We followed the track that runs along the fen edge, although occasionally, where the flood waters had overrun it, we had to veer up to the higher ground to the east. Over to the left, the great basin of the fens looked like one solid sheet of water. I could see that not many hours ago, the extent of the flooding had been even wider. My heart went out to all the fen dwellers that morning. I know, from bitter experience, what it’s like to try to clean a house that has been inundated with black fenland mud. And I was quite sure there would have been deaths: our long-limbed woman was surely not the only casualty of the night.
Jack and I kept up a good pace, and quite soon we came to the place we sought. Jack had taken directions from the man who had come to report the body, who had said that we really couldn’t miss the spot because it was the first bridge we would come to after leaving Aelf Fen. I had wondered if the man and his companions would still be lurking about, but there was no sign of them, or, indeed, of anyone else. This was odd, because more than once I had the distinct sensation that someone was watching us.
Jack and I drew rein above the flood water, and we stared down at the scene. The bridge was a simple affair of wooden planks lashed together, and it spanned two distinct rises in the surrounding ground. I knew the place; the banks there are a good spot for comfrey, which we use to knit wounds and broken bones. Now, the little bridge had a collection of debris caught up against it, so that it was acting like a dam. A large pool had spread out downstream, and the slowly circling current carried bolts of wood, planks, broken branches and part of a smashed barrel.
Jack said, ‘I imagine we’re only seeing the bits that nobody could reach.’ He pointed towards a long, thin branch, stripped of its side shoots, which had been left on the bank. He was undoubtedly right, and I had a mind picture of a group of people doing their utmost to collect the bounty that the flood had unexpectedly provided.
I couldn’t blame them – I’d have done the same thing myself – but, all the same, my heart sank. ‘They’ll have probably taken the very objects we’re hoping to find,’ I said dolefully.
But Jack had seen something. He jumped down from his horse, and, eager not to miss anything, I dismounted too. He didn’t bother with tethering our mounts; he must have known they wouldn’t stray far. He made his way cautiously down from the track to the waterside, holding out a hand to me. I took it; the ground was incredibly slippery, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day with a wet bottom.
Once we were on the level ground of the water’s edge, he ran over to fetch the discarded stick. I took the opportunity to wind up my long skirts, twisting the gathered fabric into a loose knot and thrusting it under my belt. Turning back to me, the stick in his hand, I watched as he took in my altered appearance. ‘It’s wet down here,’ I said lamely.
He stopped looking at my legs and grinned. ‘Very sensible,’ he remarked. Then once again he thrust out a hand in my direction. ‘Hold on to me, will you?’
I went to stand behind him, dug in my heels and did as he said, taking his left hand in mine, with my other hand round his arm. His wrist felt like steel. With the stick in his right hand, he leaned forward, right out over the water, and began swirling it gently just under the surface.
‘What are you doing?’ I whispered. I had no idea why I was whispering.
‘Well, I’m not fishing,’ he muttered. Then, with a soft exclamation, he leaned out even further, and hastily I threw my weight backwards to counterbalance his. He crouched low, stretched out one more time, then said, ‘I’ve got it!’
I held on tight as he straightened up, waiting till I was sure he’d got his balance before releasing him. He gave me a quick smile. ‘Thanks. Now, let’s see what we’ve found.’
Carefully, he drew in the stick, just as if he was pulling in a fishing line. Its tip remained under the water, but I could see there was something snagged on it. When it was close enough for Jack to reach, he put his hand down into the water and took hold of it, dragging it to the surface and laying it on the bank.
At first it looked like a nondescript rag. Then, as Jack untangled it and smoothed it out, I saw that it was a woman’s under-shift. It was made of a pale, soft, smooth fabric which I didn’t recognize; it wasn’t linen or wool. It was well-made but unadorned, and it wasn’t new. There was a darn on the front of the skirt, and the seams had been mended at least once.
‘Was it hers, do you think?’ Jack asked quietly.
I rubbed the material between finger and thumb. ‘It’s likely, isn’t it? It’s a shift, so she’d have worn it next to her skin. As such, it would have been the last garment to be shed.’
‘And you’re thinking it would be too much of a coincidence to find it here if it didn’t belong to her,’ he finished.
I nodded. I gathered the shift up, rolling it and wringing it to remove the water. I was finding it quite emotional to handle something the dead woman had worn.
Jack seemed to pick up my mood. He stood up, rested his hand on my shoulder briefly, then said, ‘I’m going to see if I can find anything else. The water’s falling quite fast now -’ I’d been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed – ‘so I suggest we wait here for a while, to see if anything turns up, then continue downriver.’
I nodded again. I was still clutching the shift, and now I held it up to my face, rubbing my cheek against the smooth, wet fabric. I didn’t understand it, but there was something about the dead woman that seemed to be reaching out to me; reaching right into my heart.
I knew Jack was right, and we must continue with our task. But it was hard, when the greater part of me just wanted to run away home.
EIGHT
The slowly receding water revealed a mass of flattened vegetation caked with mud and assorted rubbish. Jack and I realized that it was only by an unlikely stroke of luck that we would come across anything else belonging to our dead woman. After standing silently for some moments staring out over the ruined landscape, Jack turned to me.
‘Did I not hear your aunt mention that you were good at finding things?’
‘It has happened, on rare occasions, that I’ve managed to locate lost items -’ a vision of an ancient crown1 flashed through my head; there and gone in a blink – ‘but, for it to work, it seems that I have to have a pretty good idea of what I’m looking for.’
He nodded his understanding. ‘Perhaps you have to visualize the item?’
‘Er – well, sort of,’ I agreed. It wasn’t exactly that – I’d had no idea what that crown would look like – but it was hard to explain.
He stared at me a while longer, and I saw interest in his eyes. He had a way of looking at you very directly, as if you held every bit of his attention. He would, I guessed, have loved to pursue the matter. I was surprised. If anyone had asked me, I’d have said that a Norman lawman, with quite an important position in a place like Cambridge, would have been down to earth, pragmatic and totally lacking imagination; a man, in short, to be utterly dismissive of anything he could not detect by sight, smell, hearing or touch.
Again, I began to understand that there was more to Jack Chevestrier than met the eye.
His quiet scrutiny was making me uncomfortable. Carefully I stowed the shift in my satchel, then said, ‘I’ll have a go, though. Just give me a moment.’
He knew exactly what to do. He turned his back and walked away along the bank, catching up with the horses. They were taking advantage of the halt to graze, and I could hear the soft sound of their big teeth ripping through the grass.
I stood quite still, closing my eyes. Normally, when I’m searching for a specific item, I hold out my hands palms down and focus on it, and, with any luck, when I’m near it I feel a sort of tingling in my hands. I think that I must be open to strange forces at such times, because once – it was when I found the crown – I’d been assailed by the most terrifying feeling that invisible lines of power were attacking me, and I’d seen a vision from the past that still haunts me.