I turned on my side, away from the swiftly dying light. I was unhappy and anxious about far too many things, and the best thing, it seemed, was to try to sleep and hope the outlook would appear rosier in the morning.
TWELVE
The house was isolated. It stood on a small area of ground that was very nearly an island; joined to the shore by a mere neck of land some two or three paces wide – in places less – and perhaps twenty long. At times of even modest high water, the patch of ground became a true island. Then it was only reachable by boat. Not that its sole habitual inhabitant would use a boat – nor even possessed one – for solitude was the desired state.
The house was a simple dwelling, with walls of wattle and daub and a roof of reed thatch. It had one main room for eating and sleeping, and, separate from it but linked by a covered way, a second, larger workroom out of which led a tidily arranged store whose shelves and hiding places were crammed tight with a variety of materials. A wooden workbench stretched the length of the room, its surface scarred with scratches, pale rings where wet or hot vessels had been carelessly put down, and rather a lot of dark and sinister burns. It had been wise to set the workroom away from the house, for quite often the fierce and uncontrollable demons of fire raged there.
Outside there was a privy. No pump, well or trough, for the house stood so close to the water that there was no need. Trees grew profusely, in a thick canopy comprised of alder, willow and one or two oaks, beneath which grew the all but impenetrable carr of bushes and smaller trees. The marsh fern, rare in its ability to flourish beneath the thick carr, was now turning from bright green to rusty brown as the advance of autumn forced its life force to retreat into itself.
The dense vegetation stood as a frowning, overshadowing barrier. Accordingly, the fen water appeared almost black.
Hrype approached the narrow causeway just as the first pale streaks of light appeared beneath the skirts of cloud on the eastern horizon. He had left Aelf Fen in the middle of the night, slipping out of his bed without disturbing Froya or Sibert, with whom he shared the house, and he had been walking for several hours. He paused, feeling the usual strange reluctance to put his feet on to the narrow, perilous path. Do not be foolish, he upbraided himself. There is no danger here, only wonder. In addition it was, he reflected, as safe a sanctuary as he could think of.
He strode up the causeway. The stump of his feet must have sent vibrations deep through the earth and into the water, and some night creature, swirling and thrashing in protest, briefly broke the surface with a loud splash. Hrype jumped, then smiled at this demonstration of nervousness. It was indeed a strange place…
A faint light showed along the crack between the top of the door and its frame. Hrype tapped softly, and, when a voice within instantly answered, pushed the door open and went in.
‘You were expecting me,’ he said to the rotund figure sitting huddled in a brilliantly coloured shawl beside the hearth.
‘Indeed I was,’ agreed Gurdyman. ‘Here, warm yourself.’ He handed Hrype a pewter mug filled with hot spiced ale. Hrype accepted it gratefully and drank deeply.
‘Aaah,’ he said after a moment, settling beside Gurdyman, ‘he still brews a tasty drop.’
Gurdyman smiled but did not speak.
Hrype looked around. ‘Where is he?’
Gurdyman jerked his head in the direction of the low door at the back of the room and the passage to the workroom beyond. ‘Out there working. Where else?’
Hrype nodded. He let his eyes roam around the room. It was pin-neat and clean, with bedding rolled up and stowed in a corner, a scrubbed board on which stood one or two bowls, a third pewter mug and some rush lamps, a jar of tallow and a bunch of spills tied up with string set ready beside them. A woven basket full of precisely cut firewood stood beside the hearth. The earth floor was strewn with rushes, clean-smelling and obviously quite fresh.
Above the door leading to the workroom had been pinned a piece of parchment. On it was a drawing, and, narrowing his eyes, Hrype stared at it. It depicted a winged figure, a sword in the right hand, one side clad in knee-length tunic and hose, the other in a flowing skirt. The figure had two heads, crowned with a single crown. The feet in their mismatched shoes stood upon the back of a winged dragon with claw-like feet; the dragon, too, had two heads.
Gurdyman had noticed the direction of his glance. He studied Hrype without speaking. ‘He still devotes himself to the same perplexing study?’ Hrype asked.
‘Perplexing does not begin to describe it,’ Gurdyman said with a sigh. ‘He is wearing himself out. He breaks the bright flame of his intellect against it like a wave on a rock, over and over again, yet makes no impression.’
‘He will yield before the rock does,’ Hrype said very softly.
Gurdyman nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. That is what I, too, fear.’
There was quite a long silence.
Gurdyman stirred. ‘But I have not asked you if she is safe!’ he exclaimed.
‘Of course she is,’ Hrype replied with a smile. ‘As you very well knew, since I’d have told you the moment I arrived had it been otherwise.’
‘The Norman lawman escorted her to the village?’
‘Yes.’ Hrype paused. ‘His feelings for her go deep, although I sense that, as yet, she is not sure of hers for him.’
Gurdyman thought about that. ‘He does not remain at Aelf Fen?’
‘No. The present emergency’ – Hrype smiled wryly at the understatement – ‘has no doubt summoned him back to Cambridge.’
‘Have there been more deaths?’ Gurdyman’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘I don’t know,’ Hrype admitted. ‘I fear there will have been, but I did not wish to display my interest by asking Lassair.’
‘Quite right,’ Gurdyman said. Then, hesitantly, ‘Did she ask about me?’
‘Naturally she did,’ Hrype replied. ‘She is very fond of you.’
‘But you didn’t tell her where I am?’
‘No. I disclaimed all knowledge of your whereabouts, as you and I agreed.’ He turned to look at Gurdyman. ‘She knows, though, of my involvement.’
‘Hardly surprising, since you insisted on leaving one of your precious rune stones exactly where she’d be sure to find it,’ Gurdyman said somewhat caustically.
Hrype made a sound of impatience. ‘As I just said, she’s very fond of you. Did you really want her to worry herself to desperation in case you’d been spirited away by the Night Wanderer and left throatless in some hidden alleyway? She had to know you were safe, and leaving her my token was all I could think of to reassure her.’
His voice had risen. It was rare for him to show his feelings. Gurdyman smiled. ‘You have more heart than you pretend,’ he murmured. ‘In truth, Hrype, one might even imagine you cared for the girl.’
Hrype made no reply but a wordless ‘Hrumph!’
Gurdyman reached for the jug of ale and refilled their mugs. ‘I would guess,’ he said presently, ‘that she imagines your refusal to divulge my hiding place is because you, and perhaps I, do not trust Jack Chevestrier.’
‘Do you trust him?’ Hrype demanded.
‘I do. As Lassair would realize, if she turned her mind back. I told her quite recently that he was decent and honest; hardly words I would have employed to describe a man I did not trust.’ He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. ‘She may well work it out for herself, in which case she will understand that, although it is not Jack, there is indeed someone that I’ – he glanced at Hrype – ‘or, rather, we do not trust.’
‘She’s capable of that realization, I suppose,’ Hrype said grudgingly.
Gurdyman studied him, eyes narrowed. ‘Despite what I just said, you do persist in acting as if she is a splinter beneath your skin,’ he remarked.