The Way Between the Worlds

EIGHTEEN

Some time after we had released each other, I looked at him and realized just how much he meant to me; how much I would give to keep him safe. The next thought followed seamlessly on that one: the peril we had faced in that fearsome place was something so far beyond my experience and my knowledge that every impulse was telling me to flee.

But I had to convince him to come with me, for I would not leave alone.

He was on his feet, standing in the middle of the track and looking north towards the shore. Towards the wood circle, for all that we could not see it. I could feel it, though. Its power was neither good nor evil: it was simply power — fundamental, elemental power — and it scared me rigid.

I said, having thought carefully, ‘I am not equal to what the storm-raiser has imprinted on this place. I cannot fight his magic and find a way out to the place of power within the old wood circle.’

He spun round to me. ‘I would not ask you to,’ he said. ‘But I-’

‘You are even less well equipped to fight what is out there than I am,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady and sound authoritative. ‘You-’ I had been about to remind him what happened the first time he made the attempt, but it was too cruel.

He knew, though. His face had clouded again into grief. He hung his head.

I hurried over to him. ‘There is nothing more that either of us can do here,’ I said urgently. ‘You have done what you were commanded to do; you have found out that the rumour is true, and that the storm was raised by human agency.’ Human? I wondered about that. The being who possessed such magic was more than human. .

He raised his head and stared up into the sky. He looked fierce, full of energy that could not be released in the direction he desired.

‘I have a suggestion,’ I said, moving closer to him. ‘The dread deed whose echoes still haunt the very air here may be far beyond my experience, but I know of not one but two men who will be able to help.’ I was not quite as certain as I was making out, but I was desperate to get him away before he did something rash. ‘I’m not sure where one of these men is just now — ’ Hrype could have been almost anywhere — ‘but the other one does not venture far from his home, so I would wager that’s where we’ll find him.’

I had Rollo’s attention now, so fully focused on me that it almost hurt. ‘Where does this man live?’ he demanded.

I smiled. ‘In a twisty-turny house in Cambridge.’

He shouldered his pack and set off down the road. Hiding a grin, I hurried to catch him up.

Hrype was on the road too, heading for the same destination. He was half a day ahead, although recently he had been only a few miles away.

He had covered the journey from Crowland to Lynn in a very short time, driving himself on and only giving in and taking a short rest when he was all but exhausted, and he conserved his strength wherever possible by waiting for ferries and lone boatmen to take him by water and give his aching legs a respite.

Nevertheless, it was mid-afternoon of the next day when he finally reached the port. He was intending to request an audience with a bishop, so he found a quiet back street where nobody would notice him and spent some time amending his appearance. When he was satisfied, he stepped out from his alley and mingled seamlessly with the crowd pushing and shoving along the quay.

He had not known what to expect of Lynn. He understood it to be little more than a trading settlement which had grown up because of its location, on the south-east corner of the Wash at a spot where several river and land routes converged. Yet the port he entered that day was virtually growing before his eyes, with building work on many sites and a general sense of stimulating activity. Hrype bought himself a pie and a mug of ale from a stall by an impromptu fish market and engaged the man standing beside him in conversation.

In response to Hrype’s mild remark that the town seemed much busier than he recalled, the man drowned him in a flood of chatty, gossipy comments. ‘It’s all thanks to our Bishop Herbert,’ he said brightly. ‘That’s Herbert de Losigna, him that the king brought here, but we’ve got over minding about him being a Norman in view of what he’s doing for the town.’ He ran a hand down the cloth of what was very plainly a new tunic, and Hrype guessed that he was benefiting in no small measure from Lynn’s new prosperity. Leaning so close that Hrype could smell the onion and garlic taint of his breath, the man added, ‘They say he paid the king handsomely for Thetford, but we’re prepared to forgive him that as well, being as how he’s all set to build us a fine new church!’

‘Really?’ Hrype responded, slipping into the role of wide-eyed innocent visitor. ‘I heard tell of maybe a priory as well?’

The man gave him a sly look. ‘That’s only talk as yet,’ he said reprovingly. ‘But the church, why, they’re already pegging out the site, and it’s going to be a fine building, my friend!’

‘Has the bishop constructed a fine building for himself, too?’ Hrype asked.

‘He has, and you can go and see it for yourself if you head out across the square and take the road over there!’ The man waved his beer mug in demonstration, and, thanking him, Hrype slipped away.

The bishop’s residence was clearly still in the process of construction but already very fine. Hrype got as far as a big hall just off the courtyard, where he was informed by a black-robed cleric with a permanent sneer on his thin face that Bishop de Losigna was very busy and could not be expected to make time for importunate strangers demanding to see him without an appointment. Hrype adopted a humble pose and said would it be all right if he waited, just in case? The cleric gave a sniff, a swirl of his generously-cut robe and turned away, as if to say: if you want to waste the rest of the day, it’s up to you.

The bishop appeared shortly afterwards, and Hrype leapt up and went to stand in his path. One of the two men flanking the bishop tried to brush him aside, but Hrype would not be moved. He leaned close to the bishop and said softly, ‘My Lord Bishop, it is imperative I speak to you concerning Father Clement, late of Crowland Abbey, who I understand came to see you some months ago and who, I regret to tell you, is dead.’

The swift words achieved the right effect: the bishop grabbed Hrype’s arm and hustled him aside, down a short passage and into a beautiful room furnished with plain oak, the very simplicity of which spoke of fine craftsmanship.

‘How and when did he die?’ The bishop, it seemed, was not one to waste words.

‘He was found on the fen margins a little to the south-west of here,’ Hrype replied. ‘He had been poisoned, stabbed and garrotted, and his body was tethered to stakes. It would appear that he was killed soon after he came to see you, probably as he set out for Chatteris, where another man impersonates him.’

The bishop assimilated all this information without comment. There was a brief silence, and then he said, ‘There is no doubt of this?’

‘Very little, if any,’ Hrype replied. ‘The description of the dead man appears to be that of Father Clement.’

That seemed to satisfy Bishop Herbert. ‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded.

‘I need to know when he came to see you, and when he set out for Chatteris.’

The bishop thought briefly, located the relevant information and said, ‘November last year. Crowland had burned; the few monks who remain there could go to the Thorney priest for confession, and there was no need for a man of Father Clement’s abilities to stay. He came to ask me to reconsider, but I had already decided to send him to Chatteris. We spoke briefly; he accepted my orders and left.’

It accorded with what Abbot Ingulphus had said. ‘This was early in the month?’

‘No. It was the last week of November. I remember it because we were almost in Advent.’

So Father Clement’s body had been in the fen for five months or more. And there it would have stayed, Hrype reflected, but for a boat captain losing his way.

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ Hrype said. ‘I will take my leave.’

‘Wait.’ The word was spoken mildly, but carried great authority. Hrype, who had already turned towards the door, stopped. ‘I wish to see the man who killed my priest brought to justice,’ the bishop said softly.

Hrype turned back to him. ‘I do not know who that man is, nor where to find him.’

‘You have some ideas, though. In here.’ The bishop tapped his head. ‘You are a resourceful man.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish me to provide you with men to help you in your quest?’

Trying not to show how much he didn’t, Hrype shook his head. ‘No. If the killer can indeed be sought out, it will be by subtlety and not by force.’

The bishop regarded him steadily for some time. Then he said, ‘Please make sure that I am kept informed.’

Hrype returned the look. This was, he realized, a man to have on your side. ‘I will,’ he said. And meant it.

Rollo and I made good time to Cambridge, taking advantage of where we were and where we were bound by going by sea to Wisbech and then down the river to Cambridge. It made such a difference to travelling when you didn’t have to worry about not having any money; Rollo’s coin purse seemed inexhaustible. To a man like him, though, no doubt our expenditure seemed modest in the extreme.

I realized, as we progressed smoothly over the dark water, that at some point we must have begun to follow the boat that had unwittingly towed the body of the man in the fen to Cambridge. .

We tied up at the quayside late the following day. I led the way down the road towards the centre of the town, crossing the market square and diving off into the maze of alleyways that led to Gurdyman’s house. I knocked on the door, and it opened almost instantly; he probably knew I was on my way.

I saw a big, beaming smile spread across his face. He turned to speak over his shoulder: ‘She’s here!’

Another figure materialized out of the shadows, and Hrype strode down the passage and briefly took hold of me by my shoulders, looking intently into my eyes. ‘You are unharmed,’ he said. It was not a question; he knew I was.

Then he saw who I had brought with me, and his entire body went very still. He glared at Rollo, a fierceness in his eyes that I had rarely seen before. I turned to say something to Rollo and observed that he was glaring right back.

Gurdyman intervened. He pushed Hrype unceremoniously away from the doorway — only Gurdyman, I reflected, would have dared shove Hrype so firmly — and ushered Rollo and me inside. ‘Go on into the courtyard,’ he murmured to me. ‘Take your friend and help yourselves to food and wine. It’s all set out ready.’

He had known I was coming. It was both a thrilling and a rather scary thought.

I very much wanted to stay and listen to what Gurdyman was saying so urgently to Hrype, but I did not dare. I took Rollo’s hand and led him down the passage and through the archway into the courtyard. It was still warm from the day’s sunshine and lit with the soft golden light of evening. Wine, goblets and a platter of bread, cheese and dried meat had been set out, but neither Rollo nor I were hungry. We did, however, both pour out wine, and Rollo raised his goblet to me in a silent toast.

Then Gurdyman came out into the courtyard, Hrype close behind. Gurdyman gave me a quick glance of apology, then said, ‘You are welcome, both of you.’ There was a definite emphasis on both. ‘There are grave matters for us to discuss,’ he went on, ‘but before we can do so, Hrype wishes to speak.’ He shot an irritated glance at Hrype. ‘Go on, then,’ he said tersely.

Hrype stared at Rollo. ‘You are a Norman,’ he said baldly. He narrowed his eyes. ‘There is something else in your blood that I do not recognize, but your allegiance is to the king.’

‘It is,’ Rollo said coldly. ‘Not because he is a Norman, but because I have seen strife tear a land apart, and I believe peace is better. A strong ruler on the throne brings peace.’

‘We were used to life under our own kings!’ Hrype replied. ‘We had no need of the brute force of William and his son to bestow their peace on us!’ He all but spat the word.

Rollo made no reply but for an ironically raised eyebrow. I thought for a moment that Hrype was going to hit him, but, with a very obvious effort, he held back.

I could not have stood it if they had fought. I stepped between then and said, ‘Hrype, Rollo is my choice. Do not judge him by what you believe him to be; wait and discover for yourself what he truly is.’

I intercepted a look between Hrype and Gurdyman. There was a message in it, for I could tell that Gurdyman was urgently putting a thought into Hrype’s head, although I could not tell what it was. Hrype made himself relax, and the tension went out of the air.

‘We shall sit down and have some wine,’ Gurdyman said, in the sort of tone that does not allow dissent, ‘and then we shall all reveal what we have discovered and what we think we should do next.’

Rollo and I sat down on a bench; Hrype subsided, with very obvious reluctance, on to a stool; and Gurdyman walked round and poured more of the lovely, cool white wine into each of our goblets. Then he sat down in his own chair, took a slow and appreciative sip and said, ‘Hrype informs me that the real Father Clement left Crowland back in November, visited his bishop over in Lynn at the end of that month and then, it seems, was murdered soon after he left Lynn for Chatteris. Another man now poses as Father Clement at Chatteris, and we surmise that this man probably murdered the real Father Clement, although we do not know why. This impostor also killed a young nun at Chatteris and attempted to poison another, who is sister to Lassair here. Again, we suggest no motive. Now, Lassair — ’ he glanced at me with a smile, which he then turned on Rollo — ‘what have you and your friend to tell us?’

I nudged Rollo. ‘You’d better go first,’ I muttered. I did not know how much of his secret mission he would be prepared to reveal to two men he’d only just met, one of them distinctly hostile, and, as it turned out, the answer was not very much.

‘There was a violent storm off the east coast last September,’ Rollo said. ‘There’s a rumour that it was raised deliberately, to destroy the king’s ship-army, which was on its way to the north of England.’

‘Raised deliberately?’ Hrype’s sudden interest seemed to be overcoming his antipathy. ‘You speak of a tempestarius?’

‘I do,’ Rollo said shortly. He glanced at me. ‘Lassair tells me such people are not unheard of among your kind, and I do not speak of the strange legends and tall tales of the Magonians.’

Gurdyman went straight to the point. ‘This storm, you think, was raised by someone who supported the king’s enemies in the north? Who wished to hamper the king in his retaliatory measures by removing half his army?’

‘Yes.’

Gurdyman thought about that. ‘Scotland is by no means entirely under the rule of King Malcolm,’ he said. ‘The northern and the western reaches of the land are Norse and Gaelic, and neither people look kindly on King Malcolm and his queen, for Margaret is a forcibly Christian woman and wishes her entire country to be as devout as she is herself.’ He paused. ‘And the ability to raise storms was said to be a particular talent of the Norsemen who lived in the lands now ruled by Malcolm and his rigid wife.’

That was all very well, but in my opinion we were drifting away from the main point. ‘We should look at what connects the activities of the storm-raiser and the killing of Father Clement,’ I said decisively. Three pairs of male eyes turned to stare at me, with varying amounts of warmth in them, but I pressed on. ‘Rollo and I have fairly convincing proof that the storm-raiser carried out his magic up on the northern tip of the land, where the ancient wood circle once stood at the crossing place.’ Briefly, I described what we had learned and what we had experienced up there. Neither Hrype nor Gurdyman argued with our conclusion. ‘The nearest settlement of any size to the spot where the storm hit is Lynn, which is where Father Clement was last seen and near to where his body was left. In addition, the little nun who was killed at Chatteris came from up beyond Lynn.’ I echoed the exact words of the cheese-selling woman who had told me this. ‘She arrived at Chatteris last September.’

I knew the month was significant, and I was just working out why when Rollo opened his mouth to speak.

But Hrype got there first. ‘Supposing she saw the storm-raiser,’ he said slowly. ‘Supposing she was making her way around the favourite places she had known all her short life, saying goodbye before she went off to her new existence at Chatteris.’

‘He realized she’d seen him,’ Rollo went on, picking up the story, ‘and he knew he had to prevent her telling anyone what she saw. He and his fellow conspirators discovered where she had gone, and they learned that, by sheer good fortune, a new priest was on his way to the abbey where the girl had gone.’

‘Her name was Herleva,’ I said. It was bad enough that she had lost her life, and I did not see why she should also lose her identity.

‘Where Herleva had gone,’ Rollo amended. He gave me a quick look, and I saw from his eyes that he understood. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered, for my ears only.

‘He consulted with the others,’ he continued, ‘and they selected the most suitable of them for the task of removing Father Clement and replacing him.’ He frowned. ‘How would one of them have managed to impersonate a priest so well that a whole abbey was convinced?’

I’d been wondering the same thing. I had seen how someone like Hrype could change his appearance so thoroughly that even his nearest and dearest wouldn’t recognize him, but we were speaking here of a man pretending to be a priest, which would surely be incredibly risky, full of potential pitfalls at almost every moment of the day. .

‘Perhaps he had once been a priest,’ Hrype mused.

‘Or else had been put in a monastery school and thus able to observe the habits and the manners of a priest at close and constant quarters,’ Gurdyman added.

‘Are all priests exactly the same?’ I asked of no one in particular.

Gurdyman glanced at the others, then replied. ‘They are all taught the same things, and of course the entire cannon of dogma is common to all, but no doubt there are small variations in their behaviour.’

‘Nobody at Chatteris knew Father Clement before he arrived,’ I went on, developing the thought as I spoke, ‘and anyway, they are nuns, used to obedience and accepting what their priest said and did without question.’

‘So no one would have remarked on it,’ Rollo finished, ‘if this false Father Clement had not performed every single act in precisely the same way his predecessor had done.’

‘Exactly.’ I gave him a smile.

‘This man, then, killed Father Clement in order to get into Chatteris and silence the nun — Herleva — who saw his colleague raise the storm,’ Hrype said. ‘He also tried to poison Herleva’s best friend, Elfritha, because he suspected that Herleva had revealed the secret to her. Is that what you are saying?’

‘Yes,’ Rollo and I said together.

Hrype looked at Gurdyman, and I could see that neither was convinced.

‘Have you a better suggestion?’ I demanded.

Gurdyman smiled. ‘For my part, no. Hrype?’

With obvious reluctance, slowly Hrype shook his head.

It was too late to set out there and then, for twilight was coming on and Hrype, Rollo and I were all very tired. Gurdyman busied himself preparing more food, and we drank quite a lot more wine. Then Gurdyman set out paillasses

and warm woollen blankets in the courtyard for Hrype and Rollo — I wondered, not without amusement, how the two men would manage to sleep just a few feet from each other with the antagonism crackling between them like lightning — and I climbed the ladder to the peace and comfort of my little room up in the attic. I had not realized how worn out I was, and I started to drift into sleep as soon as I had lain down.

The last thing I was aware of was Gurdyman’s voice. I do not think he was actually speaking to me; I think I heard him only in my mind, for I knew he had gone down into his crypt to sleep.

His words suggested he was giving me a warning.

Very early the next morning, when the eastern sky was just beginning to suffuse with the pink of dawn, Hrype, Rollo and I set out for Chatteris. Gurdyman had woken us and fed us, providing food and drink for the journey. As he bade us farewell, I wondered why he wasn’t coming with us. He read the thought and gave me a totally unexpected hug. ‘I am too old for travelling and would slow you down,’ he murmured, adding, ‘but it’s nice to be wanted.’

I looked back at him as he stood in the open doorway, his lips moving silently. I guessed he was putting his own brand of protection on us.

When we reached the island, I was so full of the need to see my sister that I kept forgetting that was not why we were there. Hrype had assured me again and again that when last he saw her she had been starting to improve, but even he had to admit that virtually anything could have happened in the meantime. Rollo, understanding my anxiety and my fear, kept close beside me, and I took strength from him. I hadn’t needed to tell him how much I loved Elfritha, since he seemed already to know.

As we approached the abbey, he stared intently at its walls and the surrounding terrain. Then, with a brief nod, he called softly to Hrype, who stopped and turned to face him.

‘I will keep watch from up there.’ He indicated a low rise about twenty or thirty paces to the left of the abbey gates, where a stand of trees grew close to the wall. ‘I’ll climb the tree closest to the wall.’ He glanced at me, then turned to Hrype. ‘Lassair told me how the two of you disguised yourselves on the previous occasions you were here, and it’ll cause fewer interested glances if the same pair visit again.’

Hrype nodded curtly. Even he, it seemed, could see nothing to argue with there. Then he and I went through the process of turning ourselves into an old man and his waddling daughter, and we set off for the abbey.

Again, I had the definite impression that our arrival was expected. The nun who had met us the last time we were there was standing in the doorway of the infirmary, her thin, angular face tense with anxiety.

My heart began to thud painfully in my chest. Had she come to forewarn us of what we would find inside? Oh, Elfritha!

Hrype had stepped forward and was speaking urgently to her. ‘Sister Christiana, what has happened?’

But she was smiling now, her face transformed, and as she reached out to take each of our hands, I saw tears in her eyes. ‘Elfritha is much better!’ she said, her expression radiant. ‘Edild has just been feeding her soup, and she has taken a whole cup! Come in, come in, and see for yourselves!’

We hurried in her wake down the length of the infirmary. I had the impression of several pairs of eyes watching us with interest, but I barely noticed. Then we were hurrying up the dark passage and through the open door into the little room, and there was my beloved sister, propped up on pillows, pale and feeble-looking, but smiling so widely that I could not help but respond. ‘Elfritha, you’re — you’re-!’

It was no time for words. I leapt forward and, sinking to my knees, took my sister in my arms and held her so close that I could feel her heartbeat. We stayed like that for some moments — not speaking, not moving — then I felt a light touch on my shoulder and Edild’s quiet voice said, ‘Let her go now, Lassair. She is still very weak.’

I turned to look at her. Sister Christiana had disappeared — presumably out of tact, to give us some quiet time together — and Edild stood within Hrype’s arms. I stared up at my aunt.

Oh, I had so much to tell her. . She had predicted that Rollo would come back into my life. How right she had been. I was about to tell her so when Hrype spoke.

‘Lassair’s got her Norman with her,’ he said. ‘It appears he, too, has an involvement in this business.’

Edild flinched at the harsh emphasis he put on the word Norman. She turned to look at Hrype. ‘I imagine that Lassair’s life has become entwined with his for reasons and purposes far above political allegiance,’ she replied. Then, her expression softening, she added quietly, ‘Do not judge, Hrype. Lassair is too wise to fall in love with someone unworthy of her.’

I didn’t think I was supposed to have heard that, so I pretended to be busy smoothing over Elfritha’s bedding. She was, however, fizzing with interest. ‘Who is he, Lassair?’ she hissed, her eyes huge. ‘Is he handsome? Are you very much in love?’

I took her sweet, too thin face in my hands and gently kissed her cheek. ‘Wait and see,’ I whispered back.

Edild disengaged herself from Hrype and, taking his hand, drew him forward to kneel beside Elfritha and me, crouching down at his side. She said, very quietly. ‘Elfritha has something to tell you.’ She took my sister’s hand. ‘Are you strong enough to talk?’ she asked.

Elfritha nodded. Her expression grave, she composed herself, then said, ‘Not long before Herleva died, she told me something. I didn’t think any more about it at the time, because she — well, she loved to tell tales, and she often entertained us at night with her ghost stories. She was always getting into trouble for it and-’ She broke off, but quickly recovered. ‘Anyway, I only realized it could be relevant when I started to feel a bit better and Edild told me what had happened: how she thought I’d been poisoned, and that someone had tried to kill me.’ She paused again, and her eyes were full of horror.

‘You’re safe now,’ Hrype said firmly. ‘We shall not allow anything more to happen.’

She nodded, accepting the assurance. ‘Well, I did as Edild suggested and tried to think why anyone should want me dead. At first I could think of no reason at all. You don’t really make enemies here, and it always feels as if the abbey is full of good emotions, like kindness and love. But then I thought about Herleva, and how someone had killed her, and then I remembered her story about the wild man and the storm.’

I sensed Hrype’s sudden, fierce attention, shooting out at Elfritha like a spear. I wanted to protect her. Even more, I wanted to hear what she would say.

‘The wild man?’ Hrype said. I was amazed — and also full of admiration — at how cool he sounded, as if we were discussing nothing more important than what was for supper.

‘She’d been up on the coast north of Lynn,’ Elfritha said. ‘That’s where she used to live, and, although she didn’t say much, you could tell her life had been dreadful. She was an orphan, and she’d been sent to live with some distant relative who treated her like the lowliest of labourers.’

I remembered how, when news had got out that a Chatteris nun was dead, no one had come rushing to see if it was Herleva. If word had reached them, her kin hadn’t cared enough to find out.

‘She loved the countryside around Lynn,’ Elfritha was saying, ‘and she’d set off to say goodbye to some of her favourite spots. She was up on the coast, looking out across the salt marsh to the distant sea, when a storm blew up, and she realized that it was going to be a bad one. She hurried inland to get to higher ground and the shelter of a thick hedge, and she was so scared that she tried to press herself right in among the branches. She hardly dared look, but something compelled her to. There was a howling wind, a deluge of rain and sleet, and the seas rose up in a great surge that swept right across the marshes and roared off inland.’ She paused, then whispered, ‘There were ships, many ships, and they foundered. There were men, sailors-’ But she could not bring herself to speak of that horror. ‘Herleva was almost borne away,’ she said after a moment, ‘and survived only because she’d tied herself to a tree trunk.

‘Then she saw him. He was dressed in a long, swirling cloak that was the colour of the mist and the sea spray, he had a staff in his hand, his eyes were light and his wild hair and beard were deep auburn. She was so frightened that she couldn’t move, and she had to watch as, slowly and surely, he turned round towards her and saw her, crouched under the bushes, still fastened to the tree.’

‘Why did he not kill her there and then?’ Hrype whispered.

‘She had the sense to turn her eyes from his,’ Elfritha said, ‘and the spell broke. He was some distance away, and she managed to scramble up, untie herself and run. She knew the area, and she guessed that he did not, for she managed to evade him. She spent that night hiding behind a woodshed, then next day she set out for Chatteris.’ Elfritha’s eyes were full of tears. ‘She thought she was safe here,’ she said softly. ‘But she wasn’t.’

I took her hands in mine.

‘We believe the storm-raiser had an accomplice,’ Hrype said gently, ‘and that this man was able to gain access to the abbey.’

‘How?’ Elfritha looked round wildly, as if expecting to see some alien creature slide in through the doorway.

I glanced at Hrype. Was it wise to voice our suspicions? Someone might overhear, and word might reach the very person we did not want to alert. .

Hrype smiled. ‘I will tell you, Elfritha, I promise. We will explain everything to you, in time.’ He got up. ‘But for now, we have to-’

Footsteps sounded in the passage outside. Hrype, Edild and I stared at each other. They looked as horrified as I felt. It was him, it had to be — he had seen us come in, he had rallied his forces, perhaps even sending for the storm-raiser himself, and now they were about to surprise us, take us outside and-

Rollo appeared in the doorway.

Even in that moment of desperate urgency, I had an instant to notice my sister’s appraising look at him. And the quick, mischievous smile she shot at me.

‘He’s here,’ Rollo said, his voice low. ‘He’s just left the church and is on his way out. We must go after him. Come quickly.’

Hrype and I leapt up and followed him. Edild made to join us, but then stepped back. Looking at Hrype with yearning eyes, she said, ‘I will stay here with Elfritha. Don’t worry, Sister Christiana will come back as soon as you’ve gone.’ Then she added something else; it sounded like: take care.

We hurried after Rollo, ran down the long infirmary and out of the door.

The false Father Clement was striding out through the abbey gates. He appeared to be alone. If we were going to confront him, it would be best to do so now, when he was without the support of the storm-raiser or any other of his companions. Hrype and Rollo obviously thought so too; the three of us set off in pursuit.

He did not appear to realize we were following him. It became clear quite soon where he was bound. Although I had not been to the spot myself, I had heard it described. He strode swiftly round the abbey walls and left the settlement behind. He crossed several fields, always heading straight for the places where the hedges were low enough to climb over and the streams and winding little waterways fordable or narrow enough to leap over. He had obviously come this way many times before.

Hrype and Rollo both seemed to know how you followed someone without letting them become aware of your presence, and I just did as they indicated. We trailed the black-clad figure for some time, and he never even suspected we were there.

Or so we thought.

He led us to the far corner of the last field before land gave way to water. There was a rough wooden shelter, very dilapidated, and the pile of dung on the dirty straw suggested the abbey donkey had been there not long ago. He was not there now.

The false priest went right to the edge of the field and stood above the brownish water that lapped at his feet. Then, without turning round, he said mildly, ‘I know you are there. At least one of you is armed.’

Slowly, he spun round to face us, his hands in the air. ‘I have no weapon,’ he added. He smiled, a warm, friendly expression, and I was filled with the dreadful certainty that we were wrong, totally wrong, and this man was exactly what he claimed to be. I reached out to grab Hrype, intent on telling him, on warning him, but Hrype could see with clearer eyes than I.

As, it seemed, could Rollo, for he was drawing a short sword out of the scabbard he wore across his back, concealed beneath his over-tunic.

I had not even realized he bore a weapon. He certainly hadn’t carried it when I stripped his wet clothes from him up on the foreshore. It must have been tucked right down inside his pack, and he had quietly strapped it on before we left Gurdyman’s house.

Father Clement stood watching us, his expression benign and warm. His eyes were watchful, and, as they met mine, I felt a jolt as if someone had nudged me hard in the ribs.

And I began to think we might have been right all the time.

It was as if he had cast a spell on the three of us, and for a while nobody spoke. Then Hrype gave himself a violent shake, like a dog emerging from water, and raised his right arm. I felt a brief crackling force in the air, and the priest stepped back, flashing a sudden grimace at Hrype.

It appeared that whatever Hrype had just done had also released Rollo from the enchantment. He leaned towards Hrype and said quietly, ‘We should be quick. He will not remain alone for long.’

Hrype nodded. Then, drawing himself up so that he stood tall and strong, he said, ‘We do not know your name, but we know you are not Father Clement, whose body lies at Cambridge. You sacrificed him as a victim to the Threefold Death, giving his body to the water and securing it in the old way, with honeysuckle ropes and hazel stakes. You took his identity, and you came here to the abbey, where you killed the young novice, Herleva, because she had witnessed your accomplice raising the storm that drowned the king’s ship-army.’ He paused. I could sense even from where I stood, a pace or two away, that some huge force was aimed at him and he was countering it. He was shaking with the effort.

I tried to turn to Rollo, to see if he, too, felt that strange, paralysing power, but found I could not move.

Then the man who was posing as Father Clement began to speak.

‘I may look like a priest of the church and the servant of a Norman king and his bishop,’ he said. His voice was quiet, his tone kindly. It did not match up in the least with the power that I felt blazing through him. He glanced down at his black robes, running a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. ‘This is a guise I can readily adopt, and in addition the ways of a priest are very familiar.’ He paused, and a look of pain crossed his face. ‘I was a wild child, for I lost my close family when I was very young and I was angry with the whole world. The remainder of my relatives could not deal with me and so they put me in with the monks, who tried to beat the spirit out of me and turn me into one of them. They did not succeed. I remain what I am: a son of the north, whose allegiance is exclusively to the old ways and the old kings.’

We were right! I wanted to shoot a glance at Hrype, but I could not move my eyes that far.

‘I learned last autumn that King Malcolm had advanced into the north of England,’ the black-robed man was saying. ‘He has edgy neighbours, has Malcolm, for his own lands are only in the south and the east of Scotland. The north and west are ruled by the Scandinavians and the wild people he refers to as the godless Gaels. We are not godless,’ he added vehemently. ‘Our gods are numerous, and a man like Malcolm ignores and derides them at his peril. But his time will come.’

For the first time, emotion had crept into his voice. He waited — getting himself under control, I guessed — then spoke again.

‘He made a mistake when he married that wife of his. Margaret changed the land, and for a small woman, she has made a dramatic impact. The Roman Church now takes dominance over the Celtic, and Benedictine monks swarm in her wake. Even the eight children she gave her king are called by English and not Gaelic names.’

There was a short pause, as if he were giving us time to assimilate the various sins of Queen Margaret.

Then he said coolly, ‘I hate everything English, even as I hate the Church of Rome. My allies in the north-west told me of Malcolm’s advance into Lothian. There would be a counter-invasion force; that was obvious. I watched and I waited, and as the snippets of knowledge came in one by one, slowly and steadily I began to see the whole picture. I knew what must be done.

‘There is a skill, possessed by members of some families and passed down through the generations, back into the mists of the past and the dawn of the line. It is a perilous skill, hard-learned, and its practice drains a man until he is all but dead.

‘On the twenty-fifth of September last year, a man with this skill stood ready. The ships bearing King William’s army sailed right past him as he stood in the place of power, and the storm that he raised destroyed them utterly.’

His eyes went from one to the other of us, along the line that we formed as we stood before him. Then he spoke again, and he sounded as if he were chanting. ‘I will tell you of the place of power. It was once revered and honoured by all of the people who understood the force of the natural world and the huge reserves of might that lie bound up in the crossing places, the margins, the half-and-half worlds of daybreak and twilight, river fords and marshland.

‘I will tell you of the circle as it once was, with tall timber uprights and, inside it, an upturned oak stump, its trunk deep in the ground, its roots in the free, open air. Here an ancient people made a sacred place. The wide-spreading roots of the mighty oak were the platform where they laid the body of their greatest magician, giving it up to the sea, the shore. A huge fire was lit. The four elements were all there, and their spirits, summoned by the men of magic, came readily: air, fire, water, earth.’

He spoke as if he had been there. As if he had seen with his own eyes that body on its strange bier, the encircling wooden walls and the fire that surrounded them.

‘The body was not that of a man,’ he said, his voice barely more than a breath. ‘The greatest magician of the people was a woman.’

The echoes of his words seemed to twist and float around us. Then, as if he had waited deliberately so as to gain the maximum impact, he picked up his tale.

‘The man who raised the storm believed himself to be alone that day, but someone saw him. She was just a young girl, with a round face and a sweet smile. She was very afraid.’ Briefly, he closed his eyes, as if remembering something. ‘The man wore a cloak and carried a staff. His hair was long and uncombed, and his beard reached his chest. The power was on him, in him, and he scarcely appeared human.

‘She knew the terrain better than he did, and she evaded him. But he followed her. He had diminished into human form, and he trailed her without her noticing him. She led him to Chatteris, to this abbey, where to his dismay she announced to the nuns that she wished to join them. Now you probably do not know that for the first few months, a young postulant is all but walled up here, having no contact whatsoever with the outside world. The only man she encounters is the priest. The magician knew that he had to reach her: he had to find out if she had indeed witnessed his storm-raising and whether she would tell anyone.’

He frowned, as if recalling the dreadful problem he and the storm-raiser had been faced with. Then he said, ‘There had to be a way. I prayed, begged my guardian spirits and my ancestors for help, and they heard me. I learned that the elderly priest at Chatteris had just died and was to be replaced by a certain Father Clement, lately the priest at Crowland Abbey, which you may or may not know burned down last year. No,’ he said, glancing at Hrype, ‘I had nothing to do with that.’ Then, with a swift grin, ‘You don’t care much for religious foundations, do you, cunning man?’

He knew. He understood what Hrype was. .

‘I went to Crowland,’ the impostor said. ‘Father Clement had already left. He had been summoned by his bishop, to speak to him before he took up his new appointment. Accordingly, he had gone to Bishop’s Lynn, where I followed him. He stayed with the bishop for a day and a night, and the following morning he set out for Chatteris.

‘He did not get far. I waited until we were well away from the little town, with the last of the dwellings far behind us. I waited until the track ran down close to the water; we had not long crossed the Nar, and the great Ouse meandered along to our right. I caught up with Father Clement and, in the guise of a lonely traveller eager for a chat and a bit of human company, I engaged him in conversation. We walked for some miles, and then I suggested we share my pot of gruel while it was still warm.’

Even if I could have spoken, I do not think I had words to say. I stood spellbound, unable to look away from the black-robed figure before us.

‘He died easily. There was no pain, for the draught I gave him rendered him drowsy. He was smiling as I killed him. I tethered his limbs to hazel stakes and gave him to the salt marsh. Then I came to Chatteris. I discovered quite soon that the little nun was called Herleva, that she was a chatty soul who loved to giggle. Not very bright, but affectionate and popular. She had a friend, a slightly older girl who was also a white-veiled novice. The two spent as much time together as they were allowed, and it was clear that there was a deep friendship between them.

‘I thought I was safe. Six months had passed, Herleva seemed happy and content, and it appeared there was nothing in her new life to remind her of the events that happened as she was leaving the old one. I was about to slip quietly away, when something happened. Herleva’s friend had a visitor; her sister, I believe, although I did not meet her, or even see her myself, so I cannot be sure. But this young visitor was learning to be a healer. She was being taught other skills, too; I hid carefully and sat unobserved, listening as she whispered to her sister the nun, telling her of the wondrous things she was learning.

‘She left, and the nun went to seek out her friend Herleva. She told her with awe in her voice of the things her sister had just been speaking about. I knew what was going to happen. I wished I could stop it, but I could not. I moved my position slightly so that I could observe the two of them. I can see them now: Herleva’s frown, the downturned mouth, the disgruntled expression as she realized that her best friend’s visitor had left a deep and lasting impression. She was jealous.

‘The temptation, it seemed, was too much for her. “I once saw magic too,” Herleva said, in a tone of such self-importance that you would have thought she had performed the magic herself. “It was just before I left home to come here,” she went on in her light little voice. “I’d been up by the sea, saying goodbye to some of my favourite spots. I saw that a storm was brewing, and I took shelter in a hedge. I saw the storm grow and burst. I saw a fleet of ships that perished. I saw hundreds of men drown, screaming as they died. I saw the man who stood alone up on the shore and made the magic happen.”?’

He paused, running a hand over his face. Then, his expression oddly ironic, he said, ‘She might have been about to say more, to utter the words that I dreaded to hear. She didn’t. But I dared not take the risk; I had to act. She was sent out here, to tend the donkey in this field down by the water. I followed her. I said, “Cold this morning, Herleva.” I held out my flask. “Here, have a sip of this. It’s gruel, and it’s hot.”?’ He glanced at us: Rollo, Hrype, me. As if to exonerate himself, he muttered, ‘She suffered no pain.’

I sensed a mighty, silent protest form itself in Hrype and burst out of him. The impostor felt it too; he staggered back a pace or two.

Quickly, he recovered. ‘She might have told her friend of her suspicions! I couldn’t risk it. I sought out her friend — her name is Elfritha — and I said I was making a new mixture to warm and comfort the cold and hungry poor who flock to the abbey for aid, and asked her if she would be so kind as to sample it and tell me what she thought. “You have a friend, or perhaps a relative, who is a healer, I believe?” I said.

‘?“Yes, I have,” she agreed readily, blushing and smiling with pleasure at being able to help. “My sister is apprenticed to our aunt, whose reputation is widely known in the fens around our home village.”?’

I felt a pain like a knife in my guts. It was all my fault! If I’d kept my mouth shut and refrained from boasting of my latest knowledge before my sister, then she wouldn’t have told Herleva, and Herleva wouldn’t have been driven to try and do better with an even more fantastic tale of her own. Herleva would still be alive, and Elfritha would never have been poisoned. And, even worse, my beloved sister had actually bragged about me, her very words making her more suitable to test out the false Father Clement’s foul draught!

He was shaking his head. ‘I do not know why she did not die,’ he mused. ‘The draught was made in the same way as that which killed her friend and my predecessor.’ He shot a look at Hrype. ‘What do you say, cunning man? Any suggestions?’

Hrype, with the power of speech returned, sounded hoarse. ‘Elfritha is both sister and niece to healers,’ he said, and his voice was icy with hatred. ‘She has been given healing remedies since she was a child. It was your misfortune, false priest, to give your poison to someone who was used to the deadly ingredients, and so better able to withstand their impact.’

The impostor nodded, as if the explanation made sense. ‘You are probably right,’ he said.

He was concentrating intensely on Hrype. I wondered if that meant he had identified him as the main threat. I hoped so, for that would mean he was less concerned with Rollo and me. I tried once more to look at Rollo, and this time I managed it. He, too, was staring at me. He mouthed something, but the movements of his lips were so subtle that I did not pick it up. I concentrated on him, so fiercely that my head began to ache in protest. I bent all my mind to his, and then I knew what he wanted me to do.

I wasn’t sure if I could. Turning my head slightly was one thing, but what I had to do involved far more than that. But we had to do something, and quickly. This man before us, dressed in his priest’s robes, had already demonstrated that he had power, and it was highly likely that he had already sent out a summons to his storm-raising friend. We might just be able to overcome him alone, but if both faced us, we’d have no chance.

I tested myself. I tried to bend my knees, to let my shoulders slump. I managed both, after a fashion. Then I took a big breath and let my entire body go slack. I fell, in what must have looked exactly like a faint, and found myself lying on the damp ground.

He was distracted, as Rollo must have known he would be. Not for long, but it was enough. The moment his fierce, intense attention slipped away from Rollo, Rollo raised his sword and leapt on him, flattening him so that he lay on his back, and then quickly straddling him, the point of his sword to the man’s throat. Hrype was only the blink of an eye behind him, dropping to his knees beside the black-clad figure.

I thought Rollo was going to kill him. So, I believed, did Hrype, for he reached out and took hold of Rollo’s sword arm. ‘You cannot,’ he said. ‘In the eyes of the world, and, far more importantly, in the eyes of the church, this man is a priest.’

‘Those who knew the real Father Clement will testify that this man is no such thing!’ Rollo’s voice was hot with furious protest, and he wrested his arm out of Hrype’s grip.

I shut my eyes. I could not bear to see him kill.

But nothing happened.

After a moment, I opened my eyes again.

Hrype’s silver eyes were fixed on Rollo’s. Hrype said, very quietly, ‘Those who know the real Father Clement are not here. You will have been arrested, tried and hanged for priest murder before they even get here.’

‘What do you suggest, then?’ Rollo demanded harshly.

‘We bind him and take him back to the abbey,’ Hrype said, untying a length of rope belt from his waist and handing it to Rollo. ‘We make our accusations, and we send for the sheriff.’

I had never thought to hear Hrype propose anything so mundane. He does not normally have much time for the forces of law and order.

Rollo had pushed the impostor on to his side — I wondered briefly why he was making no protest — and Hrype was tying his wrists. ‘We will have to-’ Rollo began.

Then the impostor suddenly gathered himself together, lunged up at Hrype and hit him very hard on the side of his jaw. Hrype went over like a felled tree and lay very still. The impostor flung himself at me, and I felt the sharp prick of steel on my neck.

‘Yes, it’s a blade,’ he said, right in my ear. ‘I should keep very still, if I were you.’

Rollo stood before us both, his sword pointing at the false priest’s heart.

‘Kill him!’ I yelled. ‘He’s evil, he tried to poison my sister, and he doesn’t deserve to live! Kill him!’

‘Fierce words,’ the impostor remarked, the arm hooked around my throat tightening and the point of the knife pushing in just under my ear. ‘But useless, I’m afraid. If he lunges at me, he may indeed kill me, but you will die first. He won’t risk that. The man loves you,’ he added pleasantly. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’

He could not see my hands, and I was feeling with my right one for the buckles on my leather satchel. I always carry the items a healer needs for simple treatments, and among them is a short, sharp blade. I use it to open up festering wounds, or to edge further apart the sides of a deep cut so that I can clean it properly. Once I even used it to slice into a lad’s finger and extract a big splinter that had gone right under the skin.

Cuts hurt less when the knife is keen, and I also carry a small whetstone. I always keep my little blade very, very sharp.

I had the satchel open, and I had located the blade. I took firm hold of it and, meeting Rollo’s eyes, made sure he could see what I intended to do.

Then I wrested myself to one side, as far as I could, and swung my blade up. I knew I made contact, for I felt his warm skin under my hand. Instantly, the knife point under my ear drove in, and I felt my own blood flooding out.

I swung my hand again and again, trying to make contact, but with each sweep the arc was less. I saw him above me, fury in his eyes, a long cut on his chin where my flailing blade had caught him.

He had his knife pointing at my heart, and I knew I was about to die. I held my little blade in front of me — if only I could hit a vital place, I might. .

There was a roar from behind the black figure of the impostor. It was Rollo, demanding his attention.

Not knowing what his name was, Rollo had shouted out, ‘Devil!’

The impostor turned. He and Rollo faced each other, one armed with a knife, one with a short sword. But the one with the lesser weapon had magic in him.

Quite how much, I did not yet appreciate.

He stood looking at Rollo, and he began to laugh. ‘You believe there are two of us, don’t you? I, who with my background can readily impersonate a priest, and my companion, the wild-haired man of magic, the storm-raiser.’ He lifted both arms and, in a language I did not know, screamed out some words to the wide blue sky. From nowhere there was a great rumble of thunder, and I felt the earth shake.

‘You fools!’ cried the black-clad figure. ‘We are one and the same!’ Then he lowered his left arm and pointed it at Rollo.

He might have been full of wild, unnatural power, but Rollo was younger, fitter and a fighter. He was so fast that I did not see the strike, only its result. The dark robes fluttered as the body hit the ground, and the unknown man who had taken the identity of Father Clement fell dead.

I looked up at Rollo.

He had just killed a man, and I knew for sure that the dead impostor was not his first victim. It should have given me pause. But as I stared up at him standing there over the corpse of the false Father Clement, his whole body still alight and glowing with blood lust — killing lust — I knew it made no difference.

I could try to justify myself and remind myself that Rollo had killed to save the lives of the three of us, not to mention taking vengeance on the man who had killed the real Father Clement and Herleva, and who had tried to poison Elfritha too. But that justification would have meant I was being untruthful with myself, and Edild always says that, no matter who else you lie to, you must never lie to yourself.

I loved Rollo. I had loved him since first I met him. I would go on loving him, no matter what. He was my friend, my protector, my responsibility; he had just saved my life, and I had saved his. He would very soon also be my lover; that was already certain. There was no going back.

In that instant I understood something about the man I loved. I understood, too, that I would never change him. If we had a future together, I was going to have to find a way to accept it. Accept him.

I knew it was not going to be easy, for I was a healer and my instinct was to save life, not to take it. But I also knew without a doubt that I would manage it.

Rollo came over and knelt beside me. He put a hand to the cut under my ear, pressing hard. Presently, he said, ‘It’s stopped bleeding. Have you a dressing in your satchel?’

I nodded. He seemed to appreciate that I was temporarily unable to do much for myself, so he took out a pad of linen and the small bottle of lavender oil that I always keep wrapped inside the linen.

‘You should put some of the lavender-’

‘On the pad. Yes, I know. You told me.’ He sounded as if he were smiling. He wound a strip of cloth around the pad to hold it in place, tying it round my neck. Then, with one more look at me, he went to see to Hrype.

I’m the healer, I thought. That’s my job. I tried to get up, found that I could and went to join him. Hrype had a huge bruise on his jaw, but his eyelids were flickering and he was regaining consciousness.

He struggled to sit up and looked around, seeing the dead body of the impostor. He glanced up briefly at Rollo, who nodded. Hrype murmured something, and Rollo smiled. It occurred to me that Hrype had probably said well done.

‘What shall we do with him?’ I asked.

Hrype had staggered over towards the water. I thought he was going to vomit — people often do after they’ve been knocked out — but in fact he was just having a look. He glanced around at the surrounding landscape and nodded. ‘We’ll do what he would have asked for if he could,’ he said.

Then I knew.

They wouldn’t let me help. They were, for once, totally united, and they absolutely forbade it. So I sat on the bank over the fen and watched.

Hrype made the honeysuckle ropes; Rollo cut and trimmed the hazel stakes. Then Hrype made a wound on the body so that it had received three. One from each of us. . They carried the dead man out into the fen, so that I could no longer see clearly what they were doing. I guessed, though. They would have hammered in the hazel stakes and tied him down, under several feet of water.

It was very unlikely that anyone would ever find him.