by Alys Clare
I didn’t pause to look at the tiny, linen-wrapped body. It was probably too dark now to have made out any details, but I didn’t want to put it to the test. I did notice that there was a scent of flowers coming up out of the ground, and this made me smile once more.
Now I had to replace the stone slab. This was a little easier, and I managed it without causing myself too much additional pain. When it had settled back into its accustomed slot, I smoothed the turf back over it. I stood up to inspect my work. I reckoned nobody would know what I’d just done unless I told them.
And who was there to come and search? My family were the only people who came out to the island, and only on the rare days that had some significance in the lives of our ancestors here. When several people wished to make the crossing, there was a stock of planks that we used to make a temporary bridge, supported by bracing struts affixed to stakes of old dark wood that our forebears had driven down into the black fen mud. But the planks and the bracing struts were not kept anywhere near the island.
It had been dry, as I’ve said. As I gave my thanks and made my farewells to Granny Cordeilla and waded back to land, I turned to look out over the fen. Then I did something I’ve only done once before and then under Gurdyman’s tuition, for it is deep magic.
I prayed for rain.
Rain, to raise the level of the fen and prevent anybody from even being tempted to make the crossing to the island.
When I’d finished, panting, sweating – spell-casting is far more exhausting than I could ever have imagined – I went back to the village.
As later I settled down to sleep beside the hearth in Froya’s house, I reflected how odd it was that only a short time after I’d been out in the darkness spell-making, I was inside a snug little house being lectured by the kind-hearted, anxious woman who’d been looking after me. ‘You shouldn’t have gone out at all, Lassair, never mind for so long!’ she’d whispered worriedly when I returned. Glancing at the sleeping figure of Sibert, she went on, ‘Are you sure you have taken no harm? You’re not in pain?’
I assured her I was all right. It was a lie, as I was in fact in considerable pain, but, bearing in mind what I was about to tell her, it didn’t seem wise to say so.
‘Froya, the man who was here earlier is someone I know very well,’ I said very quietly. ‘He needs me to help him with something he has to do, and I’ve agreed to do so.’ She began to protest, as I’d known she would, but I took her hand and spoke over her. ‘I must go,’ I said firmly. ‘Sibert is almost back to normal now, and no longer needs my care. You’ve been so kind to me, and I’ll never forget it, but you know what’s happened to me.’ She nodded, wide, pale eyes intent on mine. ‘There are consequences,’ I went on, ‘one of which is that I’m very sad, and very confused.’
‘Of course you are,’ she breathed.
‘I can’t make any decisions all the time I stay here,’ I murmured. ‘I can truly be of use to – to my friend, so I’ve decided I may as well do as he asks.’
‘But are you sure you’re well enough?’ Her smooth brow crumpled into a frown.
‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘We’ll be riding, not walking, so it won’t be all that demanding.’ I almost believed myself.
‘I can’t stop you,’ Froya muttered. ‘I—’
‘Then don’t try.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘But even though you’ve already done so much for me, there’s one last thing I need to ask of you.’
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I have to leave very early in the morning, and there won’t be time to speak to my parents or – or to the rest of my family.’ There was no need to mention my aunt Edild by name. ‘Would you tell them I’ve left? That I’ve had a summons from a friend and have gone to assist him?’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Your kin are used to your absences,’ she added. ‘They appear to bear them with equanimity.’ She shot me a glance. ‘As long as you always come back.’
It was with that veiled reminder that people loved me and would grieve to lose me, and that I had a duty to them to take care, that she had left me to return to her own bed.
I was awake before dawn. I slid out from under the covers, folding them and placing them on top of the rolled-up mattress in their daytime place in the corner of the room. I put on my outer garments, slung the strap of my leather satchel across my body – it hadn’t taken long to pack my few possessions – and picked up my cloak and shawl. I stood for a moment, looking at Sibert, then at Froya. I sent them my most grateful thanks, Froya in particular, and a blessing. Then I opened the door, closing it quietly behind me, and set out in the misty grey half-light for the oak tree to wait for Rollo.
I didn’t wait long. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, over behind the church, and presently three shapes emerged from the cloudy white veil that had rolled off the water to fill the lower ground. Rollo walked ahead, leading two horses. Both were bays and had a distinct look of having come from the same dam. As they drew closer and I could make out more detail I saw that one was a mare and one a gelding, and both were quite a lot bigger than any horse I’d ever ridden.
‘Good morning,’ Rollo greeted me. ‘You’re very prompt. Did you sleep?’
‘Yes.’
He leaned closer, frowning. ‘You still look very pale. Are you sure you’re all right? We’ll be riding for much of the day.’
‘I’ll tell you if I’m not,’ I said shortly. I wasn’t at all sure about my ability to ride at all, never mind for much of the day, but I wasn’t going to say so.
‘I thought you’d like the mare,’ he went on, ‘since she’s slightly smaller, but you can have the gelding if you prefer.’
Up close, both horses looked huge. ‘The mare is fine,’ I said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Starlight.’
‘Isn’t that more appropriate for a pale-coloured horse?’ The mare had shoved her nose into my hand, and I smiled.
‘Push her mane off her brow,’ Rollo said.
I did so, revealing a large white star. ‘What’s yours called?’
‘Bruno.’ He was busy with the bags, checking the fastenings. ‘I have clothing for you – for us both – fit for our roles of a wealthy lord and his lady, but we’ll ride for a while before we change into them. There’s no need for disguises until we’re going to be among other people.’ He looked at me. ‘We need to go north, eventually joining up with the great road that runs up the east coast. Is there a way you can take us that avoids returning south towards Cambridge?’
I didn’t much want to go anywhere near Cambridge either.I thought hard. ‘It’s possible in a dry season to go due west across the fens,’ I said after a moment. ‘You head for Ely, then across the marsh to Chatteris, and eventually you get to Peterborough. Although it can be treacherous and it’s very hard to find, there is a safe way, provided the water level is not too high.’
He was staring straight into my eyes. ‘I remember the safe way from Ely to your village,’ he said very softly.
I drew in a sharp breath. Of course he did: I took him on it soon after our first meeting. Circumstances had forced my hand and given me no option but to try out the strange skill I seemed to possess, of finding things that were hidden to others’ eyes. When I was a child, I’d used it to locate lost objects. That day, on the cusp between girlhood and womanhood, I’d used it to save three lives.1
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘It’s been dry recently,’ he went on in his normal voice. ‘Will we come to grief if we take this secret path?’
‘I can only do my best,’ I replied.
‘That’s good enough for me.’ He helped me up into the saddle, checked the stirrup leathers and the girths, and mounted the other horse. Then he extended his hand, palm uppermost in invitation, and said, ‘Lead on.’
I remembered last night, when I had stood on the land facing the island and done everything within my power to bring on rain. Now, I sent up an even more urgent plea that it wouldn’t
begin to fall until we’d reached the far side of the fens.
I soon discovered that having something of vital importance to absorb every bit of my mind was just what I needed. From the moment when, off to the north of Aelf Fen, I led us down onto the first of the winding, narrow, perilous little paths across the marshland, everything else, including my own discomfort, melted away.
It’s very hard to describe the dowsing ability – of which this finding of the secret way was, I suppose, a part – to someone who can’t do it. You have to put your mind in a light trance state, deliberately emptying it. My aunt Edild, who first encouraged me to develop the skill, used to say, ‘Breathe deeply. Put aside everything else and concentrate. The ways are there and will reveal themselves to you. Be calm.’
It helps, I find, to ask the spirits for their assistance. They are always there, although I don’t know who or what they are. Here in the fens and close to my own village, I suspect they are the shades of my ancestors. It’s a reassuring thought.
That day, with Rollo, the spirits were both listening and in a helpful mood. As we set out along the tricky little track – it appeared to be the only ribbon of firm ground in a vast expanse of water and bog – I felt the tingle of their presence. And, as I stared ahead, I saw the path quite clearly, snaking ahead of me, twisting this way and that across the fen and lit by a very pale, blueish light. All I had to do was keep faith with those who I felt so close beside me and keep going.
It wasn’t easy. At times our horses splashed through water, occasionally rising almost up to their bellies. At times the path doubled back on itself, so that I thought I’d missed the way and was about to get us fatally lost. But when that happened, I put myself deeper in my trance and let my guides take over. And, an unknowable amount of time later – the sun was quite high, so morning must have been well advanced – we were on a stretch of higher, firmer ground and Rollo, breaking a very long silence, said, ‘I believe that must be Ely.’
He was pointing over to the south, to where the bulk of an island rose up out of the mist. I heard a song of triumph in my head, and for a moment felt relief flood through me. But then I thought, We are less than halfway across, and the next part I have never tried, and I didn’t feel so confident.
It took us until the sun was going down, directly ahead of us, to reach the far side of the fens. We had passed Chatteris – I sent words of love to my dearest Elfritha, there in her convent living the life she had yearned for since childhood – and silently asked her to pray for the safety of whatever mission Rollo had persuaded me to join him in. But I was in an odd frame of mind, in which it didn’t seem to matter very much what happened to me. Then, perhaps six or seven miles after Chatteris, Rollo and I realized simultaneously that the watery crossing was behind us.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘I knew you were the person to do it, if anyone could.’
I looked at him. ‘To get you across the fens without returning to Cambridge, you mean? Well, that’s good. I’m glad I’ve been of use.’
He picked up the irony, and must have understood instantly that his remark hadn’t been very tactful. ‘Lassair, it’s a bonus that you have this strange skill,’ he said softly. ‘It’s not why I wanted your company. Of course it isn’t!’ he added forcefully.
I smiled, and we rode on.
We found a humble inn beside the track to spend the night. It wasn’t much – it wasn’t very clean, and the only accommodation was a couple of spaces on the straw of the communal bed chamber – but we were utterly spent, as were the horses, and neither of us wanted to ride any further. I sensed that the weather was changing. The skies had been clear all day but now clouds were building in the south-west. Besides, I was in quite a lot of pain – I’d only stayed on the bay mare for the last few miles by willpower and the anticipation of dosing myself from the remedies in my satchel as soon as we stopped – and anything would have done. As it turned out, the evening meal – shared with a handful of other weary travellers, the tavern keeper, his wife and his daughter – was very good (or possibly Rollo and I were very hungry), and the ale was excellent. I’d asked for hot water as soon as we’d arrived, and, the pain-easing draught having already taken effect, I was able to enjoy both to the full. When we stumbled our way to bed, I fell asleep almost as soon as I’d rolled myself up in my cloak.
Just before oblivion took me, I heard the rain begin.
We left early, not pausing to eat but taking fresh bread and a couple of slices of smoked ham with us to consume on the way. Rollo, I sensed, wanted to be off before anyone got a good look at us in daylight.
It was apparent that it had been raining for much of the night, although now it had eased off to a fine, soft drizzle that wasn’t all that distinguishable from low cloud. I looked out over the water, just visible in the distance over to our right. Had anyone been attempting to follow the path we’d taken yesterday, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. And I thought, as well, that the water level on the edge of Aelf Fen would also have risen, making access to the island far more difficult.
It was reassuring to feel that the spirits were still on our side.
When we’d ridden for perhaps two or three miles, Rollo led the way off the remote track we were on – we hadn’t seen a soul – and under the shelter of a dense stand of pines. He dismounted, indicating that I should do the same. We ate our bread and ham, drank some water, and then he unfastened one of the bags tied behind his saddle. ‘It’s time,’ he said, drawing out rolled-up garments and a pair of boots in very shiny chestnut leather, ‘to adopt our new personas.’ He turned to me with a grin. ‘You first, my lady.’
I watched as he spread my new clothes out on the thick carpet of pine needles. Underlinen, beautifully made, the fabric fine and delicate, with pin-tucking around the neck. A gown in soft, supple wool, in a shade of deep, brownish red that I’d never seen before, let alone worn. Those boots, as soft to the touch as their appearance had led me to suspect. And, last of all, a cloak, hooded, fur-lined, in a shade just a little deeper than the gown.
‘I won’t need that,’ I said, pointing at the cloak. ‘I already have one.’ I held up a fold of the cloak that Jack had bought for me.
Rollo gave it a swift glance and said, ‘Put yours away and take this one. It’s warmer and of much better quality.’
He doesn’t know, I told myself very firmly. He cannot possibly be aware that Jack gave me my cloak. That hearing him dismiss it so decisively is hurting me like a thin blade in the heart.
I was still holding Jack’s cloak between my hands. Out of my memories I saw him, the day he’d presented me with it. He’d still been so ill that he couldn’t even sit up, and I’d been trying to persuade him to eat, although he’d kept saying he felt too sick.
Jack.
You left Jack, I reminded myself.
I took off the cloak, rolled it carefully and gave it to Rollo to pack away. Then I picked up the beautiful garments lying on the grass and went behind a tree to change into them.
I forced myself to think of everyday, practical matters. I was now dressed as a lady, so I should brush out and re-braid my hair. One of my own white caps would do, since I made sure to buy the finest I could afford; they were, I felt, the badge I wore to show that I was a healer, and must be the best. I could draw up the hood of my dark red cloak over the cap, and look as fine as any lady riding out with her lord.
I stepped out from behind the tree. I didn’t know why I’d been so modest; Rollo and I had briefly been lovers, a long time ago, and our bodies held no secrets for each other. But that was then, and this was now.
He too had changed into new, rich garments and he looked superb. He had shaved and his bright fair hair hung brushed and glossy to his shoulders. As he turned to look at me, his dark brown eyes widened. ‘My lady,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘My lord,’ I replied, taking it.
He was still looking at me. When he spoke – he said, ‘What shall we call ourselves?’ – I had the
sense that he was having to force his mind away from wherever it was.
‘I’ve always liked the name Sybil,’ I said. I was still holding his hand, and my blood was pounding. It was an effort to speak lightly.
‘Lady Sybil,’ he repeated. ‘And I’ll be Odo. I look like a Norman, so I’d better have a well-known Norman name.’
‘And where do we come from, if anybody should enquire?’
‘If they do, we’ll tell them to mind their own business. If they persist, we’ll say London. We’ll be on the road that leads north from London, so that’ll be credible.’
‘We’re travelling to the home of my sister Hild,’ I went on, ‘who is newly wed to a fine young lord with estates near Lincoln, where I am to attend her in her first confinement.’
He grinned. ‘And if and when we get to Lincoln?’
‘We’ll simply move my imaginary sister’s location progressively further north.’
He helped me into the saddle. As I took up the reins, he frowned. ‘I forgot about gloves,’ he said. ‘No lady rides without them, so, the first chance we get, I’ll buy some.’
With that prosaic thought, we left our little pine wood and set out for the road leading into the north.
Jack Chevestrier was taking his daily exercise. Before she left, Lassair had told him – no, commanded him – to go out walking every day. She had explained how his body had become wasted after weeks of immobility, and she said the only way to restore himself to his former strength was to do a little more with each excursion.
It sounded sensible and sound. It was only once he’d begun putting the theory into practice that he understood something rather fundamental: she hadn’t told him how much it was going to hurt.
But he persevered. By the time she returned – again, the silent dialogue with himself allowed no room for doubt that she would return – he would be able to show her how faithfully he’d been following her orders.
Today the air smelt sweet after the heavy overnight rain. He paused on the Great Bridge to watch the water flowing slowly beneath. The level, he noticed absently, was quite a lot higher.