City of Pearl

by Alys Clare

  I woke to sunlight and a creaking sound: above my head, tilted at an angle, the sail was filled with the wind blowing steadily out of the west. At some point while I slept we had emerged from the narrow, twisting waterways into one of the many places where several of them combine to make areas of relatively open water, and the oarsmen were taking a well-earned rest.

  Gurdyman was standing in the stern talking to Alun and the woman with the infant was sitting beside me, trying to get the child to eat bread dipped in milk. I got up, folded my blanket and cloak, then went along the deck to use the boat’s rudimentary hygiene provisions, which consisted of a bucket behind a flimsy screen for bodily waste and another one of river water for washing. Not that many of the passengers and crew would have utilized the latter, I thought, although I did. My early training with my aunt had drummed it into me that nobody should start the day’s work without clean hands but particularly not a healer.

  When I returned to our place, the little boy was grizzling. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ I asked his mother.

  ‘He had a fever, but it’s gone now.’ She frowned down at her son, one hand gently stroking his soft brown hair. ‘He’s hungry but he won’t eat.’

  The little boy was peering shyly up at me from the safety of his mother’s arms. ‘Is that right?’ I said to him. He nodded. ‘You don’t want the milk sops your mother has for you?’ He shook his head violently. ‘Hmm,’ I said, putting on a pretend frown. ‘I wonder if a honey cake might tempt you?’

  His big hazel eyes lit up. I reached into the food bag that Gurdyman and I had brought with us and extracted a small round cake. I could see that the little boy wanted to grab it and stuff it whole into his mouth, but he had been well taught, and he took it from me between finger and thumb and whispered something that was probably his version of ‘Thank you.’

  Then he stuffed it whole into his mouth.

  He became my friend after that, and I shared with him a sample of the delicacies we’d packed. Appetite comes with eating, they say, and it was true in his case. By mid-morning, he was wolfing down the milk sops and asking for more.

  He wasn’t my only patient. One of the monks had a sore foot; I’d noticed him limping when he came aboard, and it was clear this morning that he was in pain. I went over to him.

  ‘Would you like me to have a look?’ I asked him.

  He was old, with an almost bald head and a thin face that told of a hard life and years with not enough to eat. Although his companion – a man with dark eyes in a pale face and an unsmiling demeanour – was younger, he was clearly senior, for the old man looked at him before answering. The dark-eyed man gave a curt nod, then turned away as if he didn’t want to witness his companion’s self-indulgence. Kneeling before the old monk, I drew off the worn sandal.

  His feet were in a dreadful state, with cracked crusts of hard skin around the heels and long, yellowish toenails. I could see straight away what pained him: on the big toe of his right foot he had a huge whitlow. The tip of his toe was a hard scarlet ball, the skin swollen and hot to the touch, and the side of the nail was full of pus. I reached for my satchel, took out my little pouch of tools and extracted a thin, sharp blade, which I wiped with lavender oil. Then, before the old monk properly understood what I was going to do, swiftly I lanced the swelling and, as gently as I could, pushed out the pus.

  It must have hurt like the very devil, but he didn’t cry out. Glancing up at him, I saw he was biting his lips, his face twisted in pain. One of the crew had provided a bowl of hot water, and I bathed the toe and wrapped it in a clean dressing. ‘You’ll need to change the dressing regularly,’ I said. ‘Will someone be able to do that for you?’

  From behind me the younger monk said, ‘Naturally,’ in a dismissive tone that suggested I’d been foolish even to ask. Then, tiring of the whole business, he strode away towards the bows.

  To my surprise, the old monk leaned down and winked at me. ‘I’m grateful to you, lass, but even more so to this toe of mine, for all it’s pained me, for it’s got me out of a long walk!’ He chuckled, nodding towards the stiff back of the younger monk. ‘Even he realized I couldn’t stumble and limp all the way from Cambridge to the coast!’

  The younger monk was still up in the bows, clearly intent on disassociating himself from the rest of us. I reached into Gurdyman’s and my food bag again and gave the old monk a honey cake. His expression of wonder at the taste – perhaps something he hadn’t experienced for decades – was something to behold.

  My last patient was the woman who had come on board with her husband. She was in her middle years and complained of a blinding headache; it was, she admitted, a regular occurrence. I gave her some of the willow powder I keep in my satchel, with instructions on how to take it, and squeezed out a cloth in cold water for her to put over her forehead. Some time later, she gave the cloth back to me, saying she was feeling much better. ‘I can’t pay you,’ she muttered right in my ear, ‘seeing as how he holds the purse strings’ – she shot a glance at her husband – ‘but I’d like you to have this.’ She pressed something small and round into my hand. ‘Don’t look at it now!’ she hissed. ‘He might see!’

  I waited until she had moved away and the husband wasn’t looking, then opened my hand. In it lay a pale little bead, a pearl, threaded onto a piece of finely plaited wool. For the briefest of moments, I heard that summertime drone of insects again, and had the weird and disorienting sensation that I was somewhere else. But then it went away, and I stared down at the pearl.

  It was beautiful, its lustre reflecting the soft light. I wondered where the woman had obtained it: it looked as if it had come from a rosary. I felt sad to think she had given away what must surely have been one of her few treasures, and, catching her eye, held it out to her, offering it back. She shook her head, smiling. ‘It’s for you,’ she mouthed.

  I was about to tuck it away in the belt around my waist, where I’d hidden Rollo’s gold and coins, when I saw Gurdyman staring at me. His face was ashen, his expression one of dread. I went to get up, thinking I should hurry over to him and ask what ailed him, but then he managed a smile – it looked more than a little forced – and turned away.

  Once again, I was struck by the unsettling realization that he was afraid.

  We reached Lynn very early the following morning, catching the last of the outgoing tide and sweeping along at a good pace. The Maid of the Marsh was skilfully steered to a free berth halfway along a quay lined with similar craft, and Gurdyman and I said our goodbyes to Alun and his crew and went ashore. Gurdyman led us to a quiet spot beneath a sturdy harbour wall, out of the path of the busy crowds, and there he stood, quite still, looking across at the larger, sea-going ships along the next quay. Guessing he was searching for a likely vessel for us, I left him to his contemplation, amusing myself by watching our fellow passengers disperse. The angry man and his wife passed quite close by. He ignored us so totally that our two nights and a day aboard a small river boat together might never have happened, but she turned and gave me a quick smile and mouthed Thank you. The woman and her little boy were running towards a slim, handsome man who was flying down the quayside to meet them, and their reunion, the man picking up his son and holding him high in the air, the child laughing wildly and the man’s face alight, while the woman looked on, tears of joy in her eyes, was a pleasure to witness. The two monks were the last to leave the boat, the younger one helping his companion and carrying both their small packs. The older monk, catching sight of me, turned and gave me a wink, and, from the roguish smile on his face, I surmised that his foot no longer pained him and that he would have been perfectly capable of carrying his own pack.

  After some time, Gurdyman came out of his reverie. ‘We shall seek our breakfast,’ he announced, ‘which I believe will be readily available, for wherever there is an assurance of many mouths to feed, somebody will be there making their living by fulfilling the need. And then’ – he turned and smiled at me – ‘we shall do the ro
unds of the ships over there’ – he pointed – ‘and find the one whose destination best suits our purpose.’

  We found a stall where a woman in a clean apron, her sleeves rolled up over strong, muscly arms, was doling out porridge from a big, bubbling vat into wooden bowls, and ate our portions standing on the quay. The porridge was delicious, and Gurdyman had a refill. Then we picked up our bags – the food bag felt light, for I had been too generous in sharing out its contents, and I mentioned to Gurdyman that we should replenish our stores before we set off again – and ventured out along the further quay.

  So many ships! Some were bound northwards, along the eastern coast of England to Scotland and beyond, to the cold, distant lands across the pale green seas. I had sailed that way, on a long, slender ship called Malice-striker which had taken me all the way to Iceland. Now, however, Gurdyman and I would be setting out in the opposite direction, and with reluctance I tore my gaze away from a beautiful craft that looked so similar to Malice-striker that, just for an instant, I thought I had been transported back into my own past.

  Gurdyman was leading us towards a line of perhaps half a dozen cargo ships, tied up nose to tail at the far end of the long quay. They were large, sturdy vessels with a mast and a square sail, as well as oars, with wide, open decks for cargo and, in some cases, small structures erected over the steerage oar so as to provide rudimentary shelter for the ship master and, perhaps, for passengers. Whichever would be our means of transport, I thought, we were not going to find any comforts other than those we provided for ourselves.

  I’d been feeling quite excited and almost cheerful as we came into Lynn. Now, with the uncomfortable realities of the next stage of our journey staring me in the face, my heart sank and my spirits drooped. I wanted to go home. But then I thought, where is home? My village, where my life of hard but satisfying work with my beloved aunt in her clean, cosy little cottage went for ever when she married Hrype? My parents’ home, where I knew I was always welcome but which I left behind me when first I moved out? In Cambridge, with Gurdyman? But he wasn’t in Cambridge any more, he was here, setting out on this voyage that seemed like something out of a fantasy, a dream, except that it wasn’t.

  With Jack?

  But Jack didn’t want me.

  I bowed my head, fighting a sudden desire to weep.

  Then Gurdyman said cheerfully, ‘I think we shall try our luck there, with the vessel at the end of the line – her name is the Amethyst – for I believe I recognize her master, and I know him to be a good man.’

  I looked up, sensing his abrupt movement away from me, and, shouldering my satchel, hurried after him.

  I stood and watched the conversation between Gurdyman and the ship’s master. He was a lean, rangy man, dark-haired, light-eyed, and he had an air of steadiness about him that immediately appealed. But as I leaned closer to hear what the two of them were saying, I noticed that he was shaking his head. ‘It’s late in the season for such a voyage, but you wouldn’t get passage all the way to Corunna at any time, not with one of us,’ he said. ‘Nobody from these parts ventures so far. Me, I rarely go further south than Bordeaux, and then only if there’s very good money in it.’ He grinned briefly.

  Gurdyman nodded, appearing undismayed. ‘How far can you take us?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sailing for the French coast as soon as we’ve finished loading,’ he said, ‘and our ultimate destination is St Malo. I’ll take you there, and gladly, for I know your coin is good.’

  Gurdyman smiled. ‘Thank you. We have indeed had many dealings with each other, and you have worked hard for me, often bringing home goods from faraway places that I had despaired of finding.’

  ‘I like a challenge,’ the master observed.

  ‘You think we will be able to find ships prepared to take us on south?’ Gurdyman asked.

  ‘Probably,’ the master replied. ‘Far more ships take on passengers these days, what with the pilgrimage route to Santiago, although, as I said, we’re too near winter now and few are making the journey. You’ll have to take it in stages, mind, but at least a spell in port while you find your next ship will give you a chance to recover from the time at sea.’

  I had begun to feel optimistic again as he spoke, but at his last words my misery threatened to return.

  ‘We are good sailors,’ Gurdyman said stoutly. ‘Lassair here’ – he turned to include me – ‘has sailed into the north and returned to tell the tale, and this is far from being my first sea voyage.’

  The master grinned. ‘It’s not so much your own seasickness, it’s witnessing and dealing with everyone else’s,’ he said. ‘Plus the crowded quarters, the lack of anything to do to pass the long hours, the cold, the wet, the general discomfort, and the scorn of a crew of busy, overworked sailors who tend to despise those with the time, the leisure and the money to sit on their backsides and be taken by others’ hard work on pilgrimages. Not my crew,’ he added, ‘I wouldn’t let them be so discourteous to paying passengers.’

  ‘We are not going on pilgrimage,’ Gurdyman said mildly.

  The master looked at him in amazement. ‘Then why in the name of sweet Jesus are you putting yourselves through so much hardship and peril?’

  ‘My mother and father are buried in Galicia, and I have not yet visited their graves,’ Gurdyman replied.

  I managed not to show my surprise, for this was the first time he had mentioned this fact as the reason for our journey, and I didn’t for a moment believe it was the true one. Was it merely a convenient excuse, designed to satisfy the curious?

  If so, it worked, for the scorn and disbelief on the master’s face turned to respect and even, perhaps, admiration. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall do what I can to assist you, and you are welcome on board my ship.’

  We had time for some hurried provisioning, and a stallholder took pity on us and helped us carry our purchases – cheese, dried meat, some apples, bread, a little barrel of small beer – to the ship. Gurdyman went on aboard the Amethyst, but I darted back to another stall and purchased ginger and cloves; if there was to be seasickness among the passengers, then I knew ginger to be a good remedy, and cloves were good for easing the pain of toothache, such a common ailment and one which, out at sea where there would be no hope of immediate access to relief unless someone like me could provide it, would instantly become ten times worse.

  I looked around. Was there anything else I should buy? I couldn’t think; all this was new and strange, and I was lost.

  But just then, when despair threatened to flood over me, Gurdyman’s bald-topped, silver-encircled head appeared over the ship’s side and he said cheerfully, ‘Hurry up, child, I’ve found a splendid place for us and I want you to see it!’

  I looked up and found myself responding to his smile. ‘I’m coming!’ I called back.

  The plank that linked the Amethyst to the quay was a good deal more sturdy and substantial than that of The Maid of the Marsh, with a handrail on one side, and I ran up it confidently and easily. Hoping that my sure-footedness was a good omen, I crossed the broad deck and went to join Gurdyman.

  A little over a fortnight after Gurdyman and Lassair’s departure, Hrype was honouring his undertaking to his old friend. Cautiously, not wanting to be observed, he negotiated the maze of lanes leading off the market square and paused in the shadowy alleyway outside Gurdyman’s house. Presently he would go inside and, he decided, spend the night in the house.

  It was late in the day, and the gathering darkness exacerbated the sense of something being not quite right. He stood quite still for a moment, trying to analyse what was amiss. There was a presence, quite unmistakable to a man such as he; the same dark, powerful presence he’d felt down in the crypt with Gurdyman.

  He recognized it and then, not without effort, put it aside.

  He held the big iron key ready in his hand. But just then he heard footfalls somewhere nearby, and quickly slipped into the deeply shaded angle formed by the protruding porch o
f a house a little further up the alley. He waited until the footfalls started to fade away and he could be certain not to be observed. Although he knew Gurdyman would welcome his presence in the house – why else, indeed, had he provided the key? – something was warning Hrype not to let anyone else know he was there.

  Despite the fact that whoever had made the footsteps was moving off, still he sensed a presence.

  That dark, potent presence.

  He leaned forward, watching without being seen, but there was nobody there. He had observed before the strange behaviour of sounds in this maze of little alleys and passageways off the market square, so that sometimes you would have sworn sounds came from very close at hand whereas in reality they were merely an echo of something further off.

  The footfalls had stopped.

  Just for a moment, Hrype had a brilliantly clear image of someone else stopping and listening, just as he was. This other someone was waiting to see what he would do next.

  But surely that was mere fancy, for nobody knew he was here.

  He stood, still and silent.

  The distant hum of noise from the market square faded and died, and he imagined the last of the stallholders packing up and heading for home, some cheerful after a successful day, some disgruntled and hoping for better things tomorrow.

  At last, all was quiet.

  Hrype walked on soft feet up to the door, unlocked it, opened it a crack and slipped inside, closing and bolting it behind him.

  And wondering, all the time he did so, why he felt so apprehensive.