Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

The crossing did not take long. I paid my fare and clambered up on to the quay, stopping at the top of the stone steps to take in the view. There were two or three rows of shabby dwellings, undoubtedly housing those few families who managed to survive on the island, either by ferrying people to and from the abbey or by providing fish and other basic necessities to the nuns. In the distance, the track wound away through some fields and a bit of sparse scrubland before eventually losing itself in the muddy, marshy margins of the surrounding fen. The abbey dominated the scene, although in truth there wasn’t much to dominate and it wasn’t much of an abbey. Its high walls were interrupted by a pair of stout gates facing the track, and above them could be seen the roof-lines of the various abbey buildings, tallest of which was the church. I knew from visits to my sister that there was also a huddle of buildings around the cloister, consisting of refectory, chapter house, dormitories, infirmary and one or two others whose function I was not aware of. Chatteris was a pretty desolate spot, and it had always come as a surprise to discover that my sister and her fellow nuns were by and large a happy, cheerful lot. Perhaps that was the reward you got for giving your life to God.

I realized straight away that the mood was very different from on my previous visits. There were clutches of locals huddled together, muttering and looking around them with fearful glances. Everyone seemed on edge, and one or two people stared suspiciously at me. Having no idea of what dangers might lie before me, I didn’t want to be conspicuous. Pretending that I needed to adjust my small pack, I stopped at the entrance to a dark little alleyway leading off the main track and prepared my defences.

Hrype told me that it’s actually quite easy to become invisible. You don’t actually do so, of course — or, at least, he might be able to, but such high magic is far beyond me. It’s a matter of taking the time to study the scene — what sort of mood predominates, how the local people look, how they wear their clothes, how they move — and then slowly and steadily thinking yourself into looking just like them. You can, of course, make small alterations to your clothing if you like, but it’s more a question of feeling like the rest of the crowd. That day, I could see that people were moving furtively, keeping their heads down, glancing over their shoulders as their fear got the better of them. When I was ready, I stepped out into the street and merged with them. I hope it doesn’t sound arrogant if I say that I don’t think anybody recognized me for the stranger I was.

I had noticed already that the abbey gates were closed. This was a blow: I had expected to walk in like I usually did and ask the gatekeeper nun if I could see my sister. I wondered what I should do. I had a perfect right to enquire after Elfritha, and surely many of the anxious people standing outside the gates had come here for the same purpose. I was on the point of stepping out from the place where I had paused, beneath the shade of a stand of alders, but some instinct held me back. I am learning to trust my instincts, and it is as Gurdyman, Edild and Hrype all tell me: the more you listen to these inner promptings, the better they will work for you.

I tried to work out why I should keep hidden. If Elfritha was unharmed, then surely it did not matter if it became known that I was there? But if she was the murderer’s victim — she’s not, she’s NOT! I cried silently — then it might be a different matter. .

I stood in an agony of indecision. Finally, I could bear it no longer. Any answer, even the one I so feared to hear, would be better than this terrible uncertainty. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and was about to step out in the open when firm, strong fingers grasped my arm and a big hand went over my mouth. There was a harsh whisper in my ear — ‘ No, do not show yourself! ’ — and I was pulled backwards, deeper into the shady space under the trees.

My heart thumping, I twisted my mouth free of that hard hand and turned round to face my assailant.

It was Hrype.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I hissed angrily. ‘You’ve cut my lip!’ I put my fingers to my mouth and held them up, bloody, right in his face.

‘I am sorry, Lassair,’ he said softly. ‘I had to stop you, but I hope you know I did not mean to hurt you.’

I muttered something, still cross with him. Then, my curiosity piqued, I said, ‘Why did you have to stop me? Don’t you understand why I’m here? A nun’s been killed and this is Elfritha’s abbey!’ In case he had missed the point, I added in an anguished hiss, ‘ She’s my sister! ’

For the first time the reality of the situation hit me. Perhaps it was because, now that I was no longer alone, I could let my defences slip a little. I felt tears form in my eyes, and I brushed them away.

He must have seen, for he took hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know,’ he said soothingly. ‘We will find out what has happened as soon as we can, although I do not believe-’ He stopped.

He did not believe what? That Elfritha was the murderer’s victim? I turned to him, words of urgent appeal bubbling up, but he shook his head. ‘Do not ask,’ he said, ‘for as yet I cannot be sure.’

Suddenly, I felt faint. I saw big black spots before my eyes, and I thought I was going to vomit. Hastily, Hrype pushed me down to the ground and made me put my head between my knees. ‘Take deep, slow breaths,’ he commanded.

I kept seeing Elfritha’s face. Sweet-natured, gentle, and by far the nicer of my two sisters, Elfritha would have made a wonderful wife and mother to some lucky family, only from a very young age she knew she belonged to the Lord. I have never told her, but from the day she left to enter Chatteris Abbey, there has always been a bit of a hole in my life.

I was feeling better. I raised my head — slowly — and looked up at Hrype. ‘What do you suggest we do?’

He lowered himself down to sit beside me and, leaning close so that he could speak very quietly, said, ‘There are things I must tell you.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘There are — rumours, of a fanatic of the new religion who has not the tolerance of some of his fellows.’

Yes, so Sibert had suggested. I did not say so aloud. It had been, I supposed, only a matter of time. We who still honoured the old ways were open-minded. I, for example, had developed a growing love for the saviour god of the Christians, and I understood how appealing it was to believe you had a loving, stalwart friend constantly at your side, encouraging you always to do the good thing — one who, whilst he was sad when you let him down, was ever ready to forgive if you were genuinely sorry. But our tolerant attitude did not appear to be shared by the priests of the new religion, who seemed to take the view that they and only they were permitted to know the true nature of the god of us all and reserved the exclusive right to approach him. This, I guessed, was how they had been able to make themselves so very important to the people to whom they ministered. It had been shrewd, I reflected, to tell the people that their god was all-powerful and ever-present, but so mysterious that his word could only be read by those vowed to his service, who would pass on to their flock only as much as they felt the flock ought to know.

God may well be powerful, I mused, but it seemed to me that the true power rested with his priests. And, for all that they said King William was irreligious, even pagan — although I do not understand what people mean by that term — it was all too apparent that the priesthood’s hold on the consciences of men was steadily tightening. .