Mist Over the Water

by Alys Clare

  That thought was so awful that my mind shied away. Instead, I went over what I had learned from Asfrior’s neighbour. I pictured Edulf, twenty years older than his young wife, a man who bore a heavy weight on his shoulders and whose own father had been involved in some tragic mystery. I thought of how he had died, falling to his death while working on some grand new building. Whoever had been in charge had demanded the finest craftsmen; I pictured Edulf, no doubt pleased and flattered to have been chosen, setting off with a spring in his step, his tool bag light on his shoulder. But then I realized that wasn’t right, for he forgot his tools and his wife had to go after him with them.

  I thought about that. The old woman hadn’t actually said it sounded an unlikely tale, but she hadn’t needed to. I agreed with her. A good workman with a reputation to uphold just doesn’t set off on a new job without the tools of his trade. Edulf would no more have forgotten his bag than I would have gone to see a sick patient without my satchel.

  I wondered what had really happened. Gewis, I realized slowly, was even now in a place where he was being kept apart from the rest of the population. Had this urgent summons that had come for his father been to achieve a similar result? Was that why he had not taken his tools, because the story of working on a magnificent new building was just that, a story, and in reality he knew quite well where he was going and why?

  Something must have gone wrong. Whatever they had hoped to do with Edulf, they had not succeeded, for there had been a frightful accident and he had broken his neck. He probably had not fallen from scaffolding while working on a carving; that, like the fictitious job itself, was nothing more than a cover story to satisfy the curious.

  They – whoever they were – had wanted Edulf for some matter of great importance. They thought they had got him away to safety, but then something went wrong and he died. Now, four years on, they had come for his son Gewis instead.

  Why? What did they want with the men of this family?

  I had absolutely no idea.

  My musings had achieved the desired effect: I had forgotten my fear. Well, most of it. I was hurrying along in the midst of the crowds of good Ely folk and, for the moment anyway, I felt quite safe. However, enemies were near, and I decided that, since they were taking an interest in my comings and goings, I ought to find out all I could about theirs. I knew that at least two of the quartet of burly monks had left Ely yesterday, for I had seen them just outside Fulbourn. I could not very well go inside the abbey to see if they were there, but I could check to see if they had set out across the water. Turning abruptly, I hurried down to the quayside from which I had embarked the previous noon.

  I found the boatman who had given me directions and rowed me across – or, more accurately, he found me. He called out a cheery good morning and asked if I wanted to cross the water again today.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Ask away,’ he said with a grin. He was young, he was quite handsome and I think he was flirting with me.

  I leaned closer, taking advantage of his interest. ‘It’s a little delicate,’ I whispered.

  His eyes widened, and he put a finger alongside his nose. ‘I won’t tell,’ he hissed dramatically.

  I smiled. ‘I thought I saw a couple of the brethren from the abbey yesterday, when I was on my way to Fulbourn,’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘Both of them are broad-set, tough-looking men and they have a sort of secretive, watchful look about them. I just wondered if you remember taking them across, or even if you told them, too, how to get to Fulbourn?’

  Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No, can’t say as I recall anything like that.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m not sure how I thought the information would have helped, but nevertheless I felt very disappointed.

  But my ferryman was leaning close again. ‘I remember rowing them back though,’ he whispered.

  ‘You do?’

  He nodded.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ooh, mid afternoon.’

  ‘Did they—’ No. I had almost said, Did they look as if one of them had just done a murder? But it would have been an absurd question.

  Then the boatman really surprised me. I suppose, thinking about it now, men like him study their passengers, observing small things that most of us would miss. When you’re pulling hard on the oars, endlessly rowing people to and fro, there can’t be much else to do except indulge in a bit of speculation.

  He said, again speaking so quietly that I had to strain to listen, ‘I don’t know what else they may or may not be but they’re not monks.’

  It took a moment for me to recover. Then I hissed, ‘How can you be so sure?’

  He smiled grimly. ‘They were bearing arms.’

  I realized that I did not want to believe him. ‘Most men carry a knife,’ I protested, ‘even monks, if they have to go on a journey that takes them out of the safety and sanctity of the abbey.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ he conceded. ‘I’m not talking about some tiddly knife.’

  ‘What then?’

  He spoke right in my ear. ‘One of them caught his hem as he got out of the boat. He had a sword in a scabbard hidden under his robe.’

  A sword. Still I would not be convinced. ‘But—’ I began, my mind whirling.

  ‘Anyway, they didn’t talk like monks,’ the boatman said with an air of finality.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He smiled again. ‘I know monks. I meet a great many of them, and I’m familiar with the way they address each other and how they speak. Believe me, your two burly men may have been dressed as holy men but they’re not.’

  I believed him. My mind racing, I understood then that the quartet must be inside the abbey of Ely with the knowledge and, presumably, the consent of the abbot and the brethren. Whatever they were doing there, whatever mystery Gewis was caught up in, it went right up to the highest authority in the abbey of Ely.

  And that was the most alarming thought of all.

  I left my boatman and walked on along the quayside. I walked aimlessly, for I had much to think about. I kept close to the water – perhaps its proximity was a comfort, giving the illusion that at any moment I could summon a boat and get away, back to my home – and soon I found that I had reached an area of hectic activity, where a boatload of passengers had just disembarked and another group were waiting to go across.

  The waiting group included about half a dozen nuns, several of whom were white-faced and frightened-looking and one of whom was sobbing, her hand held against the front of her head. Drawing closer, I observed that she had a black eye.

  The oldest of the sisters was only a few years older than I was and so I thought I would chance it. ‘Can I help?’ I offered, addressing the senior nun. ‘I’m a healer, and I observe that one of your number is hurt.’

  The nun spun round to look at me, her pale blue eyes chilly. ‘We are perfectly capable of taking care of our own,’ she snapped.

  The injured nun let out a low moan. ‘Please!’ she whispered. ‘My head hurts so, and it will be ages before we are safe back at Chatteris and in the care of the infirmarer.’

  Chatteris! Hastily, I scanned the faces again but none belonged to Elfritha. Some at least of these women would know her though. The thought gave me courage.

  ‘I have willow for head pain,’ I said eagerly.

  The wounded nun looked at her senior, and her eyes spoke eloquently. ‘Please, Sister Maria?’

  Sister Maria’s frosty frown melted a few degrees. ‘Well . . .’

  I decided to take that as permission. I hastened over to stand by the injured nun and put my hands up to feel around her head. I felt the lump – it would have been impossible not to – and winced in sympathy.

  ‘How did it happen?’ I asked as I put down my satchel, opened it and drew out the willow-bark remedy. Then, touching her black eye, I added, ‘Did you fall?’

  She looked at Sister Maria, who nodded curtly and spoke fo
r her. ‘No, she did not,’ she said tersely. ‘She was attacked.’

  A warning sounded in my head, clamouring for my attention. A nun had been attacked . . .

  ‘Attacked?’ I echoed, my hands busy preparing the correct dosage.

  ‘On behalf of all of our sisters, we have come from Chatteris to pray one last time in the place that used to be St Etheldreda’s church,’ Sister Maria said, ‘and to view the great new cathedral that rises in its place. We were asleep at our lodgings last night when an intruder slipped in. We have no idea what he wanted with us for, as is well known, we are vowed to poverty and have nothing upon us or with us that could be of interest to any thief, even the most desperate.’

  No, I thought. But I already knew that theft had not been the intruder’s motive.

  ‘Sister Anne here woke up –’ Sister Maria indicated a short, stout, whey-faced nun whose upper teeth protruded over her lip – ‘and saw him. She was too terrified to cry out and alert the rest of us –’ her tone gave away what she thought about that – ‘and she watched in horror as he went from cot to cot, staring down at the sisters as they slept. Then he came to Sister Magda, who awoke as he crouched over her. Before she could open her mouth to scream he hit her, giving her that black eye, then he raised his hand, in which he carried some hard, blunt object, and hit her on the forehead. The sound woke us, and we all jumped up. He must have decided he could not fight all of us, and he shot out of the room and fled.’

  I had been looking very closely at Sister Magda while I listened. The close-fitting wimple concealed her hair and her skin was light, her eyes blue-green. She was about my height and build. Of all the group, she was the only one who looked anything like me.

  I watched as she drank the medicine, then I offered a little pot of catmint and caraway cream. ‘Rub it around your eye,’ I said. ‘It will help bring out the bruise and lessen the pain.’

  She smiled her thanks.

  Sister Maria was clearly becoming impatient. ‘The boatman awaits us,’ she announced. ‘Come along, sisters. Let us hasten away from this place.’

  She let her cold eyes sweep along the quay, taking in everything from the rats under the piles to the sweaty ferryman who had just arrived and was resting, slightly breathless, on his oars. Then she ushered her nuns on to the waiting boat, stepped down after them and, keeping her back turned, lowered herself on to the thwart. I watched as she and her sisters were born away. Only Sister Magda risked a farewell glance; our eyes met and she mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

  I stood where I was for some time. I felt safe there among the hurrying people. Nobody would risk an attack in broad daylight with so many witnesses. Would they?

  For I was in danger of an attack, and I had to admit it. The four burly monks – no, they weren’t monks, were they? – the four tough men who guarded Gewis so closely knew that a young nun had been inside the abbey and spoken to him. They knew he had told her he came from Fulbourn and was a carpenter’s son. One of their number had gone to Fulbourn to cut off the source of information there by killing Gewis’s mother; a second had gone out to meet him to make sure the job had been done. They had not waited to see if the young nun reached Fulbourn; with Asfrior dead, it hardly mattered if she did or not. That night one or more of the quartet had gone out under cover of darkness to the place where a visiting group of nuns was lodging. He had looked at each face and, believing that he had found the one he searched for, he had attacked her. Perhaps his aim had been to scare her off the hunt. Or perhaps he had tried to kill her. Either way, the other nuns had woken up and he had fled.

  They think I am a nun, I kept repeating to myself. They do not know me in my true identity. I am safe. I must be, for they attacked not a healer but a nun.

  Perhaps I was safe, for the time being, unless – or until – they discovered their mistake. I would . . .

  But then, with a stab of fear that felt like ice in my veins, I remembered that I, too, had had a visitor during the night. One who had searched through my satchel as if in need of something he knew that I carried. He . . .

  Again, the progress of my thoughts was interrupted by something more urgent. This time the interruption brought sweet relief, for I was picturing the corner of white cloth that had stood out in the bottom of my bag. My intruder had seen it, investigated it but, thank all the good spirits, had not recognized it for what it was, or, rather, for the use to which it had recently been put.

  I had used the cloth to fashion a wimple like my sister Elfritha’s. My intruder had actually touched, unaware, my nun’s disguise.

  My guardians must surely be watching over me. The thought gave me so much comfort that, at long last, I felt able to leave the quayside and think about what I should do next.

  FIFTEEN

  A

  s I was walking away from the quayside I heard someone call my name. I stopped, not turning round, for I knew who it was. I waited for him to catch me up then looked up at him and said, ‘Hrype. You are back then.’

  ‘Good day to you, Lassair.’

  I thought he appeared dejected. ‘You did not find Sibert?’

  It was quite gratifying to see the surprise in his eyes, for when I left him to set out for Fulbourn he had given no hint at what he was going to do. He managed not to ask me how I knew; instead, he said, ‘I went to the house where I dwelt during the rebellion, and I met a woman I knew. She was only a child when I was last here, but I remembered her. I worked with her mother. The woman – her name is Yorath – told me where to find her mother.’

  ‘She does not live here at Ely,’ I said absently. I remembered Yorath telling Sibert and me that the old woman lived somewhere out on the fens.

  ‘No.’

  Hrype had, I guessed, just got off a boat from some other fenland settlement. ‘So you went to see this old woman to see if Sibert was there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nobody can extract information from Hrype when he doesn’t want to give it. Nevertheless, I did not give up quite yet. ‘Why did you think Sibert would seek her out? Because she was here on the island with all of you when your brother was fatally wounded and now he wants to—’

  He did not let me finish. ‘Lassair, enough.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough.’

  Just sometimes Hrype loses the tiniest edge of control and allows those close to him to see a pinhole glimpse of his awesome power. This was one of those times. I felt as if the sharp end of a whip had cut across my face, and I suppressed a cry at the sudden fiery pain.

  He knew, of course he did. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. He put up his hand and very gently touched his fingertips to my throbbing flesh. It felt as if a block of ice was melting there, and the pain vanished.

  So, I thought ruefully, I’m not allowed to ask about Sibert. It was hugely frustrating because it was the very thing I was desperate to know. My friend had gone off on a quest to find out about his past and, knowing him as I did, I was well aware he would be neither sensible nor cautious as he went about it. He was very likely to run into trouble and virtually certain to need someone to help him out. That someone ought to be me, but if I didn’t know where he had gone and what he was doing how could it be?

  My one consolation was that Hrype knew Sibert as well if not better than I did. Would he, who of course knew all about the family’s past, have a shrewd idea of what it was Sibert was trying to find out? Yes, he would, and if Sibert looked like running into danger then Hrype would go to his aid.

  Wouldn’t he?

  It dawned on me as Hrype and I made our way back to our lodging that, if both he and Sibert had been off the island last night, neither of them could have crept into the room and stealthily gone through the contents of my satchel. I opened my mouth to tell Hrype about the intruder but something stopped me. Pride, probably. If he wasn’t going to share his anxieties with me, then why should I involve him in mine? He was evidently far more concerned with Sibert than with my pale monk. Well, I could deal with that; I would just
have to help Gewis on my own.

  When we reached our little room it became clear that Hrype had only returned to see if there was any sign of Sibert, for after a quick look round his face fell into a deep frown and his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

  ‘What will you do?’ I asked.

  Hrype did not appear to have heard. He was staring down at the place where Sibert slept, eyes wide and fixed as if trying to read news of his nephew from the straw. Then, with the most cursory nod at me, he drew his cloak around him and swept out.

  Slowly, I lowered myself down on to my mattress. I could still sense the echo of Hrype in the little room – it felt like a whirling wind – and I waited until it had settled and all was still. Then I thought about what I was going to do next.

  I had already realized that it was up to me to help Gewis. The sensible thing would have been to decide, quite reasonably, that one sixteen year old girl on her own could do little or nothing against the sort of power that for some unknown reason was guarding him. If I was right, then whatever mystery surrounded him went back at least one and probably two generations. His grandfather had met an undisclosed but terrible fate; his father had died in a suspicious accident; his mother had just been murdered. In addition, two eel catchers had been killed because the men who held Gewis believed they were my cousin Morcar, who had witnessed them taking Gewis into the abbey. A young nun had been attacked because they thought she was the woman who had gone inside the abbey and actually spoken to Gewis.

  I knew full well that I ought to pack up my belongings, admit that this was all far too big for me and set off for home there and then.

  I didn’t. I would like to say that it was because I kept picturing the fear in Gewis’s eyes and because I wanted to be the one to break the news about his poor mother; I had a feeling none of his quartet of guardians would tell him. This might have been part of my reason, but it was not the driving force.