dilemma over whether I ought to leave the two of them on their own but, reading my thoughts as easily as if I’d spoken them aloud, Hrype said kindly, ‘Stay, Lassair. The three of us must talk together.’ About what? I wondered, starting to feel anxious, but he read that too and added, ‘I saw Edild while you were with Zarina. We all are puzzled by the same question, and the time has come to share our thoughts with each other.’

Ida’s baby, I thought. I did as he bade and sat down beside the hearth, my aunt beside me and Hrype opposite to us. He said, ‘We do not know who killed Ida and, even if we are not convinced by those in the village who lay the crime at the feet of poor Derman, still it remains true that little progress can be made until either he is found or returns to Aelf Fen of his own accord. You found him close to the island, Lassair — ’ he turned his strange eyes to me — ‘and it seems logical that his distress could well have been caused by having seen something pertaining to the girl’s death, even if we do not go so far as to say he had a hand in it.’ He paused. ‘However, Ida’s death is not the only tragedy: there is also the matter of the young life that was within her when she died. Ida may in some way have brought about her own death; we cannot say until we know more of the circumstances.’ I was about to protest — whatever could a girl of my age have done to deserve being strangled and stuffed in someone else’s grave? — but my aunt caught my eye and silently shook her head, so I stayed quiet.

‘The child, however,’ Hrype continued, ‘was innocent. No sin of its mother could be its fault. It was blameless. The same, though, cannot necessarily be said of the man who fathered it. There are many reasons why a man will not, or cannot, admit to paternity.’

There was a short silence. We were all thinking the same thing, I was quite sure, for Hrype himself had not told his own son of their true relationship until last year, and his reasons for keeping the secret from Sibert had been sound, even if Sibert found that hard to accept.

None of us referred to Hrype’s own history. None of us needed to.

‘It is this perplexing question, of who fathered Ida’s child,’ Hrype went on after a moment, ‘to which we must now address ourselves. You are convinced that neither Derman nor this man, Alberic, was the girl’s lover?’ He looked at Edild, then at me. Both of us nodded our heads. ‘Very well. Ida came to Lakehall about a month ago, in the employ of Lady Claude de Sees, and the reason for her visit was to allow her to spend some time getting to know her future husband, Sir Alain de Villequier, who, as our justiciar, was already resident in this area. As Lady Claude’s treasured seamstress, it was natural for her to accompany her mistress, who was to be working on her trousseau whilst under Lord Gilbert’s roof.’ He paused. ‘You judge, Edild, that the child was conceived at the end of February?’

Edild nodded. ‘Thereabouts, yes.’

‘Then her lover was someone she knew at home, either in the village where she lived or at Lady Claude’s family estate of Heathlands,’ Hrype said.

‘The man whom Sibert and I talked to in Brandon said she didn’t have any followers among the village lads,’ I put in. ‘He said she had a nice way of putting them off and that she treated them like brothers.’

‘I wonder why that was?’ Edild mused. ‘Was she, do you think, aware of Alberic’s devotion and quietly, unobtrusively, returning it?’

‘It would explain why no handsome village boy ever took her fancy,’ Hrype agreed.

But I shook my head. ‘Alberic would not agree,’ I said firmly. ‘According to him, he never let her know he loved her.’

‘Perhaps he did not need to,’ Edild said shrewdly. ‘Perhaps she loved him in total ignorance of his feelings for her and never dared let him know because of this gorgon of a wife you speak of, Lassair.’

‘Mm, I suppose it’s possible,’ I agreed, although reluctantly. ‘If Ida knew Thecla had tried to cut off Alberic’s hand because he’d sung with her, she’d make even more certain no one ever found out what she felt for him. If she felt it,’ I added firmly.

‘You do not believe she did?’ Hrype asked. His eyes on mine were as disconcerting as ever.

But I made myself stare right back. ‘I do not,’ I said.

‘Why?’ he persisted.

‘Because she was young, pretty, lively, she laughed readily, she was kind to people and much beloved,’ I said in a rush. ‘He was married to a dragon, he was much older than her, and she could have done so much better.’

The last observation had flowed out without my intending it. Alberic couldn’t help being almost old enough to be Ida’s father, and it was unkind to diminish his undoubted love for her and say she could have done better. I’d said it now, however. I waited for my aunt or Hrype to comment.

For a while neither of them did. Then Hrype said, more generously that I felt I deserved, ‘For myself, I am prepared to accept what Lassair feels so strongly. Of the three of us, it is she who is closest to Ida in age. Let us propose, then, that Ida met her lover after she had gone to work up at Heathlands. Let us say that he was perhaps a stable boy, a young groom, a household servant-’

‘That’s more reasonable,’ Edild observed. ‘After all, Ida was a seamstress so she would have been more likely to fall for someone else working inside the house.’

I was thinking. ‘You said that Lady Claude’s family needs a grand title and Sir Alain de Villequier needs money, and that’s why they’re marrying,’ I said.

Hrype smiled faintly. ‘In essence, that is so.’

‘Then the manor — Heathlands — is luxurious?’

‘They say so.’

‘A huge staff of indoor servants?’

‘Probably.’

I grinned. ‘Then we shall just have to narrow down the likely boys and young men till we find the one that was Ida’s lover.’

Edild smiled too, but hers was slightly pitying. ‘You intend to march up to Heathlands, demand admittance and start asking highly personal and embarrassing questions of all the male servants?’

‘Oh.’ She was right. Whatever had I been thinking?

Hrype reached out and took Edild’s hand. He muttered something — it might have been, Don’t crush her enthusiasm — and turned to me.

‘You reason well,’ he said. ‘Yet, as Edild implies, you have not thought your idea to its conclusion.’

‘I-’ I began.

He held up his hand. ‘I have a suggestion.’

I looked at him, feeling both excited and apprehensive. ‘Yes?’ I prompted.

‘You recall, no doubt, that it was I who told you both about Lady Claude and Sir Alain’s background?’ Edild and I nodded. ‘And you will also recall the source of my information.’ It wasn’t a question; he knew we’d remember.

‘Your wizard friend Gurdyman,’ I said.

‘Quite right,’ Hrype agreed. ‘He is, as I told you, an authority on the history of the great Norman families. It is, as he is wont to say, a wise man who strives to comprehend his enemy. His knowledge of the de Caudebecs, the de Sees and the de Villequiers is, as I told you, extensive, although whether it extends to the number and nature of the male indoor servants at Heathlands, I cannot say.’

I smiled. I thought he was making a joke.

‘We will,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘just have to go and ask him.’

He was looking straight at me, an enquiring look on his face.

‘You’re asking me?’ Me came out as a squeak.

His smile broadened. ‘Yes, Lassair. Will you come to Cambridge with me and speak to my wizard?’

There was only one answer. ‘Yes.’

There was plenty of time during the night for me to regret my impetuosity. Cambridge was half a day’s walk away; perhaps a little less now, when the weather was good and the roads and tracks correspondingly dry and firm. Hrype and I might well have to stay overnight with this wizard friend of his, which was quite alarming enough a prospect, but in addition we’d be travelling away from our village without Lord Gilbert’s knowledge or permission. For the same reason that Sibert and I couldn’t reveal that we were going to Brandon or why, Hrype would have to keep our mission to Cambridge a secret. Still, I comforted myself as I tried to make myself relax into sleep, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d left the village without permission, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

No. What really alarmed me about the morning’s mission was the prospect of a day or more with Hrype. I’d done that before too — travelled on my own with him, I mean — but I’d been quite a lot younger. I’d been scared of him then. Now, when I knew quite a lot more about him, that fear had not receded. If anything, it had increased. I couldn’t say tomorrow, Sorry, Hrype, I’ve changed my mind, and I’m not coming. You just didn’t say things like that to Hrype. Besides, it hadn’t escaped my notice that he could perfectly well have gone to consult this Gurdyman by himself. He didn’t need me there with him to ask the right questions.

There had to be something else. Was there some element in this mission that presented a chance for Hrype to further my studies into his own particular type of magic? It was perfectly possible, considering we were going to visit a wizard. What would the new lesson be? I could barely dare to think. .

That was the real reason why I couldn’t sleep.

Edild woke me as the dawn was lightening the sky, to a chorus of birdsong so loud that I was amazed I’d slept through it. She must have known how nervous I was, but she made me eat and drink, reminding me I had a long walk ahead. While I washed and dressed, she packed up food and a flask of water and set them ready by the door. I checked in my leather satchel to make sure I had my basic kit of remedies — you never know when someone’s going to call on a healer — and I also packed my wash cloth and my shawl. The nights could be chilly, and I had no idea whether or not I’d be back in my own bed that night.

There came a soft tap on the door. Edild opened it, and Hrype looked in. Seeing that I was ready, he nodded and said, ‘We’d best be on our way before curious eyes look out to see us.’

I slipped out of the house and, side by side, we set off for Cambridge.

We reached the town shortly before midday. I had no idea what to expect. I’d been to Ely, and I’d seen the port of Dunwich from a distance, but Ely had struck me as a random collection of buildings round an abbey and, as I said, I hadn’t had the chance to see Dunwich at close quarters.

Cambridge was a revelation.

As we’d walked along, Hrype had told me that the town had been occupied before the Romans had come. For ages now the town had held a market that was famous in the area and a great attraction to local tradesmen and their customers. The Vikings had sacked, burned and destroyed the town, only to have the irrepressible residents build it up again even better than before. It had burned again only three years ago, when holding out for the Duke of Normandy against King William. The first King William — our present king’s iron-fisted father — had built a castle on the north of the town’s river, up on a specially constructed earth motte, and on the south bank of the river there were extensive wharfs for the barges bringing goods to Cambridge from far and near. A sturdy bridge spanned the water, busy with a variety of traffic, from heavy carts to fleet-footed lads weaving in and out of the throng. There was a definite air of purpose and general busyness. Many of today’s townsfolk were, according to Hrype, very prosperous.

We crossed the bridge, and as we entered the maze of narrow, crooked streets, my eyes were wide open in wonder. There were so many houses — most of them timber-framed, although some of the smaller ones were mud-brick — and all had thatched roofs. The evidence of the fire three years ago was still visible, although it looked as if the townspeople had been as swift to rebuild as they had been in Viking times, and many of the dwellings were clearly new. There were even one or two big houses made of stone, most certainly the dwellings of the very rich, for everyone knew stone had to be imported into the fens, where we have none of our own. The buildings huddled together shoulder to shoulder, all but blocking out the daylight. The only open space appeared to be where there was a church. We passed one that had a tower reaching up into the wide sky, and Hrype said it was dedicated to St Benedict and had been built by the Saxons.

Hrype led the way down a dark little alley that dived off between an imposing stone building and a smaller, clay-walled house. The entrance to the alley was concealed by a wood-roofed stall that jutted out from the smaller house. A very large woman stood behind a trestle table inside the stall, from which she was selling pies and loaves of bread. Busy yelling out mouth-watering descriptions of the food on offer, she barely glanced at Hrype and me as we slipped past her.

The alley went dead-straight for about five or six paces, then turned abruptly to the right. We were now in an even narrower passage, with the rear wall of the clay house on our right and another, similar dwelling on our left. We twisted and turned down several more alleys and, although I tried to memorize the turnings this way and that, I soon realized that I was lost. Presently, we came to a set of steps leading up to a stout, iron-studded wooden door set in a graceful stone arch. Hrype sprang up the steps and tapped on the door. Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time. Then the door opened just a crack and a pair of keen eyes peered out.

‘Hrype!’ cried the owner of the eyes. The opening widened enough to admit us, and swiftly we were ushered inside.

The passageways had been quite dark, shaded as they were by the buildings on either side. The light out there, however, had been bright in comparison to the interior of this house, and for some time, as my eyes adjusted, I could barely make out anything except vague shapes. We were led down a corridor and, lacking my sight, my other senses seemed to sharpen as if to compensate. I could hear two distinct sounds, one of which was a sort of fizzing, as if something were sizzling in hot fat over a fire. The other was the steady breathing of the person leading the way down the passage.

The air smelt strange: incense mixed with other elements, one of which I thought could be cinnamon. There was also an animal smell, like goats. I sniffed cautiously. In my work with Edild I have learned not to sniff hard at an untried substance as the effect can be disturbing. I detected rosemary, which I know is used to increase the potency of a mixture, and also something that I thought might be bay laurel, although it seemed strangely sweet, as if the leaves were being steeped in honey. In addition, there was a metallic tang that I was rather afraid might be blood.

We turned to the right, went down some steps, left along another passage, and then left again, down more steps that led through a low archway. The room into which we emerged was lit by a single candle and seemed to be vast, as if a cellar had been hollowed out beneath this house and perhaps the one next to it. Very quickly, however, I realized that this had been an illusion; I was probably still disorientated by the twists and turns of the walk through the dark corridors. Recovering, I stared around me and saw a small, square room, its vaulted roof supported by several thick pillars. A workbench ran along the wall to the right of the steps, there were shelves of bottles and jars on the wall opposite and, to the left, a low cot on which there was a pillow and a stack of neatly-folded blankets. Beside it there was a little table covered with rolls and sheets of vellum and a quill pen beside a small flask of ink. Beyond the cot, the wall was covered with a large, heavy hanging. If there was a design or pattern on the hanging, the light was too dim for me to make it out.

My eyes were drawn to that single candle flame burning on the workbench. Now that I was able to detect more detail, I saw that there was a bulbous glass container suspended over the candle, resting on a three-legged iron stand. Some dark liquid was bubbling away in the container, and it was, I realized, the source of both the loud fizzing noise and the curious smell.

What on earth was going on? What terrible, secret potion was being created down here in this hidden, underground room? Did those jumbled pages of vellum contain the formula that all men sought, the one that bestowed eternal youth? I felt a shiver of dread slide down my back, and I took an involuntary step closer to Hrype. Hrype was weird, and at times very frightening, but at least he was familiar. .

The person who had admitted us was bending over the candle and lighting others from its flame. He — or it could have been she, for I couldn’t yet tell — had his back to us, and I was able to study him in the waxing light. He was short — almost a head shorter than me — and gave the impression of a certain rotundity, unless this was because he was bulked out by the voluminous garments he wore. It was chilly in the room, and he appeared to be wearing several layers, topped off by a generously-sized and gloriously-coloured shawl with a long fringe, which covered his head and shoulders and almost touched the floor at the back.

There were now seven candles burning brightly on the workbench. The person turned round, flung back his shawl and looked right at me. He was a man of late middle age, his hair styled like that of a monk, with a bald crown surrounded by a fluff of hair. His eyes were bright blue and full of laughter, set in a face with regular features and a wide mouth. There was something odd about him, and I soon saw what it was: although he was quite old and his hair was white, his face appeared to be almost completely unlined.

He stepped towards me, studying me intently. I felt a strange sensation — it was as if someone were running a feather all over my skin — and I knew this man was looking inside my mind. I wanted to drop my eyes, for the sensation that he was somehow creeping into my head was disconcerting, but his gaze held me and I could not look away. Something in me began a timid protest at the intrusion and, almost without my volition, I made a feeble attempt to raise my defences. After a few moments, the feeling altered subtly, and in place of the stern inquisition I felt approbation and welcome.

Hrype was standing behind me. He said, addressing the man, ‘May I present Lassair?’ Pushing me forward, he added, ‘Lassair, this is Gurdyman.’