Alys Clare - Mist Over the Water

I wondered if I would ever see him again.

Gewis’s sense of unease deepened steadily as the day went on. It was not that the people in the settlement were not being kind to him; they were. The young man, Sibert, had taken him to a small and well-kept cottage, which he said belonged to Lassair’s family. It was soon after dawn when the two of them arrived, and a middle-aged man had come to the door in answer to Sibert’s knock, rubbing at his tousled hair and staring out at them in puzzlement. Sibert had given only a sketchy explanation, but he had said at least twice that Lassair had said it would be all right and the family were to take Gewis in and look after him.

Gewis couldn’t actually recall Lassair having given any such instructions, but now did not seem to be the time to point it out. Sibert had melted away, and the man, who had been introduced as Lassair’s father, had ushered Gewis inside. The rest of the family had woken up — there was a woman with a long, fair plait who was the man’s wife, an old grandmother, a young man of about Sibert’s age, a lad and a child of around three. All six of them had stared at Gewis with round eyes, and then the lad said, ‘Are you a monk?’

‘No,’ Gewis replied firmly. ‘I’ve been living in an abbey, and they disguised me as a novice, but I’ve taken no vows.’

The woman with the plait got to her feet. ‘Then we’d better find you some different clothes,’ she said, eyeing him closely. ‘Haward, we’ll need something of yours — your garments will be a little generous because you’re taller and broader than this lad here, but we can hitch up the tunic with a belt, and we’ll find a cap to cover that shaven spot on the crown of your head.’

‘Thank you,’ Gewis said gravely.

The woman smiled kindly at him. ‘I expect you’re hungry,’ she remarked.

‘Yes. I am.’

‘I hungry too!’ piped up the little child; it was, on closer inspection, a boy.

‘Hush, Leir, I’ll see to you later,’ his mother said softly. ‘Go back to sleep — it’s early yet.’

The child slipped his thumb into his mouth with a soft plop and, yawning, went obediently back to his cot in the corner. The young man went to rummage in a wooden box and emerged with a brown wool tunic, patched and darned but clean, a pair of woven hose and a floppy felt cap. Silently, he handed them to Gewis, who turned his back, stripped to his underlinen and put them on.

The grandmother gave a quiet cackle of laughter. ‘Where’s that monk gone then?’ she said. ‘Welcome to the family, lad. What did you say your name was?’

Gewis was moved by their kindness and their generosity. It was clear they did not have much, but what they had they shared willingly with him. He reckoned they must have a great deal of trust in their daughter to admit a total stranger into their cottage on her word alone. They must also love her very much, he realized; in the course of the day her mother, her father, her grandmother and her elder brother all found a quiet moment to ask if she was all right, and the young boy, whose name appeared to be Squeak, said that if Gewis saw her soon he was to give her his love and tell her the blackbird with the broken wing had died.

As the day passed he uncovered the source of his unease. His mother was dead, killed by the four tough men who had taken him to Ely and guarded him there. His memories of her were by no means universally happy — like his father, she had been deeply embittered, and her dissatisfaction with her life had been demonstrated with a hard right hand around her son’s ear on far too many occasions. It had always been difficult, not to say impossible, to please her. She had once expressed the opinion that you must not praise your children because if you do they will become complacent and stop trying. For sure, she had never praised Gewis, so he wondered how she could have been quite so certain.

Yes. She had not been a caring, loving mother. She was nothing like this capable, brusque but devoted woman whom Lassair was lucky enough to have as a parent. But she was his mother, nevertheless, and now she was dead. He could not stay there in safety knowing how, and probably why, she had died. He did not have sufficient faith in himself to believe he could avenge her, but at the least he must go to Lord Edmund, who must surely have been behind the death, and register his protest. I will report him to the sheriff , Gewis thought, carried away. He will be arrested and put on trial, and other men will judge him where I cannot .

It was a good plan. It made him feel better.

Late in the afternoon, wishing he could explain to Lassair’s nice family and say goodbye, he waited until he was unobserved and slipped away.

Rollo spent most of the day putting together everything he knew about Lord Edmund, known as the Exile. The king had briefed him well, revealing that he believed Lord Edmund was the power behind the Wessex faction and that it was he who would organize and lead the attempt to raise the Wessex banner and summon supporters to the cause. Rollo had verified that the king was right; he had also uncovered a great deal more about Lord Edmund than had been known to King William. Or more accurately, he thought with a private smile, that the king had known perfectly well but had chosen not to reveal. Well, it did not matter either way now. Rollo had found out what he needed to know, and, as always, he trusted discoveries that he had made himself far more than facts told to him by others, even — perhaps especially — if those others were kings.

In the comfort of his room, Rollo thought about the pale boy, Gewis. Was he who they claimed he was? Rollo still had not made up his mind. Logic suggested the boy was no more than a simple, unsophisticated village lad, the result of generations of people just like him. But there had been that moment in the old Saxon church, when Rollo had the extraordinary thought that a spectral hand from the past had reached out because it recognized its own.

That, however, was fanciful, and Rollo did not deal in fancy. The Wessex faction must surely be convinced of Gewis’s identity, he thought instead, for they were going to a great deal of trouble on the lad’s behalf. Rollo had been trying to keep thoughts of Lassair out of his head — it was not that he did not want to think about her, only that she was a distraction — but now he remembered how she had thought that Gewis’s unwillingness to have anything to do with Lord Edmund and his scheme was the end of it. She was wrong, but then she did not move in circles where people like Lord Edmund operated. She did not know how ruthless and cruel a man like him would be. But then, he thought, she knows Edmund had Gewis’s mother killed, so perhaps she does.

Contemplating Lord Edmund’s nature was not something he ought to do at that moment. Against his will he recalled the moment early this morning when he had suddenly realized that Lassair knew where Gewis was and that, were so much of a whisper of that fact to reach Lord Edmund, he would find her and do whatever it took to make her tell him.

That did not bear thinking about.

And here I sit now , he thought bitterly, doing what I know I must but wishing with all my heart that I could hurry to her side and take her away to somewhere they will never find her .

That was impossible, and he knew it. Instead, he must remove the threat. That meant staying right where he was and preparing for every possible eventuality until he was ready.

Then he would act, and she truly would be safe.

He went out into the midday crowds milling around the marketplace and, by asking a few innocuous questions here and there, discovered where Lord Edmund was lodging. Then he found a place where, while hidden himself, he could observe the house and the comings and goings. He stood quite still, and he was all but sure that nobody spared him a glance. As he watched, he occupied his mind going over the alternatives. He could approach Lord Edmund and somehow convince him that Gewis was nothing to do with the House of Wessex. He believed he could achieve this, for the king had told him where, when and how the rumour that connected Gewis to his illustrious ancestors had originated and it would be possible to concoct a tale that questioned the connection. Would Lord Edmund allow himself to be convinced? Rollo had his doubts, for everything he had learned of the man suggested he was a fanatic, and fanatics were not normally renowned for being open to reason.