Alys Clare - Out of the Dawn Light

Hrype went to Lord Gilbert’s manor house and informed him that I was prepared to take the test. To my surprise — and Hrype and Edild’s too — in the early evening he came to Edild’s cottage.

His chubby face was quite pale and he looked at me out of worried eyes. ‘You do not have to do this,’ he said. ‘You are accused of no crime and neither your freedom nor your life is in the balance. It is not too late to change your mind.’

I wondered why he was doing this. ‘What does it matter to you?’ I demanded. I realized as soon as I had spoken that I sounded rude. ‘I am sorry,’ I added. ‘You have, it seems, my well-being at heart.’

‘I have!’ he agreed fervently. ‘Lassair’ — at least he remembered my name now — ‘this trial is a fearsome thing! They are constructing the pit as I speak and soon the fires will be lit. You will-’

I sensed Hrype casting round for a courteous but irrevocable way of telling him to be quiet. He knew, as did Edild, that this talk of pits, fires and fearsome things was not good for me.

I spoke first.

‘Lord Gilbert,’ I interrupted, ‘it is kind of you to take the trouble to explain my position to me.’ I knew it perfectly well already, but it was still kind of him. ‘However, there is really only one factor to be considered, which is that if I don’t do the test and prove that I’m telling the truth, then Sibert will hang.’ I tried to hold his eyes but he looked away. ‘Is that not so?’ I prompted.

‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘It has to be so,’ he added, ‘for Baudouin de la Flèche has a witness.’

And Baudouin himself, I thought, is a powerful Norman baron, even if just at present he’s a landless one. As Lord Gilbert said, it had to be so.

There was nothing more to be said and after a while he realized it. He gave me a sort of bow — just a slight nod of his head — and it was an extraordinary thing to see, given the huge void between our respective positions in the world. Then he turned and, flinging the door open as if he could not wait to get away from us, hurried away.

I did not think I would be able to sleep that night. The images were far too vivid in my head and the ice boots were having a tough time holding their own against the glowing coals. However, Edild made me an infusion in which I could taste dill and the bitterness of wood lettuce and she made me drink every last drop. Very soon after that, I curled up on the shakedown bed by the hearth that she had prepared for me, drew up the soft lambs’ wool blanket and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the guest chamber of Gilbert de Caudebec’s manor house, Baudouin de la Flèche looked out of the small window at the gathering darkness outside and told himself, one more night. Just one more night, and then all this will be over, the crown will be in my hands and I can be off, on my way to plead before the king.

The girl will fail, he thought. He had seen the fire pit and it was good and long. It would take her many paces to get from one end to the other. The coals had been set ready, on top of a bed of kindling and firewood which would be set ablaze at first light. As soon as the coals were red-hot, the girl would be summoned.

She must fail, Baudouin thought. Her feet will suffer terrible burns and no power on earth or in heaven will come to her aid and help her to heal, for she is a well-known liar. This tale she tells will be disproved once and for all and, with nobody left to speak for him, Sibert will hang.

She must fail, he repeated with silent vehemence. She has to!

Lord Gilbert’s guest bed lay ready to welcome him but his nerves were tight as a snare wire and he could not bear the thought of trying to rest. He paced, leaned against the wall looking down at the fire pit, clearly visible some twenty paces down the track which led from the manor house to the village, then paced some more. Slowly the night passed.

Hrype left Edild and Lassair in the little cottage on the edge of the village, promising to be back early in the morning. He crossed the village on swift and silent feet to the house he shared with Froya and Sibert. Sibert! he thought, anguish searing through him. So much depended on the girl. He and her aunt had worked as hard as they knew how and even greater demands would be made on them in the morning, for he knew, as he was sure Edild did, that they would not leave Lassair’s side until it was over. One way or another. .

‘She will do it,’ he said quietly but very firmly.

He opened the door and let himself in, closing and barring it behind him. Froya had gone home some time ago and now was sitting hunched on the floor before the hearth. She was cradling a small square of woollen blanket, smoothing it, stroking it with those restless fingers. He recognized it as the comforter Sibert had treasured as a small child. He’d had no idea she had kept it.

He crouched down beside her and wordlessly she leaned against him. He put his arms round her, reaching up a hand to gently and rhythmically stroke the fair hair away from her high, broad forehead.

‘I cannot bear it if he dies,’ she said.

Neither can I, he wanted to agree. But instead he said firmly, ‘Lassair is strong and brave, Froya. She is full of courage, for she is convinced she can pass the test.’

‘And can she?’ Froya asked bleakly.

‘She can.’ He reinforced the words by briefly squeezing her shoulder. ‘Her aunt and I will be with her. We will not let her falter.’

She nodded and he thought she was reassured, but then her body convulsed in a great sob and she said despairingly, ‘He is not strong! I think of him in some horrible, stinking cell, knowing that he may hang in the morning, and I feel that my heart is being torn apart within my breast!’

‘I know, I know,’ he murmured. He too had been fighting images of Sibert imprisoned, shaking with fear, weeping in the cold darkness.

Would Lassair do it? Or would she burn like a tallow candle and watch from agonized eyes as Sibert was strung up and hanged?

She will succeed, he told himself.

In time Froya’s weeping came to an end, although the storm had left her shaky. Gently he got her to her feet and over to her bed on the far side of the cottage, where tenderly he helped her off with her tunic and settled her beneath the covers. He resumed the slow, steady stroking motion across her head. ‘Sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep, dear Froya, and sleep deep.’ He spoke more words, incomprehensible syllables, and his low, hypnotic voice seemed to fill the small room, echoing with a forceful, muted boom like the sea in a cave.

The spell worked. Froya slept.

Hrype waited for some time, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. He tucked the covers more closely around her and then, moving without a sound, let himself out of the cottage.

He made his way to a spot on the fen edge where alders stood close, their trunks wading in the bracken and the low, scrubby bushes. There was a cleared space within the undergrowth where a small circle of hearth stones, carefully chosen and even in size and shape, had been set out. Firewood and kindling lay at hand, protected from the elements by strips of turf. Hrype set a small fire and lit it with his flint, his hands moving with swift efficiency for he had performed these actions many times. It was his secret place, and a mild enchantment lay over it that prevented others from going too close.

When the flames took hold he quickly controlled them so that they rose no higher than was necessary for his purpose. Then he untied the thongs of a small leather pouch that hung from his belt, the leather soft and smooth from long handling, for it had belonged to Hrype’s forefathers before it had been his and each successive owner had used it frequently.