Music of the Distant Stars (19 page)

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Authors: Alys Clare

BOOK: Music of the Distant Stars
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‘A huge staff of indoor servants?’
‘Probably.’
I grinned. ‘Then we shall just have to narrow down the likely boys and young men till we find the one that was Ida’s lover.’
Edild smiled too, but hers was slightly pitying. ‘You intend to march up to Heathlands, demand admittance and start asking highly personal and embarrassing questions of all the male servants?’
‘Oh.’ She was right. Whatever had I been thinking?
Hrype reached out and took Edild’s hand. He muttered something – it might have been,
Don’t crush her enthusiasm
– and turned to me.
‘You reason well,’ he said. ‘Yet, as Edild implies, you have not thought your idea to its conclusion.’
‘I—’ I began.
He held up his hand. ‘I have a suggestion.’
I looked at him, feeling both excited and apprehensive. ‘Yes?’ I prompted.
‘You recall, no doubt, that it was I who told you both about Lady Claude and Sir Alain’s background?’ Edild and I nodded. ‘And you will also recall the source of my information.’ It wasn’t a question; he knew we’d remember.
‘Your wizard friend Gurdyman,’ I said.
‘Quite right,’ Hrype agreed. ‘He is, as I told you, an authority on the history of the great Norman families. It is, as he is wont to say, a wise man who strives to comprehend his enemy. His knowledge of the de Caudebecs, the de Seés and the de Villequiers is, as I told you, extensive, although whether it extends to the number and nature of the male indoor servants at Heathlands, I cannot say.’
I smiled. I thought he was making a joke.
‘We will,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘just have to go and ask him.’
He was looking straight at me, an enquiring look on his face.
‘You’re asking
me
?’
Me
came out as a squeak.
His smile broadened. ‘Yes, Lassair. Will you come to Cambridge with me and speak to my wizard?’
There was only one answer. ‘Yes.’
There was plenty of time during the night for me to regret my impetuosity. Cambridge was half a day’s walk away; perhaps a little less now, when the weather was good and the roads and tracks correspondingly dry and firm. Hrype and I might well have to stay overnight with this wizard friend of his, which was quite alarming enough a prospect, but in addition we’d be travelling away from our village without Lord Gilbert’s knowledge or permission. For the same reason that Sibert and I couldn’t reveal that we were going to Brandon or why, Hrype would have to keep our mission to Cambridge a secret. Still, I comforted myself as I tried to make myself relax into sleep, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d left the village without permission, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
No. What really alarmed me about the morning’s mission was the prospect of a day or more with Hrype. I’d done that before too – travelled on my own with him, I mean – but I’d been quite a lot younger. I’d been scared of him then. Now, when I knew quite a lot more about him, that fear had not receded. If anything, it had increased. I couldn’t say tomorrow,
Sorry, Hrype, I’ve changed my mind, and I’m not coming.
You just didn’t say things like that to Hrype. Besides, it hadn’t escaped my notice that he could perfectly well have gone to consult this Gurdyman by himself. He didn’t need me there with him to ask the right questions.
There had to be something else. Was there some element in this mission that presented a chance for Hrype to further my studies into his own particular type of magic? It was perfectly possible, considering we were going to visit a wizard. What would the new lesson be? I could barely dare to think . . .
That
was the real reason why I couldn’t sleep.
Edild woke me as the dawn was lightening the sky, to a chorus of birdsong so loud that I was amazed I’d slept through it. She must have known how nervous I was, but she made me eat and drink, reminding me I had a long walk ahead. While I washed and dressed, she packed up food and a flask of water and set them ready by the door. I checked in my leather satchel to make sure I had my basic kit of remedies – you never know when someone’s going to call on a healer – and I also packed my wash cloth and my shawl. The nights could be chilly, and I had no idea whether or not I’d be back in my own bed that night.
There came a soft tap on the door. Edild opened it, and Hrype looked in. Seeing that I was ready, he nodded and said, ‘We’d best be on our way before curious eyes look out to see us.’
I slipped out of the house and, side by side, we set off for Cambridge.
We reached the town shortly before midday. I had no idea what to expect. I’d been to Ely, and I’d seen the port of Dunwich from a distance, but Ely had struck me as a random collection of buildings round an abbey and, as I said, I hadn’t had the chance to see Dunwich at close quarters.
Cambridge was a revelation.
As we’d walked along, Hrype had told me that the town had been occupied before the Romans had come. For ages now the town had held a market that was famous in the area and a great attraction to local tradesmen and their customers. The Vikings had sacked, burned and destroyed the town, only to have the irrepressible residents build it up again even better than before. It had burned again only three years ago, when holding out for the Duke of Normandy against King William. The first King William – our present king’s iron-fisted father – had built a castle on the north of the town’s river, up on a specially constructed earth motte, and on the south bank of the river there were extensive wharfs for the barges bringing goods to Cambridge from far and near. A sturdy bridge spanned the water, busy with a variety of traffic, from heavy carts to fleet-footed lads weaving in and out of the throng. There was a definite air of purpose and general busyness. Many of today’s townsfolk were, according to Hrype, very prosperous.
We crossed the bridge, and as we entered the maze of narrow, crooked streets, my eyes were wide open in wonder. There were so many houses – most of them timber-framed, although some of the smaller ones were mud-brick – and all had thatched roofs. The evidence of the fire three years ago was still visible, although it looked as if the townspeople had been as swift to rebuild as they had been in Viking times, and many of the dwellings were clearly new. There were even one or two big houses made of stone, most certainly the dwellings of the very rich, for everyone knew stone had to be imported into the fens, where we have none of our own. The buildings huddled together shoulder to shoulder, all but blocking out the daylight. The only open space appeared to be where there was a church. We passed one that had a tower reaching up into the wide sky, and Hrype said it was dedicated to St Benedict and had been built by the Saxons.
Hrype led the way down a dark little alley that dived off between an imposing stone building and a smaller, clay-walled house. The entrance to the alley was concealed by a wood-roofed stall that jutted out from the smaller house. A very large woman stood behind a trestle table inside the stall, from which she was selling pies and loaves of bread. Busy yelling out mouth-watering descriptions of the food on offer, she barely glanced at Hrype and me as we slipped past her.
The alley went dead-straight for about five or six paces, then turned abruptly to the right. We were now in an even narrower passage, with the rear wall of the clay house on our right and another, similar dwelling on our left. We twisted and turned down several more alleys and, although I tried to memorize the turnings this way and that, I soon realized that I was lost. Presently, we came to a set of steps leading up to a stout, iron-studded wooden door set in a graceful stone arch. Hrype sprang up the steps and tapped on the door. Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time. Then the door opened just a crack and a pair of keen eyes peered out.
‘Hrype!’ cried the owner of the eyes. The opening widened enough to admit us, and swiftly we were ushered inside.
The passageways had been quite dark, shaded as they were by the buildings on either side. The light out there, however, had been bright in comparison to the interior of this house, and for some time, as my eyes adjusted, I could barely make out anything except vague shapes. We were led down a corridor and, lacking my sight, my other senses seemed to sharpen as if to compensate. I could hear two distinct sounds, one of which was a sort of fizzing, as if something were sizzling in hot fat over a fire. The other was the steady breathing of the person leading the way down the passage.
The air smelt strange: incense mixed with other elements, one of which I thought could be cinnamon. There was also an animal smell, like goats. I sniffed cautiously. In my work with Edild I have learned not to sniff hard at an untried substance as the effect can be disturbing. I detected rosemary, which I know is used to increase the potency of a mixture, and also something that I thought might be bay laurel, although it seemed strangely sweet, as if the leaves were being steeped in honey. In addition, there was a metallic tang that I was rather afraid might be blood.
We turned to the right, went down some steps, left along another passage, and then left again, down more steps that led through a low archway. The room into which we emerged was lit by a single candle and seemed to be vast, as if a cellar had been hollowed out beneath this house and perhaps the one next to it. Very quickly, however, I realized that this had been an illusion; I was probably still disorientated by the twists and turns of the walk through the dark corridors. Recovering, I stared around me and saw a small, square room, its vaulted roof supported by several thick pillars. A workbench ran along the wall to the right of the steps, there were shelves of bottles and jars on the wall opposite and, to the left, a low cot on which there was a pillow and a stack of neatly-folded blankets. Beside it there was a little table covered with rolls and sheets of vellum and a quill pen beside a small flask of ink. Beyond the cot, the wall was covered with a large, heavy hanging. If there was a design or pattern on the hanging, the light was too dim for me to make it out.
My eyes were drawn to that single candle flame burning on the workbench. Now that I was able to detect more detail, I saw that there was a bulbous glass container suspended over the candle, resting on a three-legged iron stand. Some dark liquid was bubbling away in the container, and it was, I realized, the source of both the loud fizzing noise and the curious smell.
What on earth was going on? What terrible, secret potion was being created down here in this hidden, underground room? Did those jumbled pages of vellum contain the formula that all men sought, the one that bestowed eternal youth? I felt a shiver of dread slide down my back, and I took an involuntary step closer to Hrype. Hrype was weird, and at times very frightening, but at least he was familiar . . .
The person who had admitted us was bending over the candle and lighting others from its flame. He – or it could have been she, for I couldn’t yet tell – had his back to us, and I was able to study him in the waxing light. He was short – almost a head shorter than me – and gave the impression of a certain rotundity, unless this was because he was bulked out by the voluminous garments he wore. It was chilly in the room, and he appeared to be wearing several layers, topped off by a generously-sized and gloriously-coloured shawl with a long fringe, which covered his head and shoulders and almost touched the floor at the back.
There were now seven candles burning brightly on the workbench. The person turned round, flung back his shawl and looked right at me. He was a man of late middle age, his hair styled like that of a monk, with a bald crown surrounded by a fluff of hair. His eyes were bright blue and full of laughter, set in a face with regular features and a wide mouth. There was something odd about him, and I soon saw what it was: although he was quite old and his hair was white, his face appeared to be almost completely unlined.
He stepped towards me, studying me intently. I felt a strange sensation – it was as if someone were running a feather all over my skin – and I knew this man was looking inside my mind. I wanted to drop my eyes, for the sensation that he was somehow creeping into my head was disconcerting, but his gaze held me and I could not look away. Something in me began a timid protest at the intrusion and, almost without my volition, I made a feeble attempt to raise my defences. After a few moments, the feeling altered subtly, and in place of the stern inquisition I felt approbation and welcome.
Hrype was standing behind me. He said, addressing the man, ‘May I present Lassair?’ Pushing me forward, he added, ‘Lassair, this is Gurdyman.’
TWELVE
 
H
rype watched as the man who was his mentor and friend studied the girl. Hrype had been looking out for an opportunity to bring the two together for some time now, and the need to discover more about the household of Ida’s former mistress had presented the perfect excuse to bring Lassair here.
Hrype was almost certain now that Lassair had a quite extraordinary gift. He knew that Edild felt the same, although she was hesitant to say so because she feared that her love for the girl was making her see things that were not truly there. Bringing Lassair to meet Gurdyman was the test: the sage had schooled and trained many young men and women, and he always recognized talent if it was there. Hrype might still be wrong about her, but he did not think so.

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