Alys Clare - Mist Over the Water

‘My friend here is looking for people who might remember his father, fatally wounded during the. . er, in 1071,’ I said, keeping my voice low. We had no idea where this woman’s sympathies lay; she neither looked nor sounded like a Norman, but that did not necessarily mean she had supported the rebellion.

She nodded slowly as she looked us up and down. ‘Who sent you here?’ she asked. Her tone was not unfriendly, merely wary. I did not blame her for her caution.

‘An old man in the alehouse said there was a healer who used to live here,’ I said.

Again she nodded. ‘Aye, there was.’ She stared down at her hands, fallen idle in her lap. ‘He was a good man,’ she muttered.

‘You remember him?’ Sibert said eagerly.

The woman gazed up at him. ‘No, for I was not here.’ I sensed the sag of disappointment that flooded through him. Then, as if she noticed too, her face spread in a tight smile, and she said, ‘You want to talk to my mother.’

The woman’s name was Yorath. Although she did not admit as much, we gathered that her men folk had fought with Hereward. From what she said, it sounded as if her mother was a wise woman, and it appeared she had been both willing and eager to work with the magic man.

As I listened to Yorath’s quiet voice speaking of the events of twenty years ago, I felt as if her words were casting a spell on me. Such was my enchantment that it was almost a surprise when I heard my own voice ask, ‘Who was he? Who was the magic man?’

And Yorath said, ‘My mother never knew his name. He was here when they needed him, and he did not spare himself in his care of the sick and the wounded.’ She sighed, her eyes soft as she remembered the old tales. ‘Then he was gone, and none of them ever saw him again.’

Her mother, who was called Aetha, lived somewhere out on the fens; Yorath did not specify exactly where. She undertook to send word to her to ask if she was willing to see us. If we were to return the following afternoon, she would give us her mother’s answer.

We promised to be there. I sensed that Sibert wanted to stay; we were standing in the very place where his gravely wounded father had been brought, where Edmer’s brother had tried so hard to save his life, where Edmer’s wife, desperately anxious for her new husband, had done all she could to help. The central drama in his family’s recent history had happened right here. Had I been in his boots, I should have wanted to stay too.

I took his hand and gently led him away. I muttered a farewell to Yorath, catching her looking with deep sympathy at Sibert. ‘We will see you tomorrow,’ I said, and she nodded. Then Sibert and I were outside in the alley, and I hurried him away.

Sibert’s tension did not dissipate as we made our way back up the alley and across the marketplace. I was not surprised, for I understood how hard it must be for him to sense the mystery of his past so close but still outside his reach. When he cast a longing look at the alehouse and asked if I minded if he went back to talk some more with those within, I said no, of course I didn’t.

I watched him go, my heart flooding with sympathy. If he thought it would help to drink a lot of ale, so that eventually he would fall asleep on the floor of our little dwelling in a beery stupor, then I could not blame him.

I walked on to our room, planning how I would fill in the remainder of the afternoon and the long evening that stretched ahead. I would take the unexpected free time to have another tidy up, I resolved, and when I had done that I would go through my satchel of remedies and medicaments. It was not often that I had access to an apothecary’s shop, and it made sense to check my supplies and think about whether there was anything Edild and I needed back at home.

I swept out the room, shook up the straw and prepared Sibert’s and my own sleeping places, then I fed the fire to make a good blaze and banked it down with ash so that it would burn long and slow. Next I sat in the light from the partly opened door, unfastened my leather bag and started going through the contents. I was already aware, in the back of my mind, that this task would not take much time and that the remainder of the evening loomed ahead with nothing to fill it. It was probably this that prompted me, for when I picked up the bottle of Edild’s special remedy for pain in the joints — it is full of comforting, warming herbs such as ginger and cinnamon, with a good portion of willow and a little devil’s claw — I suddenly knew how I was going to spend the rest of the day.

I had a good supply of oil, and it did not take long to prepare several bottles of the warming rub, diluting Edild’s remedy in the proportion she had instructed. Then I set to preparing myself.

I always carry lengths of clean, white cloth folded at the bottom of my satchel, for use as dressings and bandages. Hoping I had some large pieces, I spread them out and soon found what I wanted. Then I took my knife and, with its sharp point, cut out the shapes I needed. I fetched needle and thread and sewed the seams, testing the fit and, when I was satisfied, neatly hemming the raw edges. Then I unbraided my hair, brushed it back off my face and wound it in a tight, severe bun at the back of my head. I put on the wimple I had just fashioned, relieved to find how closely it framed my face. I put my cloak on over my gown and pulled up the wide folds of my hood; the fabric was dark, the material inexpensive and, like all my clothes, well worn. I stood up, wishing I could see what I looked like and fervently hoping that I looked sufficiently like my sister Elfritha: like a nun. I did not suppose I would have fooled one of Elfritha’s superiors, but I trusted that the average Ely monk would only have a sketchy idea of what a Benedictine sister wore.

I knew, because they had told me, that the monks did not let women inside the abbey without a good reason. Did the same rule apply to nuns?

I was just about to find out.

The monk on duty at the abbey gate greeted me with a smile and said, ‘Good day, sister, what can we do for you?’ which was promising.

‘Good day to you, brother,’ I replied, careful to keep my eyes cast down. ‘I have been sent with supplies of a new remedy for the joint and muscle pains that torment so many of the elder members of our community.’ So far, I had spoken the truth, except that nobody had actually sent me. ‘Many of the sisterhood are badly afflicted in this persistent wet weather — ’ that too was true; Elfritha had mentioned it last time I had visited her — ‘and if I may help any of the brethren, then I would dearly like to do so.’ I was a healer; I wanted to alleviate suffering wherever I found it.

The monk was looking at me with interest. ‘A new remedy, you say?’ I nodded. I had noticed that nuns didn’t speak unnecessarily. ‘Your own creation?’

‘No.’ I smiled modestly, as if to imply that I was far too lowly to be allowed free rein to experiment in the herb store.

‘Many of the older brethren suffer greatly,’ the monk said. He paused, then said, ‘You may enter.’

He ushered me inside a tiny room just inside the gate and, calling out to a monk emerging from one of the buildings, asked him to fetch someone called Brother Philius. I waited, trying to make my face calm. Elfritha’s fellow nuns always manage to look serene, as if they’re confidently waiting for something lovely that’s just about to happen.

Brother Philius appeared. He was young, dark-eyed and quite short, with a restless air as if he was eager to get on with God’s work. He bustled into the little room, his energy instantly making it feel cramped. ‘Sister-?’

I bowed my head. ‘Sister Hilde.’