Primarily this: Morcar had suffered his accident on the Isle of Ely, where the Normans were building a huge and showy new cathedral. That cathedral was a part of a Benedictine abbey, no doubt full of learned monks who read the ancient tracts and studied the knowledge that had been handed down to them out of the past. Quite a lot of that knowledge would be concerned with the healing arts, and not a few of the monks would undoubtedly be skilled and renowned healers.
So why on earth had whoever was caring for Morcar sent the message to his mother to bring help for her son? Why had they not taken him straight to the abbey’s infirmary, where he could be tucked up beneath clean, linen sheets with bland-faced, psalm-chanting monks gliding around him and swiftly and efficiently answering his every need?
Why, in the dear Lord’s name, was
I
going to Ely?
For the first time, I felt a deep shiver of unease.
FOUR
S
ibert and I set out in the early afternoon. As the crow flew it was probably only eight miles or so from Aelf Fen to Ely, but Sibert and I were not blessed with wings and would have to trudge along many extra loops and detours as the track edged it way round numerous watery obstacles. In addition, although it was fine today it had been raining hard for the past few days, and the water level everywhere had risen quite dramatically.
It really was no time for a would-be marsh walker to test her probably non-existent skills.
We were basically good friends, Sibert and I, but it was some months since we had done more than nod a greeting to each other as we passed in our daily round in the village. Consequently, it took a mile or two before we even
began
to be easy together. Sibert asked a few polite but stiff questions: are you well? Are you enjoying working with your aunt? How’s your sister, Goda? Still as awful as ever? To the last I was able to answer honestly that, yes, Goda was pretty much her usual self. She bore her first child – my beautiful little niece, Gelges – two summers ago, and the baby’s safe arrival did, for a precious few months, turn Goda into a nicer person. Unfortunately, the improvement hasn’t really lasted, although I have to admit she’s not quite as waspish as she was before. In the spring she had another baby, a boy who was rather unimaginatively named Cerdic, after his father. He is large, blank-faced and, compared to his sister, a little dull, although it’s hardly his fault, and it’s not fair to judge a child who is still so young.
I gave Sibert an edited account of all that and then we fell silent. I knew that I ought to ask him about his family in return, yet I hesitated. Hrype scares me and as for Froya, on the few occasions she emerges from her cottage she always seems so fearful and anxious that I feared to enquire after her in case the report was bad. Still, we had many miles to go yet, and we could hardly pace along without saying a word.
I drew a breath and said, ‘How’s your mother?’
Briefly, Sibert raised his head and gazed up into the clear sky, an expression of pain crossing his face. Oh dear. ‘I’m sorry I asked,’ I muttered, feeling myself blush.
He turned to me and gave me a very nice smile. ‘There is no need to apologize,’ he said. ‘In fact I’m grateful for the chance to speak to you about her.’
‘To me?’ I said stupidly.
He smiled again, and this time there was an edge of humour on his face. ‘You’re a healer, Lassair,’ he said patiently.
Belatedly, I understood. ‘Sorry,’ I repeated.
Sensibly, he ignored that. ‘She’s not exactly sick,’ he said, ‘or anyway we – Hrype and I – don’t think so, otherwise we’d have made her see Edild or you.’
‘You can’t make people see a healer,’ I protested. ‘Well, not unless they are beyond seeking help for themselves.’
‘Perhaps she is,’ he muttered.
Sibert’s mother has experienced much tragedy in her life. She nursed her dying husband and somehow managed to get him away from those who were after his blood following the Ely rebellion, bringing him to Aelf Fen where he died while his child, Sibert, was still in her womb. She was supported by Hrype, and the help of such a man was surely invaluable. Nevertheless, the one she had loved and married was no longer on this earth, and sometimes it seemed that Froya would never get over her loss. If, indeed, it was grief that ailed her.
It was time for me to be the healer I was meant to be. ‘She grieves still for your father, do you think?’ I asked gently.
‘I don’t . . . Yes. I suppose so.’ He seemed uncertain.
‘Describe to me how she seems to you,’ I prompted. ‘Does she not eat? Does she not sleep? Does she speak to you and Hrype of her worries?’ That Froya had worries was no feat of diagnosis. You could tell that just by studying the poor woman, with the perpetual deep frown that creases her smooth, white brow and the constant droop of her shoulders, as if she carries a heavy load.
Sibert was clearly thinking, eyes narrowed as if he were conjuring up an image of his mother. ‘She prepares food for Hrype and me – good, tasty food, for she’s always been a good cook and is able to make something substantial and appealing out of little – but she doesn’t eat much herself. She picks at it, but I never see her finish a decent meal.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know if she sleeps. I fall into deep sleep as soon as I’m in bed, and I don’t wake till either she or Hrype wake me.’
‘And her anxieties? What troubles her, do you think?’
‘
I don’t know!
’ The words were almost a howl. Then, more calmly, he went on, ‘Once I came home and heard her weeping as I approached the house. I hurried on inside and she was in Hrype’s arms, beating her fists against his chest and crying out something about punishment, and he was soothing her, telling her in a quiet, steady voice that she was good and kind and full of courage. Then he looked up and spotted me and that was that.’
‘You didn’t ask him what the matter was?’
‘No, Lassair, I didn’t,’ he said testily.
I should have paused to think. Instead I said, ‘Why not?’
‘Oh, come on!’ he cried. ‘You know what Hrype’s like. He gently pushed my mother away from him, and she hurried away to see to the meal. Then he just fixed me with those odd eyes of his, and it was as if I could hear his voice in my mind telling me – no,
commanding
me – not to ask my mother anything.’
I could well imagine the tense little scene. I was silent for some moments, thinking. Then I said, ‘She spoke of punishment. Do you think she fears earthly or heavenly punishment? I mean,’ I added, ‘has she broken the law or has she sinned?’
He smiled grimly. ‘I can’t imagine her doing either.’
He was right. I couldn’t, any more than he could. ‘Punishment,’ I murmured. It sounded rather as if Froya had a guilty conscience. Why? She seemed to have led an exemplary life, as far as I knew, tending her wounded husband devotedly and doing everything in her power to save his life. If she could not get over losing her Edmer, the man she had loved, it was surely nothing to feel guilty about. Poor Froya, stuck in Aelf Fen in the constant company of Edmer’s son and Edmer’s brother, the two people who more than anyone else on earth must daily remind her of the man she had lost . . .
‘Do either you or Hrype resemble your father?’ I asked.
Sibert looked surprised. ‘I am told not,’ he replied. ‘My father was broad and heavily built where Hrype is tall and slender, and my mother once referred to his dark eyes. I look like my mother.’
He did a little, being lightly built and quite tall, with fair hair and a naturally pale complexion, although a child can have attributes of both parents, and, for all I knew, Sibert might have his father’s mouth or his laugh. Not that I imagined there was much laughter in that particular home. ‘Oh.’
‘Why do you ask?’ Briefly, I explained my theory. ‘Hmm. It’s possible, I suppose, although my very existence must remind her of my father, irrespective of whether I look like him.’ His frown deepened, and all at once he looked very sad.
‘Sibert, that’s a
good
thing!’ I said quickly. ‘Just imagine how much worse it would be for your mother if she didn’t have you!’ Vividly, I saw an image of Froya’s face two summers back, when it had looked as if Sibert would be hanged. Hastily, I pushed the memory away. The intensity of Froya’s expression, with the terrible hunger of her love and the black despair turning her living face to a skull, had been frightening.
Sibert looked a little encouraged. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘I know so,’ I said unhesitatingly.
Then I realized something I ought to have worked out before. Sibert’s father had died as a result of the wound he had received at Ely. Now, because of me, Sibert was being forced to go to the very place. ‘I’m sorry that you’re going there,’ I said quietly.
I’m not sure he understood. ‘What? To Ely, you mean?’
‘Yes. I realize it must hold bad memories for you.’
‘How can it?’ he said roughly. ‘I never knew my father, either at Aelf Fen or Ely. Going to the place where he received his fatal wound is hardly going to bring back memories of any sort, bad or otherwise.’
‘No, I can see that.’ Typically, I hadn’t really thought it through, and I accepted the implied rebuke.
‘Besides,’ he began. Then he stopped.
‘What?’
‘Oh . . . I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t bother you with it.’
‘Well, you’ve mentioned it now, whatever it is, so you’d better go on or I’ll drive myself silly imagining things.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Very well. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to go to the island.’
I nodded. I could understand that. ‘As a sort of pilgrimage, I suppose.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing like that.’ Again he paused. Then he said in a rush, ‘There’s something strange about the story of what happened to my father, something that I can’t really get straight in my mind. I’m saying no more than that –’ I had opened my mouth to ask at least four questions – ‘but, believe me, Lassair, I’d have gone to Ely sooner or later so it may as well be now.’
We walked on. After a while he said, ‘What should I do about my mother?’
I did not know. I’m all right with cuts, sprains and everyday maladies – or for Morcar’s sake I hoped so – but whatever was wrong with Froya was beyond me. ‘Let her know you love her,’ I said. No harm in that, whatever Froya’s problem was. ‘Encourage her to get out of the house,’ I went on. ‘You and Hrype are out all day so she must spend a lot of time on her own, and that probably gives her too much occasion to brood over what she had lost instead of be glad for what she has.’
‘Ye–es,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I do see the sense of that.’
‘She needs grandchildren,’ I plunged on thoughtlessly. ‘Unlike yours, it wasn’t as if
my
mother was sad to begin with, but having Gelges, and now little Cerdic too, has brought her so much joy, and she’s always busy with something concerning them, either making a little garment for them, or going over to help Goda with some minor difficulty, or—’
Sibert was laughing. Far too late I remembered that he was an only child and that any grandchildren Froya might have would be engendered by him. The nearest thing to a girl on whom he might be sweet enough to wish to marry was walking right beside him.
The flush began on my cheeks and spread up over my forehead and right down my throat. Anything I could possibly think of to say would only make matters worse. I folded my lips together and strode on down the track.
We made our slow but steady way in a wide semicircle around the south-east and south of the Fens, stopping at the edge of the hard ground opposite Ely in the late afternoon. The sun was low in the sky as we stood looking out towards the isle of the eels, rising in a low, dark hump before us like some huge creature from the deeps. I did not know how it would be normally, when the island was not experiencing such a vast and important new build, but just then the shoreline was crowded and busy, with craft of all sorts and sizes lined up along the quay. We were on the bank of a wide river, no doubt made wider by the recent rains; stretching away into the distance, I could make out the rough line of the waterway. The great expanse of marshy, sodden ground on either side looked as if it could bear the weight of nothing heavier than a duck. Here and there stands of alder and willow rose up, the trunks of the trees knee-high in the dark water.
Beyond us were drawn up a number of barges laden with huge slabs of stone. Beyond them was a line of similar barges, only these were empty. Presumably, this was a holding place for the transportation of the stone for the new cathedral; the empty barges would no doubt set off in the morning for another load.
Work seemed to be winding down for the day, but it was still light and we had no problem in finding a boatman to take us across. He helped me down into his small craft and Sibert jumped in after me. We settled ourselves as comfortably as we could, and the boatman pushed off from the quay and then dipped his oars in the black water.
He was probably after a tip because quite soon he began to entertain us with a lively description of the horrors that lay beneath us.
‘Water’s high,’ he said, glancing from me to Sibert and back again. ‘There are deep, dark dikes and ditches down below, and you’d be able to see in them if it hadn’t been so wet lately. Not as how you’d want to,’ he added, leering at me. ‘Full of dead things, they are,’ he hissed. ‘Horrible, foul, rotten things. Things as would give you nightmares if you ever caught so much as a glimpse of them.’ His eyes seemed to bore into me and it was quite clear he was enjoying himself. ‘Bits of bodies, skeletons in rusty armour, black, empty eye sockets staring up at you, bony hands reaching out for help—’