by Alys Clare
I was the last to return home, and by then my capable mother had dried her tears and was already rearranging all her precious domestic possessions while my father set about repairing the broken leg of Leir’s little stool. Haward and Zarina were looking on helplessly.
‘I’ve offered to help,’ Zarina whispered as I went to stand beside her, ‘but your mother says it’s best if she does it all herself as she’ll never be able to find anything if anyone else tidies up.’
I suppressed a smile. My mother defended her right to be solely in charge of her own hearth like a she-wolf protecting her den full of helpless young.
My mother had stopped in the middle of rearranging the straw-stuffed mattress and bedding on Squeak’s cot. She was holding up a woollen blanket, displaying a large hole in one corner. ‘Why did he have to do that?’ she demanded furiously, poking her finger through the hole. ‘It’s nothing more than spiteful, wanton destruction!’
I agreed with her. Whatever the intruder had been hunting for, it would hardly be hiding within the weave of a blanket. I was suddenly very glad that the precious shawl that Elfritha made for me hadn’t been lying around waiting for similar treatment. I went over to my mother, gave her a hug and took the blanket out of her hands. ‘I’ll darn it,’ I offered. She eyed me dubiously. ‘Yes, I know you’d do a better job, but you have enough to do.’
She gave me a swift smile, then returned to restoring order to her wrecked home.
When we finally sat down to eat, the house looked much as it had done before. That was the advantage of everything you possessed being old, worn and mended; one more repair didn’t really make much difference.
My father had asked all of us to check through our own small sum of belongings, to see if anything was missing. As one by one we all reported that nothing had gone, his expression went from puzzlement to fury.
‘Then he’s caused us all this work and distress for no reason,’ he muttered. His light eyes narrowed, and, as his right hand closed into a huge fist, I reflected that I wouldn’t want to be in the intruder’s boots if my father ever caught up with him. This phantom stranger might well be the giant that he was claimed to be, but then my father was scarcely small.
I studied him as, still muttering under his breath, he returned to his food. My father is the middle child of the five who were born to my Granny Cordeilla and her husband. I never knew my grandfather, for he died before I was born, but apparently he was a quiet, mild man, hard-working and steady. My granny, or so they say, had been a sparkling, enchanting girl, full of magic and mystery, lively as a tree-full of starlings, and everyone fervently hoped that early marriage to a steady but dull fenland fisherman would calm her down and keep her out of mischief. Knowing my granny, I doubt very much that it did.
She bore her husband two sons, Ordic and Alwyn, both of whom were made in their parents’ exact mould: slender, dark, and not very tall. In their temperament, however, the little boys were faithful copies of their father. A few years passed, and Granny’s third child was born: my father, Wymond, in whose blood ran the echo of his three huge uncles, Granny Cordeilla’s brothers. To complete her family, Granny bore twin girls, my aunts Edild and Alvela.
Everyone always says parents don’t have favourites, and I dare say that’s true. You would have had to be blind, however, not to see the truth: Granny Cordeilla might well have loved all five of her sons and daughters equally, but there were without doubt two with whom she preferred to spend her time. Edild was one, for she and Granny were so attuned that they rarely had need of words. My father – my big, strong father with his sea-coloured eyes – was the other. When Granny became too old and frail to manage on her own, nobody even thought to ask which of her children she would go to live with. We all knew.
My father’s voice broke into my reverie. We’d all been virtually silent as we ate, even Squeak’s usually high spirits squashed by the prevailing mood of depression. As one, we turned to look at my father.
‘I can’t for the life of me think what we’ve got that he’d want!’ he said, echoing Goda’s sentiments of two days ago. ‘We’ve got no treasures, no store of coins, no valuable possessions, no mighty sword or shield handed down from father to son from the glory days!’ He glanced around, looking slightly sheepish. It was as if only now, as the echo of his words faded away, did he realize how loudly he had spoken. ‘We’ve only got what everyone else like us has, and yet two of my daughters’ dwellings, and now our own family home, have been searched as roughly and as thoroughly as if we possessed the riches of King William himself.’
Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Zarina, newest member of our family, cleared her throat. Quietly and, I thought, tentatively, she said, ‘You do have treasure, Father.’ I love the way she calls her father-in-law father. She once told me her story, and it was very sad; her own father had been a terrible man, and I’m glad she has found a better one. Her eyes going from my father to my mother and back, she whispered, ‘You’ve got a house full of love. That’s the best treasure of all, believe me.’
My father looked embarrassed for a moment, then reached for Zarina’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze.
Squeak gave a noise that sounded like someone trying not to be sick. Haward leaned over and lightly cuffed him.
Then, of all people, little Leir spoke up. ‘We’ve got Lassair’s stories,’ he said. ‘I like Lassair’s stories.’ He grinned up at me, his sweet face still round and babyish. He’s growing tall, and sometimes I forget he’s only six.
My mother grabbed her baby boy and settled him on her lap. ‘Lassair’s tales, eh, Leir?’ He nodded solemnly. ‘You reckon they’re a treasure?’
Leir nodded again. ‘They’re our family treasure,’ he said.
It was a lovely thing to say. Had he not looked so comfortable on our mother’s capacious lap, I’d have grabbed him and given him a hug.
Squeak, further disgusted by all the sentiment flying around, made another being-sick noise and muttered, ‘I’d rather have a sword.’
Squeak is thirteen. From both his own and everyone else’s viewpoint, it’s a ghastly age for a boy.
I had hoped that, since our house had now received the attentions of the giant intruder and presumably he’d finished with us, I might be allowed to return to Edild’s. I remarked in an offhand way, over breakfast in the morning, that I’d probably stay with my aunt that night, hoping my father would just say all right, then.
He didn’t. He stopped eating, fixed me with a penetrating stare and said, ‘One more night with us, Lassair.’
I was about to protest, but then his expression softened and he added, ‘Please?’
I’ve always found it very hard to disobey my father, especially when I know that to do so would mean hurting or disappointing him. Meekly I nodded. ‘Very well.’
Edild and I had a hectic morning. Spring might be on its way, but nobody had told the elements, and the raw day was one of misty rain blown on a spiteful easterly wind. By midday we had treated so many people for the usual phlegmy cough that afflicts fenland people – it’s the perpetual damp that causes it – that we had run out of Edild’s expectorant medicine. I knew then how I would be spending the remainder of the day: in assembling all the ingredients and preparing them so that Edild could work her magic on them and turn them into a healing elixir.
On the shelves where we store our ingredients I found most of what I needed. We were having to rely on dried herbs, which in the main lack the potency of fresh-picked plants. Nothing much was growing yet; another reason why we were all longing for spring.
One element was missing. Recently Edild had passed on to me an unlikely piece of medicinal lore, which she herself had been taught by a very old woman who claimed she was from Viking stock. In the far north, the old woman said, the people used a special lichen to treat chest ailments; a lichen that was the food of a deer that lived in the snowy wastes where little else grew. This lichen did not grow in the fens, but Edild had discovered a similar moss-lik
e substance thriving in the thin soil beneath the line of pine trees away over on the fen edge. After experimenting on herself, she found that it was very good at bringing up catarrh from the lungs and throat, and she had taken to including it in her remedy.
The jar in which we kept it was empty.
With a sigh – for the misty rain had grown heavier – I collected my shawl, put on my boots and, wrapping myself up tightly, set out on the mile-long trudge to the water.
THREE
The weather was so foul that I didn’t concentrate on anything much beyond staying on my feet against the force of the rising easterly wind. I was soaked to the skin within a few paces of leaving the house, and my attention was focused on images of how good it would be to get back to the fireside and start drying out.
All of which explains why it was not until I’d gathered my lichens and was well on the way back that I realized what I ought to have spotted straight away: somebody was watching me.
I did as I’ve been taught, and gave no indication that I knew of the unseen watcher’s presence. I carried on without breaking stride, thinking all the time what I must do to keep myself safe.
I should never have gone out alone! It was so easy to be wise after the event, and, indeed, who could I have asked to come with me? Everyone was out working, either on their own behalf or on Lord Gilbert’s land. People like us didn’t sit around in our houses all day waiting for someone to invite us out for a walk.
My mind was racing, going through possibilities. I didn’t dare stop and look around; it still seemed best to go on pretending I didn’t know anyone was there.
But he was there, all right. And I was afraid.
Given what had so recently been happening within my family, fear was quickly turning to terror.
With a huge effort, I brought myself under control. I had decided what to do.
I’d gone out to the south of the village, down beneath where the bulge that is Aelf Fen sticks out into the watery marshland. Between the road and the shore there’s a line of pine trees, their roots in the band of sandy soil that meanders along for half a mile or so before petering out. The lichen grows in the shadow of the trees.
Lord Gilbert’s manor, Lakehall, was some way off up to my right, and between it and the village was the church. I would pretend that, on my way home, I was stopping to kneel by a relative’s grave and pay my respects. With any luck, my pursuer would be deterred by the proximity of the church, and the possibility of goodly, decent people within, and slip away. As soon as I sensed he had gone, I could leave the graveyard by the side gate and hurry across the higher ground to Edild’s house.
That was the plan.
I reached the graveyard and, choosing a random mound, knelt on the wet grass and pretended to pray. Peeping between my hands, pressed against my face, I looked all around.
There was nobody there.
I made myself go on kneeling, keeping very still, and with all my senses I tested to see if I still felt I was being watched. After a long, cold, shivery moment, I realized I was alone. He’d gone.
Slowly I got up, picking up my small sack of lichen.
It was then that I noticed.
Somebody had disturbed the graves over beneath the stumpy trees on the far side of the churchyard. They were the most recent graves, of those villagers who had died within the last couple of years or so. Aghast at such desecration, all thoughts of my unseen pursuer flew out of my head and I raced across the sodden ground as if it was my job to grab a spade and instantly start repairing the damage.
I slid, panting, to a halt beside the first of the ruined grave mounds. Staring down into the muddy hole – the incessant rain had already made large puddles in the earth – I was horrified to see the yellow-white of human bone. Leg bones, ribs arching up like a cage, a domed skull and blank, unseeing eye sockets. I stumbled on to the next grave. This one was worse, for it was more recent and, in places where the shroud had torn or been chewed by rodents, I could make out putrefying flesh. As if in a ghastly daze, I moved on to look at the rest.
In all, seven graves had been violated. Seven of my fellow villagers lay exposed in death, and I had known every one. In age, they ranged from the very old to the newborn, and that grave – of a tiny boy who had come into the world too soon and survived only for three days – was the most poignant of all.
I could not leave them like that. Wiping my hands over my face, wet with both rain and tears, I silently promised the dead that they would soon be decently buried once more and, at last tearing my eyes away and turning my back, I hurried off to find the priest.
Father Augustine was in his little house, adjacent to the church. He was alone. The house smelled of onions and cabbage, and I guessed he had just eaten. I blurted out my news, and the expression in his face suggested he was as horrified as I was.
‘How many graves?’ he demanded, grasping my arm in a tight grip.
‘Seven, all quite recent.’
‘The ones beneath the trees?’
‘Yes.’
Slowly he shook his head. ‘Why?’ he breathed.
I had no answer. Belatedly he realized he was still clutching my arm and, abruptly letting go, he muttered an apology and stepped away.
For a moment we both stood there, not moving, not speaking. It was as if we were frozen with shock. I studied his face, which had gone quite white. He’s always pale; he is tall and thin, and has one of those aesthetic faces that seem made for suffering. He is an intelligent man, learned and devoted to the minutiae of the Bible; there’s no doubting his faith or his devotion to his saviour. However, I think if Father Augustine’s heavenly lord were to be asked to judge the man’s performance, he might be inclined to say that our priest lacks the human touch. No matter how hard I try, I can’t really imagine Father Augustine consorting with and comforting beggars, cripples and lepers. He just doesn’t have the compassion.
Father Augustine gave a deep sigh, as if coming out of a reverie, and said briskly, ‘I shall go straight to the graves. Fetch the sacristan, if you would, and bring him to me there.’
I nodded. Hurrying out of the house, I ran down the track to the sacristan’s house and, dragging Old Will away from his hearth, took him to where the priest crouched by the spoiled graves.
Father Augustine was beside the grave of the newborn baby. He had one long arm stretching down into the earth and he was stroking the tiny skull. He had tears in his eyes.
I stepped away, embarrassed at having witnessed such emotion. I realized, as I stood there, that my assumptions on the nature of our priest were going to need urgent and fairly drastic revision.
Presently Father Augustine stood up, brushing the dirt from his black robe. He nodded to Old Will, who spat on his hands, picked up his spade and began to repair the damage.
Back at Edild’s house, I got straight down to helping her prepare the expectorant remedy, so relieved to be out of the rain and back in the warmth that I didn’t mind the minor inconvenience of my clothes steaming as they began to dry. I had told her as soon as I got in about the despoiled graves, and of my suspicion that somebody had been watching me. As we worked, we speculated on what could possibly be going on, and tried to decide whether my hidden watcher, and whoever had tampered with the graves, were somehow linked to Utta’s murder and the searching of Goda’s, Edild’s and our family’s dwellings. Was the same person responsible for everything that had happened? Had it been the red-bearded giant who’d been spying on me, and was it also he who had dug down into the graves in search of heaven knew what?
Our musings were interrupted by a tentative tap on the door, and Edild left me chopping and crushing while she went off to see to her patient. Something was nagging at me, demanding my attention, and, as my aunt has taught me, I stilled my mind to let the inner voice speak.
After a few moments, I knew what it was. My kin had been the object of all three searches; as far as we knew, we alone had been targeted. Now, someone had disturbed the peace of th
e recently dead, and now I realized why: it was an extension of the same search. One member of my family had died within the last couple of years – my Granny Cordeilla – and whoever had ransacked the homes of the living had also attempted to discover what he sought within her grave.
He had failed. Having somehow discovered that Granny had died recently, he had gone to the graveyard thinking to find her there. He had investigated the newest burials, ruthlessly breaking into the eternal peace of the dead, but it had all been in vain. My Granny Cordeilla, of course, did not lie in the graveyard, for we had buried her out on the secret island, in the company of her ancestors.
Edild was busy with her patient, and, out in the still room, I was not visible to her. There was no let-up in the rain – I could hear it beating on the ground outside – but, since I was still almost as wet as when I’d just returned, that didn’t really matter.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I knew.
I draped my sodden shawl around me and slipped outside, emerging at the rear of Edild’s house. It was getting dark. The sky was thick with cloud, and twilight was fast approaching. Good. I would be that much harder to see. I circled round to the track that ran in front of the house, keeping my distance so that no one would hear my footfalls. Swiftly I crossed the track and set out across the marsh. When I had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile, I stopped and made myself stand quite still. I strained my ears for any sound other than the driving rain and the rising wind, and then set my other senses to work, trying to detect if anyone had followed me or was watching me.
Nobody was there. The certainty I’d experienced earlier that I was not alone had gone, as if it had never been. Whoever he was, he’d obviously had enough of the foul weather and, very wisely, had sloped away to find shelter.
I smiled in grim satisfaction and continued my quest.