Alys Clare - Blood of the South

The baker muttered something that it was probably better I didn’t hear, then he turned, nodded his thanks to Chevestrier, spun on his heel and, flinging the door open, marched off down the walkway, his companion at his side. Chevestrier spoke quietly to one of his deputies, leading him and the others outside. The veiled woman, the baby and I were momentarily alone in the room.

She sat gazing at the wall opposite to her. Not by word, gesture or glance did she acknowledge my presence. She might have been temporarily parted by some distressing circumstance from her own kin and attendants, but, as far as servants were concerned, she seemed quite willing for me to step up as replacement.

For my own part, I wasn’t so sure. It was tempting to dump the baby in her lap and quietly slip away, but, on the other hand, I was intrigued by this veiled foreigner with her rich garments and her husky voice.

I stood there, gently rocking to and fro – the baby was beginning to wake up – and waited to see what would happen next.

The ensuing events lacked the high drama of what had just occurred. Chevestrier came back into the anteroom, and the expression on his face suggested something had just been arranged to his satisfaction.

‘My lady,’ he said, standing before the veiled woman and giving a quick bow, ‘have you somewhere to go? People who await you?’

She stared at him for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘I am – alone,’ she murmured.

‘So I assumed, since nobody stepped forward in your defence out on the quay,’ Chevestrier said, more to himself than to her. ‘What is your business in Cambridge?’

‘In Cambridge?’ She looked surprised, although surely she must have been aware of the name of the port in which she had that morning arrived. Unless, of course, something else had gone amiss with her; something in addition to apparently losing every last one of her travelling companions and her servants. Was she ill? Had she lost her memory? Her mind?

‘This town is Cambridge,’ Chevestrier said gently. ‘In the country of England,’ he added. Perhaps he too was wondering if the veiled woman had parted from her wits.

‘I am aware of the country,’ she said loftily. ‘I seek a place, but the name is not Cambridge …’

Chevestrier waited. I waited. Finally he prompted her: ‘Yes?’

‘I seek kin in Fen ,’ she said at last. ‘Perhaps, Fens .’

Chevestrier muttered under his breath. ‘The fens are over there.’ He waved an arm roughly in an eastwards direction. ‘But -’ he shot a glance at me – ‘the region is extensive, as this young woman could tell you.’ He knows where I come from , I thought. I didn’t know if to be intrigued or afraid. ‘If you want my help,’ Chevestrier went on, ‘you’ll have to be more specific.’

She fixed her slanting, dark eyes on him. It was hard to tell, with her lower face covered, but I had a good idea she was scowling. ‘I have not asked for your help.’

He sighed. It was hardly surprising; most men would have run out of patience with her ages ago. ‘Have you somewhere to stay?’ he repeated. His tone was definitely less kindly now.

She gave that eloquent shrug again. ‘I must find my kinsman’s dwelling, but I do not know where it is. For now, there are inns on the quayside …’

‘I would not recommend them to a woman of means,’ Chevestrier replied. ‘But one of my men has a sister who works in a better class of tavern.’ The veiled woman looked as if she was about to protest, but he did not give her the chance. ‘A room is being made available, and I will take you there now.’

Abruptly she stood up, the movement accompanied by the swishing sound of her cloak, her gown and what sounded like several layers of silk underskirts. ‘Do so,’ she commanded. She jerked her head towards me. ‘She will bring the infant.’

I was about to protest, the angry words lining up, but Chevestrier did it for me. ‘I think it would be more polite to ask,’ he said with icy courtesy. He turned to me, giving me the exact same bow he had earlier given to the veiled lady. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name. I’m aware of your reputation as a fine healer and I know you by sight, but not how to address you.’

‘Lassair,’ I said.

‘Lassair,’ he repeated. Then: ‘We have taken up a good part of your morning, and I am sure you have your own affairs to attend to. However, it would be very helpful if you could accompany us over to the tavern. There will undoubtedly be practical tasks to be done for the baby, and-’ He stopped, spinning back to look at the lady.

And I don’t think she’ll have the first idea how to start was, I imagined, what he’d been about to say. I grinned. I quite agreed with him. ‘I’ll come,’ I said.

He bowed again. ‘Thank you.’

Just then, the door to the inner room was flung open, and a short, pot-bellied, red-faced man stood glaring out at us from close-set eyes. This, I guessed, was Sheriff Picot. His gaze fixed on Chevestrier. ‘Christ’s holy bones, are you still here?’ he demanded, spittle flecking his thin lips. ‘I told you to-’

He had spotted the veiled lady. With the quick intelligence of his kind – it’s said that the Conqueror chose for the office of sheriff men who shared his ruthless ambition and determined self-advancement – he ran his sharp, assessing eyes over her. The furious scowl changed to an ingratiating smile; no doubt the expression he habitually adopted before the wealthy and powerful.

‘My lady,’ he said, making a low bow – I noticed he’d carefully arranged his thinning, gingery hair across a big bald patch – ‘I am Sheriff Picot, and I am at your disposal.’ He straightened up, and his expectant grin suggested he was hoping for more than the lady’s look of cold disdain. Discomfited – you could hardly blame him – he spun back to Chevestrier. ‘Get on with it, you indolent sod!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t keep her standing here – help the lady!’

I watched Chevestrier’s face. There was an instant when I thought he was going to give in to temptation and give the response that Picot deserved, but then it was gone. An expression of bland serenity ironed out the fury, and Chevestrier said calmly, ‘As you wish, sir.’

Then he spun round and led the way out into the sunshine.

The tavern was not far from the market square, on one of the main streets that run through the centre of the town and close to St Benet’s church. I had never been inside, but I understood it to be a well-run, clean and decent place where ruffians intent on theft and trouble-making were unlikely to gain admittance. In acknowledgement of the old ways, a bundle of brushwood hung above the wide entrance into the courtyard: the ancient symbol for an inn.

Chevestrier led the way inside, where a plump woman in a white apron, her hair covered in spotless white linen, was waiting. Our little procession was shown along the passage to a tiny, dark room, in which there was a bed, a three-legged stool, a table with a ewer of hot water set beside a basin and a worn but clean cloth for hand-wiping. ‘There’s the communal room, of course,’ the plump woman was saying nervously, ‘only I thought as how a lady would like a bit of privacy.’ The veiled woman looked around, gave a disdainful sniff, and then removed her cloak and flung it on the bed. Chevestrier thanked the plump woman and dismissed her.

I barely noticed. My eyes were on the veiled woman’s gown, revealed in full now that she had taken off her cloak. The gown was gorgeous: deep blue velvet with a purplish sheen, tight in the sleeves and over the hips, then spreading out in generous flares and gores that swirled around her ankles as she moved. It fitted her beautifully, except that it was a little loose in the bust: no doubt she had lost the fullness in her breasts that comes with pregnancy and childbirth, and had not yet had the chance of ordering a seamstress to take in the seams.