Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

‘This is Lassair’s theory,’ Hrype pointed out, ‘not mine. But, to answer your question, I imagine he thought that by dressing the deaths up as sacrifices, he would avert suspicion from himself, being the last man to use such methods.’

‘She reasons thoroughly, if not very convincingly,’ Gurdyman remarked. ‘But you think differently, Hrype. Let me hear how you see it.’

‘I consulted the runes,’ Hrype said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I asked them who had poisoned Elfritha, and who had killed Herleva and the man in the fen. As I had expected, they gave the same answer: one person was responsible for all three attacks.’

‘Did they reveal who it was?’ Gurdyman, too, spoke very quietly.

‘I thought not, at first, for the figure they went on showing to me could not have been the killer, and I was left with the conclusion that I had not asked the right question.’ He looked up, meeting Gurdyman’s eyes. ‘They showed me a priest; a shadowy figure dressed in the unmistakable robes of a minister of the church. They indicated that he belonged to the place I was then in; to the abbey. Odal, the rune for home and hearth, was in conjunction with Thorn, the rune of warning and magical power, and in prominence was Beorc, the symbol of growth and new beginnings; a new broom, as they say. There were other indicators, too; the pattern was extremely complex.’ Again he leaned closer to Gurdyman. ‘Father Clement has been at Chatteris only since last autumn. They refer to him as a new broom.’

Gurdyman nodded slowly. ‘The runes told you Father Clement is the killer. Yet you could not accept this?’

‘No, I could not; I cannot,’ Hrype agreed. ‘I have met him, you see. I was very near to Crowland once, the abbey where Father Clement was before he went to Chatteris. Crowland burned down last year, and most of the monks have dispersed while it is rebuilt.’

‘Was your presence there anything to do with the fire?’ Gurdyman asked.

‘No. It was some months before the fire that I was there. But I was careless, Gurdyman. I was preoccupied with another matter — I will not explain, if you don’t mind — and I allowed Father Clement to witness something that no man should have seen, especially a fanatic like him. He accused me of the usual list of crimes: witchcraft, being in league with the devil, raising evil spirits. You know the rest.’

‘Only too well,’ Gurdyman said with a sigh.

‘But he only threatened me,’ Hrype repeated. ‘He had all the evidence he needed to have me tried and put to death, believe me. Yet he did not. Instead he commanded me to leave aside my sinful ways and turn to his Lord. I sensed then that he was a good man: hard and tough, unrelenting in his battle to save souls in the way that he thinks is right, yet fundamentally merciful. I managed to speak to others who knew him well, and my first impression was verified. I learned in addition that he was as hard on himself as on those for whom he was responsible. He fasted frequently and was rumoured to administer the whip on his own back.’

Gurdyman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see,’ he murmured.

‘Father Clement was not a man to kill,’ Hrype stated flatly. ‘It is inconceivable that he murdered two people and tried to poison a third.’

‘And so you conclude what?’ Gurdyman prompted. There was a new light in his blue eyes, and Hrype had the strong suspicion that he already knew what was coming.

‘The man at Chatteris Abbey who claims to be Father Clement is an impostor,’ Hrype said. ‘For some reason he needed to gain access to the abbey, and so he murdered the real Father Clement, made the death a sacrifice and gave him to the waters of the fen.’

‘But you have been at the abbey,’ Gurdyman protested suddenly. ‘Surely you would have noticed if the man calling himself Father Clement was not the man you knew?’

‘I made sure he did not see me,’ Hrype said grimly, ‘and so, naturally, I did not see him either. Both Lassair and Edild did, but by the time I had worked it all out, Lassair had already gone and so could not describe him to me. And when I asked Edild if she knew what this Father Clement looked like — she only met him once — she said it had been too dark to make out his face.’

‘With Lassair gone, you could not ask her about the appearance of the dead man in the fen either,’ Gurdyman added. ‘And so you came to me.’

‘Yes. Will you describe him to me?’

‘I will. He was a man of medium height and build, with dark hair and dark eyes. He was thin, almost emaciated, with long, skinny arms and legs. He had a mark around his neck, which at first I believed to have been left by the garrotte that broke his neck, although I came to think subsequently that it was more likely caused by the habitual wearing of something heavy around his neck, for the indentation looked old, and the result of long practice.’ His eyes on Hrype blazed. ‘And he had the marks of a whip across both shoulders.’ He raised his right hand, miming the flicking of a whip over his shoulders. Left, right. ‘Had someone else beaten him, the marks would have been quite different. I have seen the back of a man who has been whipped,’ he added, his face grave.

‘The description fits the man I encountered at Crowland,’ Hrype said quietly. ‘It all fits: the colouring, the physique, the emaciation that resulted from rigorous fasting. The marks of the flagellum, I suggest, make it all but certain.’

Gurdyman nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. So, my old friend, if Father Clement’s body is now in the custody of the sheriff, awaiting burial, who is the man at Chatteris?’

‘He is a killer,’ Hrype said. ‘Three people were somehow in his way, or perhaps represented a danger to him. He did not hesitate to murder two of them, and he tried to kill the third.’ He met Gurdyman’s eyes. ‘The question is, why?’

We clung to each other, crouching down as close to the ground as we could, pressing our bodies against the cold, wet sand. There was no shelter. All we could do was suffer the furious onslaught and hope that in time it would lessen.

It didn’t.

The wind was screaming and howling; the rain was like handfuls of small stones flung hard at us from close at hand; the temperature seemed to have dropped so far and so fast that it was as if midwinter had broken out in the middle of spring. Rollo was shivering so violently that I could hear the chattering of his teeth, and I was scarcely any less cold.

Whatever force was out there, it did not want us anywhere near.

It was magic: fierce, angry magic.

The swift succession of events had shocked me deeply. I felt assaulted by the dark power opposing me, shaken to my core at the way it had robbed me of my ability to see the safe path. It was, I am ashamed to say, some time before my mind woke up and began to organize a response. You are not helpless , a stern voice seemed to say inside my head. You have weapons of your own. Use them!

I sent out a thought to Fox, hoping and praying he was still close. I caught a flicker of russet brown as he flicked his tail. Then, still clutching Rollo, deliberately I put him out of my mind; to do what I was about to attempt, you have to clear your thoughts of everything else, and that was going to be difficult when the most vital part of everything else was holding the man I loved in my arms again. It would have been better to let go of him and move a short distance away, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to be that strong.

It was a new skill. Hrype had told me about it some time ago, but as a teacher he doesn’t have Gurdyman’s patience, and it was my present mentor who had slowly and steadily increased my confidence. Believing you can do something, he always says, is three-quarters of the way to doing it.