by Alys Clare
‘You must have been quite a crowd,’ I remarked, trying not to sound wistful.
‘Oh, we were, and then a day or so later some of the cousins turned up, word having spread, and we had to do it all again.’ Her smile widened. ‘The old man began to look quite furtive by the end of it, as if he was looking for somewhere to go and hide where he could get away from us all.’
I thought back to my grandfather’s home in Iceland. There, too, his living space was shared with many other people – relatives, servants, general hangers-on – but it was a great deal more spacious than our small house, and, in addition, I seemed to recall that as the head of the household, he had reserved a sacrosanct corner just for himself.
No wonder he needed to spend time alone on his boat.
‘Did you have some special reason for wanting to see him?’ my mother now asked. I noticed that she was looking at me shrewdly, as if she had already half-guessed that I hadn’t come merely for a social visit.
‘Oh, no, I—’ I began. But then I thought, why not tell them? It was rare to find the two of them at home during the day with nobody else present, and it seemed as if fate had generously provided me with this opportunity to tell them my news without half a dozen other people exclaiming, butting in and giving their opinion.
‘Well, actually Gurdyman has asked me to go on a journey with him,’ I said.
They were both looking at me expectantly, as if to say, Yes? Go on then, tell us all about it!
‘You’re his pupil,’ my father said after a moment when I didn’t speak. ‘I suppose travelling to other places is all part of your instruction?’ He turned it into a question, and I didn’t really have an answer.
‘I’ve gone to local places with him, of course,’ I said eventually; my mother was beginning to look concerned at my hesitation, as if she had already made up her mind that I was trying to break some terrible tidings to them and didn’t know how, which in fact wasn’t far from the truth, and I knew I had to explain. ‘But this is a little different, because we’ll be travelling to Spain.’
Both of them repeated the last word, in very different ways: my father said it with excitement and even a tinge of envy; my mother with horror, as if I’d announced I was going to be dragged down to hell.
‘Before you ask, I don’t know why we’re going, at least, not yet, because Gurdyman hasn’t told me. But it’s no cause for worry,’ I hurried on, for my mother was still looking aghast, ‘because Gurdyman lived there when he was younger, first in some village on the pilgrimage trail where his parents ran an inn, and later further south, where he was taught by very wise men who—’ I stopped abruptly, for I didn’t think it was the moment to mention the arcane skills that Gurdyman had learned in Muslim Spain – ‘er, who taught him a lot about everything.’
My father’s eyes upon mine told me that he knew perfectly well what I’d been about to say, and also that he wasn’t going to tell my mother either.
‘Spain!’ my mother said again after a moment, this time in a hushed whisper. Then, nervously, ‘I suppose he knows his way about, and how to look after himself?’ And you, hung unsaid in the air.
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said confidently. ‘He’s been everywhere, and long journeys hold no fears for him.’
I hoped, even as I spoke, that my confidence was not misplaced.
I set out to see Thorfinn.
I found his boat just where I’d expected to, and, just as he always did, he had rigged up a cover over the narrow deck and made a camp on the bank, where a fire smouldered gently in a ring of stones. I called out as I hurried along the last stretch of the high bank towards his mooring, and he drew aside the heavy awning and climbed ashore. Just as my father had done, he took me in a wordless embrace.
When he let me go, he held me at arm’s length and stared into my face. He frowned. ‘Ah,’ he breathed. Then, very kindly, ‘You must give it time, child.’
He too had witnessed my grief.
‘Can we go onto the boat?’ I asked, trying to sound bright. ‘There is something I must tell you.’
He nodded, holding aside the awning for me to step aboard. When he too was seated, I told him my news.
But, strangely, I had the impression that he already knew I was going away, and where I was going.
‘It is a land full of marvels and magic,’ he said distantly.
I was very surprised. ‘You know it? You’ve been there?’
He smiled. ‘I have been everywhere,’ he murmured. Then he said in a more normal tone, ‘Like many of my countrymen, I ventured inland up its great waterways, always exploring, always pushing on.’ Abruptly he stopped.
But I could have continued for him, for I remembered what he had told me of his past: how, after the shining stone had come into his possession, he had believed himself invincible. Speaking of himself as he once was, he had said, The gods observe those who are brash and overconfident, and, in time, remind them forcefully and painfully that they are but human.
Thorfinn had drawn back from the gravest peril, saving both his crew and, eventually, himself, although the latter had been my grandmother Cordeilla’s work. Perceiving that the shining stone would otherwise tear him asunder, he had left it in her keeping, and in time it had passed to me.
I felt a darkness in the close confines of the boat that was nothing to do with the absence of light. And I was beset with the strange thought that I was standing on the very fringe of something very important; something others knew of but that was outside my ken. So far …
I shuddered.
My grandfather noticed, or, more likely, he too sensed the strange, unsettling mood. He pushed back the awning, the low, golden sunlight poured in and he said brightly, ‘You’ll be wanting to get back to the village before sunset. I’ll walk some of the way with you.’
One other strange thing happened before he left me on the path. We said our farewells with a hug, and then, stepping back, he said, just as Gurdyman did, ‘When you set out, you must not leave the shining stone behind.’
‘Why?’ I whispered.
He was about to tell me something – I could see it in every inch of him – but he stopped himself. Instead he said, with a slight tone of reproof, ‘Because it is a part of you now, child, as of course you know very well, and you will do better when it is with you.’
Before I went back to the village I went out to the island where some of the family ancestors lie buried. I waded across the narrow stretch of water, climbed onto the grassy shore and made my way to Granny Cordeilla’s grave. I knelt down and spoke to her.
‘I left something with you last time I came to see you,’ I reminded her. ‘It was given to me to take care of, and to hide away in a place where nobody would find it. He’s gone now, the man who gave it to me, and so it’s mine.’
For as Rollo lay dying in my arms he said, I have gold. Some you already have, for you hid it for me. He had also left a great deal more with a woman in Cambridge who was one of his local agents, and he had spoken of that too. He said I was to seek her out, and he told me where to find her. Tell her who you are. Tell her I said you’re to have it all.
I remembered the woman’s name: Eleanor de Lacey. And that she lived beside the river. I didn’t think she would be hard to find, and I was sure there would be no difficulty over getting her to obey Rollo’s last instruction. But I hadn’t sought her out. I was afraid of doing so, for telling her what had happened to him, breaking the news of his death, was something I didn’t believe I could face. Not yet. Apart from anything else, telling outsiders meant it became a generally-known fact and there would no longer be anywhere to hide from it.
I felt tears on my cheeks.
Then I thought I heard Granny Cordeilla’s voice. You’re in pain, child, and it will be that way for a long time.
‘I know!’ I sobbed. ‘I don’t know how to bear it!’
But you are bearing it, she replied.
I bent forward over the cold earth and the stone beneath which she la
y, folded my arms and dropped my head onto them, and for some time I simply sobbed. After a while I felt a bit better.
I moved the stone aside and reached down into my grandmother’s tomb for the large leather bag that Rollo had entrusted to me. I dragged it out, not without difficulty for it was weighty. I pulled at the drawstrings that held it closed until I had made a space big enough for my hand and reached down inside. I felt the hard round shapes of a huge hoard of coins and, closing my fist around a handful, drew them out.
The late sunlight caught answering flashes from the shiny metal. Many of the coins were of gold and looked new-minted, their images sharp and unworn. I had no idea of their value; I wondered, however, whether attempting to use them as currency for everyday transactions might arouse suspicion, since I knew I didn’t look like a wealthy woman. There was also a large number of silver pennies, some of them clipped, some of them, like the gold coins, bright and new. I had no idea what was a reasonable sum to take upon a long journey to a far country. I was ignorant in such matters.
So I extracted a dozen gold coins and some fifty pennies, as well as some other coins of varying sizes that I was unable to identify, and put them into the linen bag I’d brought for the purpose. I was going to fashion a body belt to wear beneath my clothes, and keep only a small amount of cash in the purse that hung from my belt. I might be ignorant about money but I knew all about human greed, and it seemed folly to put temptation in the way of my future travelling companions and the many people I would be meeting along the way.
I closed the leather bag and replaced it in Granny Cordeilla’s grave. I pushed the stone back into place, then bent to bestow a final kiss upon it.
‘Goodbye for now,’ I whispered. ‘Wish me good luck.’
God’s speed, child, she replied. May the ancestors protect you.
Then there was silence.
As I had expected, it was too late now to return to Cambridge that day, even mounted on a fine horse. As I made my way back to my parents’ house, I made a small detour and tapped softly on my aunt Edild’s door. She is a healer and had been my first teacher, and during the years I worked with her I lived beneath her roof. But now she was married to the man who had long been her lover, although barely a soul had known about it. I was very wary of Hrype. To begin with he had clearly been fond of me, and it had been he who introduced me to Gurdyman …
As I recalled that fact, I felt a brief resurgence of that strange sensation I’d felt on Thorfinn’s boat. Just for a moment, I heard a fragment of sound: at first it was the drone of a thousand invisible insects in a summer woodland, but then I thought I heard human voices mingled in it and there was a sudden plink, as of metal striking stone, deep, echoing and resonant.
Then it was gone and I was back in the present.
Since I had been Gurdyman’s pupil – I picked up on the thought – my relationship with Hrype had undergone a drastic change, and now I sensed hostility from him every time we met. Since this was more than enough reason to avoid him, I preferred to stay in my parents’ busy little house whenever I spent the night in Aelf Fen.
As I stood waiting for Edild’s response to my knock, I prayed that she would be alone.
She opened the door and the familiar smells of herbs and sweet incense surrounded me in a cloud, and warmth like an embrace poured out from the lively fire in the hearth. Her face lit up and she stepped forward to greet me with a hug. She was indeed alone, and I suppressed the unkind thought that Hrype’s presence might have tempered her welcome.
‘Come in,’ she said, taking my hand and leading me inside. ‘Are you staying? Hrype is away,’ she added, and, again, I wondered if the invitation was issued only because he wasn’t there.
Stop it, I ordered myself. She loves you, she probably misses you, and she’s asked you to stay for no other reasons than those.
‘I’d love to have done,’ I said honestly, ‘but my parents are expecting me back.’ I hesitated. ‘I didn’t know you’d be alone.’
She met my eyes. I knew she understood. She nodded, turning away. ‘Then at least come and sit by the fire a while, and let me make you a refreshing drink,’ she said. I thought her voice sounded falsely bright, but it was probably just my imagination.
I studied her as she set about selecting herbs for my drink, which she sweetened with a big dollop of honey. She was humming as her busy hands worked, and a sweet expression softened her features. There was no need to ask if she was happy. She was probably only unhappy, I thought, when her niece and her husband were both under her roof and she had to put up with – and try to diffuse – the antipathy between them.
‘I came to tell you all that Gurdyman’s taking me on a journey,’ I said when we were both settled by the hearth. I told her the details, such as they were, again explaining that as yet he’d revealed very little about our purpose.
‘You say he spent his young life there?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She nodded thoughtfully. Then she said, ‘He grows old, Lassair.’
I was going to ask her how she knew that, since to the best of my knowledge she and Gurdyman hadn’t met, but then I remembered that Gurdyman and Hrype had known each other a long time and saw each other regularly. No doubt Hrype talked to her about his old friend. ‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘Then perhaps this mission is no more than an elderly man’s wish to revisit the places of his youth.’
‘Perhaps.’ I hesitated, for I very much wanted to share my thoughts – my apprehension, if I’m honest – with someone close to me. She was looking at me, with such concern in her eyes that I knew I could speak. ‘Please don’t tell anyone this, Edild, especially not Mother or Father, but I think there’s more to it than that.’ I paused, then plunged on. ‘I think we’re going to the place where he began to be what he now is.’ I was watching her closely and her swift nod told me she understood. ‘I think he wants me to—’
To learn from those who taught him, was what I’d been about to say, but I stopped myself. It sounded so arrogant, as if an outstanding practitioner such as Gurdyman was no longer sufficient for me.
She nodded again. Then she said calmly, ‘Well, you are his pupil, Lassair. It is a part of his duty to ensure that you encounter others who are so much further advanced in the arts.’ That put me in my place. ‘It is, after all, what I did,’ she added more gently. ‘You were my pupil first, and then, when it began to appear that you had aptitude in areas in which I could not instruct you, another teacher was found.’
I reached out for her hand. ‘I’ve never forgotten our days here together,’ I said quietly.
She lifted our joined hands and put a soft kiss onto mine. ‘Neither have I.’
I spent a happy evening with my family. Haward, Zarina and their children joined us for supper and the gathering became cheerful, full of laughter and deep affection.
And at last, my mind so full with the daily doings, the preoccupations, the worries and the joys of my family and my home village that there was barely any room for apprehension about the coming journey, I settled down in my usual corner, wrapped myself in my shawl and my mother’s soft wool blanket and went to sleep.
TWO
I was back in Cambridge by noon on the following day. I delivered Starlight back to her stable, grateful all over again for the gift of her that had saved me a long walk on what had turned out to be a chilly morning. She nuzzled into my chest as I patted her and stroked her graceful neck up under her thick mane, muttering my thanks. ‘I’m going away for a while,’ I whispered to her – she flicked her ears at the sound of my voice – ‘but I will come back.’
I’ll swear she knew what I was saying and that her gentle exhalation of breath was her response. I thought of Rollo, giving her to me. He’d had the two horses with him, Starlight and his gelding. I thought you’d like the mare, he said, as she’s slightly smaller. The words were not profound, not romantic or remotely loving: purely practical. But still the memory of them was undermining me.
Such is the nature of grief.
I had recovered myself by the time I was back at Gurdyman’s house. I had just deposited my leather satchel up the ladder in my little attic room when I heard him in the corridor below.
‘I need you to go out again straight away, Lassair,’ he called out, ‘so keep your shawl about you.’
I went down to him. ‘Where am I to go?’
‘To the quay, where you are to find us a craft that will transport us by the fenland waterways up to the coast – to Lynn, I think would be best – so that we may pick up a sea-going ship.’ He held out a small purse. ‘Here is some money, if you need to pay in advance to ensure our passage.’
‘And’ – I needed to make sure I understood – ‘I’m to ask about that, too? The sea-going ship?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t mention that.’
‘Why?’
He gave me a strange look, half admonishing, half furtive. Guilty, even. ‘Oh, no particular reason,’ he said, smiling broadly and not entirely convincingly. ‘Simply that it’s probably best not to advertise the details of our comings and goings where there is no need for it.’
Then, before I could pursue the matter – for surely we were advertising our movements already by taking a boat up through the fens to the coast? – he muttered something about an experiment to watch and hurried away down the passage and back to his crypt.
And I knew he had just told me a lie, because he’d said only a couple of days ago that he was packing away all his equipment prior to our departure and improving on the moment by having a good sort out.
There was no experiment to watch.
I left the house and strode off through the maze of narrow passages, emerging onto the main road that runs south-east to north-west beside the centre of the town and that leads up to the Great Bridge. I turned off to the right just before the bridge, leaping down onto the quayside. Ahead of me, up on its artificial mound to the right of the road, was the castle, and I was very glad my errand hadn’t sent me there. Jack lived in the deserted settlement beyond the castle where the workmen who built it had dwelled. Had he seen me nearby, he might have thought that I was lurking around in the hope of meeting him. That I was going to beg him again to let me go back to him.