Music of the Distant Stars

TWO

I only saw one person on my headlong flight to the safety of home. I was about halfway back to the village. I’d just run past a clump of willows when I heard the sound of someone weeping; a man, I thought. The sounds were gruff and full of pain.

I am a healer, or at least I am training to be one, under the tuition of my aunt Edild and a strange man called Hrype, who is a cunning man and the father of my friend Sibert. Even trainee healers know they must not ignore those who suffer. I stopped and, very cautiously, approached the willows.

‘Who’s there?’ I called softly.

The weeping ceased abruptly. Nothing happened for a few moments, then two thick-leaved branches parted and someone crept out.

It was a man, or I suppose that is what you would call him, for although he is fully grown and perhaps eighteen or twenty years old, his mind is that of a child. His body is misshapen under an over-large head, and his poor face is lopsided. I knew who he was; I had good reason to. I held out my hand, smiling, and said, ‘It’s all right, Derman. It’s me, Lassair. Come with me and I’ll take you home. Have you had breakfast?’ He risked a quick glance at me, his deep-set eyes furtive, drew the back of one hand across his nose and shook his heavy, lolling head. ‘Then you must be hungry,’ I went on briskly. ‘Come on, we’ll walk fast, then you’ll have something to eat all the sooner!’

Talk of food distracted him, as I hoped it would. For the length of time it took to reach the village, we amused ourselves describing what we most liked to eat. Not that he contributed much to the conversation, for his stock of words is paltry and those he does know he pronounces oddly, as if his tongue were far too large for his mouth. By the time I led him up to his door, he was smiling again, and the only reminders of his tears were the streaks of dirt on his face and the snot coming out of his nose.

Derman is a cross we are going to have to bear, for it looks as if he is going to become part of our family. My brother Haward is finally sweet on a girl, and we all have a shrewd idea that there could be a marriage before too long and a new bride in the house. It’s high time Haward was wed; he is nineteen, and although he has a kind heart, gentle ways and a handsome face, he has never sought out the pretty girls with the rest of the young men of the village because of his stammer. It wasn’t just that people made fun of him — although, of course, they did — it was also that if he ever met a girl he liked, some other lad would have charmed her with his silken tongue and led her away while poor Haward was still struggling to say h-h-h-h-hello.

Zarina isn’t like the other girls, either in our village or any other in the vicinity. She isn’t really like anyone. She’s got hair so black it almost looks blue, and her eyes are a greenish-gold colour that changes according to what she’s wearing. Her skin is smooth and silky, the colour of pale oak wood. She’s only a year or so older than me, but she seems ancient, somehow, as if she’s seen a lot and has had to learn how to look after herself. Haward met her at the Lammas Fair, where she was in the company of a group of travelling entertainers. It was unclear whether or not they were her kin, but either way she had no compunction about staying behind when they moved on — she’d met Haward by then — and now she lodges with an elderly widow in the village and spends her days doing laundry. If — when — she marries my brother, she’ll make an interesting addition to the family.

Zarina, however, comes at a price, and that price is her brother Derman. I don’t know how Haward feels about his prospective brother-in-law, for we have not spoken on the subject. Knowing Haward as I do, I imagine he will readily make room in his life for poor Derman if it means he can marry his beloved Zarina. My brother is full of what the Christians say characterized Jesus Christ: a sort of all-encompassing loving kindness that accepts people for who and what they are. Had Derman been evil, malicious, spiteful or sinful, it might have been a different matter, but what ails him is not his fault — Zarina says he was born that way — and Haward is not likely to hold such misfortune against him. If Haward and Zarina marry — and I am all but sure they will — then the family and the rest of Aelf Fen will just have to make the best of it and accept Derman, even if he does look like a gargoyle and frighten little children. Zarina has implied that he cannot support himself and, as she is apparently the only living relative who cares whether he lives or dies, it is up to her to take charge of him. I suppose we’ll get used to him, given time.

I handed Derman into the care of his sister — our knock on the door must have woken Zarina, for she answered it with loose, tumbled hair, a sleepy expression and a tattered old shift clutched loosely around her body, and even under those circumstances she looked absolutely lovely — and, waving aside her thanks, I hurried away.

Edild was already up. She was stirring the breakfast porridge as I arrived and I noticed bread and a pot of honey on the table; she knew I would not have broken my fast before I set out, and clearly she wished to have food ready for my return.

One look at my face told her something was wrong.

‘What?’ The single word cut the tense silence in the tidy, fragrant little house.

Swiftly, I told her. Her face went pale, and her eyes widened in shock. Without another look at the carefully-prepared meal that lay waiting for us, she grabbed my arm and dragged me back along the track to the burial island.

We did not speak as we hurried along. Sometimes we ran, then we would slacken our pace for a while and reduce it to a fast walk. When we crossed the planks on to the island, both of us were red-faced and sweaty. I knew, even before Edild laid a restraining hand on my arm, that this was no way to approach my grandmother’s grave. We helped each other, Edild rearranging my hair and I hers, each of us straightening the other’s robe as best we could. Edild took a large, folded square of linen from her sash, and we both wiped our faces. By now our breathing was almost back to normal; my aunt took my hand, and together we stepped up to the stone slab.

We each took a corner and pushed hard. The slab moved quite readily; I recalled that earlier I’d managed to put it back in its rightful position by myself, and it was, naturally, much easier with two. Then we stared down into the grave.

I heard Edild mutter something — a prayer, an incantation, I did not know — as gently, lovingly, her hand dropped on to Granny’s brow in a caress. Then, the due observance of the grave’s rightful occupant accomplished, Edild turned to look at the interloper. Kneeling right beside her, I now took in the details that my horrified eyes had slid past the first time.

The second body was quite short, wrapped in a length of grubby cloth that looked like cheap, coarse linen. The cloth seemed to have been knotted clumsily around the body’s waist, for it made a bulge that was not in keeping with the narrow shoulders and the slight build. Was it a youth or a young woman? It could have been either. .

Edild was carefully unfastening the linen, concentrating on the head. Soon she had uncovered the hair — which was a chestnut shade, long, glossy and curly — and then the face.

The young woman had been comely. Not beautiful, perhaps, for her cheeks were round and her mouth was wide and full. I knew, from that very first look, that this girl would have been fun. Young as she was — she must have been about my age, and I was just seventeen — already there were laughter lines around her eyes and the suggestion of dimples in her cheeks. Alive, she would have been the sort of girl who smiled readily and convulsed into giggles at the least excuse.

And now she lay dead in my grandmother’s grave.

I swallowed the sob that threatened to burst out of me and made myself concentrate on what Edild was doing. She had gathered up the folds of linen at the head of the corpse and, in response to her nod, I did the same at the feet. Then, very carefully, we raised the body and laid it on the ground beside the stone slab.

Outside the narrow confines of the grave, it was much easier to remove the enshrouding linen. Quickly, Edild untied the knots that bound it and folded it out of the way. Now we could study the girl’s clothing. She wore a gown of faded red, beautifully sewn with embroidered borders at the neck and cuffs, the colours of the silks chosen by an expert eye. The gown was not new, for not only had the fabric faded but, in addition, it was too tight for her. Her full breasts strained against the cloth, and she had recently let out the waist, where bright-red darts showed up to indicate she had altered the seams. Her hands lay folded over her stomach, and I was about to point out to Edild something I had just noticed when I was struck by something far, far more important.

I raised my eyes and looked at my aunt. She, too, had seen; I knew it from her face.

‘Two people lie dead here on the grass, Lassair,’ she said quietly.

I nodded, too sad to speak.

The young woman had been pregnant.

I was sent back to the village for help, leaving my aunt sitting on the ground beside the young woman and the child that swelled her belly. As I hurried away I could hear Edild’s sweet, soft voice in a lament. It was a comfort, if only a small one, for had it been me lying there, I could think of nobody I’d rather have to plead for me with those who take in the souls of the dead.

I dried my tears and forced myself to walk faster. I had a job to do, and there was no time for sentiment.

I wanted very much to run for my parents’ home. I no longer lived there — it was more practical to live with Edild, in the place where we both worked — but all the same, I saw my parents and my brothers regularly. Particularly in the recent days since Granny’s death; mourning her as we did, it seemed that we had all moved closer, as if to try to fill the huge gap she had left. I would have given much, just then, to be able to fly to my home and throw myself in my father’s strong arms while my mother made me something soothing and comforting to eat.

I could not do that. Instead I turned off the track to the village and headed for Lakehall.

Lakehall is where the lord of our manor lives. His name is Lord Gilbert de Caudebec, and he’s fat, easy-going and not very bright. He is married to Lady Emma, whose intelligence far outstrips that of her husband. Fortunately for us, she’s a good woman. Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma have two little children, and there’s a rumour going around in Aelf Fen that she is expecting a third. The rumour is accurate. Healers get to know these things, although of course neither Edild nor I would dream of breaking a professional confidence.

The villagers do not, in the normal way of things, see very much of either the lord or the lady. If we have business at the manor, we speak to the reeve. His name is Bermund, and he is a fair but withdrawn man of early middle age and unprepossessing appearance, being very tall and thin with a sort of poky, pointy face. My little brother Squeak says he looks like an anxious rat. As I hurried into the courtyard, Bermund was emerging from one of the outbuildings.

He saw me, stopped, sniffed and said, ‘Yes? Is it about the eels?’

My father, as I have said, is an eel catcher and so, seeing me, I suppose it was a natural assumption. There’s no reason why Bermund should have remembered that I no longer live under my father’s roof and am a healer.

‘No, sir,’ I said. I took a deep breath. ‘There was a body in my grandmother’s grave. I found it — her — early this morning.’

It seemed to take him a moment to understand what I was telling him. Just when I was wondering if I ought to have explained that the body wasn’t my grandmother’s but a second one, not put there by us, he spoke.

‘Do you know the corpse’s identity?’

I had to admire the way he went straight to the point. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘As soon as I’d made the discovery I ran back to fetch my aunt — that’s Edild, the healer?’ He nodded impatiently. ‘She came back with me to the grave — it’s on the island out in the mere.’ Again that quick nod, almost as if Bermund were saying, Yes I know, get on with it. ‘Together, Edild and I lifted the body out of the grave, and Edild unwound the shroud. It is — it was — a young woman, about sixteen or seventeen, with chestnut hair and wearing a red gown. She-’

The flash of recognition in Bermund’s narrow eyes was unmistakable. He held up an imperious hand and said, ‘Wait.’

I waited.

Not, however, for long. After only moments, Lady Emma appeared at the top of the stone steps that led up into Lord Gilbert’s hall. She looked very distressed, her face pale and her cheeks wet with tears. She beckoned to me, and as I crossed the courtyard and ran up the steps to stand beside her, she reached out and took my hand.

‘Oh, Lassair, tell me what you told Bermund!’ she pleaded.

‘I found a-’ I began.

‘No, no!’ she cried sharply, then instantly said, ‘I apologize. I did not mean to shout. I meant, tell me what this poor girl looks like.’

I repeated the description I had just given, adding details such as the high quality of the workmanship on the red gown, the willing tendency to laughter I’d read in the face, the gloss on the chestnut hair.

As I spoke, I sensed Lady Emma begin to slump. I shot out my arms — I am wiry and pretty strong — and caught her as she fainted.

They couldn’t send for Edild, for I explained to them that she was still out on the island. Instead they had to make do with me. I did my best to put aside the shocking drama of the morning’s tragic discovery and concentrate on my patient. Lord Gilbert and Bermund had carried her to a couch at the far end of the hall, and I sent them off on errands: Lord Gilbert to fetch a warm blanket and make sure the nursemaid kept the children out of the hall, Bermund to the kitchen for cold water.

When we were alone I leaned down to Lady Emma, who was coming out of her faint. Seeing me, her eyes widened in alarm and she tried to sit up. Gently, I pushed her back.

‘You’re quite all right,’ I said. I knew what she was going to ask before she had even framed the words; it’s the same with almost all pregnant women. Speaking right into her ear, I added, ‘So is the baby.’ I felt her relax with relief. ‘You did not fall down the steps,’ I explained, ‘so there was no danger.’

‘I did not fall?’ she echoed, her eyes searching my face.

I shook my head. ‘I caught you.’

She said nothing, but her hand shot out and clasped mine.

Lord Gilbert came puffing back with a lovely warm, soft, woolly blanket, which I told him to drape over his wife; it helps people, I find, if they think they’re doing something useful. I watched him as he looked down at her. It was clear both that he loved her dearly — which was hardly surprising — and also that he knew she was pregnant, for he shot a fleeting glance at her stomach, raising his eyebrows, and swiftly she nodded, a radiant smile crossing her face.

Bermund returned with the cold water — it really was icy cold, as I discovered when I soaked a piece of clean linen in it; he must have drawn it fresh from the deep well outside the kitchen — and then he stepped back, looking worriedly down at Lady Emma. I sensed she wanted nobody but her husband just then — oh, and me, I supposed — and, turning to him, I said very politely and respectfully, ‘I think Lady Emma needs to rest, sir.’

He took the hint. He bowed to the lord and lady, nodded curtly to me and turned to go. Before he did so he looked at Lord Gilbert in enquiry, and Lord Gilbert said, ‘I will send for you very soon, Bermund. Meanwhile, get someone over to Alderhall and find Sir Alain. I must speak with him.’

Bermund bowed again and hurried away.

Sir Alain? Alderhall? I did not recognize the names. Not that it mattered just then. I wrung out the linen cloth and gently bathed Lady Emma’s cheeks and forehead; her faint had made her sweat, and her face was hot and flushed. I looked up at Lord Gilbert and back to Lady Emma and, nerving myself, said, ‘It’s clear that you, my lady, know who the poor dead girl was. Could you — I mean, would it be all right if you told me?’

It was certainly not my place to ask such a thing, and I was quite prepared for Lord Gilbert to command me to mind my own business and get out before he threw me out. But he is, as I’ve said, easy-going. In addition, he is neither cruel nor particularly unreasonable, and I had, after all, just saved his pregnant wife from falling down a flight of stone steps. Perhaps he felt I had earned an explanation.

He sighed, then looked at his wife. She said softly, ‘Tell her, Gilbert.’

He turned back to me. ‘We believe we do indeed know her identity, and her death grieves us both, for in the short time we have known her we have grown to like her.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘She is an affectionate, cheerful, amusing little thing, and the children love her, for she is generous with her small amount of free time and always ready for a cuddle or a game.’

It sounded as if the dead girl had been employed at the manor as a nursemaid, which was odd because I thought they already had one. Then I remembered something; something I had noticed immediately before Edild had uncovered the evidence of the girl’s pregnancy. Oh, I thought now, oh, but it explained the beautiful embroidery and the well-made gown, as well as the dead girl’s presence at Lakehall.

‘She was a seamstress!’ I exclaimed.

They both looked at me in astonishment. Lady Emma said tentatively, ‘How — er, how did you know that?’

I wished I could say I had gazed into my scrying ball and seen a vision of the dead girl bent over her sewing, but it would have been a lie. ‘I saw her hands,’ I said. ‘In particular, her left forefinger. It was covered in tiny pricks and there was dead skin loose on the tip.’ When you sew, if you are right-handed, the needle repeatedly stabs into your left forefinger. It doesn’t hurt, really, unless you make a mistake and push the needle too hard, but it always leaves its unique mark.

‘I see,’ Lord Gilbert murmured. ‘Very observant, I must say.’ He looked at me, and I saw both respect and resentment in his expression. Typical of his sort, he did not really like observant women. With the exception of his wife, he probably found all clever women a threat.

Lady Emma took his hand and said something softly to him. His expression cleared and he managed a smile. ‘We’re grateful, er-’

‘Lassair,’ said Lady Emma.

‘We’re grateful, Lassair, that you came straight to us with this terrible news,’ he said. ‘What more can you tell us?’

I collected my thoughts and then described as succinctly and accurately as I could what my aunt and I had found and what we had done.

I could tell that Lord Gilbert was affected by my tale. He started to speak, and his voice broke with emotion. He paused, and I realized that he was struggling to control himself. ‘This girl — her name is Ida — is, as you say, a seamstress, in the employ of my cousin, the lady Claude de Sees, who is at present staying with us as she prepares for her wedding. My cousin is, indeed, busy sewing her trousseau. Her marriage linen,’ he added helpfully, although in fact I knew the word. ‘Hence, er, hence the need for a seamstress to assist her.’ He stopped, frowning. ‘She — er, Ida was reported missing this morning. She eats breakfast in the servants’ hall, but today she did not turn up. The others waited for a while to see if she had overslept and would soon come hurrying along out of breath and worried because she was late — she loves her food, you see — but she did not. In the end, one of them went to rouse her, but she was not there.’

‘Where does she sleep?’ Not with the other servants, it appeared, or they would have noticed her absence when they’d woken up.

Lord Gilbert glanced quickly at Lady Emma, and I sensed that for some reason he was discomfited. ‘My cousin, the lady Claude, is very protective of her trousseau. Quite understandably,’ he protested, although I had made no remark, ‘for she is a wealthy woman and has amassed household and personal linens of great value, all most beautifully sewn, I have no doubt, although I have not myself seen any examples of the work, nor, indeed, would I expect-’

Lady Emma came to his rescue. ‘My husband’s cousin is very aware of the need to take every precaution against theft,’ she said, and I noticed that her carefully neutral tone did not give away what she thought of Lady Claude’s behaviour. ‘For this reason, she insists that all work on her trousseau is performed in a small room, whose door is kept locked. She also insists on the presence of someone to watch over the precious items at all times, this person being Ida.’ She looked down at her hand, which still clasped Lord Gilbert’s. ‘We arranged a truckle bed in there for the poor girl. I believe she was adequately comfortable. Certainly, she did not complain. She was always ready with a smile and a bright remark.’

I was starting to dislike Lady Claude. I had heard sufficient tales of the way some lords and ladies treated their servants and, in truth, locking a girl into a small room each night so that her presence would safeguard a pile of linen was not bad at all by the standards of the times. It was just that I kept seeing that pretty face, all ready for laughter. The thought of Ida shut up all by herself, away from everybody else and missing any fun that might be happening, was all but unbearable.

Not that I dared say so. I cleared my throat and straightened my back, determined not to give away my private feelings. I also resolved not to mention Ida’s pregnancy; it seemed that she had not been married and, if the lords and ladies here at the hall did not know of her condition, then I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them. Let the poor girl keep her secret.

‘Your aunt has remained with — with the body?’ Lord Gilbert said gruffly.

‘Yes. She felt that the dead girl should not be left alone.’

‘Quite right, quite right,’ Lord Gilbert rumbled. He glanced towards the door through which Bermund had disappeared. ‘Where is he?’ he muttered. ‘What can be taking him so long?’

I decided to risk my luck once more. ‘You said he was to fetch someone called Sir Alain?’ I said, making it a question.

Lord Gilbert’s brows descended in a frown. It was Lady Emma who answered. ‘Yes. Sir Alain de Villequier.’ A Norman, then. Of course. ‘He’s recently been appointed our local justiciar.’

I did not know what she meant. Now was not the moment to find out, however. I stored the words local justiciar away in my head.

‘We shall await his arrival,’ Lord Gilbert announced. ‘Then you, girl, you will take him out to the place where you found her.’

He had, I noticed, spoken of Ida all the time in the present tense. Now, as he spoke of the place where she lay dead, it seemed that finally the truth was catching up with him. Ida was dead; she lay on the fresh summer grass beside my grandmother’s grave.

As I watched, Lord Gilbert’s hazel eyes filled with tears. Belatedly, he covered his face with his hands, and I heard Lady Emma make an inarticulate sound of distress. They had both cared for Ida, I thought. She might have been no more than a sewing girl in Lord Gilbert’s cousin’s employ, but she had made her mark on this household. The children had loved her because she had played with them, cuddled them, and, I had no doubt, had also told them funny stories, tickled them, and made them laugh. Hearing of her death had made Lady Emma swoon, and now as her husband faced up to the fact that Ida was gone, he had given in to his sorrow and wept.

They were all going to miss her.