Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

I nodded. I could picture my poor mother, torn between the sense of asking Edild to go, and the longing of her heart to run to her sick daughter there and then.

‘And Edild told you, so you came here too,’ I said.

There was a slight pause.

‘She did,’ Hrype said eventually, ‘although not in quite the sense that you mean.’

‘But-’ I began, at first unable to understand in what other sense my words could be taken. I looked at him, and the expression in his strange eyes was enigmatic.

I understood. ‘You weren’t in Aelf Fen when the messenger came from the nuns, were you?’ I whispered.

He shook his head, a faint, private smile hovering on his lips. ‘No.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I was — a long way away.’

‘Then how did you know?’

His eyes met mine. ‘I heard her.’ He pointed to his head. ‘In here.’ Now his hand moved to hover over his heart. ‘And, more imperatively, in here.’

Yes. Hrype and my aunt loved each other, but probably only three people in the world were in on the secret, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. As far as everyone else was aware, Hrype shared his home with his late brother’s widow and her son. Only five people knew that Sibert was actually Hrype’s son, the fourth and fifth being Edild and Sibert himself. He had only found out a year and a half ago, and, no matter how I hinted, he would never speak to me concerning his feelings about this devastating revelation.

Sibert’s mother Froya would not survive without Hrype, and all the village understood that. She had never got over the traumatic events of her past, and she depended on her brother-in-law for just about everything. They had been lovers just once, when both were in despair, and Sibert had been the result.

All the time Froya was alive, Hrype was bound by everything he held sacred to honour his responsibilities towards her. He might dream of leaving her to go and live with Edild, where his heart undoubtedly had already preceded him, but he would never do so.

It had been my privilege to witness Edild and Hrype together on a few occasions when they were away from the ever-open eyes of the Aelf Fen villagers. It was both a joy and an ache to watch them.

Yes. It came as no surprise to me now to learn that some mystical communication between them had allowed Edild to summon him when her need for him was suddenly so great. When word had come from Chatteris that Elfritha was very sick and perhaps dying, the sudden pressure on Edild to hurry away to the abbey and try to save her, bearing all the hopes and anxieties of my parents and my siblings, must have been vast. No wonder she had silently cried out for the man she loved.

He was still watching me, a slightly quizzical look on his handsome face that bore the dignity of ancient kings. He was, I realized, checking to see if I had understood. I gave him a quick smile and nodded — just at that moment, I could find nothing to say — and he murmured, ‘Good.’ Then he braced his shoulders and strode on up the long rise to the abbey.

When we were still some distance away and out of sight of anyone watching from the settlement or the abbey, we paused, stepped off the road into a small copse of willow trees and resumed our old man and daughter guises. It was Hrype’s idea — I had, in truth, been far too preoccupied with thoughts of my sister to think about the dangers that might or might not be posed by a fanatical priest to a cunning man and an apprentice healer, but Hrype was clearly taking no chances. When we were ready, he looked me over with critical eyes and then gave a curt nod.

We went on, at a much slower, more painful gait, Hrype bowed over and shuffling as if every step hurt, to the abbey. There were a few people moving around in the forecourt, and I looked out for my cheese-seller woman. She did not seem to be there. Hrype was at the gates and already knocking with his staff.

After a few moments the small side gate opened an inch or two, and a nun looked out. It was not the big, hatchet-faced woman who had admitted us before. This one was thin and pale and looked harassed. ‘Yes?’ she said impatiently.

Hrype nudged me. ‘We’re friends of the novice Elfritha, who we’re told is very sick,’ I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts to control it. Now that we were there at the abbey, my anxiety was pressing on me so hard that it was all I could do not to throw myself on the ground and start wailing.

On hearing my sister’s name, a transformation came over the sharp-featured face of the nun. Her eyes softened, and she reached out and took my hand. ‘Come in,’ she said, opening the gate more widely and ushering us through. ‘I will take you to her straight away.’

‘Is she — she’s not-?’ I could not get the question out.

The nun was still holding my hand, and now she gave it a squeeze. ‘She still lives,’ she said. ‘We are praying for her every hour, and our infirmary nuns are doing what they can to help the healer who has come to tend her. She is from Elfritha’s village, so you probably know her.’

I did not know whether or not to say that Edild was my aunt. I sent out a silent question to Hrype, but received no answer. I decided to keep silent. My instinct was to trust this kind nun, but, on the other hand, Hrype and I had just taken some precious time to disguise ourselves, and if we revealed our true identities, our efforts would have been for nothing.

The nun had been hurrying us along, and we had now reached a long, low building across the cloister from the big church. The nun opened the door and led us inside. It was clearly the infirmary, and rows of simple cots lined the walls on each side, about a third of them containing patients. The nun strode down the long room and, at the far end, turned down a little corridor that led off to the right. There was a door in the wall in front of us, which was partly open and led to the cloister. She strode on, coming after a few paces to another, smaller room. Its door was ajar, and the window set high in the wall was open. There was a faint scent of lavender mixed with the tang of rosemary, and I guessed that my aunt had been busy with her precious oils.

Neither open door and window nor sweet perfumes could do much against the stench. Even before I dared risk a glance at my sister, I knew from the smell that she was very, very ill. Anyone expelling that much from their body — from their suffering, heaving stomach and their constantly voiding bowels — must surely be in the last extremities of life.

I stepped inside the little room and looked down at the figure on the bed. Before I could prevent it, a gasp of horrified pity escaped me. My aunt, on her knees beside the low cot, turned round sharply and gave me a frown. One of Edild’s maxims is: never to do or say anything to let a patient know how ill they are. Although my exclamation hardly counted as actually saying anything, she was quite right to admonish me.

I swept down beside her and knelt over Elfritha.

My sister had her eyes closed. They seemed to have sunk in her head, and the eyeballs stood out very round behind the pale, almost translucent lids. Her cheeks looked strangely flat, as if her face were falling in. Her skin was as white as the sheet on which she lay, and her short hair, swept back from her forehead, was soaked in sweat. She appeared to be wearing a thin shift, and that too was soaking, sticking to her body. A sheet was pulled up over her breasts, but I could see her neck, throat and shoulders. The bones stood out stark under the flesh; already, she looked more like a skeleton than a living woman.

I made myself take a few calming breaths. When I was sure I could trust my voice, I turned to my aunt and said, ‘How is she?’

Edild shrugged. ‘She is as you see her,’ she said shortly. You’re a healer , she seemed to be implying. What do you think?