Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

Another figure materialized out of the shadows, and Hrype strode down the passage and briefly took hold of me by my shoulders, looking intently into my eyes. ‘You are unharmed,’ he said. It was not a question; he knew I was.

Then he saw who I had brought with me, and his entire body went very still. He glared at Rollo, a fierceness in his eyes that I had rarely seen before. I turned to say something to Rollo and observed that he was glaring right back.

Gurdyman intervened. He pushed Hrype unceremoniously away from the doorway — only Gurdyman, I reflected, would have dared shove Hrype so firmly — and ushered Rollo and me inside. ‘Go on into the courtyard,’ he murmured to me. ‘Take your friend and help yourselves to food and wine. It’s all set out ready.’

He had known I was coming. It was both a thrilling and a rather scary thought.

I very much wanted to stay and listen to what Gurdyman was saying so urgently to Hrype, but I did not dare. I took Rollo’s hand and led him down the passage and through the archway into the courtyard. It was still warm from the day’s sunshine and lit with the soft golden light of evening. Wine, goblets and a platter of bread, cheese and dried meat had been set out, but neither Rollo nor I were hungry. We did, however, both pour out wine, and Rollo raised his goblet to me in a silent toast.

Then Gurdyman came out into the courtyard, Hrype close behind. Gurdyman gave me a quick glance of apology, then said, ‘You are welcome, both of you.’ There was a definite emphasis on both . ‘There are grave matters for us to discuss,’ he went on, ‘but before we can do so, Hrype wishes to speak.’ He shot an irritated glance at Hrype. ‘Go on, then,’ he said tersely.

Hrype stared at Rollo. ‘You are a Norman,’ he said baldly. He narrowed his eyes. ‘There is something else in your blood that I do not recognize, but your allegiance is to the king.’

‘It is,’ Rollo said coldly. ‘Not because he is a Norman, but because I have seen strife tear a land apart, and I believe peace is better. A strong ruler on the throne brings peace.’

‘We were used to life under our own kings!’ Hrype replied. ‘We had no need of the brute force of William and his son to bestow their peace on us!’ He all but spat the word.

Rollo made no reply but for an ironically raised eyebrow. I thought for a moment that Hrype was going to hit him, but, with a very obvious effort, he held back.

I could not have stood it if they had fought. I stepped between then and said, ‘Hrype, Rollo is my choice. Do not judge him by what you believe him to be; wait and discover for yourself what he truly is.’

I intercepted a look between Hrype and Gurdyman. There was a message in it, for I could tell that Gurdyman was urgently putting a thought into Hrype’s head, although I could not tell what it was. Hrype made himself relax, and the tension went out of the air.

‘We shall sit down and have some wine,’ Gurdyman said, in the sort of tone that does not allow dissent, ‘and then we shall all reveal what we have discovered and what we think we should do next.’

Rollo and I sat down on a bench; Hrype subsided, with very obvious reluctance, on to a stool; and Gurdyman walked round and poured more of the lovely, cool white wine into each of our goblets. Then he sat down in his own chair, took a slow and appreciative sip and said, ‘Hrype informs me that the real Father Clement left Crowland back in November, visited his bishop over in Lynn at the end of that month and then, it seems, was murdered soon after he left Lynn for Chatteris. Another man now poses as Father Clement at Chatteris, and we surmise that this man probably murdered the real Father Clement, although we do not know why. This impostor also killed a young nun at Chatteris and attempted to poison another, who is sister to Lassair here. Again, we suggest no motive. Now, Lassair — ’ he glanced at me with a smile, which he then turned on Rollo — ‘what have you and your friend to tell us?’

I nudged Rollo. ‘You’d better go first,’ I muttered. I did not know how much of his secret mission he would be prepared to reveal to two men he’d only just met, one of them distinctly hostile, and, as it turned out, the answer was not very much.

‘There was a violent storm off the east coast last September,’ Rollo said. ‘There’s a rumour that it was raised deliberately, to destroy the king’s ship-army, which was on its way to the north of England.’

‘Raised deliberately?’ Hrype’s sudden interest seemed to be overcoming his antipathy. ‘You speak of a tempestarius?’

‘I do,’ Rollo said shortly. He glanced at me. ‘Lassair tells me such people are not unheard of among your kind, and I do not speak of the strange legends and tall tales of the Magonians.’

Gurdyman went straight to the point. ‘This storm, you think, was raised by someone who supported the king’s enemies in the north? Who wished to hamper the king in his retaliatory measures by removing half his army?’

‘Yes.’

Gurdyman thought about that. ‘Scotland is by no means entirely under the rule of King Malcolm,’ he said. ‘The northern and the western reaches of the land are Norse and Gaelic, and neither people look kindly on King Malcolm and his queen, for Margaret is a forcibly Christian woman and wishes her entire country to be as devout as she is herself.’ He paused. ‘And the ability to raise storms was said to be a particular talent of the Norsemen who lived in the lands now ruled by Malcolm and his rigid wife.’

That was all very well, but in my opinion we were drifting away from the main point. ‘We should look at what connects the activities of the storm-raiser and the killing of Father Clement,’ I said decisively. Three pairs of male eyes turned to stare at me, with varying amounts of warmth in them, but I pressed on. ‘Rollo and I have fairly convincing proof that the storm-raiser carried out his magic up on the northern tip of the land, where the ancient wood circle once stood at the crossing place.’ Briefly, I described what we had learned and what we had experienced up there. Neither Hrype nor Gurdyman argued with our conclusion. ‘The nearest settlement of any size to the spot where the storm hit is Lynn, which is where Father Clement was last seen and near to where his body was left. In addition, the little nun who was killed at Chatteris came from up beyond Lynn.’ I echoed the exact words of the cheese-selling woman who had told me this. ‘She arrived at Chatteris last September.’

I knew the month was significant, and I was just working out why when Rollo opened his mouth to speak.

But Hrype got there first. ‘Supposing she saw the storm-raiser,’ he said slowly. ‘Supposing she was making her way around the favourite places she had known all her short life, saying goodbye before she went off to her new existence at Chatteris.’

‘He realized she’d seen him,’ Rollo went on, picking up the story, ‘and he knew he had to prevent her telling anyone what she saw. He and his fellow conspirators discovered where she had gone, and they learned that, by sheer good fortune, a new priest was on his way to the abbey where the girl had gone.’

‘Her name was Herleva,’ I said. It was bad enough that she had lost her life, and I did not see why she should also lose her identity.

‘Where Herleva had gone,’ Rollo amended. He gave me a quick look, and I saw from his eyes that he understood. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered, for my ears only.

‘He consulted with the others,’ he continued, ‘and they selected the most suitable of them for the task of removing Father Clement and replacing him.’ He frowned. ‘How would one of them have managed to impersonate a priest so well that a whole abbey was convinced?’