‘It’s the Norse way, to add son on to the father’s family name,’ I said. ‘My-’ I’d been about to tell him that the man I now knew to be my grandfather, Thorfinn Ofnirsson, had the same custom. But I held back; very few people knew that my Granny Cordeilla’s husband had not fathered her third child, my father. Including my father …
‘What?’ Jack asked.
‘Er – nothing. Did she reveal any more?’
‘Not much. She said she’s a widow, which we already knew, and that her husband died earlier this year.’
I gave an exclamation of impatience. ‘If she wants to be helped, surely she needs to be more forthcoming?’
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘So, I think, does Lord Gilbert, although courtesy to his guest prevents him from saying so.’
‘What will you do now?’
I was afraid he’d say, I’m heading straight back to Cambridge. But he didn’t: he said, ‘I’ve offered to stay for a few days to help in the search for this Harald Fensman’s kinsmen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Sheriff Picot commanded me to look after her.’
‘But surely-’ I began. Surely he was needed back in Cambridge? Surely the sheriff hadn’t intended his officer to go on taking care of Lady Rosaria until her family were found? I didn’t utter either remark; it would have been stupid, when I’d been hoping so much he’d stay.
‘But surely what?’ he prompted. He was smiling.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Embarrassed, I cast around for something to say. Then, remembering something I’d meant to ask, I said, ‘Who was the tall, bald-headed man you were arguing with as we set off?’
Jack’s smile vanished. ‘Gaspard Picot,’ he said tersely.
‘A relation?’
‘Yes. He’s the sheriff’s nephew, and views himself as heir and natural successor to Picot’s position. He’s certainly evil enough,’ he added in an angry mutter.
‘He doesn’t seem to like you very much,’ I observed.
‘He-’ Jack hesitated. ‘He resents the closeness he believes I have to his uncle. He thinks I’m a party to the schemes by which Picot makes himself rich and powerful, and considers I have usurped his rightful position.’
I recalled what Gurdyman had said: Jack Chevestrier is a better man by far than his master the sheriff. ‘But you haven’t,’ I said quietly.
Jack shot me a quick look. ‘No.’ Then, as if he didn’t want to say any more, he turned and strode away.
I headed on into the village. A cold, forceful east wind was rising, and it threatened rain. Although I couldn’t yet see the moon in the early evening sky – and it would probably be concealed by the gathering clouds – I knew it would be full.
I increased my pace, a shiver of alarm running up my spine. The full moon, combined with the time of year, meant that the tide would be high tonight. If it combined with strong easterly winds – perhaps, judging by the steadily darkening clouds overhead, even a storm – then there would be flooding in the low-lying areas. The people of the fens and the bulge of coastal East Anglia have learned to dread such conditions, for at such times a great wall of water builds up and surges inland. You can’t fight the sea, when it has made up its mind to flood over the land.
Edild and I spent a cosy evening in her neat little house. The rain had begun, beating down fast and furiously. We shut out the violence of the night and sat close to the hearth, and soon, my belly full, I felt my eyes beginning to close.
‘Go to bed, Lassair,’ ordered my aunt.
I needed no second telling. I had a cursory wash, removed my outer tunic and snuggled down under the bedclothes. I was vaguely aware of Edild, moving soft-footed around me as she tidied up and prepared for bed, then I fell asleep.
It was the wind that woke me. It was howling round the house like some desperate monster, and its cry ranged from a low, throbbing hum right up to a full-lunged scream. Back draft from the smoke hole in the roof had disturbed the embers of the fire in the hearth, and there was a mist of ash and smoke in the room. It was raining even harder, and there were regular thumps as objects were hurled against the stout walls. It sounded, in my shocked-awake state, as if the creature outside was trying to break its way in.
As my awareness grew, I realized there was another sound: the muttering of quiet voices. I pushed my humped bedding down a fraction and peered out.
The room was almost dark, lit only by the dying fire. Edild and Hrype sat close together on the far side of the hearth. Hrype’s heavy cloak lay spread on the floor, steaming gently. He had removed his boots and folded back his hose, and his bare feet were towards the fire.
I was torn between pretending I was still asleep and giving them some rare privacy, or making it plain that they – or, rather, the storm – had just woken me up. If I chose the former, there was always the chance that their closeness might proceed to the sort of intimacy that I really didn’t want to witness, even with my head under the covers. I faked a yawn, stretched and, feigning surprise, said, ‘Hello, Hrype. What are you doing here?’
He looked at me, his strange silvery eyes glittering. ‘You have the shining stone with you,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. He hadn’t asked; he’d stated the fact. He’d presumably have been talking to Gurdyman.
‘Then you must-’
Edild interrupted him, murmuring quietly into his ear. He listened, nodded curtly and began again. ‘Lassair, it is very important that you begin to make appropriate use of the stone. Your-’ This time, he stopped of his own volition. There was a pause, as if he was weighing his words, then he said, ‘Please will you try once more to look into it? You have had it in your possession for many months now, and it will know you when you handle it.’ I made myself ignore the shiver of fear that gripped me at the thought of the stone knowing me. ‘You should not be apprehensive. If you approach it properly – and I am here to make sure that you do – it will be a powerful tool in your hands.’
I thought about that. The shining stone, or so I had been told, permitted anyone who stared into it to see the truth; more alarmingly, if you had the strength, apparently you could use it to search out and harness the forces of the spirit world. The very idea terrified me.
They’d persuaded me to try, Gurdyman and Hrype, that night in Gurdyman’s crypt. Clutching my piece of lapis lazuli, I’d stared into the stone’s dark depths. I could still recall all too vividly what I’d seen and heard. The straining figures, the waters of sea and river; the galloping horses; those two ravens, flying straight for me.
I had tried not to think about it, particularly the birds. Whenever the images had returned, I had swiftly dismissed them. Now, as I allowed them full rein, perhaps for the first time, something else occurred to me: something which I thought I had quite forgotten, except I couldn’t have done because now it was the only thing in my mind …
When I went down to the crypt that night and found Gurdyman and Hrype closeted together, I’d asked Hrype if there was news of my family. Not of them, he had replied, but there was news of somebody else.
I looked at him now, filled with the firm resolution not to weaken. ‘Hrype, what exactly is it you want me to find out for you?’ I asked. ‘When you and Gurdyman made me use the stone before, you’d just told me there was news of Skuli.’
I was studying him intently, watching his face in the dim light for any subtle change of expression. And, as I spoke Skuli’s name, I saw it: a tiny flicker in his eyes. As if, just for an instant, some shadow had blocked out their brightness.
‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ I whispered. ‘Somehow, word of what he’s doing has reached you, and you want me to look in the stone and verify what you’ve learned.’ I had no idea whether I was right – what I was suggesting sounded so unlikely – but Hrype’s face remained impassive.