I worked hard all day with Edild, my thoughts fully occupied so that there was little time for wondering whether my father would relent and let me return to sleeping at my aunt’s house. When I did briefly dwell on it, it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t only thinking of me. If, as it seemed, it was my father’s children who were the objects of the giant intruder’s search, then my presence in Edild’s house might also put her in danger. Edild, I knew, was under Hrype’s protection, but I very much doubted that anyone else was aware of it.
Spring was getting into its stride. The worst of the various weather-related sicknesses was over, and soon I should start thinking about returning to my studies with Gurdyman. A part of me longed to be back with him in the twisty-turny house in Cambridge, engrossed in the fascinating things he was teaching me and with the lively, vibrant town all around me. But such thoughts seemed disloyal to my family, especially under the current circumstances, so I tried to suppress them.
We were just clearing up for the day when there came the sound of running footsteps on the path leading up to the door. There was a perfunctory knock, then the door was flung open and my cousin Morcar burst into the house.
There was no need for even the swiftest glance at his poor, haggard face to know that something terrible had happened. Distress radiated out of him, reaching me with such force that I staggered back. Edild ran to him, took his hands in hers and, on a huge sob, he cried, ‘My mother’s dead!’
Instinctively, Morcar had come first to Edild, his mother Alvela’s twin. But Alvela had had other siblings, and one of them was my father. Even as Edild led Morcar over to the bench beside the hearth and gently persuaded him to sit, I gathered up my shawl and ran across the village to my family home. By the time Morcar was ready to tell us what had happened, he had the meagre comfort of his uncle’s, his aunt’s and his cousin’s presence while he related his tale.
‘I’d been working on a job some way from home,’ he began. Morcar is a flint knapper. His and Alvela’s neat little house is up in the Breckland. ‘I finished off this morning, sooner than I’d reckoned, and I headed home with coins in my purse, hoping to surprise Mother.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘She was lying there, amid the wreck of all the bits and bobs she’d cared for so well. They didn’t amount to much, but she loved them.’ He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. He is by nature a reserved, taciturn man, and to see him torn apart by his grief was hard to bear. Alvela had doted on him, and I had always assumed he’d found her fussing something of a trial. Watching him now it was clear that, even were that true, he’d loved her deeply.
He raised his wet face and looked at my father, then at Edild. ‘Whoever broke in beat her, very badly,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Her poor face was …’ But he couldn’t bring himself to tell us. He waved a hand vaguely in my father’s direction, shaking his head in anguish.
‘Never mind that now,’ Edild said gently. ‘Do not distress yourself further by making yourself think of it.’
‘But why did they hurt her?’ Morcar asked, his brow creased in a perplexed frown. ‘She was a small woman, and not strong. Once he’d broken in, he could have taken all he wanted and she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.’
‘He?’ my father asked.
Morcar glanced at him. ‘Yes. Great big fellow, bearded, built like an ox.’
‘Somebody saw him? Edild demanded.
‘Yes, yes, a couple of our neighbours had heard the commotion and gone to see what was up. The man ran off just as they arrived.’ He paused. ‘They found Mother lying there, but it was too late to help her. She was already dead.’ He dropped his face into his hands again.
I saw my father and my aunt exchange a glance. Then my father looked at me. I understood. ‘It’s as if her killer had been trying to make her tell him something,’ I whispered, the words barely more than a breath.
My father heard. His expression grim, he nodded.
Morcar must have heard, too. Perhaps — probably — he had already arrived at the same conclusion. ‘I don’t know what he thought she could tell him!’ he cried, tears running down his face. ‘If he was after some treasure, some object of value, that he believed we had hidden away in our house, he had been wrongly informed. And now she’s dead.’
We fell silent. In Edild’s warm, fragrant little house, the heart-rending sound of a grown man’s weeping was the only thing to break the silence.
My poor father was quite clearly torn between staying with Edild and me while we tended Morcar — well, it was Edild who patiently went on trying to calm and comfort him, while I set about making a remedy to dull the agony of his shock and grief — and returning to protect his family home. In the end, perhaps frustrated by his indecision, Edild said firmly, ‘Go home to your wife and your sons, Wymond. You should send word to Ordic and Alwyn, who must be informed of our sister’s death.’
My father looked at her uncertainly for a moment. Then, his face working, he said, ‘Goda wounded, old Utta dead, Elfritha’s dormitory searched and two nuns hurt, my family’s home — where Lassair is temporarily living — ransacked, and now this — poor Alvela. It’s the women,’ he added in a low, furious voice. ‘My daughters, and now my sister.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What sort of a man attacks women? What is worth finding, for which he’ll kill so casually and thoughtlessly?’ His eyes, normally warm with affection and humour, were suddenly cold as ice. There was, I realized, another side to my father; one that an enemy would do well to fear.
I think it was Edild’s remark about informing Ordic and Alwyn that finally persuaded my father to leave. Although the third-born son, he is the acknowledged head of the siblings, probably because he’s both the wisest and the biggest of the brothers. He got up to go, leaning over Edild and muttering something I did not catch. She looked up at him with a smile, made a soft reply and nodded towards the door. She murmured something that sounded like a reassurance. Whatever she said seemed to convince him.
As he stood in the doorway, he turned back to me and beckoned. ‘A word, Lassair.’
I wondered what he wanted to say. I got up and followed him outside.
My father turned to face me. ‘You should go back to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘You’re due back with your teacher round about now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. My father’s suggestion was making me feel very guilty over my thoughts of that morning, when I’d been longingly imagining being back with Gurdyman. ‘But what about poor Morcar?’ my conscience made me ask. ‘He’s grieving, and there’ll be the funeral to endure, and-’
‘Edild and I will look after Morcar,’ my father said, quietly but with the sort of tone that informed me it was not my place to take the discussion further. ‘You will return to your studies in Cambridge tomorrow. We’ll go to Lord Gilbert first thing in the morning, and I’ll ask his permission to take you.’ He fixed me with a stare. ‘I will not let you go unprotected, Lassair.’
Part of me sang with joy, despite the dreadful circumstances. The prospect of a day alone with my beloved father was a rare treat. But then I wondered why he was suddenly so eager for me to return to Gurdyman.
Anticipating the question, my father looked down at me, his eyes full of love and concern. ‘My daughters and my sisters,’ he said, repeating his earlier words. ‘Of them all, the most precious is you, child.’ It was, I well knew, an admission he had never made before and would never make again; torn from him, I’m sure, by the emotion of the moment. ‘How can I keep you safe here?’ he demanded, his voice raw and angry. ‘I work all the hours the good Lord sends, and so do you, and I am not close enough to protect you if he … if danger comes. Yet in Cambridge, according to Hrype, you live in a house so well-hidden that even he occasionally has trouble finding it.’