‘He wanted very badly to see Mother,’ she went on; it was almost as if the words were being drawn out of her against her will.
‘But your mother is not willing to meet him,’ he murmured, half to himself.
‘That’s right, yes, that’s right,’ she exclaimed in a rush. ‘I went out to see her and to ask, just like I promised the young man I would, but she’s shut her mind to the past and wants no reminders.’
It is as I thought
, Hrype reflected.
The vision was true
.
While she spoke he had been creeping steadily towards her, and now he crouched down at her side. He looked up into her face – he could make out her features now and saw that her eyes were wide and her face drained of colour – and very gently he reached for her hand.
‘I laboured for many, many days with your mother, and I have the utmost respect for her,’ he said, putting into his voice all the sincerity he could muster. ‘I fully understand her wish not to revisit those terrible times, and I uphold her decision not to speak to my nephew.’
He sensed Yorath slump with relief. With a small, wry smile he wondered if she had feared he would cast a spell on her and force her to do what Sibert wanted and take the youth to her mother, whether Aetha wanted to see him or not. And, he thought, how far
that
was from the truth of what he really wanted.
He was silent for some moments, sensing Yorath’s mood. When she had at last mastered her emotion he said, ‘Your mother no longer lives here on the island?’ He knew she did not, but he turned it into a question. As a rule he found it wise not to disclose how much he managed to divine through methods that were not available to most people.
‘No,’ Yorath replied easily. There was, he noted with satisfaction, no apprehension in her tone. ‘She never felt the same after the . . . That is to say, she found she could not settle here under the new masters. She tried, and for some time after the rebellion I thought she was all right. Then they announced they were going to tear down our church and start on
that
.’ She jerked her head violently in the direction of the new cathedral. ‘Mother left. Said she wasn’t going to stay here to see it rise up.’
Hrype saw Aetha in his mind, adding a couple of decades. He smiled. She had always been a courageous, determined and outspoken woman. He could well understand her decision to move away from the island before her sharp tongue that refused to shy away from the truth got her into trouble with the new masters. ‘Where did she go?’ he asked quietly.
He had been stroking the back of Yorath’s hand all the while, the small repetitive movements designed to put her into a very light trance. It worked.
‘She’s gone over the fen to March,’ Yorath said disinterestedly. ‘Not the big island itself – she’s settled on a smaller islet between March and Chatteris. Some call it Bearton. She keeps herself to herself, and nobody finds her unless she’s a mind to receive them.’
‘How does she live?’
Yorath smiled. ‘She looks after herself, like she’s always done. She grows vegetables, and she keeps bees and a few hens. Her wants are small, and she manages. She likes her own company.’
Hrype sent a tentative probing thought into Yorath’s mind and saw the picture he sought. There was Aetha, looking much as he had pictured her and dressed in a patched old gown over which she had tied a coarse sacking apron. She carried a wooden bowl on one hip from which she was flinging out handfuls of grain for her hens. The tiny dwelling behind her was mud-walled and roofed with reed thatch, but it looked sound. The scene would have been tranquil except that Aetha’s deeply lined old face wore a frown.
The frown sounded an alarm; Hrype stood up. ‘It has been good to see you, Yorath,’ he said. ‘You look well.’
She smiled, suddenly looking much more like the pretty girl he remembered. ‘I look old, Hrype,’ she replied. ‘Life hasn’t been easy, not for the likes of us.’
He knew what she meant. Memories were long, and the Normans were meticulous about recording who was with them and who was, or had ever been, against. Yorath and her mother had lost kin during the rebellion; Aetha had given far too much of herself trying to save the wounded and, when she failed, preparing their bodies for the grave. Ely had proved intolerable for her and so she had fled. Yorath had stayed right here with her memories . . .
Hrype held out his right hand, extending the fingers wide. He held it over Yorath’s head. ‘I wish you peace,’ he murmured.
She met his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Then he turned and strode away.
Some call it Bearton
, he repeated to himself. The place of the bears? He wondered absently what ancient fragment of folk memory was embodied in the name. He made his way to where the boats ferried passengers to and fro across the water to the north-west of Ely, the direction in which March and Chatteris lay. He did not even try to find a ferryman who would take him direct to Bearton, instead jumping aboard a substantial craft that was about to cross to March.
He deliberately stilled his mind during the crossing, not allowing the growing anxiety that threatened to gnaw away at him to gain the upper hand. Instead, he looked out calmly over the dark water, studying the places where islands broke the surface and noticing how the whole area appeared waterlogged.
When he reached March he asked among the people busy on the quayside if they knew where Bearton was. Nobody did. Not discouraged, he went on up the slight slope that led away from the water. He kept his eyes on the line where the land gave way to the sodden mud of the foreshore, and presently he spotted a place where a narrow causeway ran out across the water. It began as roughly a straight line but soon began to twist and turn this way and that, like a snake in a river. He looked right along the causeway – in places it was submerged by the high water – to its far end, which melted into the softly swirling mist. He stood watching and after some time the mist parted and he caught a brief glimpse of a low, dark hump of land rising out of the marsh. He glanced around him to orient himself. Yes; the islet fitted Yorath’s description, for the causeway led out from March in the direction of Chatteris.
He had found Bearton.
He adopted his head-down, crouched pose and, careful to merge with the crowd and not draw attention to himself, soon reached the landward end of the causeway. Then he waited until the road was quiet, slipped over the low wall and set off.
The going was fairly easy to begin with, although the ground beneath his feet was very wet and worryingly yielding; it felt as if he were treading on clumps of saturated moss. After perhaps a mile he came to a place where the path was covered by the water. He bent down, removed his boots and rolled up his hose, then, not allowing himself any time to dwell on what he was doing, splashed into the water. It was icy, and soon his feet were numb. But, fortunately, it was not too deep, never rising much higher than his knees.
He waded on for another half a mile or so and then emerged on to land. He stopped, dried his feet, rolled down his hose and put on his boots. Then he made himself break into a trot, for he was by now cold all over and shivering to his bones.
The islet of Bearton was tiny. There were the ruins of several abandoned dwellings and, beyond them on the far side of the hump of land, a tiny cottage with a line of low outbuildings. Hrype could make out the regular shapes of several vegetable plots, now all but bare of anything but a few cabbages. Smoke rose from the reed thatched roof; Aetha, it seemed, was inside.
He hesitated, then, making up his mind, walked on. He was deeply apprehensive of what she would say to him, but it was surely better to know.
As he approached the cottage he smelt freshly baked bread. The door opened just as he raised his hand to knock, and he found himself face to face with Aetha.
‘I thought it would not be long before you turned up,’ she said with a grim smile. ‘You’d better come in, Hrype.’
She turned and led the way back inside the tiny room that was her home, and he followed.
He looked around. He had always thought of Aetha as an efficient, tidy woman and the cottage supported that impression. The central hearth lay in a shallow pit, rimmed by carefully selected slabs of stone that were fairly uniform in size. The floor of beaten earth was swept clean. A stool was on the far side of the hearth, and roughly made wooden planks formed a set of shelves behind it. Along the far wall, supported by a simple wooden frame, was a narrow bed, on which sat a black cat with a white mark shaped like a star on its brow. The cat stared at him out of suspicious green eyes, and Hrype stared back.
‘That’s Callirius,’ Aetha said with a smile. ‘Take no notice of him.’
Callirius, Hrype thought. She named her cat after the King of the Hazel Grove . . .
He turned his mind to the purpose of his visit. She had just implied that she had been expecting him; because her daughter had told her that his nephew Sibert wished to see her? Or because . . . No. He would not think about that unless and until he must.
‘I have seen Yorath,’ he said as he sat down on the stool that Aetha had pushed in his direction. ‘She told me where you were.’
Aetha snorted. ‘Only because you made her, Magic Man,’ she said.
‘I did not—’ he began.
‘Oh, I’m not saying you used force,’ Aetha snapped. ‘But I know you, Hrype. I know how your mind works on people.’
He bowed his head. He was quite surprised at her challenge; usually nobody dared refer to his strange powers. As if she read the thought, she laughed again, a harsh, barking sound. ‘I have not long in this world, and I shall not be sorry to leave it and go to the ancestors,’ she said cheerfully. ‘If speaking my mind to you means I get there a little sooner that I had expected it’ll be worth it.’
He froze. It seemed to him that two opposing desires fought within him: one that wanted to lash out at this straight-talking, challenging old woman and one that wanted to laugh.
Laughter won. Soon she was chuckling with him. ‘I would not hurt you, Aetha,’ he said after a moment. ‘My memories of working alongside you are strong in me still.’
‘No, I never really believed I was in danger,’ she replied. She was looking at him intently. ‘Your power’s grown,’ she said shortly. ‘I would fear you if I did not know you.’
He bowed his head as he considered her words. She was right in her assessment of his increased powers. In the years since they had laboured side by side he had studied hard and pushed himself to the very limit and beyond as he strove to open himself to the knowledge that the spirits offered. He had been wounded, he had fallen sick, he had suffered the extremes of terror and once or twice he had ventured far too close to death. Given all that he had experienced, it was no surprise that his power had grown. But it had come at a price.
She had just said she would fear him if she did not know him. Did she know him? He risked a quick glance and looked into her watchful eyes, then returned his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap. She had known him well enough when they were at Ely. She had seen him at his very best and at his very worst. As to what she read in him now, he was not so sure. He was always careful to veil his inner self from others and, although he recognized that Aetha had been bestowed with certain talents, they were surely nothing like those that the spirits had entrusted to him . . .
He raised his head and stared into her eyes. She flinched but then gathered her courage and stared right back. For an instant it seemed to Hrype that two glittering swords met and clashed together. Then the lesser one dropped. There was a moment when he saw right into her mind, but then she managed to get her defences up and the image was lost.
He knew he must not try again for he would risk hurting her.
Slowly, deliberately, he let the fierce tension drain from him. He was aware of her panting, as if she had been running very fast, and he listened as her breathing gradually returned to normal. Then she said, ‘It’s cold outside and you’re shivering, Magic Man. I’ll brew you a hot drink to put some heat in your bones.’
He was aware of her moving quietly around the room. He shut off the distraction, for he was trying to clarify the quick glimpse he had had into her mind. He had seen a tall, slender figure staring out along the very causeway he had just crossed. The figure was leaning forward, gazing into the mist; he was facing towards the islet, and the image had been from the far end of the causeway. Hrype was all but sure it was Sibert.
He cannot have reached this islet
, Hrype told himself.
Aetha knows he wants to see her, for her daughter told her so, yet she refused, but if he had come here I would know
.
There would be signs for one such as Hrype to read had Sibert achieved his goal. The two were blood kin, and Hrype would have picked up his nephew’s scent, no matter how hard Aetha had tried to disguise it. In addition, he would have read in her mind that she had recently spoken to the young man; the image Hrype had seen of the slender figure suggested strongly that she had only seen him, at the other end of the causeway.
Suggestion, however, was not enough.
‘Have you seen him?’ he asked softly.