Alys Clare - Music of the Distant Stars

That was the real reason why I couldn’t sleep.

Edild woke me as the dawn was lightening the sky, to a chorus of birdsong so loud that I was amazed I’d slept through it. She must have known how nervous I was, but she made me eat and drink, reminding me I had a long walk ahead. While I washed and dressed, she packed up food and a flask of water and set them ready by the door. I checked in my leather satchel to make sure I had my basic kit of remedies — you never know when someone’s going to call on a healer — and I also packed my wash cloth and my shawl. The nights could be chilly, and I had no idea whether or not I’d be back in my own bed that night.

There came a soft tap on the door. Edild opened it, and Hrype looked in. Seeing that I was ready, he nodded and said, ‘We’d best be on our way before curious eyes look out to see us.’

I slipped out of the house and, side by side, we set off for Cambridge.

We reached the town shortly before midday. I had no idea what to expect. I’d been to Ely, and I’d seen the port of Dunwich from a distance, but Ely had struck me as a random collection of buildings round an abbey and, as I said, I hadn’t had the chance to see Dunwich at close quarters.

Cambridge was a revelation.

As we’d walked along, Hrype had told me that the town had been occupied before the Romans had come. For ages now the town had held a market that was famous in the area and a great attraction to local tradesmen and their customers. The Vikings had sacked, burned and destroyed the town, only to have the irrepressible residents build it up again even better than before. It had burned again only three years ago, when holding out for the Duke of Normandy against King William. The first King William — our present king’s iron-fisted father — had built a castle on the north of the town’s river, up on a specially constructed earth motte, and on the south bank of the river there were extensive wharfs for the barges bringing goods to Cambridge from far and near. A sturdy bridge spanned the water, busy with a variety of traffic, from heavy carts to fleet-footed lads weaving in and out of the throng. There was a definite air of purpose and general busyness. Many of today’s townsfolk were, according to Hrype, very prosperous.

We crossed the bridge, and as we entered the maze of narrow, crooked streets, my eyes were wide open in wonder. There were so many houses — most of them timber-framed, although some of the smaller ones were mud-brick — and all had thatched roofs. The evidence of the fire three years ago was still visible, although it looked as if the townspeople had been as swift to rebuild as they had been in Viking times, and many of the dwellings were clearly new. There were even one or two big houses made of stone, most certainly the dwellings of the very rich, for everyone knew stone had to be imported into the fens, where we have none of our own. The buildings huddled together shoulder to shoulder, all but blocking out the daylight. The only open space appeared to be where there was a church. We passed one that had a tower reaching up into the wide sky, and Hrype said it was dedicated to St Benedict and had been built by the Saxons.

Hrype led the way down a dark little alley that dived off between an imposing stone building and a smaller, clay-walled house. The entrance to the alley was concealed by a wood-roofed stall that jutted out from the smaller house. A very large woman stood behind a trestle table inside the stall, from which she was selling pies and loaves of bread. Busy yelling out mouth-watering descriptions of the food on offer, she barely glanced at Hrype and me as we slipped past her.

The alley went dead-straight for about five or six paces, then turned abruptly to the right. We were now in an even narrower passage, with the rear wall of the clay house on our right and another, similar dwelling on our left. We twisted and turned down several more alleys and, although I tried to memorize the turnings this way and that, I soon realized that I was lost. Presently, we came to a set of steps leading up to a stout, iron-studded wooden door set in a graceful stone arch. Hrype sprang up the steps and tapped on the door. Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time. Then the door opened just a crack and a pair of keen eyes peered out.

‘Hrype!’ cried the owner of the eyes. The opening widened enough to admit us, and swiftly we were ushered inside.

The passageways had been quite dark, shaded as they were by the buildings on either side. The light out there, however, had been bright in comparison to the interior of this house, and for some time, as my eyes adjusted, I could barely make out anything except vague shapes. We were led down a corridor and, lacking my sight, my other senses seemed to sharpen as if to compensate. I could hear two distinct sounds, one of which was a sort of fizzing, as if something were sizzling in hot fat over a fire. The other was the steady breathing of the person leading the way down the passage.

The air smelt strange: incense mixed with other elements, one of which I thought could be cinnamon. There was also an animal smell, like goats. I sniffed cautiously. In my work with Edild I have learned not to sniff hard at an untried substance as the effect can be disturbing. I detected rosemary, which I know is used to increase the potency of a mixture, and also something that I thought might be bay laurel, although it seemed strangely sweet, as if the leaves were being steeped in honey. In addition, there was a metallic tang that I was rather afraid might be blood.

We turned to the right, went down some steps, left along another passage, and then left again, down more steps that led through a low archway. The room into which we emerged was lit by a single candle and seemed to be vast, as if a cellar had been hollowed out beneath this house and perhaps the one next to it. Very quickly, however, I realized that this had been an illusion; I was probably still disorientated by the twists and turns of the walk through the dark corridors. Recovering, I stared around me and saw a small, square room, its vaulted roof supported by several thick pillars. A workbench ran along the wall to the right of the steps, there were shelves of bottles and jars on the wall opposite and, to the left, a low cot on which there was a pillow and a stack of neatly-folded blankets. Beside it there was a little table covered with rolls and sheets of vellum and a quill pen beside a small flask of ink. Beyond the cot, the wall was covered with a large, heavy hanging. If there was a design or pattern on the hanging, the light was too dim for me to make it out.

My eyes were drawn to that single candle flame burning on the workbench. Now that I was able to detect more detail, I saw that there was a bulbous glass container suspended over the candle, resting on a three-legged iron stand. Some dark liquid was bubbling away in the container, and it was, I realized, the source of both the loud fizzing noise and the curious smell.

What on earth was going on? What terrible, secret potion was being created down here in this hidden, underground room? Did those jumbled pages of vellum contain the formula that all men sought, the one that bestowed eternal youth? I felt a shiver of dread slide down my back, and I took an involuntary step closer to Hrype. Hrype was weird, and at times very frightening, but at least he was familiar. .

The person who had admitted us was bending over the candle and lighting others from its flame. He — or it could have been she, for I couldn’t yet tell — had his back to us, and I was able to study him in the waxing light. He was short — almost a head shorter than me — and gave the impression of a certain rotundity, unless this was because he was bulked out by the voluminous garments he wore. It was chilly in the room, and he appeared to be wearing several layers, topped off by a generously-sized and gloriously-coloured shawl with a long fringe, which covered his head and shoulders and almost touched the floor at the back.