My horse was a black mare. She was small and neatly made, with lines that suggested excellent blood. I stepped up to her and gently patted the graceful curve of her neck. She gave a low whicker.
‘Her name’s Isis,’ Jack said. My delight must have been obvious, and he was smiling at me. ‘Mount up, and Mattie can hand the child to you. Then -’ he glanced up at the sky, where the clear light of morning was slowly being overtaken by gathering cloud – ‘we’d better be on our way.’
We were lucky with the weather. September was marching on and we weren’t far from the equinox, which so often brings violent storms. Although rain threatened for most of the journey, however, we didn’t receive more than a brief shower, during which the veiled woman insisted we sheltered in a copse of fir trees. The lady didn’t want to get her finery wet.
Jack Chevestrier had packed food and drink, and we stopped when the sun was at its zenith to consume it. The baby – Leafric; I was trying to remember to whisper his name to him as I tended him – had been asleep in my arms, soothed by the smooth pace of my lovely horse, but woke hungry when we stopped. Mattie had fed him before we left, and had prepared soft bread sops soaked in her milk for the journey. Leafric was reluctant at first, but, driven by increasing desperation and catching the familiar smell of Mattie, finally ate. I cleaned him up as best I could, then put him back in the cradle I had fashioned for him from my shawl. He burped, blinked his eyes a few times, then fell asleep again.
By early afternoon, we were close to Aelf Fen. I was amazed at how much faster the journey was achieved on a good horse. We were taking the veiled lady to Lakehall, the residence of Lord Gilbert and his wife, Lady Emma; nowhere else in Aelf Fen was suitable for a noblewoman. Jack, apparently, knew of Lord Gilbert. I wondered if he was aware that, while a basically kind man, Lord Gilbert carries the fat of over-indulgence, is indolent and not very bright, and that the brains of the family rest, along with a good heart, with Lady Emma.
As my mind leapt ahead to riding up to Lakehall and presenting our foreign companion, I hissed to Jack, ‘We don’t know her name!’
Jack frowned. ‘I’ve asked her, but she’s reluctant.’ As if making up his mind that he’d had enough of her nonsense, he drew rein, waited until the veiled woman came up beside him, then said firmly, ‘Madam, we shall shortly arrive at the house of Lord Gilbert de Caudebec, who we hope will welcome you as his guest. Lord Gilbert will help you locate your kinsmen.’
She studied him with her usual cool-eyed stare, but made no reply.
‘You have so far refused to reveal your name, and, out of courtesy to a stranger, I have not pressed you,’ he went on. ‘Now I must insist. You cannot be presented to Lord Gilbert as an anonymous foreigner, and, in addition, he will need to know your family name if he is to help you.’ He paused, and I had the sense he was controlling rising irritation, if not anger. Then he said abruptly, ‘Speak, please, madam.’
The veiled lady gave an over-dramatic sigh, and in a tone of resignation, as if she was being forced to accede to a totally unreasonable demand, said grandly, ‘I am Rosaria Dalassena, widow of Hugo Guillaume Fensmanson.’
None of the names meant anything to me, although the family name Fensmanson supported the woman’s claim to have kin hereabouts. Well, not her own kin; it was her late husband’s family she sought. That seemed reasonable enough. Widowed, and left with no one to support her and her child, she had abandoned the faraway place where she had met and married her husband and made her way to England, to seek out his kin. You had to admire her courage. Perhaps she had been driven by desperation …
Jack was studying the woman with a frown. ‘Dalassena?’ he said softly. Her eyes shot to him, their expression hard and challenging, as if daring him to question her further. ‘Let us ride on, then, Lady Rosaria.’ His tone was carefully neutral. Nudging his heels into the grey’s sides, he led the way on down the track.
We came into Aelf Fen from the south, having followed the road that curves round the lower limits of the fens. Lakehall was the first dwelling we came to. I pointed it out, and Jack stopped to study the place.
I have known it all my life, but I tried to see it as a newcomer would. The house had been built by Lord Gilbert’s father, Ralf de Caudebec, who had fought with the Conqueror and been awarded the manor of Lakehall as reward. The estate rose up to the eastern side of the track, a mixture of arable land on the higher, drier ground, and waterlogged marsh – rich in eels – out on the fens. The house and its outbuildings were surrounded by a paling fence, and the house itself boasted a wide hall, a solar and extensive kitchen quarters. Lord Gilbert was very fond of his food.
We set off up the drive. ‘The reeve will receive us,’ I said to Jack. ‘His name’s Bermund. He’s not exactly a cheerful, outgoing sort of man -’ my younger brother Squeak had once said the reeve looked like an anxious rat – ‘but he’s fair.’
Jack nodded. ‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Lord Gilbert’s lazy and not very quick-witted.’ I lowered my voice. ‘If you can enlist Lady Emma’s sympathies, the job’s done.’
He nodded again. ‘Thank you.’
We clattered into the courtyard, our horses’ hooves announcing our presence. A lad poked his head out of the arched entrance to the stables, and someone else ran up the flight of stone steps into the hall. Bermund appeared in the doorway.
He studied each of us, his eyes resting on me. ‘You’re the eel-catcher’s daughter. The healer girl,’ he said.
‘I am,’ I agreed.
His glance went back to Jack, then to Lady Rosaria. ‘What do you want?’ He fixed me with a stare. ‘Who are these people?’
I opened my mouth to speak, but Jack forestalled me. ‘My name is Jack Chevestrier,’ he said, ‘and I am an officer of the sheriff of Cambridge. This is the lady Rosaria Dalassena, widow of the late Hugo Guillaume Fensmanson, and she has come here to seek her husband’s kinsfolk, bringing with her his child.’
Bermund’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What has this to do with Lord Gilbert?’
‘The family whom Lady Rosaria seeks are fenland people,’ Jack said firmly, ‘and she needs help in finding them.’
Bermund looked as if he’d like nothing better than to shut the great door in our faces. But observance of the old rules of courtesy, hospitality and chivalry to ladies in distress goes deep. He said curtly, ‘Wait there,’ and disappeared inside the hall.
He reappeared a short time later. ‘You’re to come up.’ He summoned the pair of stable boys who had been watching, wide-eyed, from the courtyard, and they hurried forward. Lady Rosaria, Jack and I dismounted, and the lads took our horses. Just then, the baby gave a start – the movement had woken him – and let out a shrill cry. The cry swiftly escalated to a steady scream of protest: Leafric was ravenous.
I made an apologetic face at Jack. ‘He won’t stop till he’s fed, and there’s no more of Mattie’s bread sops,’ I said above the yelling. ‘I’ll take him straight to Edild. She’s bound to know of a wet-nurse, and, in the meantime, she’ll feed him.’
I turned and, on foot since there was nowhere at Edild’s house to care for a horse, set off back towards the track, all other thoughts and preoccupations dissolving in the face of Leafric’s mounting distress. His little body had stiffened in outrage, his mouth formed a gaping square, and his face was screwed up and bright red. Jack called after me, ‘Where will you be?’
‘I’ll stay at my aunt’s house,’ I called back. ‘Go on towards the village, past the church, and it’s the next house on the right.’
Then, clutching Leafric close, I broke into a jogtrot and hurried away.
FIVE
Edild exhibited no surprise at my sudden arrival with a screaming baby in my arms. Typically, it was his needs she addressed first, warming some milk over the hearth and dipping in some small pieces of bread. ‘He is presumably in need of a wet-nurse,’ she said in the sudden, blessed silence.