Alys Clare - Music of the Distant Stars

‘You must understand about Lady Claude,’ Sir Alain was saying. ‘She dearly wanted to be — that is, her life has not taken the course she originally envisaged. Dutiful daughter that she is, she has bowed to the wishes of her mother and agreed to marry me.’ He hesitated. ‘Both our families greatly desire this union.’ And Edild and I both knew why, even if Sir Alain did not explain. ‘Lady Claude-’ Again he hesitated. Then his words emerged in a rush, and I knew what he was trying to do. ‘She brought Ida here to her death. She feels so very guilty. If she sounded unfeeling back there — ’ he nodded in the direction of the hall — ‘it’s only because of the shock of what has happened and her quite natural sense that, had she not selected Ida as her seamstress, the poor girl would still be alive.’

As an apology for the lady, it was well reasoned, and I ought to have been convinced. My estimation for this man rose considerably, for he was gallantly defending his future wife’s actions. More than that, he had agreed that she would be his wife, yet all that I had seen of the two of them — admittedly not much so far — shouted out that they were vastly different people and their chances of happiness slim. Still, as I well knew, people in their level of society married for many reasons, and love rarely featured at all.

I was unconvinced by his words, though, because I had also heard what Lord Gilbert had to say of his cousin. I had formed a clear and not very flattering impression of a purse-mouthed woman who treasured her precious linens above the comfort of her sewing girl, forcing Ida to sleep locked away in the sewing room to guard them. And, of course, I had met the lady. Whatever Sir Alain might say, I had already made up my mind about Lady Claude.

I became aware that Edild was speaking, saying something courteous and, I thought, insincere about Lady Claude’s distress and its cause, and offering her professional help if it became necessary. I made myself listen.

‘That is very kind, Edild,’ Sir Alain replied. ‘I will pass on your offer to Claude.’ He fell silent, frowning, then said, ‘I wished to speak to you concerning the simpleton who has been dogging Ida’s footsteps.’

My heart gave a lurch, and I could feel its hard, fast pounding right up in my throat. All my terror for Derman, for Zarina, for my own family, came surging back. It was all the more powerful because Sir Alain’s well-meaning defence of Claude’s behaviour back in the hall had allowed it to fade to the back of my mind. My awful suspicion that Derman might be responsible for Ida’s death would surely be visible in my eyes, so I kept them down and surreptitiously eased my kerchief forward over my face.

‘Simpleton?’ Edild echoed the word, making it plain by her tone that she queried its use.

Sir Alain waved an impatient hand. ‘I do not know what you would call him,’ he said tersely. ‘He’s a big lad, shambling gait, large head, loose mouth. Little intelligence, so they say.’

‘He is an unfortunate who was born lacking wits,’ Edild said coolly. ‘He is in the care of his sister, who lodges with a village washerwoman. He helps with some of the heavy work. His name is Derman.’

She did not say, as I’d hoped she would, he is quite harmless . Oh, perhaps she, too, had her suspicions. .

‘Derman,’ Sir Alain repeated. ‘Well, it appears that your Derman fell for Ida. I am told that he saw her out collecting wild flowers and followed her back to Lakehall. That was two or three weeks back, and since then he has appeared regularly at the hall, lurking outside the gates in case Ida should appear. He makes — he used to make little posies for her, clumsy things of a few grass stems woven together with a couple of flowers stuck in. He’d leave them outside the kitchen door, although oddly enough nobody ever saw him there or worked out how he got in without anyone noticing him. Both the courtyard gates and the smaller, rear entrance behind the kitchen are always watched in the daytime, then locked and bolted at night.’ He shot Edild a glance. ‘He is sly, your unfortunate .’ He emphasized the word she had used.

Edild did not speak for some moments. Then she said calmly, ‘If, as you say, Derman had fallen in love with Ida, then surely you cannot be suggesting that he harmed her in any way?’ She managed to make the suggestion sound quite absurd.

Sir Alain had the grace to look abashed. Then, rallying, he said, ‘The man is not like the rest of us. How can anybody say what he would or would not do? If he felt Ida had rejected him, he might well have attacked her.’

Edild shook her head firmly. ‘I think not, Sir Alain.’

He muttered an oath. Then, grabbing both Edild and me by the arm, he urged us on towards the village. I knew where we were going, and my heart started hammering again. I wished there was some way I could rush on ahead and warn them, but, as if he knew my intention, he held me fast.

Inexorably, the distance between us and the humble little house of the washerwoman grew less.

Sir Alain banged on the door — which, it turned out, was ajar and not fastened. It fell open at his pounding, revealing a small room crammed with a disorder of objects, with a narrow bed in one corner and a cot opposite the hearth. Both beds were too small for a big man like Derman, and I guessed that he slept in the lean-to on the side of the house. He would bluster about in this confined space like a maddened bull, knocking over the cooking utensils, the crudely-made stools, the bundles of kindling beside the hearth, the display of personal possessions beside the bed in the corner. The cot was the only orderly space in the room, and I knew instinctively that it was where Zarina slept.

There was another little door at the rear of the room, and it, too, was open, giving on to a narrow path that wound away to the water’s edge. I could see two figures out there: on the bank was the rounded shape of the washerwoman, kneeling down and rubbing hard at whatever item was receiving her attention, her large bottom up in the air. I could hear her humming to herself as she worked. The other figure was slim, straight-backed, graceful, and walking up the path towards the house.

We all stared at Zarina, and she stared right back.

She wore a gown of the coarsest cloth, and over it she had tied a sacking apron. The hems of both gown and apron were soaking wet, and there were splashes all over her front. Her hands were red and raw; in places the flesh had cracked open. I could not see that detail just then, but I knew all about Zarina’s hands. I made the remedy myself.

Her throat rose gracefully from the rough neck of her gown. Zarina always holds herself like a dancer, and just one look at her reminds you of her past, when she lived and worked with the troupe of entertainers. Her luscious hair was wound in a plait and pinned on top of her head; rarely among us, she never covers her head. Her golden eyes and her fine-boned face were illuminated by the sunlight, her firm, pale-oak skin glowing from her exertions.

I thought she looked lovely. Sir Alain’s sudden indrawn breath suggested he thought so too.

Zarina came into the house and deposited the bundle of dry, folded linen she was carrying on to her cot. She greeted me, nodded to Edild and looked enquiringly at Sir Alain. He took a step towards her and said, ‘Your name?’

‘I am called Zarina.’ Her voice was quite deep, her tone assured.

‘You have a brother, Derman?’

She hesitated. Then she nodded.

‘Where is he?’

‘I do not know.’

Sir Alain muttered a curse. ‘But he lives here, or so I am told.’ He looked around.

‘Derman does indeed live here,’ Zarina said. ‘He sleeps in the lean-to.’