Music of the Distant Stars

SEVENTEEN

It was late afternoon by the time I was back at Edild’s house. I was physically exhausted, and I realized, with mild surprise, that I had not had any food all day. I pushed the door open and went in, the thought uppermost in my mind that I must find something to eat.

Edild was not alone. Hrype sat beside her and, seated on a stool with his back to me, I recognized Sir Alain de Villequier. On hearing me come in he stood up, turned and gave me a brief bow. Amazed — it was so extraordinary for a man of his stature to bow his head to someone like me — I managed to stammer out a polite greeting.

The reason for his courteous gesture became apparent as soon as he spoke: ‘You have been looking after Lady Claude, Lassair, and I have no doubt that you have eased her pain. I thank you.’ He hesitated, and I sensed there was more he wanted to say.

‘I was pleased to be able to help her,’ I replied. Then I added, ‘She is troubled, sir. The violence of these two deaths has deeply disturbed her.’ Especially, I could have added, since she was already so distressed. That distress, however, was caused by having to give up her vocation and instead marry this man, and since it would have been tactless to say so, I didn’t.

‘I cannot reach her,’ Sir Alain burst out. ‘We are shortly to be man and wife and, for all that it suits us and our kin that this union be brought about, still there are other considerations.’ He paused. ‘I would have her happy,’ he said simply.

And you wish to be happy yourself, I thought. It was understandable — who did not seek earthly happiness, no matter how unreachable it sometimes seemed? — and I did not think the less of him. ‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that her mind may be easier once Ida’s killer has been found.’

He nodded, slowly sinking back on to his stool. I went to crouch beside my aunt, who met my eyes briefly. I thought I read warning in her eyes. I resolved to keep my peace and let the rest of them speak.

‘We have been discussing the death of Derman,’ Hrype said after a moment. ‘Sir Alain has seen the body, which Edild has prepared for burial.’ I had noticed as soon as I had come inside that Derman was gone. I looked at Hrype, raising my eyebrows in enquiry. ‘He is in the crypt beneath the church,’ he murmured. ‘He will be buried tomorrow.’

‘Sir Alain suggests that the death might well have been accidental,’ Edild said, her tone giving nothing away. ‘He observed marks on Derman’s shins — ’ I noticed she did not say that we had also remarked on them — ‘and proposes that Derman tripped, caught the edge of the causeway planks across his shins and, as he fell into the water, hit his head on one of the supporting posts.’

I opened my mouth to protest — there had been many more than one blow! — but Edild’s eyes flashed an urgent message, and I kept silent. Swiftly, another thought blasted inside my mind: Why was Sir Alain so eager to attribute the death to an accident?

The answer came hard on the heels of the question: Because he killed Ida and Derman saw him do it, so Derman, too, had to die.

I lowered my head, hoping that Sir Alain had not seen the shock in my face as realization dawned. My mind was in a frenzy. Hrype must have picked it up, for I felt his hand reach out and take hold of mine. His was cool, and he began to stroke my fingers with his, the rhythm fast at first but gradually slowing. I felt my racing heartbeat begin to slow too, and soon I felt in control of myself. Gently, I disengaged my hand, turning to give him a quick smile of thanks.

I said, my voice quite calm, ‘Lady Claude will be very pleased to hear that Derman was not the victim of another murder. She did not know Derman, so will not grieve for his death. Perhaps she will be able to put the matter from her mind now.’

Sir Alain’s swift nod of agreement suggested that he hoped so too. He started to say something, but I did not hear; it had just occurred to me that if indeed he had killed Derman and had decided to adjudge the death an accident, then it surely meant he would not accuse Zarina of murdering her brother.

My thoughts were whirling once more. Was Sir Alain guilty? If he was, then it meant my liking and admiration for him were unwarranted, that my instincts were wrong, so badly wrong that I could barely bring myself to believe it. If he had killed Derman, then why was I so sure that there was something very dark that Zarina was keeping from me? Were my instincts about her wrong as well?

I wanted to talk to Hrype and Edild. I desperately wanted Sir Alain to go and, clamping down on the wild confusion in my head, I turned all my thoughts to willing him away. Quite soon I had my reward; relieved that all my powers hadn’t abruptly deserted me, I stood up as he rose to leave and wished him a polite farewell.

Hrype stood in the doorway and presently said, ‘He’s gone. Heading for Lakehall, I should think, to visit Lady Claude.’

Edild was busy preparing food and I went to help her. ‘Derman didn’t die like he said,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s quite impossible, and I can’t think how Sir Alain hoped to convince us. We’re healers!’ I added resentfully. ‘Does he think so poorly of us as to believe we cannot tell one accidental blow from many savage and deliberate ones?’

‘Hush,’ Edild said mildly. ‘Use your energy setting out the bowls and the mugs.’

Hrype closed the door and went back to his seat by the hearth. ‘Now there is nothing to prevent Haward and Zarina’s marriage,’ he remarked.

Amid all the other emotions, I felt a stab of pure joy. But swiftly it was obscured; my brother might very well be marrying a murderess. .

I looked at Edild and at Hrype. Both appeared serene, although I knew from long experience that they were very skilled at not allowing their emotions to show. If they were anything but happy at this prospect, they were concealing it very well.

The food was ready: Edild must have been as hungry as I was, for she had set out a simple but very generous meal. The bread was fresh, and the cheese tangy, and straight away the three of us began to eat.

Up at Lakehall, Alain de Villequier tried to comfort the woman who was so soon to be his wife. He had arrived to find her sitting stiff and straight-backed, barely responding to Lady Emma’s attempts at conversation. Her face was a deathly white mask, her small eyes sunk deep in her head. She was dressed in her usual black, the veil drawn forward so that it all but covered the starched white that so tightly framed her face. She smelled slightly unpleasant, although the odour was masked by a more wholesome perfume. Sniffing discreetly, he thought he smelt lavender and rosemary.

Of course, he thought. The healer girl was here.

It was late by the time he succeeded in reassuring Claude — if, indeed, he had, and her apparent quiescence was not just a pretence — and Lady Emma persuaded him to stay to supper and accept a bed for the night. Claude forced herself to sit at table for the evening meal, although Alain wished she had not. The sight of her pushing food around her plate and nibbling at the tiniest mouthfuls was singularly irritating, although he told himself repeatedly not to be so hard on her. The meal proceeded on through several courses — Alain could well appreciate why Lord Gilbert was the size he was — and finally, as the last platters were cleared away, Claude stood up and announced she was going to bed. Alain felt relief race through him.

What am I to do? he wondered. She is soon to be my wife and, although I try, I cannot truly make myself like her, never mind love her.

He sat twirling the stem of his wine goblet, listening to Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma’s voices beside him, quietly discussing some small domestic matter. Did they love each other? He believed they did. He wondered if love had been there from the start; like him and Claude, their marriage had been arranged to suit their families and not themselves. Would love grow similarly between himself and Claude? He hoped so, but in his heart he had his doubts. The trouble is, he reflected, I know what love can be.

His grief threatened to overcome him. Desperate, he raised the goblet and drank down the contents, swiftly, eagerly. Lord Gilbert, attentive host that he was, noticed and made a discreet sign to a servant, who came forward and refilled Alain’s goblet. Alain drank again. The wine was good. If he could have no real hope of happiness, then he would lose himself in drunken oblivion.

Lord Gilbert’s wine, however, had failed to bring about the desired result. Now, late in the night, Alain was out of bed and pacing the deserted hall. He had a great deal to think about. He had done wrong, terribly wrong, and his sins played on his mind and would not let him rest.

The hall seemed to confine him. It resembled his own, although it was considerably larger and much grander. We shall live in a house like this one day, Claude and I, he mused silently. Perhaps the grand manor of her family; perhaps a place that I shall win through my own efforts. As man and wife, it shall be our home until death separates us. The thought threatened to choke him, suffocate him; he had to have air. The hall had been secured for the night, but the bolts and the heavy wooden bar that slotted between iron brackets on the doors were kept in prime condition, and he drew them back without making a sound. He opened one of the doors just enough to slip through the gap and sped down the steps and across the courtyard. The gate, too, had been secured; with barely a pause, he climbed over it.

He knew where he was heading. Instead of going down the track from Lakehall and turning right along the road into the village, he struck out across the open ground. Lakehall was built on the better-drained land to the south and east of the village; on the far side of the road, his feet would soon have blundered into wet, boggy ground, but up here he could remain dry-shod. Lord Gilbert worked these acres — or, rather, his peasants did — with some success.

He saw the outline of the church rise up ahead of him, a darker shape on this dark night. He clambered over the fence into the churchyard, skirting other graves until he came to the one he sought. Then he sat down beside it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. There were tears on his face. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He sat there for a long time.

The sound, when it finally penetrated his consciousness, seemed like something that belonged to the night. It began so quietly, so subtly, that it was almost as if a soft little breeze had sprung up to bend the tall reeds and grasses and make them flute a gentle melody. Whatever it was, it was a sad sound; achingly sad. Alain’s sore heart gave a throb of pain, and he bowed his head, accepting it as his punishment.

The sound grew louder and, disturbed now, Alain raised his eyes to look around. He realized something: there was no wind. The night was absolutely still.

Where, then, did those uncanny sounds originate?

He rose to his feet, remaining in a crouch as he stared into the darkness. His heart was thumping hard as he sensed danger. He was poised for flight, yet his feet remained fixed to the spot. The sounds went on, then suddenly stopped.

He sensed movement, quite close. He spun round, eyes wide: nothing.

Then the sounds started again, far louder now, as if whatever unnatural force was making them had sneaked right up close. Then abruptly they altered, and now Alain knew that they came from a human throat, for he heard words. .

‘Where are you?’ he cried, panic in his voice. ‘Show yourself!’

Again, nothing.

Then he remembered who he was, and a small amount of courage came back. ‘I am Alain de Villequier,’ he said, trying to stop the tremble that was audible in the words. ‘I am the justiciar! I say again, show yourself!’

Then, horribly, there came a cruel laugh. A harsh voice — a man’s? A woman’s? — said, ‘I know who you are.’

The sounds began again, right behind him. But he heard them only for an instant. Then there came a high-pitched whistle, something hit him very hard on the back of the head and all went black.

I was awake early, for Edild had told me before we went to bed that I would have to check on Derman’s body that morning. Her work is always faultless, but she has her reputation to think of; if any smell had sneaked up out of the crypt and into the church, word would soon have spread that the healer did not know her own business. I loaded my satchel with fresh supplies of sweet-smelling herbs — bay-laurel leaves, mint, sprigs of rosemary — and Edild gave me several of the special incense cones she makes, the ingredients of which remain a secret that she promises one day to reveal to me.

I slipped into the church, relieved to see that there was nobody there. Closing the door behind me, I walked up to the altar, my eyes on the wooden cross. My senses alert, my skin tingling, I sensed the presence that is always there. I let my mind reach out, opening myself at the same time so that I was receptive. On occasions, I have felt such a jolt of power in the church that I have staggered, but today there was nothing. The presence was still there; of that I had no doubt. But it was quiet, its attention far removed from me.

I bowed low, muttered a few words and backed away.

I walked over to the low door that opens on to the steps down to the crypt. So far I had detected no aroma that should not be there. The little church usually smells of damp, with the lingering memory of incense and of stale sweat. I pushed the door open a crack and sniffed. Now I could smell Edild’s incense. She must have left some burning yesterday, and the smoky perfume had been trapped behind the door. Encouraged, I hurried down the steps and emerged into the low-ceilinged crypt.

I know about the strength of a vaulted roof, for Hrype has explained to me that the arch is a wonderful concept and can bear vast weight. Nevertheless, I am always uneasy in the crypt, especially on my own. I crossed to where the wrapped body lay, on boards stretched across two trestles. The head was bound in many layers of cloth. Presumably, Edild had wished to cover up that terrible wound so that no blood showed on the outside. The legs were less thoroughly wrapped, and I saw faint blotches where blood from the cuts on the shins had leached into the material. Cuts. . I thought about that. If you fell against the edge of a plank, would it cut you? It might bruise you and give you a deep graze, but surely you needed something sharper to give cuts such as those on Derman’s shins?

I pictured the causeway. And I realized that the death couldn’t have happened the way we had thought, for the layout of the place meant that it was all but impossible. For Derman to crack his shins against the causeway, he would have had to be running through the shallow water towards it, not along it, and he would surely have fallen on to the planks that had just tripped him up, not off them into the water. .

I was going to have to revisit the scene of his death.

Swiftly, I walked round the body, sniffing as I went. The stench of death was there, of course it was, but so far the cool air in the crypt and my aunt’s care were keeping it at bay. I arranged my fragrant herbs around the corpse, lit three more incense cones and then went back up the steps.

The priest had arrived, and he turned to stare at me as I emerged from the crypt. He is wary of Edild and, by association, of me too, for like many men, especially men of the church, he does not approve of a woman who lives by her own wits, independent of any man. However, like most of the village, he has had occasion to ask for her help, and she always responds with her usual generosity and competence. He is, I suppose you could say, carefully neutral regarding my aunt and me.

‘Good morning, Father Augustine,’ I said, making a respectful bow. Edild always says that it is best to treat potential enemies with courtesy, thus giving them no excuse for releasing whatever malice they may have towards you.

He returned the greeting. ‘You have been tending the body?’ He jerked his head towards the crypt door.

‘Yes.’

‘Does it — er, is it all right?’

The morning was already warm, with the promise of a hot day. I knew what he meant. ‘So far, yes. If I might suggest, you should not delay in putting him in the ground.’

‘No, indeed.’ He frowned. ‘I have told his sister that he will be buried this morning.’ Looking up, briefly he met my eyes, and I was surprised to read emotion in his. ‘There will be few other mourners, I fear,’ he said.

‘People are afraid of what they do not understand,’ I said softly. ‘Derman was not like the rest of us.’

‘No,’ Father Augustine said. Then, abruptly: ‘There was much talk concerning the dead young woman. They would have it that Derman had some hopeless love for her and killed her when she turned him down. I do not believe it is true,’ he said fervently.

‘No, neither do I.’

He seemed surprised; perhaps I was the only villager to freely admit seeing it the way he did. ‘I would not bury a murderer in sacred ground,’ he said.

‘Of course not.’ I was suddenly filled with relief for Father Augustine’s conviction of Derman’s innocence. I was quite sure Zarina would have been devastated if Derman had been refused a proper burial. Perhaps the priest might even have been reluctant to marry her to my brother had he believed she was sister to a murderer.

Zarina. Not, perhaps, sister to a murderer. But what of she herself?

As if he, too, were thinking of Zarina, Father Augustine said, ‘Derman’s sister is now free to marry your brother Haward and, indeed, Haward has already spoken to me of his hopes.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It would make Haward very happy.’

My words were automatic, the natural, polite response to what the priest had said. My thoughts, however, were far away.

I was on my way across the churchyard when I glanced across at Ida’s grave.

There was something wrong with it; the humped earth that covered her was higher than it ought to have been. My satchel banging against my side, I raced across to look more closely.

He lay face down. The back of the skull had borne the same savage attack as poor Derman’s. There was blood; a lot of blood. On the left, where the head curved out above the neck, there was a huge swelling about the size of my clenched fist. Crouching beside him, I put my fingers to it, feeling for the same devastating crushing of the bones that I had witnessed in Derman.

The swelling made it impossible to tell. I reached in my satchel for a piece of clean cloth and wiped away the blood, my eyes straining for fragments of bone. Instantly, the blood welled up again, lots of it, and impatiently I mopped it up, still searching for what I was almost sure I would find.

Then I gave myself a mental kicking for being so stupid; I could only think that the shock had affected me. The blood was flowing; he was still alive.

I took another pad of cloth and, swiftly finding the source of the bleeding, pressed it to the wound. I began to tuck his cloak around him — he felt terribly cold — but then I thought that I’d only be keeping the cold in, so I dragged it off him and lay down beside him, pressing my warm body against his cold one and pulling the cloak over us both. I dared not leave him. All my training told me that his life hung by a thread.

I opened my mouth, drew in the deepest breath I could manage and yelled at the top of my voice for Father Augustine.