‘When did you find out?’ I whispered.
He smiled crookedly. ‘I saw the baby soon after he was born, and I knew him for a full-term baby. I thought back to where we had all been nine months ago and I knew. I asked her if he was mine and she said yes.’ There were tears in his eyes, but he ignored them and slowly they spilled out and ran down his face. ‘She said she and Edmer had not lain together as man and wife since before he had gone off to fight, and that was ten, perhaps eleven months back. There was no doubt in her mind, and there has never been any in mine.’
We sat there, the three of us, and I tried to take in what he had told me. Had Sibert suspected something? Had he wondered about that time in Ely, when his badly wounded father and his desperate mother had apparently started a child? Had he understood that the timing was wrong? He must have had his doubts, I realized, for given the opportunity to visit the place where his life had begun he had not hesitated. And, once there, he had set about discovering the truth with a dedication that bordered on obsessive.
Yes, I thought. Sibert had suspected. But now he knew, and that was something very different.
I sent my thoughts his way, telling him I was thinking about him and that I would help him bear this huge blow in any way I could. I didn’t know if he heard; I hoped so. I realized then why he had looked so sick when he’d seen Hrype’s wound: because he had inflicted it. Sibert, Sibert, I thought, why did you want to kill him? Was it that terrible, to be told that your uncle is really your father? He is still Hrype, whatever his relationship to you.
I tried to put myself in Sibert’s boots. How would I feel if suddenly they told me that, instead of the man married to my mother, my uncle Ordic or my uncle Alwyn had fathered me? I had no idea. Would I want to kill my true father? Again, I didn’t know. It was possible, I supposed. Then I thought, but it is not quite the same, because Sibert never knew Edmer whereas I have known and loved my father all my life.
It was beyond me. All I could think was that Sibert was suffering and I could not help him. Would he come back to Ely once Gewis was safe at Aelf Fen? Or would the desire to put as much distance as possible between him and Hrype drive him far away?
I looked up to find Hrype staring at me.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
He just shrugged.
Edild murmured something — it appeared she wanted to check his wound — and I watched as her gentle hands tended him. Did he care for her as she did for him? I studied his face as he looked up at her. He said something that I did not catch, and her face broke out in a lovely smile. He reached up and touched her cheek, and she folded his hand in hers and drew it to her lips. The love between them seemed to envelop them in a soft little cloud. I had my answer.
I was young and still to experience love between man and woman. Nevertheless, I understood something about Hrype and my aunt Edild that night, something that moved me profoundly and made me ache for them. It was this: by the well-intentioned actions of one night nineteen years ago, Hrype had tied himself to a woman whom he did not love. Well, he might love her as a brother loves a sister, but she was not his soul mate and, I guessed, did not share his bed and had never done so, apart from that one fateful occasion. He could not leave her, for together they had betrayed his brother and her husband and she had borne their child. Froya was slowly destroying herself with guilt — now I recognized exactly what ailed her and why — and Hrype, who shared that guilt with her, felt far too much responsibility for her to leave her and go where his heart led him. She was frail. She would not manage life without him.
I was so sad for them, all three of them, that I knew I was going to weep. Edild and Hrype were wrapped up in each other — this was, I realized, a rare opportunity for them to be alone together — and they did not need a third.
Quietly, I picked up my cloak, tiptoed across the room and let myself out into the pale light of early morning.
TWENTY
The morning was chilly, and it was as yet too early for any of the food stalls to be serving. A few workmen were queuing up waiting for the abbey gates to open. The men were huddled inside their heavy garments, preoccupied and not interested in a young woman pacing the streets. I was alone with my thoughts.
I crossed the marketplace and headed off to the east, towards the rising sun, keeping level with the high wall that bordered the abbey on its north side. I passed a gatehouse and noticed a clutch of low buildings beside it. This gate, too, was still fast closed. I imagined that somewhere within the monks were at prayer, perhaps seeking strength for the vagaries of the day ahead.
It was very quiet. There was no wind and, although heavy clouds were massing in the western sky, as yet it was fine. The pale sun made the green grass glow. I walked on, presently coming to a meadow that sloped gently down to the water. There was a stand of trees over to the left, and I noticed absently that the water level reached well up their trunks.
There was a ruined building behind me — it looked as if it had once been a cow byre — and I went to sit on a low wall, lifting my feet out of the wet grass and resting them on a stone. I put my elbows on my knees and dropped my chin in my hands. Then I gave myself up to the whirl of thoughts, impressions and recent memories flying around inside my head.
She did not know he was there until he was standing just behind her. He had been watching her for some time, impressed by her utter stillness and wondering what she was doing out there all by herself. He had approached slowly, expecting that at any moment she would hear him and spin round. He only saw the tears on her face when he was close enough to touch her.
He said the first thing that came into his head: ‘What’s the matter?’
She did not turn; it seemed she knew who he was without looking. ‘I’ve just been told something so sad,’ she said.
‘Ah.’ He sat down beside her on her wall. ‘Is there anything you can do to help?’
‘No, I don’t think there is. It’s to do with something two people did here on the island nineteen years ago. They are still living with the consequences — someone else is as well — and nothing’s going to change what’s happened.’
‘I see.’ This, then, seemed to be nothing to do with the boy in the abbey. To be sure, he said, ‘It concerns friends of yours?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Well, one of them’s actually my aunt. The other two are my friend’s mother and father, only up until yesterday he thought he was his uncle.’
He worked out what she meant. She could not be speaking of the pale youth, and he was surprised at the relief that flooded through him. He had found her, by the purest chance, and it seemed they had been given an opportunity to talk of matters far removed from the business that had brought him to Ely. That still must be resolved, and he knew it. He knew, too, that soon he would have to ask her why she had been in the abbey and what her interest was in the pale youth. For now, she was distressed because of something that had nothing to do with him. Perhaps he could comfort her. He intended to enjoy this moment out of time to the full.
He leaned closer to her. He caught her scent — she smelled of rosemary and lavender, among other things, and he guessed she was a healer. The scent awoke memories of how it had felt to kiss her.