Alys Clare - Music of the Distant Stars

He knew where he was heading. Instead of going down the track from Lakehall and turning right along the road into the village, he struck out across the open ground. Lakehall was built on the better-drained land to the south and east of the village; on the far side of the road, his feet would soon have blundered into wet, boggy ground, but up here he could remain dry-shod. Lord Gilbert worked these acres — or, rather, his peasants did — with some success.

He saw the outline of the church rise up ahead of him, a darker shape on this dark night. He clambered over the fence into the churchyard, skirting other graves until he came to the one he sought. Then he sat down beside it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. There were tears on his face. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He sat there for a long time.

The sound, when it finally penetrated his consciousness, seemed like something that belonged to the night. It began so quietly, so subtly, that it was almost as if a soft little breeze had sprung up to bend the tall reeds and grasses and make them flute a gentle melody. Whatever it was, it was a sad sound; achingly sad. Alain’s sore heart gave a throb of pain, and he bowed his head, accepting it as his punishment.

The sound grew louder and, disturbed now, Alain raised his eyes to look around. He realized something: there was no wind. The night was absolutely still.

Where, then, did those uncanny sounds originate?

He rose to his feet, remaining in a crouch as he stared into the darkness. His heart was thumping hard as he sensed danger. He was poised for flight, yet his feet remained fixed to the spot. The sounds went on, then suddenly stopped.

He sensed movement, quite close. He spun round, eyes wide: nothing.

Then the sounds started again, far louder now, as if whatever unnatural force was making them had sneaked right up close. Then abruptly they altered, and now Alain knew that they came from a human throat, for he heard words . .

‘Where are you?’ he cried, panic in his voice. ‘Show yourself!’

Again, nothing.

Then he remembered who he was, and a small amount of courage came back. ‘I am Alain de Villequier,’ he said, trying to stop the tremble that was audible in the words. ‘I am the justiciar! I say again, show yourself!’

Then, horribly, there came a cruel laugh. A harsh voice — a man’s? A woman’s? — said, ‘I know who you are.’

The sounds began again, right behind him. But he heard them only for an instant. Then there came a high-pitched whistle, something hit him very hard on the back of the head and all went black.

I was awake early, for Edild had told me before we went to bed that I would have to check on Derman’s body that morning. Her work is always faultless, but she has her reputation to think of; if any smell had sneaked up out of the crypt and into the church, word would soon have spread that the healer did not know her own business. I loaded my satchel with fresh supplies of sweet-smelling herbs — bay-laurel leaves, mint, sprigs of rosemary — and Edild gave me several of the special incense cones she makes, the ingredients of which remain a secret that she promises one day to reveal to me.

I slipped into the church, relieved to see that there was nobody there. Closing the door behind me, I walked up to the altar, my eyes on the wooden cross. My senses alert, my skin tingling, I sensed the presence that is always there. I let my mind reach out, opening myself at the same time so that I was receptive. On occasions, I have felt such a jolt of power in the church that I have staggered, but today there was nothing. The presence was still there; of that I had no doubt. But it was quiet, its attention far removed from me.

I bowed low, muttered a few words and backed away.

I walked over to the low door that opens on to the steps down to the crypt. So far I had detected no aroma that should not be there. The little church usually smells of damp, with the lingering memory of incense and of stale sweat. I pushed the door open a crack and sniffed. Now I could smell Edild’s incense. She must have left some burning yesterday, and the smoky perfume had been trapped behind the door. Encouraged, I hurried down the steps and emerged into the low-ceilinged crypt.

I know about the strength of a vaulted roof, for Hrype has explained to me that the arch is a wonderful concept and can bear vast weight. Nevertheless, I am always uneasy in the crypt, especially on my own. I crossed to where the wrapped body lay, on boards stretched across two trestles. The head was bound in many layers of cloth. Presumably, Edild had wished to cover up that terrible wound so that no blood showed on the outside. The legs were less thoroughly wrapped, and I saw faint blotches where blood from the cuts on the shins had leached into the material. Cuts. . I thought about that. If you fell against the edge of a plank, would it cut you? It might bruise you and give you a deep graze, but surely you needed something sharper to give cuts such as those on Derman’s shins?

I pictured the causeway. And I realized that the death couldn’t have happened the way we had thought, for the layout of the place meant that it was all but impossible. For Derman to crack his shins against the causeway, he would have had to be running through the shallow water towards it, not along it, and he would surely have fallen on to the planks that had just tripped him up, not off them into the water. .

I was going to have to revisit the scene of his death.

Swiftly, I walked round the body, sniffing as I went. The stench of death was there, of course it was, but so far the cool air in the crypt and my aunt’s care were keeping it at bay. I arranged my fragrant herbs around the corpse, lit three more incense cones and then went back up the steps.

The priest had arrived, and he turned to stare at me as I emerged from the crypt. He is wary of Edild and, by association, of me too, for like many men, especially men of the church, he does not approve of a woman who lives by her own wits, independent of any man. However, like most of the village, he has had occasion to ask for her help, and she always responds with her usual generosity and competence. He is, I suppose you could say, carefully neutral regarding my aunt and me.

‘Good morning, Father Augustine,’ I said, making a respectful bow. Edild always says that it is best to treat potential enemies with courtesy, thus giving them no excuse for releasing whatever malice they may have towards you.

He returned the greeting. ‘You have been tending the body?’ He jerked his head towards the crypt door.

‘Yes.’

‘Does it — er, is it all right?’

The morning was already warm, with the promise of a hot day. I knew what he meant. ‘So far, yes. If I might suggest, you should not delay in putting him in the ground.’

‘No, indeed.’ He frowned. ‘I have told his sister that he will be buried this morning.’ Looking up, briefly he met my eyes, and I was surprised to read emotion in his. ‘There will be few other mourners, I fear,’ he said.

‘People are afraid of what they do not understand,’ I said softly. ‘Derman was not like the rest of us.’

‘No,’ Father Augustine said. Then, abruptly: ‘There was much talk concerning the dead young woman. They would have it that Derman had some hopeless love for her and killed her when she turned him down. I do not believe it is true,’ he said fervently.

‘No, neither do I.’

He seemed surprised; perhaps I was the only villager to freely admit seeing it the way he did. ‘I would not bury a murderer in sacred ground,’ he said.

‘Of course not.’ I was suddenly filled with relief for Father Augustine’s conviction of Derman’s innocence. I was quite sure Zarina would have been devastated if Derman had been refused a proper burial. Perhaps the priest might even have been reluctant to marry her to my brother had he believed she was sister to a murderer.