The Way Between the Worlds

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*available from Severn House

THE WAY BETWEEN THE WORLDS

Alys Clare

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Alys Clare.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Clare, Alys.

The way between the worlds.

1. Lassair (Fictitious character) – Fiction. 2. Fens, The

(England) – Fiction. 3. Nuns – Crimes against – Fiction.

4. Great Britain – History – Norman period, 1066–1154 –

Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-159-0     (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8097-0     (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-391-5     (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For Richard.

“When you look up, there shall I be;

When I look up, there shall you be.”

ONE

C
 ome to me! I need you!

The words brought me awake, shaking, trembling, sweat on my body although the night was chilly. I had been dreaming. It was the same dream; the one that had come to me twice already. Each time it had been more powerful; more frightening. This is what I dreamed  . . .

I am standing by water. I can hear it, but I cannot see it, for there is a thick, white mist that swirls up around me from the cold, moisture-soaked ground. I am in the fenland; that I know without a doubt. I was born in the fens and, until recently, spent my entire life there. This place of my dreams, however, is nowhere I recognize.

There is something out in the mist, something that terrifies me  . . .

When I first had the dream, I had no idea what it could be; it was shapeless, nameless. The second time, I sensed a being close by me, but whether it was human I could not say. This third time, I caught a glimpse of the horror that haunts me: I saw a dark figure, shadowed and ominous, indistinct save for its malice, which sought me out and drilled into me like an iron point.

I had no idea what it was, but I knew it was evil.

That night there was an additional factor: the voice. As my fast, alarmed heartbeat gradually slowed, I steeled myself and tried to recall exactly what had been said. Said  . . . No, that wasn’t right. Those summoning words had not been spoken; they had been put inside my head. I knew that was so because when I tried to decide if a man or a woman had been responsible, I realized I had no idea.

A repetitive dream meant that someone – something – in the spirit world was trying urgently to reach me. In my three dreams, that thing had become increasingly insistent and threatening. I gave a small whimper of fear. As I lay there in the dark, I had never felt more alone.

It was a great novelty for me to sleep by myself. Until that year – it was the spring of 1092, and King William, son of the Conqueror, had been on the throne of England for four and a half years – I had slept in a small cottage with at least one and as many as eight other people. In my home village of Aelf Fen I had lately lived with my healer aunt, Edild, in her tiny, fragrant house that, between us, we always kept neat and tidy. Before that, I had lived with my parents, my brothers and sisters and my beloved grandmother, who died last year. Both my sisters now lived elsewhere: one with her husband and family in another village, and one in the abbey where she is a novice nun. The eldest of my three brothers married last summer, and he and his bride will share the family home until he can build a dwelling just for them.

As for me, I was on my second visit to the house of a sage who has decided, for reasons I still do not dare to think about, to take me on as his pupil. When first I learned of his existence, I was told that Gurdyman was a wizard, and sometimes, when some demonstration of his extraordinary powers leaves me horrified and fearful, I think that word described him best.

Life with him is totally different from everything I have previously known. To begin with, he lives in the busy, bustling town of Cambridge, the streets of which are crammed with every rank and level of society, from lords in fine, richly-coloured wool, velvet and gold, to abject beggars who crouch on corners and hold out their mutilated limbs as they plead for charity. In addition to the indigenous population, Cambridge lies on a river that brings the merchant ships right into the town, where they tie up along the broad stone quays. You can buy the produce of the known world in the market, and the chatter of languages spoken by all the foreign captains and sailors makes you think that the Tower of Babel must be right here in the town.

Let me describe Gurdyman’s house. It is quite astonishing; a most unlikely place to live. It is hidden away in a maze of dark and narrow little streets that twist and turn around the market square. You turn right, right again, left, right, right, left  . . . Or do you? Actually, it’s easier to find your way than to describe it, for certain landmarks such as a small pot of lavender on a doorstep serve as prompts. Even so, I still get lost quite frequently. I sometimes entertain the thought that the house is deliberately hiding itself.

Once you have located the right alley, you come to a flight of shallow steps leading up to double doors, set within an arch of well-shaped stones. Inside the house, the twisting and turning intensifies. You take a few paces along the hall, then a smaller passage leads off to the right. If you take it, you go down steps, turn left, along a few more paces, turn left again and descend a steep, narrow stair that seems to take you right down into the earth. Bowing your head to get beneath a low arch, you emerge into Gurdyman’s workplace, in a vaulted crypt below the house. I had been here for some time before I realized that this crypt isn’t actually beneath Gurdyman’s house; the dwellings in this alley sort of fold together, and Gurdyman’s house is woven into the spaces between those of his neighbours. When you’re down in the crypt, it is the neighbours who walk about over your head.

Back upstairs in the hall, you walk on and come to the space that serves as kitchen, eating room and storage area. It is not large, and the furnishings – table, two stools, various cupboards for pots, platters, cups, knives and food – are crammed against the walls, kept clear of the small cooking hearth in the middle of the room. A steep little ladder against one wall leads up to an attic room.

Beyond the kitchen, the twisty-turny house springs its final surprise. You turn left under an arch and find yourself in a small, square courtyard enclosed by high stone walls and open to the sky. Here Gurdyman has a table, a chair and a bench, and whenever it is not actually raining or snowing, he likes to sit out here, often very well wrapped, deep in thought, a quill, penknife, ink and scrap parchment by his side in case he needs to record some brilliant idea. He says the greenery – a vine, a rose and a large bay tree in a big earthenware pot – is a solace.

He seems to live mainly in his crypt, where he has a low cot. The attic room is mine alone during the time that I am with him. When I first appreciated this, I was very embarrassed because I was quite sure he had moved out for me. But no, he assured me; the room indeed used to be his sleeping chamber, he explained, but when he came to think about it, he realized that of late he usually slept in his crypt.

My attic room has stout stone walls on three sides and a little square opening in the wooden boards of the floor where the ladder comes up. On the fourth side, there is a series of three arched windows that look out over the courtyard. In summer, I shall be able to smell the herbs and flowers that Gurdyman is growing down there; they are as yet little more than delicate green shoots, for it is early in the spring. Now, when it is cold at night – and usually it is – I roll leather blinds down over the windows to keep out the chill. I have a wide bed with a feather mattress all to myself – I still can’t believe my luck – and it is made up with linen sheets and soft, warm woollen blankets. Across it I drape the beautiful shawl that my sister Elfritha made for me and I feel as pampered as a queen.

That night, the night I heard the summoning words, for the first time I wished I was not alone. Luxurious it might be, but I would have given almost anything for the comfort of knowing that someone else of my family slept close by. I lay wide awake, afraid even to try to sleep again. I made myself think about that recurring dream. I repeated those words:
come to me! I need you!

After quite a long time, my fear lessened and curiosity stirred. Who could have appealed to me? Who, among my family and friends, was so urgently requesting my help? I wondered what aid this person believed I could give. I was learning to be a healer – or at least I had been until my studies with my aunt began to be interrupted by my visits to Cambridge – but surely anyone wanting a healer’s skills would call on Edild rather than me. What else could I do? I was just starting out on my work with Gurdyman and, again, who in their right mind would summon me when Gurdyman lived in the same house? Perhaps this person didn’t know about Gurdyman. Or perhaps they did but he was far too grand and fearsome for whatever small task they had in mind. If they were summoning me, it had to be a small task: if nothing else was certain, that was.

For what remained of the night, I lay worrying at the problem. Then a faint glimmer of light penetrated into my little room around the edge of the leather blinds, and somewhere in the town I heard a cock crow. I slipped out of bed, drew my gown on over my shift, tidied my hair and put on a clean white coif and, my shoes in my hand, went backwards down the ladder and crept along the dark hall to the passage that led down to the crypt. Gurdyman, I knew, was an early riser; that is, on days when he slept at all.

I found him standing before his workbench, quite still, his arms crossed and a look of intense concentration on his face. On the bench, a glass vessel rested on an iron tripod and beneath it a flame burned. Some liquid in the vessel was giving off pale blue steam and it smelt vaguely of irises.

I said tentatively, ‘Gurdyman? May I speak to you?’

He spun round, and for a moment his bright blue eyes gazed blankly at me as if he had quite forgotten who I was and what I was doing there. I was used to this and simply waited. Then he shook his head a couple of times as if to clear away whatever had been preoccupying him and said, ‘Of course, Lassair.’ Taking in the fact that I was dressed ready for the day, he added, ‘Morning already!’

‘Have you been up all night?’ I was sure he had and, even as I asked the question, I was moving over to the small table where he habitually kept a flagon of small beer and a little food. I spread butter on a piece of rather dry bread, cutting a slice of rich cheese and adding it to the bread. Handing it to him, I watched as absently he took a bite and began to chew.