Alys Clare - Mist Over the Water

Sibert exchanged a few general comments with the old men by way of an introduction. I joined in, offering an opinion on the weather and the likelihood of more rain. Then there was a short, reflective pause, and I sensed Sibert go tense.

‘It’s a bit of a disruption, that there,’ he offered, jerking his head in the direction of the abbey. ‘Going to be a monster, that new cathedral!’ His eyes popped with wonder, and I was impressed with his yokel-overawed-with-the-sights act.

There was an exchange of rumbling, grumbling remarks among the old men. Then one of them, sitting on the other side of the one clasping my knee, leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘They’ve knocked down St Etheldreda’s chapel, you know. Her that’s been our beloved saint since time out of mind.’

‘Have they?’ Sibert whispered, wide-eyed.

‘Aye, lad, they have, with no respect for her that we all love nor no more for us that love her. What’s more, they-’ Whatever further sedition he was going to add was abruptly cut off by the old boy next to me, who dug him smartly in the ribs with a muttered, ‘Dangerous talk, Teb. Dangerous talk.’

Silence fell. Then Sibert leaned forward — all six old men mirrored the gesture — and said, so softly that even I barely heard, ‘My father fought with the Wake.’

The old men did not exactly leap up and welcome him like a long-lost grandson — they were too careful for that — but nevertheless you could see they were delighted. One or two of them nodded, and one muttered, ‘So did we, lad.’

We all sat smiling at each other and then, when the initial euphoria had subsided, the old man next to me — Teb — leaned across me and said to Sibert, ‘Is your father with you?’

‘No,’ Sibert replied shortly. ‘He died of his wound.’

There were mutters of God save him and God bless his brave soul . Then Teb said, ‘You’ve come to pay your respects, then, at his grave?’

‘He does not lie here,’ Sibert replied. I prayed he would not reveal the fact that Edmer was buried at Aelf Fen, and he didn’t; he must have known as well as I did that it would not be wise to give away the fact of where we lived, even to our new friends. ‘He received a Norman arrow in the thigh, and those who treated him could not save his leg. After the amputation my. . his friends managed to get him away from the island and away across the fens, but it was no good.’

The old men bowed their heads, and for some time nobody spoke. It was a mark of respect for a fallen warrior, I knew that, but not quite what Sibert must have hoped for. If he had been expecting the tale of amputation and flight to prompt one of the old men to leap up and exclaim, ‘Yes, I remember him!’ then he’d be disappointed.

I thought of something. ‘Where were the houses of healing?’ I asked shyly, as if, being a mere girl, I was hesitant to speak in front of a group of men. ‘Where would my friend’s father have been taken?’

Teb gave my knee a kindly pat. ‘Many were tended by the monks,’ he said. ‘Not that our holy brethren were all in favour of the rebels, oh, no. Still, the healers among them are decent men in the main, and they did not refuse their aid.’

Edmer had not been treated by the monks; his brother and his wife had cared for him. ‘Was there any other place where healers gathered?’ I persisted, giving Teb what I hoped was a sweet and innocent smile.

‘Interested in healing, are you, pretty maid?’ he asked, patting my face.

‘Oh, yes!’ I said with total honesty. ‘I hope that I may make it my life’s work.’

Teb nodded his approval. ‘Well, if you’d been here during the rebellion you’d have learned enough to last a lifetime,’ he said grimly. He glanced around him, then leaned closer to me and whispered right in my ear, ‘There was this man, magic they said he was, and it’s told that he could put a man into a deep, dreamless sleep and whip off a limb without his victim even noticing!’ He leaned back, triumph in his eyes, as if to say, what do you think of that ?

I knew exactly what I thought of that. I was aware, because Sibert had told me, that his uncle Hrype had somehow sedated Edmer before the amputation. The magic man whom my friend Teb had just described must surely be Hrype. Teb was waiting for my reply. It was not hard to sound thrilled as I said, in an excited whisper, ‘ Oh! I wish I knew how he could have done that!’

Teb gripped my knee and shook it warningly. ‘You mustn’t go blabbing about what I’ve just told you!’ he said urgently. His eyes flicked briefly in the direction of the abbey — it was as if he and his friends were aware of it all the time like a watching, listening presence — and he said, all but inaudibly, ‘Them monks are funny about things like that.’

I understood what he meant. In the course of my long and ongoing training with my aunt Edild, she had told me repeatedly that many of the skills she was teaching me were frowned upon by the men of the church. They tended towards the view that if a man or a woman suffered sickness or grave injury it was God’s punishment, and it therefore followed that any alleviation of their agony was contrary to God’s will. The prime example was, of course, childbirth; Edild knew of several palliatives that could ease a long labour, so that there was less risk of mother or child — or both — dying because the mother was too exhausted by pain to go on. The church, however, was adamant: women must bear their children in pain because of Eve’s sin of disobedience.

Edild and I did not see it that way.

‘I won’t breathe a word!’ I whispered now to Teb. I licked my finger, drew it across my throat and then sketched a cross over my heart.

He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘That’s a good girl.’ I squeezed his hand, still on my knee but now quite a lot further up my thigh. It worked. Once again speaking right in my ear, he hissed, ‘The magic man lived in a little reed-thatched house at the end of the alley that runs east under the abbey walls. They’ll remember him there.’

Then, laying his forefinger alongside his nose in the time-honoured gesture implying secrecy, he sat up straight again.

I wanted to leap up there and then and hare off in search of the reed-thatched house, but it seemed wiser to wait. My old Teb seemed anxious that his information should go no further, so he was hardly likely to tell anyone what he’d just told me. But it was better to be safe than sorry, and if Sibert and I went on chatting to the old men about other topics then nobody would be able to say that we’d shot off like a couple of scalded cats the moment we’d been told about the magic man’s house.

The magic man . . While the superficial part of my mind gossiped with the old men and giggled with my elderly admirer, my deeper self was walking with Hrype.

Finally, Sibert and I got away. There was no need for words as quickly we crossed the marketplace, which was still busy with townspeople, monks and the ever-flowing stream of workmen passing in and out of the abbey, and made our way down the alley that led off under the abbey walls to the east. At first houses and little hovels bunched tightly together in a mass of packed humanity, but quite soon the dwellings thinned. Right at the end there was a row of reed-thatched cottages.

One had its door ajar. I went up to it and peered inside. A woman of around my mother’s age sat on a stool by the hearth. She was spinning wool. Without turning she called out, ‘Close the door, Mattie, it’s cold enough in here already.’

I slipped inside, Sibert right behind me, and he closed the door. ‘Not Mattie, I’m afraid,’ I said softly.

The woman turned. ‘So I see,’ she said. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’