Alys Clare - Out of the Dawn Light

He had half expected some sort of sympathetic acknowledgement from the girl; none came.

‘It was not the end of tragedy for my family,’ he went on. ‘The summer of 1076 brought sickness to the region. The symptoms of the illness were a high fever, a rash and a violent, destructive cough that frequently brought on a spitting-up of blood. It was thought that the malady must have come in with a sailor on one of the ships that docked at Dunwich, for few suffered from it beyond the immediate vicinity of the port. Once the patient coughed blood, he was as good as dead.’ Again he paused. Then he said softly, ‘I lost my father and both my grandparents in the space of a week.’

‘You did not fall sick?’ the girl asked, but he detected curiosity in her tone rather than pity. They say she is a healer, he reminded himself. Perhaps her interest is professional. Nevertheless, the absence of so much as a single compassionate word still seemed strange.

‘No, I did not,’ he replied easily, putting aside his misgivings. ‘My nursemaid was an old countrywoman and when the first of my family fell ill she shut me up in my chamber, burned rosemary and sandalwood and made me wear an amulet.’

‘And what about your uncle?’ she persisted.

‘He was away from home. Word was sent to his hosts and he was warned to keep away while the sickness ran its course.’ He waited but it appeared she had no more questions. ‘My uncle Baudouin adopted me and made me his heir,’ he went on. ‘He is not a naturally paternal man and he has never given me much affection, but he supported me, provided a luxurious home and saw to it that I was educated as he saw fit. It is more,’ he added, ‘than most people have.’

He heard the girl mutter something under her breath. Sibert was silent and he sat as still as if made of stone. No doubt it would not last; the tricky part of the story must now be spoken.

‘Even while the Conqueror lived,’ Romain said, ‘we were anxious about what would happen when he died.’

‘ We? ’ the girl said.

For a simple and ignorant villager, Romain thought, there was quite a lot of irony in the one short syllable.

‘I am sorry. By we I mean my own family and the wider community of Norman lords.’

‘ We , by which I mean the people of my village, were quite worried as well,’ she murmured.

He chose to ignore her.

‘We expected that Duke Robert would probably have Normandy and William Rufus would inherit the throne of England,’ he continued, ‘and, on the Conqueror’s death last September, this is what happened. However, many of our number would have preferred Robert to rule in England. We knew what he was like as a ruler, and the majority of the Norman landowners had already sworn fealty to him during his father’s lifetime. Once someone had the temerity to propose ridding ourselves of William Rufus and putting Robert on the throne of England, a great many of the Norman lords chose to follow him. So this past Easter, when Odo of Bayeux whispered the details of his plot, he discovered that he had a great deal of support.’

‘But not yours?’ the girl suggested.

‘No,’ he agreed. He had not been aware of revealing his own feelings on the matter; he resolved to be more careful. ‘No, indeed. My uncle Baudouin, however, declared for Duke Robert and Bishop Odo. I tried to counsel him against acting rashly, for I feared that if King William were to predominate in the coming struggle it would go badly for my uncle.’

‘And for you as his heir,’ the girl put in.

‘Yes, naturally,’ he said sharply. Then, forcing a smoother tone, ‘My uncle was going off to fight, however, and I did not wish to see him wounded, or worse.’

‘Naturally,’ she echoed faintly.

‘The fighting was fierce and in places quite devastating,’ he went on firmly. He was not going to allow a skinny little girl to take over the impetus of this account. ‘My uncle was wounded but fortunately it was not life-threatening, and he returned to Drakelow where he was tended by-’ No. He must not think about that. ‘Where they looked after him. But meanwhile the fighting in the south was going from bad to worse and earlier this month we received news that Odo had surrendered to the king. Then the disaster which I foresaw indeed came to pass.’ He paused for effect and then said, ‘Drakelow was taken from us in punishment for my uncle’s part in the rebellion.’

There was a moment of utter stillness. Then the girl said, ‘So you have lost your inheritance and your home.’

He could not detect much sympathy in her voice.

He turned to look at her. ‘I have,’ he agreed. ‘But I plan to win it back by-’

‘By buying yourself back into the king’s favour via this thing you’ve brought us here to find for you,’ she finished for him.

He was totally taken aback. ‘Well, yes, I suppose that is the case, although-’

‘What’s in it for me?’ she demanded. He noticed that she kept darting furious glances at Sibert, as if to say, Come on! This is your battle too!

Sibert maintained his state of stony silence.

And Romain, who could think of nothing to say, fell mute as well.

I was shaking, although quite determined not to let him see. I edged away, so that I sat by myself a few paces off. Then I went back over all that I had just seen and heard.

The manor must look very different now from when Sibert had last seen it, that was for sure. Poor Sibert — he had been absolutely shocked by his first sight of that horrible new building down below us. I couldn’t blame him. Where is my house? he said. His house. . I was still trying to work that out. I knew a little of Sibert’s history, how his father Edmer fought at the Battle of Hastings and later with Hereward in the rebellion, and I understood now what that had meant: Edmer must have belonged to the rich and the powerful elite who held sway in England before the Conqueror came. He must, if I was right, have owned this manor of Drakelow, and it was him from whom it was taken when the first King William awarded it to Fulk de la Flèche.

I sat there, thinking so hard that my head ached.

Sibert was two or three years older than me, so he was about sixteen; I did not know exactly. His mother Froya was quite young, for all that her careworn air made her look older, and would have borne Sibert in round about 1071 or 72. I had always been led to believe that Edmer had died as a result of the wound he received fighting with Hereward, but in fact he must have lived on for a while if I was right about Sibert’s age. So, that was one misapprehension gone. What about the other part of that stirring tale? The bit that had Froya, heavy with the child that would be Sibert, making her secret, desperate journey with her dying husband through the Fens to the sanctuary of Aelf Fen?

I realized suddenly that I had no idea where I had come by these scant details of Sibert’s life. Perhaps I had made them up. Perhaps I had been fed a lie. That hurt, for as a consummate liar myself, I pride myself on my ability to detect when I am being lied to.

There was no mistaking the honesty of that terrible cry that broke out of Sibert when he saw Drakelow: Where is my house? I knew this did not necessarily mean that he had lived at Drakelow; it was equally likely that he had been brought up believing it was his true home, which would be enough to make anyone possessive about it. So, someone — presumably his mother or his uncle Hrype, his father being dead — must have fed the poison into Sibert. Drakelow is your home. It was ours, it has been in our family since time out of mind — since when? I wondered, but I would come back to that — and it ought to be yours.