by Alys Clare
Contents
Cover
Recent titles by Alys Clare from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Footnotes
Recent titles by Alys Clare from Severn House
A World’s End Bureau mystery
THE WOMAN WHO SPOKE TO SPIRITS
The Gabriel Taverner series
A RUSTLE OF SILK
THE ANGEL IN THE GLASS
The Aelf Fen series
OUT OF THE DAWN LIGHT
MIST OVER THE WATER
MUSIC OF THE DISTANT STARS
THE WAY BETWEEN THE WORLDS
LAND OF THE SILVER DRAGON
BLOOD OF THE SOUTH
THE NIGHT WANDERER
THE RUFUS SPY
CITY OF PEARL
The Hawkenlye series
THE PATHS OF THE AIR
THE JOYS OF MY LIFE
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE
THE WINTER KING
A SHADOWED EVIL
THE DEVIL’S CUP
CITY OF PEARL
Alys Clare
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Alys Clare.
The right of Alys Clare to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8898-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-635-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0334-2 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For my mother, who loved to travel and who lived life with courage and elegance; with love, always.
ONE
When Gurdyman said he had an idea for a new venture he and I might undertake together, I’d imagined some task or experiment – exciting, undoubtedly, and very likely dangerous – on which the two of us would embark down in the crypt beneath his twisty-turny house. I was his pupil, and he was teaching me the ways of the mystic world beyond the veil. Some call it magic, and refer to my teacher as a wizard, although Gurdyman uses neither term. On the rare occasions when I ask him wide-eyed exactly what we are doing, he says that we are exploring possibilities.
When I push him, he adds reprovingly that there’s nothing special about it, and that we are simply following certain paths somewhat further into the mist than is the norm.
So, when I reminded him one morning as the late October days began to shorten that he had mentioned the two of us embarking on a new task, and suggested that the moment might have arrived for him to tell me what it was, I had in mind that he might begin to instruct me in the properties and the use of some volatile and alarmingly unpredictable substance, or describe to me in the secret darkness of the crypt some method for the stretching of consciousness.
In no way whatsoever was I prepared for what he actually said.
He didn’t answer immediately. He was pouring a purple-coloured liquid that steamed slightly from a small glass vessel to a larger one, and it was taking all his concentration.
I waited.
The last drop landed with a tiny plop and Gurdyman put down the little bottle with a smile of satisfaction. Then, turning to me, he said, ‘We’re going to Spain.’
I thought he was joking.
In the weeks since my life changed, he’d often tried to cheer me up with a little trick or a joke, and I always pretended to smile or even laugh. I was rotten company, I knew, and I didn’t blame him for wanting to lighten the mood. So now I grinned weakly and said, ‘Oh, good. When shall we leave?’
He said promptly, ‘With all speed, as soon as possible. The weather will be cold and still for the next week or so. The sea crossing is long, child, and the journey has hardships enough without adding seasickness.’
‘But—’
‘You will need warm clothes, a change of linen and a blanket or two,’ he went on. Briefly his bright blue eyes met mine. ‘And the shining stone,’ he added softly. ‘You must not leave that behind.’
And I realized he wasn’t joking at all.
I became caught up in the urgency. Which was odd, really, because Gurdyman wasn’t in fact displaying any urgency; it must have stemmed solely from me.
‘You will wish to inform your kin back in your village,’ Gurdyman said that evening, ‘for, although they are used to your absence since you spend so much of your time here in Cambridge with me, you have led them to expect occasional visits, and these will not be forthcoming for some time.’ When I didn’t immediately reply, he frowned and went on, ‘Lassair, you must tell them. Not to do so would undoubtedly lead to great anxiety, for your parents and siblings love you dearly.’
‘Of course I’ll go and explain!’ I said hurriedly. I’d had to drag my mind back to the present, for I was reeling from what he’d just said and wondering desperately just how long he meant by some time. ‘I’ll set out at first light tomorrow.’
As I rode out of Cambridge and set off north-eastwards for Aelf Fen, it seemed to me that for the first time in days I had nothing to occupy my mind.
And so, inevitably, my thoughts returned to what had happened earlier in October.1
In short, I had lost the two men I loved.
One of them was called Rollo Guiscard, and he died in my arms. He and I had been lovers, briefly, some time ago. He had absented himself for months that turned into years, and I hadn’t heard a word. He returned, in fear for his life and desperate for my help, and I had gladly given it. He’d been right to be afraid.
I gave him a wonderful funeral pyre; a fire so fierce and all-consuming that, if ever I gathered my courage to return to the place, I didn’t think there would be the smallest remnant of him or his possessions to remember him by.
But he had left a legacy for me: by one means or another, it seemed he
’d bequeathed to me a large proportion of his wealth. In addition, in preparation for what was to be our last journey together, he had purchased a horse for me. She was a bay mare with a large star on her brow, and her name was Starlight. After the terrible events that led to Rollo’s death, she and Rollo’s gelding had fled before the fire, and I’d thought them lost. But they had found their way back to the stables in Cambridge from which they had been purchased, and in time news of their presence had come to me. Having no need of two horses – and barely need of one, or so I’d thought – I sold Bruno, Rollo’s gelding, and used the proceeds to pay for my mare’s stabling and care.
I’d found her presence in my life to be a great comfort.
It was foolish, perhaps, to tell myself that something of Rollo remained with her; that she shared my memories of him on our last venture; that she too grieved for him. I didn’t care if it was. Just then I was in need of every scrap of consolation I could find.
The other big advantage of having a horse was that, on days like today when I had a journey ahead of me that once I’d have had to make on foot, I rode. In style, too, for Starlight was a stately and beautiful horse.
Rollo was the first of my two loves to be lost to me.
The second was Jack Chevestrier. After Rollo’s death I’d gone to his house and sought him out, expecting, I think (although in truth I wasn’t really capable of reasoning just then), that we would resume the fragile, tentative relationship which had only recently begun.
But Jack turned me away.
He did it with chilly politeness and utter finality.
‘You’re grieving, and you need somebody to comfort you, to look after you,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that somebody won’t be me.’
Then – and I could still hear the words falling like stones inside my head – ‘I’m going out now. When I get back, I’d like you not to be here.’
So I had gone back to Gurdyman.
Who told me, as he gave me the comfort that Jack had quite rightly detected I so desperately needed, that he had something in mind for us to do …
‘Stop thinking about that day,’ I said aloud, angry with myself for allowing the trip back into the recent past and the ensuing flood of self-pity that always rushed up when I did.
I was going home to my village, albeit only for a short visit, and I forced my thoughts ahead to that.
I left Starlight in the small enclosure behind my parents’ house. I took off her saddle and bridle and put them under cover in the place where my mother keeps the hens’ food, then rubbed down my mare with handfuls of straw and made sure there was water in the trough. I’d brought feed for her, which I put in a pail. She looked at it and then at me, her large dark eyes seeming to say, ‘I’m to stay here? With chickens?’
I went and stood close to her, my arms round her neck, and she nuzzled against me. ‘I know it’s not what you’re used to, but then you’ve been spoiled, haven’t you?’ I reached up and fondled her ears. ‘You must learn not to be so fussy,’ I added sternly, ‘and anyway it’ll only be for one night at most.’
I left her, hurrying round to the front of the house and the door to the living quarters. My mother stood on the threshold. ‘You came on a horse,’ she said. There was a faint note of accusation in her voice, and I wondered if she thought I’d stolen my mare. Either that, I reflected ruefully, or she was admonishing me for growing too grand.
‘Yes, Mother, she’s my horse, her name’s Starlight, and today I made the journey from Cambridge more swiftly and comfortably than ever before,’ I said briskly. ‘Nevertheless I’m ready for something to eat and a warm fire.’
She was still eyeing me. But now, smiling, she stood aside and said, ‘You’d better come in, then.’
I sat down in my usual spot beside the hearth, and she built up the fire and set a pan of stew to heat, tearing off a chunk of bread from a large loaf. The stew, I guessed, had been the midday meal. The room, as always, was neat and tidy, everything clean and in its place, bedding rolled up and stowed away in corners, lamps set ready for nightfall.
‘Your father will be back presently,’ my mother said. I’d been looking at the place where he always sat, and she must have noticed. ‘He’s leaving the lads to work on their own for the last part of the day, to encourage them to be more responsible.’
My father is an eel-catcher, and a very experienced and skilful one. He is teaching my younger brothers Squeak and Leir to follow in his footsteps. It was good to know that they were now taking on more of the load. It was a hard life, and my father deserved a little respite.
‘Good,’ I said through a mouthful of stew and bread.
‘So how’s life in the big city?’
‘It’s all right.’ There was no point in telling her about the forthcoming trip as I’d only have to repeat it all when my father arrived, so I devoted myself to the food.
Presently the door opened and my father came in. I leapt up and he opened his arms to envelop me in a hug.
He alone of my family knew what had happened to me. Knew about Rollo dying, knew about Jack. Knew all about Jack, for in my grief and my despair I had blurted out rather more than I should have, and told my father that Jack and I had very briefly been lovers, and that I’d conceived his child and then very soon lost it.
Far from reproving me, my father had simply held me very close, called me his dearest child and said, I am so very sorry for all your pain.
Now, as I stood once again in his arms, I remembered every moment of that scene, which wasn’t surprising as it had happened so very recently. I was quite sure he did, too.
After a moment, he broke away, giving my hand a small, private squeeze, and said in his normal voice, ‘Nice to see you, Lassair. Is all well with you?’
‘Yes thank you, Father. And with you?’ I turned to my mother, including her in the question, and for some time we spoke of family matters; of the younger brothers, of my shy elder brother Haward, his wife Zarina and the two little ones.
Then, when a brief silence fell, I said, ‘And what of Grandfather?’
My paternal grandfather had only recently been introduced to the family. I had met him some time ago,2 and learned that he, and not my Grannie Cordeilla’s husband, was my father’s true father. His name was Thorfinn, he was a very large white-haired, white-bearded Icelander whose nickname was the Silver Dragon, and he had given me a powerful heirloom known as the shining stone. Ever since I had learned who he was, I’d been badgering him to tell my father. It simply wasn’t fair, I’d shouted at him once, for me to know when my father didn’t; to be forced to keep such a secret from someone I loved so much. In the end, and, again, very recently, Thorfinn had sought out my father and revealed the truth. The family, I suspected, were still reeling …
‘I thought I might have found him here?’ I added when neither of my parents spoke.
With a grimace in which there was a perfect mixture of amusement and frustration, my father said, ‘If you wish to see him, as I’m sure you do, you will find him on his boat, which is moored on the inlet which he habitually uses.’
‘Why not in the house with all of you?’ I demanded.
My father gave a brief chuckle. ‘I think your use of the words all of you provides the answer,’ he said. ‘It is a little crowded in our house, as you well know, and he professes to require long spells of solitude after spending any amount of time with us.’
‘The family is quite extensive,’ I said. ‘It’s rather a lot of new people for him to get used to.’
My mother gave a sort of harrumph. ‘Quite a lot for the people to get used to too, suddenly being told that he’s their true grandfather and they’ve got to welcome him to our hearth!’
My father reached out and took her hand, and his gesture seemed to comfort and calm her, as he always managed to do. He turned to her, and said softly, ‘It’s not been easy, I’ll grant you that.’ Still looking at her, he went on, ‘Your mother’s been magnificent, Lassair. Took the news in her stri
de and set about preparing a feast for him.’
Typical of my practical, down-to-earth mother, I thought. I wondered, as I often did, where we’d have been all my life without her.
‘You had a feast?’ They nodded in unison. ‘With everyone here?’ They nodded again. ‘How did it go?’
My father chuckled. ‘After one or two initial difficulties, such as your eldest sister refusing flatly to believe it and trying to order him out of the house, quite well, considering.’
‘She did what?’
I have to admit that I don’t really like my sister Goda. She is married to a man who seems to put up with her bullying, self-dramatizing personality, and in fairness she has learned to be a thrifty and efficient wife and mother. But she’s not a loving person.
‘She planted herself before Thorfinn, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face,’ my mother said, grinning, ‘and told him that her grandfather was her grandmother’s husband and he’d been called Haward, same as her brother, and she didn’t need another one, so he’d better be on his way and stop upsetting good folk with his lies and his false claims.’
‘What did Thorfinn do?’
‘Oh, he just stood there, holding his ground, smiling gently, and when she paused for breath he said, “My dear granddaughter, I appreciate your distress and I admire your spirit, but I fear you must open your eyes and look at what is before you.” Then he pulled Father to his side, and what with the pair of them looking so alike, even Goda had to see he was telling the truth, so she lifted her chin, looked him straight in the eye and told him he should have announced himself years ago.’
She had his sort of courage, I reflected. She was, after all, his grandchild. ‘How did he respond?’
My father laughed again. ‘He said she was quite right, apologized and tried to put his arms round her, but she wouldn’t let him.’
‘She stayed for the feast, though,’ my mother said with a touch of malice. ‘Ate as much as the rest of her lot put together, just as she always does. It takes more than a long-lost grandfather popping up to put Goda off her food.’