The Way Between the Worlds

FOURTEEN

Hrype, too, had managed to find an early-rising boatman, in his case to ferry him over the short stretch of water between Chatteris island and the mainland to the south. The ferryman was inclined to talk, but Hrype was deep inside his own thoughts and did not respond. With a shrug, the boatman bent to his oars, muttering under his breath about miserable sods who wouldn’t brighten up a cold, dark morning with a bit of a chat.

Once on the far side, Hrype drew up his hood against the moist morning air and trudged on as fast as he could. There were few other people about. Presently, the path met the major road that swept round to the south-west of the fens. The traffic increased, and quite soon Hrype got a ride with a man heading into Cambridge with a load of mushrooms. The final ten miles of his journey passed swiftly, for the farmer’s horse was fresh and kept up a lively pace.

It was late in the morning when Hrype hurried along the maze of passages leading off the market square. He mounted the steps up to the familiar wooden door and rapped his knuckles against it. For quite a long time nothing happened, so he knocked harder. Finally, the door creaked open, and Gurdyman’s bright-blue eyes looked out at him.

‘Come in, Hrype.’ He stood aside to usher his guest inside. Neither his voice nor his manner displayed the least surprise. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he added as he led the way along the passage. ‘I was in the crypt and could not leave my workbench until a critical stage in my experiment was complete.’

‘I hope I did not disturb you,’ Hrype said politely.

‘No, no.’ Gurdyman waved a hand, indicating the little courtyard, sheltered from the cool breeze and warm from the sunshine spilling in and reflecting off the stone walls. ‘I was expecting you. Will you have some refreshment?’

Hrype realized he was ravenous. ‘I will, thank you.’

He watched as the sage fetched a tray of bread and cold, spiced meats, accompanied by mugs of ale, wondering how Gurdyman had known he was coming.

As if the wizard read the thought — he probably did — he chuckled and said, ‘There was nothing magical about it, my friend. Lassair’s sister is sick — how is she, by the way? I am sorry, I should have asked you that straight away. Only, I would guess by your demeanour that she is better?’

‘She is, thank you. Still very ill, but no longer on the point of death.’

‘I am very glad to hear it. As I was saying, I know that Lassair’s sister is sick, and Lassair had told me that her sister’s best friend was dead and had been poisoned. Given that in addition we have the case of the man in the fen, who was also poisoned, it was not particularly clever or astute to work out that, sooner or later, you would come to me.’ He paused, eyeing Hrype closely. ‘Once you had established the question, Lassair was not, I presume, available to provide the answer?’

Despite everything, Hrype began to laugh. ‘She has gone on a mission of her own,’ he said. He explained about the dream.

‘What can have taken her there?’ Gurdyman mused. ‘Have you any idea?’

‘There is a place of power off the north coast,’ Hrype replied. ‘It could be that the spirits have a quest for her. The summons was urgent, I understand.’

Gurdyman nodded. ‘Then she had, of course, no option but to obey it,’ he murmured. He met Hrype’s eyes. ‘We shall just have to manage without her.’ There was only light irony in his tone; he too, Hrype realized, had recognized Lassair’s worth.

‘She has a long way to go,’ Hrype said, ‘for she is still too subject to the influence of her emotions. Until she can govern her heart, she will always be unreliable.’

‘You are too hard on her, Hrype,’ Gurdyman countered. ‘She is yet young, and the power in her is strong.’

‘You are satisfied with her as a pupil?’ Hrype had first introduced Lassair to her mentor, and he hoped Gurdyman did not feel he was wasting his time.

‘Entirely,’ Gurdyman said firmly. ‘Now, have some more of this ale.’

‘I guessed,’ Gurdyman said as they finished the food, ‘that, having seen Lassair’s sister and learned what you could there, and in the absence of any opportunity to view the body of the dead nun, you would wish to hear all that you could concerning the body of the man found in the fen. Lassair has gone off on a purpose of her own, and so here you are, talking to me. Am I right?’

Hrype smiled. ‘You are,’ he agreed. ‘Please, tell me all that you can of the dead man.’

‘He was tethered on the fen margins,’ Gurdyman began, ‘somewhere over on the eastern edge of the wet lands, south of Lynn. The boatmen could not be more specific. They lost their way in the fog and had to make a turn in a narrow channel, and their guess is that it was there they picked up their extra cargo. The ropes that had bound the man became entangled somehow in the boat; perhaps in the steer board. Anyway, they unwittingly towed the corpse behind them all the way to the quay here at Cambridge, where someone spotted it bobbing along in their wake and raised the alarm.’

The eastern edge of the fen, south of Lynn. Hrype recalled how Lassair had seen such significance in that, believing it must be relevant because the little nun who had died was also from that region. He was not so sure; it could be no more than coincidence. ‘He had suffered the Threefold Death, I believe?’ he asked.

‘He had,’ Gurdyman confirmed.

‘A sacrifice,’ Hrype murmured.

‘You think so?’

‘I do. The signs are unmistakable. Who else would go to all that trouble? It was clear the murderer was easily able to overcome his victim, so why not simply hit him a bit harder on the head, or hold him under the water till he drowned? No; the details of the involved method of killing must surely point to a sacrificial death.’

‘So we are dealing,’ Gurdyman said slowly, ‘with a magician of the Old Ways.’ It was not a question; he knew it as well as Hrype did.

For a moment the sunny little courtyard felt cold, as if a cloud had covered the sun.

‘Why did he need to make a sacrifice?’ Gurdyman said after quite a long silence. ‘What is happening now, to make such a measure necessary? It’s not as if the Normans are a new phenomenon and, although many of us still resent their heavy-footed presence in our land, the time is surely not ripe for another revolt?’

‘I agree,’ Hrype said. ‘There is always dissent, and there always will be as long as people are alive who remember how life used to be. We may be more secure from the lawless ways of thieves and brigands under the new rule, and they tell us our shores have never been safer from attack than they are now, but this is still our land and they are still the invaders. I do not, however, sense that there is a major move at present to rise against them.’

‘So, if the sacrifice was not to appease the gods, and seek their aid and support in an attempt to throw off the new ways and return to the old, then what was it for?’ Gurdyman seemed to be thinking aloud, his voice soft and almost dreamy.

‘Sacrifices are made also in thanks for help already given,’ Hrype pointed out. ‘What if the killer had been required to carry out a mission fraught with danger and, having achieved his purpose, dispatched his victim in the old way in gratitude for his success?’

Gurdyman gave him a sharp look. ‘That is possible,’ he acknowledged. ‘I think, my friend,’ he added perceptively, ‘that you do not merely speculate.’

‘No,’ Hrype agreed. ‘As you surmise, I speak of events that have in fact happened. Or so I believe.’

Gurdyman settled back more comfortably in his chair, his refilled mug in his hand. ‘Tell me,’ he invited.

Hrype paused to gather his thoughts. Was he right? Had the runes led him to the correct conclusion? Or had he allowed emotion to creep in and influence him? Was he guilty of the same weakness that he had just accused Lassair of? Gurdyman was watching him intently; he had no choice but to go on.

‘We have two deaths, both carried out in the same distinctive manner, which, we surmise, makes the man and the young woman the victims of sacrifice,’ he began. ‘We also have the case of Lassair’s sister Elfritha, who was given exactly the same poison, possibly — probably — as a first step in a similar Threefold Death.’

‘How was the poison administered?’ Gurdyman asked. ‘And why did the killer not proceed with the next phases of the death?’

‘We do not yet know,’ Hrype replied. ‘The girl is too weak to speak, and I would guess that it will be some time before Edild risks asking such distressing questions.’

‘And dangerous ones,’ Gurdyman said softly. ‘If the poisoner is still at large and has access to Elfritha, he will not wish her to expose him. He may well try to prevent that by attacking her again.’

Hrype nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I worked that out too,’ he said. ‘Edild has been offered the help of one of the infirmary nuns. If the two of them are always present in the sick room, I do not see how the murderer will be able to do anything to harm their patient.’

Gurdyman looked at him doubtfully. ‘I hope you are right. It appears to me that we have a very clever, devious killer here.’ He waved a hand. ‘Carry on with what you were saying.’

‘We can, I think, safely conclude that all three poison victims were meant to die,’ Hrype said, ‘although it is impossible to say what the killer had in mind for Elfritha, nor why, indeed, he was unable to carry out his scheme. It may be that the girl has some natural resistance to the particular substances that she consumed, and that she was thus able to remain conscious long enough to seek help. Once she was in the infirmary, the murderer had lost his opportunity, and any further plans would have to be abandoned.’

‘Or postponed,’ Gurdyman added darkly.

Hrype frowned. ‘I do not wish to-’

‘Acknowledge the danger, Hrype,’ Gurdyman interrupted quietly. ‘It exists, and you must surely recognize that.’

Hrype bowed his head. ‘I do.’ He straightened up again. ‘We should ask ourselves what the three victims have in common. Lassair found out that Herleva — that’s the name of the dead nun — came from the Lynn area, which is roughly where the boat picked up the corpse of the man in the fen. Whether or not we should view this as significant remains to be seen.’

‘Elfritha has no connections with Lynn,’ Gurdyman said. ‘Or does she?’

‘Not that I know of. Lassair would have mentioned it if it were so.’ He leaned towards Gurdyman. ‘But what if Herleva revealed some secret to Elfritha? Supposing she knew some fact that was dangerous to the murderer, so that he had to kill her before she spread it about? She might not even have shared it with her friend — perhaps she did not appreciate the significance of what she knew — but the murderer had no way of knowing that. He could not take the risk, and so he killed Herleva, taking the opportunity of turning her death into another sacrifice, and then attempted to do the same to Elfritha.’

Gurdyman sat silent for some time, and Hrype guessed he was thinking hard. ‘And the man in the fen? Did he possess this dangerous knowledge as well?’

‘It’s possible,’ Hrype agreed. He paused, taking a few steadying breaths. This was where sound logic stopped and speculation began.

‘Come on, you may as well tell me,’ Gurdyman said mildly.

Hrype smiled briefly. ‘The death of the man in the fen is no great mystery,’ he said, ‘for he was presumably attacked out in the open. But I have been trying to think who had access to the two young nuns. The abbey at Chatteris is secure behind its walls, although the gates frequently stand open to admit visitors and those in need of the nuns’ help, and it is quite a simple matter to climb over the walls, as I know from my own experience. But the two young nuns were — are — both novices, whose comings and goings are strictly monitored. It is difficult to imagine a situation where their attacker would have access to them.’

‘He is, we agreed, a clever and devious man.’

‘Yes.’ Hrype hesitated. Then he said, ‘Lassair had a theory. She wondered if she herself were the cause of the attacks on her sister and Herleva. I told her that Father Clement, the abbey’s priest, is a fanatic who will not tolerate the smallest deviation from his religion. She feared that her conversations with her sister had been overheard and reported to the priest, who would undoubtedly have seen their content as heretical.’

‘Lassair having been unable to resist the temptation of bragging a little, impressing her sister with the extraordinary things that I have been teaching her,’ Gurdyman said. ‘It is understandable, Hrype.’

‘She should keep such matters to herself,’ Hrype grumbled. ‘They are not for the entertainment of outsiders.’

Gurdyman watched him. ‘You are a stern man, my friend,’ he murmured. ‘So,’ he went on before Hrype could comment, ‘Lassair is berating herself because she thinks this fanatical priest learned that an apprentice healer, who also receives tuition from a wizard, had been whispering her secrets to her sister, who probably shared them with her best friend, leading him to the conclusion that both young nuns had to die. And why, then, kill them by the method of the Threefold Death?’

‘This is Lassair’s theory,’ Hrype pointed out, ‘not mine. But, to answer your question, I imagine he thought that by dressing the deaths up as sacrifices, he would avert suspicion from himself, being the last man to use such methods.’

‘She reasons thoroughly, if not very convincingly,’ Gurdyman remarked. ‘But you think differently, Hrype. Let me hear how you see it.’

‘I consulted the runes,’ Hrype said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I asked them who had poisoned Elfritha, and who had killed Herleva and the man in the fen. As I had expected, they gave the same answer: one person was responsible for all three attacks.’

‘Did they reveal who it was?’ Gurdyman, too, spoke very quietly.

‘I thought not, at first, for the figure they went on showing to me could not have been the killer, and I was left with the conclusion that I had not asked the right question.’ He looked up, meeting Gurdyman’s eyes. ‘They showed me a priest; a shadowy figure dressed in the unmistakable robes of a minister of the church. They indicated that he belonged to the place I was then in; to the abbey. Odal, the rune for home and hearth, was in conjunction with Thorn, the rune of warning and magical power, and in prominence was Beorc, the symbol of growth and new beginnings; a new broom, as they say. There were other indicators, too; the pattern was extremely complex.’ Again he leaned closer to Gurdyman. ‘Father Clement has been at Chatteris only since last autumn. They refer to him as a new broom.’

Gurdyman nodded slowly. ‘The runes told you Father Clement is the killer. Yet you could not accept this?’

‘No, I could not; I cannot,’ Hrype agreed. ‘I have met him, you see. I was very near to Crowland once, the abbey where Father Clement was before he went to Chatteris. Crowland burned down last year, and most of the monks have dispersed while it is rebuilt.’

‘Was your presence there anything to do with the fire?’ Gurdyman asked.

‘No. It was some months before the fire that I was there. But I was careless, Gurdyman. I was preoccupied with another matter — I will not explain, if you don’t mind — and I allowed Father Clement to witness something that no man should have seen, especially a fanatic like him. He accused me of the usual list of crimes: witchcraft, being in league with the devil, raising evil spirits. You know the rest.’

‘Only too well,’ Gurdyman said with a sigh.

‘But he only threatened me,’ Hrype repeated. ‘He had all the evidence he needed to have me tried and put to death, believe me. Yet he did not. Instead he commanded me to leave aside my sinful ways and turn to his Lord. I sensed then that he was a good man: hard and tough, unrelenting in his battle to save souls in the way that he thinks is right, yet fundamentally merciful. I managed to speak to others who knew him well, and my first impression was verified. I learned in addition that he was as hard on himself as on those for whom he was responsible. He fasted frequently and was rumoured to administer the whip on his own back.’

Gurdyman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see,’ he murmured.

‘Father Clement was not a man to kill,’ Hrype stated flatly. ‘It is inconceivable that he murdered two people and tried to poison a third.’

‘And so you conclude what?’ Gurdyman prompted. There was a new light in his blue eyes, and Hrype had the strong suspicion that he already knew what was coming.

‘The man at Chatteris Abbey who claims to be Father Clement is an impostor,’ Hrype said. ‘For some reason he needed to gain access to the abbey, and so he murdered the real Father Clement, made the death a sacrifice and gave him to the waters of the fen.’

‘But you have been at the abbey,’ Gurdyman protested suddenly. ‘Surely you would have noticed if the man calling himself Father Clement was not the man you knew?’

‘I made sure he did not see me,’ Hrype said grimly, ‘and so, naturally, I did not see him either. Both Lassair and Edild did, but by the time I had worked it all out, Lassair had already gone and so could not describe him to me. And when I asked Edild if she knew what this Father Clement looked like — she only met him once — she said it had been too dark to make out his face.’

‘With Lassair gone, you could not ask her about the appearance of the dead man in the fen either,’ Gurdyman added. ‘And so you came to me.’

‘Yes. Will you describe him to me?’

‘I will. He was a man of medium height and build, with dark hair and dark eyes. He was thin, almost emaciated, with long, skinny arms and legs. He had a mark around his neck, which at first I believed to have been left by the garrotte that broke his neck, although I came to think subsequently that it was more likely caused by the habitual wearing of something heavy around his neck, for the indentation looked old, and the result of long practice.’ His eyes on Hrype blazed. ‘And he had the marks of a whip across both shoulders.’ He raised his right hand, miming the flicking of a whip over his shoulders. Left, right. ‘Had someone else beaten him, the marks would have been quite different. I have seen the back of a man who has been whipped,’ he added, his face grave.

‘The description fits the man I encountered at Crowland,’ Hrype said quietly. ‘It all fits: the colouring, the physique, the emaciation that resulted from rigorous fasting. The marks of the flagellum, I suggest, make it all but certain.’

Gurdyman nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. So, my old friend, if Father Clement’s body is now in the custody of the sheriff, awaiting burial, who is the man at Chatteris?’

‘He is a killer,’ Hrype said. ‘Three people were somehow in his way, or perhaps represented a danger to him. He did not hesitate to murder two of them, and he tried to kill the third.’ He met Gurdyman’s eyes. ‘The question is, why?’