Alys Clare - Blood of the South

‘Can you-’

He was interrupted by a gaggle of women shoving their way along the street, laughing and chattering, making so much noise that he’d have had to shout to make himself heard. His face creased in impatience, and, once they had passed, he said, ‘We’ll go somewhere quieter. If you can spare the time?’

‘Yes, I can.’

He led the way off up the street. We crossed the alley that runs to the west of the market place, threaded our way between two churches, then emerged on to the long, wide stretch of gently sloping grassland that borders the river. He stopped some distance short of the water; down there, it was only marginally less busy than the centre of the town.

Turning to me with a smile, he said, ‘Now, tell me about the baby.’

I’d been assembling my thoughts as we walked. Jack Chevestrier was obeying orders and keeping a watchful eye on the veiled woman and her child. He’d been asking Mattie about her, and, just now when I’d walked into him, it was likely he’d been heading for the inn. Given what I’d concluded concerning his intelligence, I didn’t think he’d be satisfied with anything but a full answer.

I took a breath, then said, ‘To judge by her clothing and the fact that she has no idea how to nurse or even care for her child, the veiled lady is a noblewoman. Until very recently, she’s had a wet-nurse for the baby, and, I imagine, other servants too. The baby is well-fed, dressed in costly garments, clean and, as far as I can tell, healthy. Her attire, too, is luxurious and in good condition. Someone’s been polishing those fine leather boots, and her robe and cloak have been diligently maintained.’

I paused, thinking. ‘She’s a widow, and her bereavement must have been within the last fifteen months, because I don’t think the baby is more than six months old. The baby’s name is Leafric, and, although the veiled woman is a foreigner – originally from the south, perhaps, to judge by her very dark eyes and olive skin – her late husband must have been a northerner. There’s the baby’s name, for one thing – the woman told me he was named for a forebear of her husband’s, and Leafric is a Saxon name – and also his colouring. Although he has her olive skin, his hair is fair and his eyes are light blue. Oh, and I think the woman may be a Saracen – for one thing, there’s her veil, which I haven’t yet seen her without, and I’m sure I heard her putting it on when I tapped on the door of her room just now. Also, her little boy’s been circumcised, and that’s not a custom we routinely practise here.’

Was she a Saracen? I wondered. Where had she come from? What did she-

Jack Chevestrier, I noticed, emerging from my intense concentration, was waiting.

‘I think something frightening must have happened to her very recently,’ I said. ‘When we first encountered her, you asked if she had kin or servants with her, and she said she was alone. She also said she was making for the fens.’

‘She did,’ Jack Chevestrier murmured. ‘I told her to be more specific.’

‘She’s had a shocking experience of some sort,’ I went on, ‘and it’s very likely she’s still suffering from the after-effects. That would account for her strange air of detachment, and-’

‘And her failure to engage with the child?’ he suggested.

‘Oh, no, I think that has more to do with the level of society she comes from,’ I said. ‘It’s usual for high-born ladies to hand the whole matter of raising their babies over to others. No: I think there was an accident of some sort, and somehow – although I’ve not the first idea how, for it seems so unlikely – the veiled lady became separated from her travelling companions and from her servants. Well, I can’t swear that she had travelling companions, but, as I just explained, she must have had servants. Or, at least, a nursemaid and wet-nurse, or maybe it was the same person.’

Jack Chevestrier was silent for a while. I risked a quick look at him, and guessed from his expression that he was thinking hard. Finally, he turned to me. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come and work for the sheriff?’

He kept such a straight face that it took a moment for me to realize he was joking. And that he’d just paid me a pretty nice compliment.

The compliment had me confused. Looking down at my left boot, with which I was tracing semicircles in the grass, I said, rather more brusquely than I’d intended, ‘It was nothing – just listening and observation.’

‘That’s what I keep telling my men,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You’ve no idea the problems I have getting them to use their eyes and ears, never mind their brains.’ He fell silent again. Then, after a moment, said, ‘She arrived on one of the trading boats that ply the fenland rivers. I spoke to its master, who told me she’d come on board at Lynn.’ He glanced at me. ‘Although I don’t think either you or I believe her journey originated there.’

‘No, I’m sure it didn’t. Was she alone when she boarded? Other than the baby?’

‘She was.’

‘And did the boat’s master report anything out of the ordinary happening at Lynn? Rumour of sickness on board another ship, or a fight?’

‘You’re trying to account for the missing companions and servants.’ I nodded. ‘No, he didn’t. He-’ Abruptly he stopped, then, taking my arm, said, ‘Come and talk to him. His name’s Alun, and his boat’s called The Maid of the Marsh .’

I hurried along behind him. ‘But surely he’ll have left by now? It was -’ how long had it been? – ‘the day before yesterday that the veiled woman arrived.’

Jack Chevestrier turned briefly and gave me a swift grin. ‘He’s still here,’ he said firmly. ‘His boat’s bows needed repair, and he’s not sailing till tomorrow. Come on!’

T he Maid of the Marsh was a typical river craft: long and narrow, not very big, with a wide space on her foredeck for cargo. There was a mast amidships and spaces down each side for oars. One of her crew had clearly suffered a lapse of attention, allowing her to run into something hard, and at some speed. On the right hand side of her bow, there was quite a large area of new planking, in the seams of which a sailor was now splashing large amounts of a thick, tarry substance. Hearing our footsteps, he looked up and gave us a toothy grin.

‘Is your master aboard?’ Jack asked.

‘Aye, that’s him, back there.’ He inclined his head towards the stern.

‘May we come on board and speak to him?’

The man waved his brush in an expansive gesture. ‘Aye, help yourself.’

I followed Jack along the plank that provided the only access to the boat. It was several paces long, and it was just that: a plank, with no handrails or even a rope to hold on to. I had a vision of myself ending up in the water, but I managed to keep my feet. We crossed the deck and edged along to what appeared to be the master’s own particular space. Not that there was much to distinguish it from the rest of the ship, being cramped, and hemmed in with crates and sacks, neatly stowed.

The master sat on a narrow shelf, swinging his legs to and fro as he watched us approach his domain. Recognizing Jack, he greeted him cheerfully.

‘Repairs nearly done, I see,’ Jack said, having returned the greeting.

‘Aye, and I’m docking the cost from that stupid bastard’s wages,’ the master said. ‘That’ll teach him to eye up pretty girls when he should be keeping his mind on his work.’ He was staring at me. ‘Talking of pretty girls …’

‘This is Lassair, Alun.’

The master jumped down from his seat – he was a head shorter than me – and gave me a bow. ‘How d’ye do, Lassair,’ he said with a grin.