Authors: Alys Clare

Mist Over the Water (19 page)

BOOK: Mist Over the Water

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‘He did.’

The old woman cackled. Then, while I, too, was still chuckling, she said in a very different tone, ‘What do you want with Asfrior?’

I sensed she cared about her neighbour and was protective of her. I said quickly, ‘I mean her no harm. I heard that she had lost her husband and—’ I was floundering, for I did not want to touch on the highly sensitive matter of the pale youth – Gewis – and his mystifying secret unless I had no choice.

Fortunately, the old woman appeared to be convinced that I had no malicious intent towards her neighbour. ‘She’s not done well since her man died,’ she said.

‘How did he die?’ I asked. It might be relevant.

‘He was quite a bit older than Asfrior,’ the old woman said with a shake of her head. ‘Twenty years or so, I’d say, and when the lad was born some took Edulf for his grandfather. Asfrior weren’t much more than a girl, see.’

‘They were happy?’

‘That they were, or as happy as Edulf would ever be. He loved his young wife and his babe, no doubt of that, but he were ever a melancholy man, sad, brooding, as if something was eating at him.’

I thought about that. Could this something be related to the deadly secret? ‘Did he ever hint at what it might be?’ I asked tentatively.

The old woman slowly shook her head. ‘No, I can’t say that he did. There were hints that something had happened to his father – that’d be Gewis’s grandfather – and I once heard a whisper that he – the grandfather – had suffered some terrible fate. As for Edulf himself, though, I never knew what ailed him.’ Then the sharp eyes met mine. ‘Didn’t stop me speculating though.’

‘And what did you conclude?’

‘Didn’t like the life he led,’ she answered promptly. ‘Resented the hardships. Seemed to think he deserved better.’ Edulf, clearly, had got up her nose with his attitude. ‘Instead of appreciating what he had – good, hard-working wife, pretty little child, plenty of jobs to get on with and a fair reputation as an honest craftsman, for all that he didn’t have much flair – he sat around moping and complaining.’

‘Did he—’

But she hadn’t finished. ‘Course, he always looked too fragile for this world,’ she said critically. ‘That deadly white skin and the strange, pale hair made him look more like something from the spirit realm than a flesh and blood man, and he were so straw-straight and thin that you’d think a good easterly wind would blow him away.’

So my pale youth had inherited his colouring and his shape from his father . . . Realizing that the old woman still had not said how he had died, I asked again.

‘He went off to work on some grand new building where they wanted nothing but the best craftsmen,’ she said with a disapproving sniff, ‘and
that
were a surprise in itself because, like I said, you’d get a satisfactory job out of Edulf but no more than that and he weren’t what I’d have called the best, nowhere near.’ Her eyes narrowed as she thought back. ‘Went off all in a lather and in such a hurry that he forgot his tools and Asfrior went after him with them. Next thing we know, he’s had an accident and he’s broken his neck.’

‘An accident?’ I felt a thrill of apprehension.

‘Story went he was perched up high on the scaffolding working on a carving and reached too far.’

It was utterly plausible and such accidents were common. Building sites were perilous places, and I had heard muttered dark tales out of the past to the effect that each great new construction had to have its human sacrifice. With an effort I brought my thoughts back to the present. I exchanged a glance with the old woman, and I had the clear impression that, despite the dangers inherent in a carpenter’s work, she didn’t believe the story of Edulf’s accident any more than I did. Whatever violent drama was being played out around Gewis appeared to have had its origin in the earlier generation: with his father Edulf. Or perhaps even further back, with his grandfather who had met a terrible fate . . .

The old woman was chattering on, describing how Edulf’s body was brought back for burial and how his widow had been desperate in her grief. But I was barely listening. Asfrior still hadn’t returned – we would surely have heard her if she had, for the walls of the cottages were thin – and I was struck with the thought that I had sixteen miles to walk before nightfall. I stood up, thanked my old woman and, with a haste that was far from courteous after she had been so hospitable, made my excuses and left.

The cottage next door was, as I had expected, still empty. I wrapped my cloak round me and headed out of the village.

I had cleared the village and was walking fast towards the place where the ancient straight track branched off to the north when suddenly something caught at the edge of my mind. I pinned it down: it was a remark that my old woman had made, and I concentrated hard, trying to remember exactly what she had said. She had said she’d heard Asfrior early in the morning, getting ready to go to market. She’d heard sounds of movement then it was quiet. Yes, all that was unexceptional, but it wasn’t what had aroused my interest – and, I had to admit, my alarm. The sounds of movement were not all, and in my head I listened to the old woman’s words:
Heard voices, see
.

But Asfrior had been alone. Her husband was dead and her son, as I well knew, was in Ely. I saw those four burly men in my mind’s eye, and I heard again what one of them had said only an hour or so ago:
It is safe now
.

Dread filled my mind.

What should I do? Where should I look? I had seen him approaching the crossroads, and his remark suggested he had already done what he had come to do. I went over to stare down in the ditch on the right side of the path, still looking intently as slowly I walked back towards Fulbourn. When I was close enough to the village that anyone happening to look up could have seen me, I turned round, crossed to the opposite side and, still staring into the ditch, headed back to where I had begun the search.

I found nothing in the ditch. But, just before I reached my starting point, I became aware of the sound of carrion birds, cawing loudly and repeatedly. I looked up. In a small copse in the corner of the field before me I saw perhaps fifty crows, settling on the ground, pecking, fighting among themselves and fluttering up in the air, only to settle back down again almost immediately. They were so intent that many did not move away until I was all but on top of them.

They had already taken the eyes, and the pale face that gazed sightless up into the sky was bloody with peck marks. The blow to the head that must have killed her stood out big as an apple and dark against the smooth brow.

I turned and ran as fast as I can back to the village. I went to the baker and as soon as he saw me all thoughts of chancing his luck for another pinch fled. With nothing but concern on his friendly face, he said, ‘What is it, lass? You look terrible! Sit down, let me—’

‘There’s a body,’ I gasped. ‘A woman. She’s in the copse at the end of that field.’ I pointed.

‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

‘Yes!
Yes!
’ The living do not allow crows to peck out their eyes. I fought off the nausea as with my mind’s eye I saw her again.

The baker was already busy. He called out three or four names and other men materialized on the road. He muttered something and the group hurried away towards the copse. One slipped inside a house and returned carrying a hurdle. I followed behind.

When I caught up with them they were standing, heads bowed and caps in their hands, around the body. I already knew who she was and when one murmured, ‘Poor woman. Poor, sad Asfrior,’ I was not in the least surprised.

There was a long silence as the men absorbed the shock. Then one said, ‘Reckon she must have tripped and hit her head.’

The others nodded their agreement.

Two of the men leaned down to the body and gently put it on the hurdle. It didn’t look as if Asfrior weighed very much. Then they took up the ends and slowly bore her back to the village.

I stood beside the baker. His happy face was drawn with sorrow. He put a companionable arm around me. ‘Want to come back to the village?’ he asked. ‘I’ll do you something to eat and a hot drink. I could put some honey in it – give you some heart.’

It was kind of him. However, he seemed for the moment to have forgotten I’d come to the village asking about the dead woman’s family, and it seemed wise to leave before he remembered. His companions had decided this death was a horrible accident – apparently, none of them had thought to ask himself why Asfrior had left the path and why, if she had tripped and hit her forehead, she was found lying on her back – but I did not want to disabuse them.

‘Thank you but I must be on my way,’ I replied.

‘You have far to go?’ He was still eyeing me anxiously.

‘No, no, not far,’ I lied. ‘My father will have set out to meet me by now,’ I added, compounding the lie.

The baker nodded. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘Quite sure. Thank you for looking after me,’ I said meekly.

‘That’s all right.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye, lass.’

As I hurried away I was sure he was watching me. I increased my pace, hoping he would not notice, and soon I was nearing the crossroads. I turned round. The baker had gone.

I set off along the ancient track. It was rough and overgrown, but it went in the direction I had to go. After what seemed like a very short time, I emerged on to the Cambridge to Ely road. I did not meet up with my farmer of the morning, but a merchant heading home with a load of market goods picked me up. This time the treatment I bartered in exchange for my ride was for his wife; I supplied a costly cream made of rose petals and honey that smoothes a woman’s wrinkles, although the effect is only temporary. I was so relieved to be on my way back to the four walls of the little room on the island that I would have given him whatever he asked.

I was rowed back to Ely Island on one of the last boats to cross that evening. When I finally got back, it was so good to close the door behind me that I was only a little distressed to find that I was alone.

THIRTEEN

H
rype set off as soon as he had watched Lassair cross the water and march off on the road down to Cambridge. He hoped she would get a lift; he admired her gallant spirit, but it was a long walk. Within the privacy of his own head he briefly stepped into the other world that ran parallel to his own and put in a polite request. When you asked for something for someone else, and there was no advantage to yourself, he had found that the spirits usually helped.

He looked around him. He remembered it all so well. Coming back to Ely was a torment, for at every turn the sights, smells and sensations of now were mingled and blurred with those of before. The marketplace was busy this noon time with a bustle of cheerful, hard-working people, and with his inner eye he saw as it had been during the rebellion. He saw desperate men, their eyes hard with resolve, encouraging one another with the justice of their cause. He saw hungry children who clung in terror to their mothers’ skirts. He saw weeping widows, grieving mothers and daughters. He saw the sick and the gravely wounded; he saw himself shoulder to shoulder with other healers as, with arms that were red to the elbow with the blood of the dying, he tried with all his skill and all his might to save a life.

He saw his brother.

Then the memories became too much. With a great effort he drew down a veil in his mind and covered them up.

Without his conscious guidance his feet trod the way to the house where he had laboured so long and so desperately. He wrapped his dark cloak closely around him, bent his long body to make himself shorter and cast his eyes down, so that he looked quite unlike himself. He imagined himself melting into the shadows of the abbey wall; in all likelihood, nobody noticed him at all.

He left the populous areas behind him, and soon he came to the row of little reed-thatched cottages at the end of the track. He stopped by the one outside which stood a lavender bush in a tub. He hesitated and then, barely pausing to knock, eased the door open and stepped inside.

The child he remembered had grown into a thin, tired-looking woman. She sat at her spinning, head bent, back bowed. She looked up at him as if she had been expecting him.

He said softly, ‘Yorath. It has been a long time since we saw each other.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. He sensed wariness.

‘I mean you no harm,’ he assured her. ‘I seek news of my nephew who, brought to the island on other business, has taken the opportunity to investigate what happened here during the rebellion.’

She was watching him closely, but she sat in the shadows and he could not read the expression in her eyes. He sensed her confusion and her fear. He waited.

‘He was here,’ she said eventually, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘He was with a young woman. He asked about you, and I told him my mother worked with you trying to help the wounded and the dying.’

The rush of words sounded like a confession and he saw her fear had increased to terror. She was afraid of
him
.

‘That is no more than the truth,’ he said gently, ‘and it was not unreasonable for you to tell him.’

BOOK: Mist Over the Water

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