Alys Clare - Music of the Distant Stars

Your enemy . His words chilled me, not because they told me anything I did not already know — the Normans have been ruling over us for more than twenty-five years now and, although we have no choice but to bow down before their ruthless and chillingly efficient authority, nevertheless in our hearts they are still the enemy. No; what caused my attention to falter is that it is to one of them, a Norman, that I seem to have given my heart. The man I love is, on his own admission, close to the central power that now rules in our land.

It hardly mattered, though, who he was, if I was never going to see him again. .

There was a touch on my arm, and I came out of my sad reverie. Edild was looking at me, concern in her eyes. ‘You are very pale, Lassair,’ she said. ‘You should sleep now, for the day has been long and full of distress for you.’

She was right. All of a sudden I felt so weary that it was all I could do to stand up. ‘Please excuse me, then,’ I said politely. ‘I will go and prepare for bed.’

I wanted to visit the jakes and wash my face and hands before I undressed. In addition, it was nice if my aunt and Hrype had the chance to say goodnight without a witness. I took my time and, when I had finished, I strolled down the track for a few paces, sensing the small rustlings of the evening as the wild creatures settled down for the night. I looked up at the sky. The stars were appearing even as I watched. It was a beautiful sight.

Suddenly I was vitally alert, my eyes, ears, even my skin, sensing all around me and fear coursing through me like flame. I had heard an unexpected sound: someone was singing.

I don’t know why it alarmed me so much. Yes, it was a plaintive, sad song, so full of despair that it would have moved me to tears had I not been so afraid. It was not exactly a song; more a chant, and I am very familiar with chants. My Granny Cordeilla taught me that it is often easier to remember the endless lines of a long narrative if you put in some rhythm and some rhyme, and from there it’s only a matter of time before you start singing.

What was worrying about this lament — it could not have been anything else — was that I did not recognize the voice, the notes of the chant nor the words, and I knew therefore that the singer was nobody I knew; nobody who belonged in Aelf Fen.

What was really frightening was that, although I stared all around me, I could not see anybody. The singer was invisible.

I wanted to flee, but I could not. It was as if the sounds I was hearing, which seemed to flow over me and draw me into the strong emotion behind them, had fixed me to the spot. Against my will I listened to the words. It was very strange, but it was as if I could not hear them individually; I could only perceive the meaning they strove to impart. The chill of coming night seemed to flow up out of the ground into my feet, up my legs and into the warm centre of my body, and as the chant went on I felt as if my soul was being drawn out of me, up, up, away from the good, solid earth and into the darkening sky, heading for the stars. .

Then I heard a door quietly close and the sound of firm footsteps on the path behind me. Abruptly, the singing stopped.

Hrype called out, ‘Sleep well, Lassair.’

I dragged myself together and managed a reply. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded shaky. Hoping he would attribute this to my fatigue — he had stopped and was eyeing me curiously — I made myself smile. ‘I’ll be quite all right tomorrow,’ I said.

He smiled back. ‘You’d better be,’ he remarked. ‘It promises to be a challenging day.’

Wondering what he meant — it sounded ominous — I hurried back along the track to Edild’s cottage, let myself in and very carefully closed and fastened the door.

My sleep was filled with weird dreams, and in the morning I did not feel all that rested. Edild informed me that our duty today was to lay out the dead girl’s body. It is one of the services that Edild performs for our village, and she has been training me so that I can follow in her footsteps when she is too old. I knew I could not avoid the task — I know full well I must do whatever my aunt tells me — but the thought of preparing poor Ida’s body for the grave was quite dreadful.

Edild must have noticed my reaction. Instead of querying it, which would have been pointless as we both knew I had no choice but to do as I was told, she said calmly, ‘We are not expected at Lakehall until midday. I can manage without you this morning, so why don’t you go across the village and see your mother?’

I bolted the last of my porridge and leapt up. It was early yet, and if I hurried, I might get home before my father left for work.

Some time later, I was sitting beside my mother in our family’s house. There had been barely enough space for us all when we’d all lived there, for at our most crowded we had numbered eight plus a baby: my father, my big, blonde mother, my Granny Cordeilla (not that she ever took up much room), my sisters Goda and Elfritha, my brothers Haward and Squeak (his real name’s Sihtric, but hardly anyone remembers that) and the baby, Leir. Now that my sisters and I all lived elsewhere — I with Edild, Elfritha with her nuns and Goda, the eldest of us (and I have to say the least agreeable) with her husband and two little children in Icklingham, a few miles away — my parents shared the house only with their three sons and, although Leir is a baby no more (he is four), there would still be room enough for Haward’s bride.

I don’t think any of the family had thought yet how it would be living with Derman.

This morning just my mother was at home. I had caught my father as he was leaving, my disappointment assuaged a little by the warmth of his hug and his quiet words of comfort, just for me, spoken softly in my ear. My mother, too, was red-eyed; Granny Cordeilla had been a good mother-in-law to her, and the two had been close.

‘I know she was small and had few possessions,’ my mother said, twitching a stray strand of long, pale hair neatly behind her clean white headdress, ‘but the house just seems so empty without her.’

I felt the same. I was rapidly learning that it’s not the actual space a person occupies that matters; it’s the extent to which their character expands to fill a house.

I squeezed my mother’s hand. ‘It’s hard for you and the men folk,’ I said, ‘since you have to live with the constant reminder that she’s not here any more.’

My mother wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, that’s true, but there’s a comfort in being here, because she’s still with us.’ She frowned. ‘Well, she’s not, of course, but-’ She shrugged, apparently unable to put the feeling into words.

‘I know,’ I whispered. I had just caught a glimpse of Granny Cordeilla, sitting up on her little cot eyeing us brightly and waiting her chance to get a word in, just as she always did when I came to visit. The fact that her cot had been dismantled and ceremonially burned, as is our custom, and that Granny herself was dead and in her grave, did not appear to have made any difference. I hugged my mother’s large body to me and winked at Granny over her shoulder. Granny winked back.

Presently, my mother disentangled herself from my arms, gave me a quick but affectionate peck on the cheek and said, ‘Enough of tears! Let’s talk about something else.’

I took a last look at Granny, already fading into the planed planks of the wall behind her. She would be back, and we both knew it. Then I settled down beside my mother and said, ‘What shall we talk about?’

As if she had been waiting for this invitation, she said instantly, ‘Haward’s going to marry her,’ and I knew precisely what was on her mind.