by Alys Clare
I should have known better.
‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ my sister yowled. ‘That’s quite enough of your cheek, Lassair. You’ll remain here as long as I need you, and I just hope you know a bit more about how to run a home than you did the last time you made your feeble attempt to look after me! You—’
I watched all my fine resolutions about being calm, dignified, firm and a credit to my profession grow little wings and fly out through the door. As if I were a child again, and Goda my horrible, bossy, selfish, demanding and cruel tormentor, I raced back to her bed and shouted, ‘I did my best! I was thirteen years old and you were nothing better than a bully! You were such a fat, lazy cow that it was no wonder you had a rotten time – it was all your own fault, and yet you made absolutely sure that I was the one to suffer for it!’
For the first time in my life, I saw my sister shocked into silence. It occurred to me that I should have tried shouting at her before.
There was a long pause – I fought to bring my ragged breathing under control – and then Goda said in a very small voice, ‘But, Lassair, I really do need you. Who else will be strong enough to drive away the horrors when I see it all happening over and over again?’
Remorse flooded through me. My sister had witnessed murder today, and she had come close to being killed herself, yet the best I could do was yell at her.
I knelt down in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said humbly. ‘You’ve had a very frightening experience, and I shouldn’t have shouted at you.’ But some devil in me made me add, ‘I’m still not staying.’
The ghost of a smile crossed Goda’s plump face. ‘You’ve grown up, little sister,’ she said, and I detected grudging admiration.
The silence extended, but it was a more companionable one now. Presently I said, ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’ It might help her get over it, I thought, to relive the dreadful events while they were still fresh in her mind.
She lay back on her pillow, and the hand in mine relaxed. ‘Not much to tell, really,’ she said. ‘Utta and I were out with the children, setting off to the place where the peddler usually stops, since he was due this morning. I bought a few bits, and Utta moaned because he was out of fine thread.’ A look of intense irritation crossed her face and she added angrily, ‘Lassair, you have no idea what it’s like living with that cranky old bat! She’s self-centred, lazy, she thinks the sun shines out of Cerdic’s arse and, according to her, the woman’s not been born who’s good enough for him!’ I thought Goda had tempor-arily forgotten Utta was dead. The tirade ended as quickly as it had begun, and Goda said, ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. The old cow went on moaning all the way home and, in desperation, I told her that if she was going to be such a misery, she could go on ahead, and I’d stop and sit with the children in the sun for a while.’
I knew exactly what Goda was about to say, and I felt deep sympathy for my sister. I wondered if I should prevent her continuing, but, for one thing, it would probably do her good to express what was troubling her, and, for another, preventing my sister from doing virtually anything has always been a challenge.
‘If I hadn’t been so impatient, we’d all have got home together,’ she said on a sob, her face crumpling into an expression of remorse, ‘and then Utta would still be alive.’
‘But you and your children might not be,’ I said softly. ‘And Utta had already had a long life. If any of you had to die, better that it was the eldest.’
Perhaps not my most compassionate piece of reasoning, but I know my sister.
After a while she sniffed, wiped her nose and her eyes on her sleeve and said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
To encourage her away from her guilty thoughts, I said, ‘What happened when you got home?’
‘There was this great hulking brute of a man smashing up my house, that’s what happened!’ Goda cried. ‘Utta was lying on the floor, and she wasn’t moving. The children were behind me, so I pushed them back outside and slammed the door. The giant was crashing round the room, picking things up, hurling them about, poking under the beds and into all the corners – honestly, Lassair, you’d have thought he was looking for something, only we’ve got nothing anyone would want!’ Bitter resentment filled her face, as if, in the middle of this new trouble, her perpetual, underlying anger at being married to a hard-working but poor man, who could not afford to buy her the luxuries she craved, had surfaced once more. ‘He looked up and saw me standing inside the door, and he gave a great yell, and came across and took a swing at me. Then he wrested the door open and fled.’
Her eyes wandered away in the direction of the shelf where she stores her cooking utensils and her few bits of good pottery. The utensils were bent and dented, and the pots were smashed to pieces.
‘I liked those pots,’ my sister said. Then, softly and quietly, she began to weep.
TWO
I hurried back to Aelf Fen, eager to find my mother and reassure her that Goda wasn’t about to die. I found all my family at home – it was evening by now – and so was able to give them the news together.
‘She’s all right,’ I panted as I burst in – I’d run the last half mile. ‘A cut and some bruises, but not badly hurt.’
My mother, my father, my brother Haward and his wife Zarina, with her ten-month-old son in her lap, and my two younger brothers all breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Sit down here by the fire and have a drink,’ my father said solicitously, elbowing my little brother Squeak out of the way. ‘Yes, Squeak, I know you’ve had a hard day,’ he said in answer to my brother’s mutinous look, ‘but Lassair’s just walked to Icklingham and back, and she’s had to deal with Goda. She truly is all right?’ he added, a big, firm hand on my shoulder as gratefully I sat down.
‘Yes. But Utta ...’ I paused, glancing at my brother Leir. He was not yet seven.
‘They all know Utta’s been killed,’ my father said quietly. ‘We’d like to know what happened, Lassair.’ Then, just for me, he muttered, ‘No gory details, mind.’
I nodded my understanding, then briefly repeated what Goda had told me.
My mother’s face was creased in perplexity. ‘It was a robbery, then?’
‘Apparently so,’ I replied. ‘Goda thought the intruder was looking for something specific, but, as she said, she and Cerdic haven’t really got much that’s worth taking.’
‘What about Utta?’ my brother Haward asked. ‘Might she not have some savings, or something, that she’d brought with her when she moved in with Goda and Cerdic?’ He looked at my mother. ‘Isn’t she ... er, wasn’t she a skilled weaver or something?’
‘She was a wool worker,’ my mother said, nodding. ‘She made cloth of a very smooth, soft quality.’
Suddenly I remembered something: an image from six years ago, when I’d gone to look after Goda. ‘She made Goda and Cerdic two beautiful blankets for a wedding gift,’ I said.
‘Well, then!’ Haward exclaimed.
My father gave a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘Well then, what?’ he said with a smile. Please don’t think my father callous; it’s the last thing he is. But none of us had anything more than a bare acquaintance with Utta, and to put on long-faced grief at her death would have been dishonest.
‘Oh.’ Haward frowned, putting his thoughts in order. ‘Er, she probably made lots of money making and selling her nice blankets, and that’s what the thief was after,’ he said. ‘Her bag of coins!’ he added, as if to make sure we all understood.
‘It’s possible,’ I said, smiling at Haward. I love my brother very much, but I didn’t really think his theory was very likely. ‘Although I don’t think Utta was by any means rich.’
My mother got to her feet and, picking up a ladle, began to stir the stew that was bubbling aromatically over the hearth. ‘Supper’s ready,’ she announced. ‘Going to stay and eat with us, Haward, Zarina?’
Haward glanced at his wife, and she gave a little nod. ‘Thank you, Mother, yes please,’ he said. He and
Zarina haven’t long moved into their own little dwelling, built on to one end of my family home, and I know Zarina tends to be sensitive over any implication that she doesn’t keep house as well as my mother. Haward, bless him, often appears torn between accepting our mother’s food whenever it’s offered (she is an excellent cook) and not offending his wife (she isn’t).
We settled down to eat, and for a while were too busy with our food to talk. Then, as the platters gradually emptied and the sounds of knives and fingers scraping against wood ceased, my father said, ‘Let’s hope there are no more such incidents in Icklingham, or anywhere else for that matter. The intruder must have realized Goda saw him, and could describe him, so maybe that will have persuaded him that it’s in his best interests to get as far away as he can.’
There were several murmurs of agreement.
‘Has any action begun to find the killer and bring him to justice?’ my father went on, turning to me.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I was busy tending Goda, and did not think to enquire.’
My father smiled understandingly. ‘You probably had your hands full,’ he observed. ‘Still, I bet they’ll have organized some sort of a search by now. They’ll find him and deal with him, and that’ll be that.’
If only we’d known.
Next morning, I woke up in my usual place in my aunt Edild’s house, my father having walked me back there after supper. Despite his confident words, he must have been less sure than he made out that the vicious intruder was now far away.
Since Edild and I work together, the decision was made some years back for me to live with her. At the time when I moved in, it relieved some of the pressure on the family house, then accommodating my parents, my three brothers and me, not to mention my beloved Granny Cordeilla, although she was tiny and didn’t really take up much room. She died, two years ago, and we all miss her very much. Often I see her, sitting in the corner of the room where her little cot used to stand. Invariably she gives me a smile, her deep, dark eyes crinkling up. Her smile could always light up even the dullest day.
As Edild and I ate breakfast, I told her in more detail what had happened in Icklingham, having only provided the briefest outline the previous evening and concentrating on the news that Goda was not badly hurt. Not one to gossip or speculate, now Edild listened in silence, nodded, then suggested we ate up and got on with our day’s work.
We dealt with the usual crop of minor hurts and seasonal ailments – for some reason, half the village seems to develop sore throats and runny noses as soon as the weather warms up – and I found that having my hands and my mind fully occupied drove yesterday’s disturbing incident out of my thoughts. It was thus something of a rude shock when, as dusk was falling and we were tidying up after the last of our patients, Hrype arrived on the doorstep and said quietly, ‘There’s been another attack.’
Edild took one look at him, then grabbed his arm and drew him inside, closing and barring the door. Clearly, she did not want to be disturbed by some latecomer demanding the services of the healer. She sat Hrype down beside the hearth, took his hands in hers and, turning to me, told me curtly to prepare one of her restorative drinks. Torn between handing him the remedy as quickly as I could and giving the two of them a few private moments to mutter together (they have long been lovers, a secret known to only the three of us) I opted for speed.
If ever a man needed a restorative drink, it was Hrype. He looked exhausted, and the deep frown line between his brows suggested some serious anxiety. Edild waited till he had finished his drink, then she said, ‘Tell us what has happened.’
She sat down on the bench beside him, once more holding his hand. I crouched on the floor at his feet. Looking from one to the other of us, he drew a breath and said, ‘I was over on the western side of the fens, and I heard a rumour that there has been violence at Chatteris.’
Chatteris is the abbey where my sister Elfritha is a nun. The previous year, there had been trouble there; a nun had died, and my beloved sister had also come close to losing her life.
And now this!
Hrype was leaning down towards me, his silvery eyes intent on mine. ‘No harm has come to Elfritha,’ he said. He must have seen doubt in my expression, for he took hold of my shoulders and said firmly, ‘Lassair, hear me! Elfritha is quite all right.’
Slowly I nodded, and he let me go.
‘Is anyone else hurt?’ Edild asked. I admired the control in her voice.
‘Two nuns were thrown to the ground. One has a broken arm and the other has slight concussion,’ he said. ‘It appears that someone broke into the abbey very early this morning, when the nuns were at prayer, and ransacked the dormitory. The two who were hurt had returned to their cells after prayer, where they disturbed the intruder in the middle of his search, and they had the courage to challenge him. He was a huge man, tall and brawny, and very fair-skinned.’
‘You said the nuns interrupted his search,’ I said, a chill of fear making me shiver.
Hrype looked at me. ‘Yes. The sisters said he seemed to be hunting for something, for he had turned over the nuns’ cots, ripped open the straw mattresses, and strewn their bedding and their few personal possessions all over the floor.’
‘It’s the same,’ I whispered. ‘It’s like at Goda’s house, yesterday.’
A glance passed between Hrype and my aunt, and I heard her muttering to him. I remembered that he hadn’t been in the village yesterday, or, if he had, he’d kept well out of sight. He did not know about Utta’s death.
My mind seemed to be behaving oddly. Instead of facing up to this new worry, I found myself puzzling over how it was that Hrype can come and go pretty much at will. None of us are meant to leave the village without Lord Gilbert’s permission, but somehow this rule does not apply to Hrype. When he’s in the village, he looks just like the rest of us, performing his work alongside the other villagers with nothing to distinguish him. He has a talent for blending in with his surroundings, and with the people around him, that is truly exceptional. I suppose that it’s the very ordinariness of his appearance that aids him, for if he seems exactly like everyone else, nobody looking on would be able to tell if he’s here or not. It would be like the addition or removal of one tree in a forest.
I don’t know why Hrype absents himself so frequently. I have my own ideas on the subject, but they are only vague. He is far too fearsome a man for anyone to dare to ask him. When he stops being a lowly peasant and stands straight and proud in his true skin, he appears tall and lordly; you could almost believe him to be the descendant of kings. As if all this were not enough, he is also a very powerful magician.
My aunt’s voice brought me out of my reverie. ‘... better ask Lassair, since it was she who went to care for Goda,’ she was saying.
I looked up at Hrype. His eyebrows went up in a silent question.
‘Goda said it looked as if the intruder there was looking for something,’ I said. ‘She reckoned that her mother-in-law got killed, and she herself injured, simply because they were in the way.’
Hrype nodded. ‘Whatever this man wants, he wants it very badly,’ he observed.
Edild’s face creased in a frown. ‘You are assuming the two intruders are one and the same,’ she said.
Hrype turned to her, his expression kind. ‘I think they must be,’ he said gently.
‘But ...’ My aunt’s protest stopped before she could utter it. ‘Of course,’ she whispered, her horrified eyes turning to me.
‘Yes. It was the area of the dormitory where Elfritha sleeps,’ Hrype murmured.
And then I, too, understood. I also understood why they were both looking at me with such anxiety.
The intruder had just broken into the places where two of my sisters lived. One person was dead, three injured. Unless this fearsome man had already found what he was after – which didn’t seem likely, since proceeding to Elfritha meant he obviously hadn’t got whatever it was at Goda’s, and Elfritha surely didn’t hav
e anything anyone could want – then he would go on with his violent attacks.
‘Haward is second in age after Goda, followed by Elfritha,’ Edild said. ‘Yet no intrusion has occurred at his home.’
And I came after Elfritha, followed by Squeak and little Leir ...
Hrype stood up. ‘I shall go to Wymond and Essa’s house immediately to warn them, and Lassair shall come with me,’ he announced. Turning to me with a smile, he went on, ‘Your father is a big, tough man, Lassair. He is also fiercely protective of his children, and you and your two younger brothers will be safe under his roof. I’ll suggest that Haward and his family move back into the family home, for the time being anyway. There’s safety in numbers, and it would take a desperate man to force his way into a house where there were two grown men and a pair of fierce boys.’ My little brothers would have been delighted at the description.
Hrype swung his heavy cloak around him and headed for the door, raising an eyebrow at me. Reluctantly I got to my feet. The prospect of a night – or, more likely, several nights – crowded in with all my family back at home was not very appealing. Much as I love them, I had become used to the peace and calm of Edild’s little house. Hrype was looking quite determined, however, and it did not seem that I had any choice.
Later, trying to get to sleep, I wondered suddenly if this giant’s interest in my family was restricted to my generation, or if Edild too was in danger. She was all alone, and –
Then I understood, as if I had just been told, that she wasn’t alone. Nobody outside my family knew that Hrype was back in the village, and we would keep it to ourselves. For this night at least, Hrype could sleep not where his conscience dictated – in the home of his late brother’s frail and dependent widow – but where his heart lay. With Edild.
We were lucky, in a way, for our house was ransacked while there was nobody within to get in the giant intruder’s way. It must have happened some time in the late afternoon. I was working with Edild; my father and Squeak were out on the water studying the movements of the eels; Haward had taken Leir out to the higher ground, where Haward was working that day; and my mother had gone to help Zarina with the washing.