by Alys Clare
‘And your sister, too,’ she murmured.
He wasn’t going to let her go on doing it; go on making him believe she had some sort of vision into his soul. ‘Obviously she did,’ he said crushingly, ‘since here I live, alone.’
Again he saw that tiny glimpse of something else in her eyes. But she simply smiled gently, and said, ‘Of course.’
He found he couldn’t look at her. It was as if her big, dark eyes had some power to make him speak of matters that were no concern of hers; no concern of anybody but him. He was amazed at himself, for having fallen into her trap and told her even as much as he had done. The why of it was something he must think very hard about, but not now.
He was a man of the law, he had in his sole custody a woman who, even if his instincts were right and she wasn’t guilty of murder and arson, was probably involved and without doubt knew a great deal more than she was telling him.
The violent demon that lived inside him was shouting to be heard now. Fixing her with a hard stare, forcing himself to put up invisible barriers against the power of her eyes, he said softly, ‘Now, unless you wish to be taken straight to the castle and locked away deep under the earth while the sheriff decides what to do with the woman upon whom the crimes of murder and arson could quite easily be pinned, I think you should talk to me. For a start, you can tell me who you are.’
She had gone white. ‘I told you, I’m innocent,’ she said in a terrified whisper.
‘Tell me who you are,’ he repeated. ‘I shall count to five, and then I shall bind your wrists and take you to the castle. One. Two.’
As he said, ‘Three,’ she burst out: ‘Batsheva. My name is Batsheva.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘And where do you come from?’
‘How far back do you wish to go?’ she muttered. Then, before he could answer, she said, ‘Recently I have been living in Norwich, and before that, in London. But I was born in Rouen. I was an only child, and my mother died giving birth to me. My father and I were consequently close, and he was my teacher as well as my parent. He—’ She stopped. It seemed to Jack that speaking of her father was painful. ‘We came to England, Father and I, at the request – many would say the command – of Duke William of Normandy, or, rather King William, for that is what he had become by the time he required the presence of men like my father in his new kingdom.’
Jack already had an idea of who and what her father was, and what his value had been to the first King William. There were clues: her name, her olive complexion, her fine, bold features, the dark eyes and the black hair. And she had rejected his ham, which of course came from the pig. Moreover, he had heard tell of the first two Williams of England’s need of such men. William the Conqueror had valued their business skills, the ease with which they developed a thriving merchant class, the fact that no religious ban existed on their lending money, their ability to advance credit. Wherever they went, commercial success soon followed, and there was little that a new king valued more than that. Jack had heard it said that small communities had been present wherever William I had put up a castle, for castles cost money.
And, in a newly subjected, resentful and impoverished land, who better to lend it to him than the Jews?
Yes, she’d probably been right when she suggested William had commanded their presence in England rather than inviting it.
She must have sensed his inattention, for she had stopped speaking. She was watching him, brows raised.
‘Go on.’
‘My father, as I imagine you have already guessed, was a Jewish merchant. That was how he began, at least, although his prosperity led to his being more of a funder of other men’s enterprises than the controller of his own. He was well known in our community in Rouen, and we came to England in 1073 and settled in London. We were happy there, and there were enough of our own kind around us to make us feel that we were not alone. Most importantly, however, was the support of the king. We knew we looked different, ran our lives by different rules, and were allowed to do work not allowed to others. But as long as the king valued and needed us, we were safe.’
She paused. Watching her, he noticed that the heat from the fire had brought colour to her pale face. Now, as if she had just noticed too, she threw back the cloak that lay over her shoulders and drew the bodice of her gown away from the flesh of her throat and upper chest.
He saw then how beautiful she was.
Her face, of course, he had already registered. But now, afforded a glimpse of her body, he realized that she was a woman with a very strong sexual appeal. Her breasts were full, her waist narrow above the generous curve of her hips, and she held herself with an air that seemed to say, I know you are looking at me. I know you admire what you see.
He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
‘But then my father died.’ She said the words starkly, and he knew she was suppressing her emotion. ‘He had never been strong, and when the sickness struck he did not have the resources to throw it off. And so I was left alone, and I realized very swiftly that I was not the wealthy heiress I had believed myself to be. My father, you see, had been failing for some time, and the drive and the energy that he had once put into his work had been directed instead at trying to keep himself alive.’
‘I am sorry that you lost him,’ he said, his voice stiff and formal.
Although he had caught the glisten of tears in her eyes, still he saw her smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said, equally formally.
‘And so you left London?’ Deliberately he moved her – and himself – away from the imminent emotion.
She didn’t reply for a few moments. Then she said, ‘I had lost my protector, but quite soon I found another one. He was a man of means, and he offered to care for me.’
There was no need for her to say what form that care took, nor what would have been required of her in return.
She said, ‘No doubt you are thinking that in exchange for security, I bartered the only commodity I had.’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘But I’m also thinking that you had little choice.’
‘I had no choice,’ she corrected him. ‘I told you just now that although we lived among our own, we were in effect an isolated little community within a large one?’
He nodded.
‘As such, we were, and shall always be, vulnerable. My misfortune was that, just at the time I lost my father, my people had to face one of those periods of resentment that occasionally crop up. It was not very serious – some daubings on the wall of the synagogue, fist fights between bands of Jew and gentile youths, an old and much respected rabbi beaten up. It was unpleasant while it lasted, however, and it made me the more willing to accept the offer that my new protector made. He suggested that I leave London, and that he would set me up in my own small house in Norwich, which, he told me, was considerably closer to where he resided.’
‘And did you like your new home?’
She shrugged. ‘It didn’t matter if I did or I didn’t. In fact, I did. Also—’ She hesitated. He sensed there was something she wanted to say, but wasn’t sure whether to reveal to him. She must have decided in his favour.
‘It is not necessary for a woman in my position to like her benefactor,’ she said calmly. ‘There is little point in railing against it, for it is the way the world works and cannot be changed. Not until women have the right to work, earn and save their own money,’ she added softly and with vehemence. ‘Not until women are free of the patriarchal society that so favours the male and so undermines the female.’ She shook her head, as if dismissing that thought. ‘I should perhaps admit that not only did I like the man who stepped in when I lost my father and my security; I came also to—’ She stopped. ‘To have an affection for him.’
Jack was trying to weld her tale together. ‘He lived here, in Cambridge?’
‘He did.’
And he was young – perhaps considerably younger than you – and fair-haired, he thought. There didn’t seem any need to say
so aloud.
‘And you came here to search for him,’ he said slowly, ‘only to find that he was dead.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t— Nobody could tell me—’ But she couldn’t go on.
He watched as she lowered her head into her hands and wept.
FOURTEEN
I woke early after our first night in Mercure’s house to find myself lying with Rollo spooned behind me, the curve of his body cradling mine, his arm around me clutching me to him. For a while I just lay very still and enjoyed the sensation of being held.
But that was all it was: a warm, comforting hug. Both of us had rolled up in our separate bedding when we settled down to sleep, and, this morning, we were still chastely wrapped up with several layers of clothing and blanket between us.
Presently he murmured sleepily, ‘Is this all right?’
‘Yes.’
He took a strand of my hair in his fingers. ‘You were weeping. I wanted to comfort you.’
Weeping?
It came as an unwelcome surprise, for I hadn’t been aware of it. I had been dreaming – I could remember that – and the dream had involved nursing the baby I’d just lost. In the dream I had seen Jack’s face, and he had tears in his eyes.
No wonder I’d been weeping.
I wasn’t ready to share any of that, even with Rollo. I lay for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of his smooth stroking of my hair, then said, ‘It’s time we were up.’
He sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’
As I wriggled out of my blankets, I met his eyes. There was a question in them, one which I still didn’t know how to answer. But he was entitled to one: I said, ‘I’m here with you, doing what you asked of me. I want to be here, but I …’ I wasn’t sure how to go on.
‘You are still worrying about your Cambridge lawman,’ he finished quietly for me. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
I was angry suddenly. ‘Rollo, when last we spoke of these matters, you reminded me just how long you’ve been away, and, as if I could have forgotten, that you sent me no word in all that time.’
‘Yes, and I also said that you were perfectly free to—’
‘When I couldn’t sleep a night or two ago,’ I went on, not letting him finish, ‘I calculated just how much time you and I have spent together, and it’s days! Well, it may add up to a few weeks, but no more than that.’
He said, ‘I didn’t think time was relevant.’
Slowly I shook my head. ‘I didn’t either.’
I turned away and went outside to the privy and the water trough. As I was washing my face and hands, my mind played an unkind trick. Out of the depths of memory, it presented me with another dream, or perhaps it had been a vision, I’d had long ago: of the child I had believed Rollo and I would one day have together.
I pushed both arms into the cold water, right up above the elbows, then plunged my face in too. The sudden chill gave me a brief stab of pain in my forehead, but it drove away the old dream, so it was worth it.
As we ate the porridge Rollo had made while I concocted a hot drink, he told me, in a matter-of-fact tone that seemed to say we weren’t going to talk about our emotions again, that he’d been working out how to put into action the plan to lure the man who was hunting us to the island.
‘That’s good,’ I said, making my voice bright.
He shot me a glance. ‘You may not agree when I tell you the details.’
‘Well, tell me, then, and I’ll see.’
He had finished the food, and now he placed the bowl on the floor and folded his arms. ‘It’s quite obvious that I am his target,’ he said. ‘So, reasoning that you’ll be safe because he doesn’t want or need to take your life too, acting as the lure and laying the trail that brings him here is your job.’
I wished he had put some expression into the words. Some sense that he was sorry it had to be this way; that he knew it might be dangerous but that there was no alternative.
I waited until I felt calm. Then I said steadily, ‘So I’m to set out on a foraging expedition – fishing, perhaps – and wander around further and further from this little sanctuary until I’m quite sure he’s seen me, whereupon I’ll lead him back here so you can kill him.’
He had drawn a sharp breath as I spoke. Now he said, ‘In essence, yes.’
After a moment I said, ‘How do we know he’s anywhere near? Isn’t it more likely that he still believes we died in the monastery fire? You said you saw him standing by the ruins, so he’d surely have counted the bodies.’
‘Yes, he did. But I’ve been thinking, Lassair. He also went to the stables – remember, I told you he set the other travellers’ horses free?’ I nodded. ‘He’s good, this man, He’s very good, for we led him a roundabout trail and he followed it, apparently with ease. I am all but certain that, sooner or later, what he saw in the stables will have penetrated his urge to get away as fast as he could from the monastery, and forced him to go back and check.’
‘What he saw in the stables?’ I echoed. ‘But what would he have seen? We – I – had packed up and taken the horses well away by the time he got there, and I’m certain I didn’t leave anything behind!’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t,’ he said swiftly. ‘Please, don’t think I’m blaming you. We left no sign of our presence, but without a doubt our horses did. Fresh droppings, disturbed straw, partially emptied water buckets, for example.’
‘But even if he did go back and found evidence that two more horses had recently been in the stables, he wouldn’t know they were ours!’
‘We could comfort ourselves with that thought, yes,’ he said. ‘Or we could imagine what would happen if this shadow who has attached himself to us – this very experienced, very skilled, very intuitive hunter of men – decided that the two dead travellers who burned to death in the monastery were not in fact you and me. That we’d taken the precaution of sleeping out in the stables with our horses, that we had managed to evade him and that we were still alive.’
‘He would come after us,’ I said dully.
‘He would.’ Rollo corrected himself. ‘He will.’
I was frantically trying to think back to the details of our journey under the cover of darkness from the monastery to Mercure’s island. ‘But he won’t be able to follow us!’ I said. ‘We travelled by night, we took the tracks and the byways, and we only emerged from cover and out onto the road when there was no choice! And as for the island, well, even I had to look very hard to find it, and I’ve been here before.’
He looked at me for some moments. Then he took both my hands in his. He was warm, and his touch put heart in me.
I needed it, for then he said, ‘Which is, I’m afraid, why you’re going to have to give him a bit of help.’
Although I was still distressed at why I was setting out into the fens, all the same I felt my spirits soar as I waded across the narrow causeway and onto the firm ground on the other side.
The sun was climbing the sky to the east, and, without thinking very much about which direction to go in, I found myself walking on the fen edge with it on my right. I was going roughly north. It didn’t much matter where I went, I reasoned, for neither Rollo nor I had any idea where our pursuer was, and he could as easily be this way as any other.
I had my satchel with me, and as I went I kept an eye out for seasonal bounty. I found some mushrooms and some nuts. I shelled the nuts and ate most of them as I strode along. Discovering peace, solace and relief in my own company, I didn’t really notice the hours passing.
I think I had put my mind into a detached state, for I don’t remember consciously thinking about anything very much. I knew this area so well, and I knew the fens like I knew my own beloved family. I had lived here all my life, and I understood what it meant not only to survive but to prosper here.
I was aware of the natural world around me. There was quite a lot of birdsong, for the day was sunny and the thrushes, blackbirds, robins and wrens were no doubt enjoying the unseasonal warmth
as much as I was. Such trees as there were on the fen margins had mostly lost their leaves now, but here and there an ancient oak still bore some brown, shrivelled remnants. The oak is slow to come into leaf, slow to lose its foliage, I thought.
Then, quite suddenly, I knew I was in the presence of power.
It wasn’t evil power, and I didn’t think for even a moment that our pursuer was close.
I stopped, made myself relax, and let each of my senses take in what I’d found.
I was on the edge of a small clearing, where the drying grass and the rust-coloured bracken had been neatly cleared. It was deep amid the carr, however, and under the branches of a couple of alders. It was so well concealed that I was surprised I had found it at all.
I crouched down, then, for the ground felt reasonably dry, sat down. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. At first I sensed nothing, but then an image flashed into my mind and, cursing myself for being so slow, I reached into my satchel, unwrapped the shining stone and laid it, on its wrappings, before me.
Sometimes it shows me nothing, and remains a mute, blank, inscrutable sphere of black glass shot through with green lights.
Sometimes it shows me images.
Sometimes it seems to put images inside my head.
I don’t know how it works. A part of me wonders if it serves as a conduit, giving me the confidence to look deep inside myself and access what is already there.
I don’t often think about the how. I am profoundly attached to the shining stone, and over the years of having it in my keeping – never, never would I allow myself to think of it as being in my possession, for nobody could use such a word in connection with such an ancient, impenetrable, mysterious, magical object – it has become a part of me. Or, perhaps, I a part of it.
Now, as I let myself descend into the light trance state where the seeing happens, if it’s going to, I experienced the familiar sensation of the shining stone and I uniting.
The first thing I saw was more in the nature of a confirmation, for my deeper mind already knew who had sat here before me in this secret little clearing. I saw Hrype, cross-legged, eyes closed, with his pale green rune stones set out before him on the special piece of cloth in which he keeps them. Yes. Hrype was abroad, he had been here very recently, and there were questions to which he needed answers.