Music of the Distant Stars Page 12

  She snatched her hands away and turned on me, all the soft gold gone from her eyes, leaving them glittering green and hard as emeralds. ‘I cannot marry Haward!’ she cried.

  ‘But he loves you! You love him!’

  She emitted a great sound of fierce anger and frustration. ‘Love!’ she echoed. ‘You think it is all that matters!’

  I didn’t understand. ‘I know you are bound to Derman and cannot forsake him, but my mother and my father will not try to make you! It won’t be easy, naturally, especially at first while everyone’s getting used to—’

  Zarina had had enough. She leapt up from her cot and began flinging her few possessions into an old leather bag. ‘I cannot marry Haward,’ she repeated.

  I, too, had reached the end of my rope. ‘I want to see my brother happy!’ I shouted. ‘You can make him happy, Zarina, I know you can because I—’ I almost said because I’ve seen it in the runes, but I remembered just in time that such things were secret. ‘I appreciate that you care for Derman,’ I went on more calmly, ‘but he’s not the only person to consider. I care for Haward, and I refuse to see his chance of happiness with you taken away from him because you are—’

  ‘I am?’ She rounded on me. ‘I am what?’ She screamed at the top of her voice, a great aaaaagh that tore out of her. ‘You do not know what I am!’ she cried. Then, pausing to draw breath: ‘You know nothing about me!’

  It was very late.

  The man lurking on the edge of the village watched as the last lights were extinguished. He waited a little longer and then, keeping to the shadows, crept along the track and up the path that sloped up to the church. The melody of his song ran through his head as he walked. He would sing it soon.

  He went straight to the new grave. He knew exactly where it was. He had not dared go too close earlier, while they were burying her, instead keeping to the back of the crowd, his hood drawn up around his face.

  He had heard the prayers. He had listened to the villagers as they muttered together. They spoke of him, that shambling, drooling simpleton. There were search parties out hunting for him, and many of the villagers believed they should take matters into their own hands. The singer agreed with them, although he would be the one meting out the richly-deserved punishment. You killed her, he thought. You put her body in the grave on the island. I know you did, for I saw you do it. I saw you there, although I did not know until later what you were doing. You left her there, my beautiful Ida, then you ran away and sobbed because you knew you had done wrong and would be made to pay the price.

  Now, standing over her as she lay dead in the ground, his love, his loss and his grief welled up uncontrollably. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and softly, sweetly, heartbreakingly, he began to sing.

  TEN

  In the morning Edild said as she stirred the breakfast porridge that I ought to go up to Lakehall and see how my patients were faring.

  ‘Patients?’ I echoed. I could only think of one. Claude.

  Edild went on stirring. ‘You told me that you tended Lady Emma when she fainted,’ she reminded me.

  ‘I didn’t do much,’ I protested. ‘She sort of fell against me, and I bathed her face with cold water when she’d recovered from her faint. Anyone else there could have done the same,’ I added, modestly lowering my eyes.

  ‘Naturally, since what you did was common sense rather than healing skill,’ Edild said crushingly. I know she loves me dearly – I have good reason to – but sometimes she is all stern teacher, reminding me how far I have to go before I can call myself a healer. ‘However, it does no harm for an apprentice like you to make their mark with the lady of the manor,’ she continued, ‘and if, as it appears, Lady Emma is inclined to trust you, it would be wise to do what you can to develop her dependency.’

  ‘But you’re the village healer,’ I said. ‘It ought to be you looking after the lady of the manor.’

  Edild gave me a small smile. ‘I am not really at home in the halls of lords and ladies,’ she murmured.

  That was a surprise. I’d have said that my aunt, with her dignity, her grace and her slight air of aloofness, was happy anywhere the sick and injured needed her, be it a peasant hovel or a castle. As she ladled out porridge into a wooden bowl, stirring in a generous spoonful of honey from her own bees, I thought about what she had said. I realized quite soon that she was right. With the poor and lowly, the full force of her personality emerged. When she and I had gone to Lakehall to lay out Ida’s body, Edild, although perfectly polite, had sort of withdrawn into herself. I must have noted the difference in her without really thinking about it, and it was only now, when pointed in the right direction, that I understood.

  As if she knew what I was thinking, she said gently, ‘The rich can buy the assistance of whomever they choose, Lassair. The poor have to make do with what they can get, and in many villages that amounts to some ignorant old woman who probably does more harm than good.’

  Yes. One of my sister Goda’s friends had almost lost her baby – and her own life – because a village midwife hadn’t known what she was doing. Goda had had the good sense to send for Edild, who had saved both mother and child. We learned later that the woman had afterwards spent a lot of time on her knees in church praying to the Virgin Mary, most honoured of all mothers, to look favourably on Edild and take special care of her. Edild, when she’d heard of this, had smiled gently. I think that the Great Mother to whom Edild prays is far, far more ancient than the Mother of Christ, but no doubt she appreciated the sentiment. Maybe, in some strange and unfathomable way, the two are one and the same . . .

  Edild was instructing me on how to conduct myself up at the hall; I made myself pay attention. Then, when I had washed and put away our mugs and bowls, tidied our beds and swept the floor ready for the day’s work, I straightened my headdress, put on a clean apron, packed my satchel and set out for the hall.

  As I passed the track that led up to the church, I looked over in the direction of Ida’s grave. I decided I would go and spend a few moments there with her on my way home. Preoccupied with working out who had killed her, I had forgotten the sheer sadness of her death. She was young, cheerful, pretty, and people had liked her. Loved her. She should have grown up to be cherished and adored by a husband and a whole clutch of children, in addition to the one who had died with her. Instead she had been brutally strangled, and now she lay in the cold ground.

  I walked on, deliberately putting those thoughts to the back of my mind. You have to approach all healing work with the right mental attitude, and I knew I would do Lady Emma and Lady Claude no good at all if I was brooding about Ida. I began planning the questions I would ask and the remedies I would prescribe, and soon the healer had taken over from the emotional girl and the threatening tears had been firmly put in abeyance.

  Bermund showed me into the hall with only the smallest hint of disapproval. I would not go as far as to say he was growing to like me, but then I don’t think he likes anyone, really. It was, I felt, a major achievement that he hadn’t kept me waiting at the bottom of the steps while he went inside to see if it was all right to admit me.

  He held out a hand to stop me and walked on towards where Lady Emma sat on a dais at the end of the hall. She, however, had looked up at the sound of our footsteps and was already beckoning to me to approach.

  ‘Thank you, Bermund, that will be all,’ she said softly to him. Then, addressing me: ‘Good morning, Lassair. You have no doubt come to see Lady Claude.’

  It would have been easy to bow and mumble meekly, Yes, my lady. Recalling Edild’s words, I walked right up to her, dipped my head and instead said very quietly, ‘I have also come to attend you, Lady Emma. You are quite recovered from your faint, I hope?’

  She looked up at me and smiled. I could see just by looking at her that she was fully well again, for her face had a good colour, her eyes shone and her hair, neatly smoothed back under a thin gold circlet holding in place a fine silk veil, was glossy with health. �
�How very kind,’ she said. ‘I am indeed, although there is a small matter I would discuss with you.’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ I swung my satchel down off my shoulder and was about to put it on the floor when she stood up and said, ‘My own little concern is not grave, Lassair; I would prefer it if first you tended to Lady Claude.’ Moving gracefully, accompanied by the swish of silk from the full skirt of her beautiful green gown and whatever she wore beneath, she walked regally across the hall, and I followed. We went through the curtained doorway and up the short flight of stairs, and once again I stood outside Lady Claude’s chamber. Lady Emma tapped gently on the door and called, ‘Claude? Are you there?’

  I was not surprised when there was no reply. Lady Claude had made it very clear what she thought of people who lay in bed all morning. I had a very good idea where she would be. Lady Emma walked on up the passage and rapped on the closed door of the sewing room, so sure, it seemed, of an immediate response of Come in that her hand was already on the latch.

  I did not want to go back into that narrow chamber with its lurid depictions of sin. I did not want to sit closeted with Lady Claude and breathing the close, fusty air while I asked about her headaches and her insomnia. To be frank, she smelt. Her breath had the faint odour of dead meat, and I suspected that lack of fresh air and exercise had resulted in a sluggish digestion. I had herbs that would swiftly relieve her constipation, but I hesitated to offer them unless she mentioned her complaint, and I did not think she would. Besides, she troubled me, and my instinct was to get away from her. That, I told myself very firmly, was no attitude for a healer. I recalled how she had been yesterday in the churchyard, standing by the grave of her dead seamstress, rigidly controlling her distress except for those tell-tale glances at Sir Alain. She wasn’t so bad after all, I realized. She might appear chilly and distant, but that little moment of weakness had proved that she was human after all.

  A smile on my face, I waited to confront my patient.

  Having received no answer, Lady Emma knocked again. This time when Lady Claude did not reply, she gave me a puzzled glance and opened the door.

  The completed panels still hung on the walls, and I noticed that Lady Claude had stretched a new piece of canvas over the wooden embroidery frame. On it there was an outline of figures. I thought this one must be Envy; a skeletal, mean-faced woman with cruel, narrow eyes was depicted crouched at a doorway, one long, thin arm stretched out towards a plump baby in a crib. The woman’s fingers were curved into hooks, her hand poised over the baby’s round little head. One nail had already made contact, and there was the suggestion of a drop of blood. The image was shocking, its message plain: childless, eaten away by envy of another woman’s child, the woman was about to grab what she so desperately desired.

  I turned away from it, sickened.

  Ida’s narrow bed had been taken away. Perhaps it was too eloquent a reminder. Lady Claude’s stool stood to one side of the room, around it neat piles of linen and skeins of different-coloured wools. Of the lady herself there was no sign.

  ‘That’s strange,’ Lady Emma said. ‘Wherever can she be?’

  ‘Perhaps she is resting in her chamber and did not hear your knock,’ I suggested. It did not seem very likely, but Lady Emma nodded, strode back along the passage and opened the door to Claude’s room. The chamber was as clean and tidy as the sewing room and as empty of inhabitants.

  Lady Emma seemed unreasonably disturbed by her guest’s absence. Pregnant women should avoid distress, so I took her arm, gently steered her back down the steps and into the hall and helped her sit down on her grand chair. She was frowning, a deep crease cutting the smooth skin of her forehead. Her hands clutched at each other, and I noticed she was biting the inside of her lip.

  ‘Lady Claude has probably gone outside to take the air,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s a lovely morning, and I dare say sitting too long over her sewing was threatening to bring back her headache. I expect she’s—’

  Lady Emma interrupted me. With considerable force, she said, ‘Claude never goes out! She appears for meals promptly whenever she is summoned, although she eats very little and scurries back upstairs to her sewing as soon as good manners permit. Lord Gilbert and I have repeatedly invited her to join us after supper – we do not wish her to feel unwelcome – but again she excuses herself and insists she must get on with her work. We have suggested that she goes out for a ride, or accompanies me when I take my daily walk, but Claude will have none of it!’ There was a flush on Lady Emma’s face now, and I had the impression she was heartily sick of her uncongenial house guest. I felt very sorry for her. I know enough about the habits of her kind to realize that, if her husband’s second cousin had come for an extended visit, she had no choice but to put on a smile and say, How lovely, please stay for as long as you like! Among the titled rich, hospitality was an almost sacred requirement.

  ‘Well, she’s gone out now,’ I pointed out, ‘unless she’s hiding in some other chamber of the house!’ I made my tone light, trying to encourage Lady Emma to relax. Her tension was making me anxious for her.

  She managed a grudging smile. ‘Not very likely,’ she murmured.

  ‘Would you like me to go and look for her?’ I offered.

  Lady Emma’s mouth opened, and I was almost sure she had been about to protest. In a flash of understanding, I realized it must actually be a relief to have Claude’s awkward presence out of the house for a while. Then she thought better of it and said, ‘Perhaps you should. You have come to minister to her, Lassair, and I would not have it that you had made a wasted journey.’

  ‘I also came to see you, my lady,’ I reminded her gently.

  She turned to me, and I could see from her expression that she was still worrying about Claude. ‘So you did,’ she said absently. ‘So you did . . .’

  I had been about to ask her if she would like to tell me about the small matter she had mentioned earlier, but I sensed she was too distracted. Well, if she wanted to talk about Claude, why not encourage her?

  ‘You are plainly disturbed by Lady Claude’s inexplicable absence, my lady,’ I said. ‘Do you fear for her safety?’

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Somebody had strangled Ida; that somebody was still out there somewhere. Was that why Lady Emma was so worried? Because she feared that Lady Claude might also fall victim to the unknown killer?

  Lady Emma took my hand impulsively, gave it a squeeze and released it. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘It’s broad daylight out there, and people are working on the water, along the shore and in the pastures on the higher ground. Wherever Claude is, I’m sure nobody’s about to set on her.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ I prompted.

  Lady Emma gave a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘I suppose, Lassair, I am a little aggrieved,’ she said. ‘My husband and I have done our very best to make Claude feel welcome, yet she has insisted on shutting herself away in that stuffy little room and working on her linens and her embroidery. Her industry is commendable, and I am sure Sir Alain will greatly appreciate her efforts once they are wed, but—’ I waited. ‘I am very surprised to discover that she has slipped out without a word!’ Lady Emma burst out. ‘Why, this very morning I suggested that the two of us take our sewing and go out to a pleasant, shady spot that I know of down by the water. I thought we could take the children and, if the weather remained clement, our midday meal could be brought out to us. Claude said – quite brusquely – that she preferred to work in her sewing room because the bright sunshine might fade the colours of the wools.’ Her incredulous eyes met mine. I had to agree, as an excuse it was feeble to the extent of being almost an insult.

  I did not know what to say. Since speaking about Claude was clearly distressing her – or rather, I realized suddenly, it was the effort of not giving in to temptation and saying what she really thought of her guest’s rudeness – it seemed prudent to distract her. ‘You could move outside now if you wish, my lady,’ I said. ‘I
would be happy to assist.’

  Her chin went up. ‘Yes, why not?’ she said. Then, turning to me, ‘But there is no need for you to help, Lassair; you will no doubt have more important calls on your time. The servants will make the arrangements.’

  I bowed my head. ‘Very well, my lady.’

  Shortly afterwards, I was on my way back to the village. I had promised to make up a remedy for Lady Emma’s mild indigestion – the small matter – and run back with it later. I was puzzling over where Claude might be, and why she hadn’t told her hostess she was going out, when, drawing level with the church, I saw a sudden movement.

  Recalling my resolve to visit Ida’s grave, my first thought was that someone else had had the same idea. Then I thought: it might be Lady Claude. If it was, I decided to suggest gently that Lady Emma was worried about her, hoping she would then go back to the hall and make a polite apology.

  My imagination got busy with the scene back at the hall. I’d got as far as thinking Lady Emma might be grateful to me for sending her house guest home to her, when I recalled that she actually didn’t seem to like Claude very much. I was so preoccupied that it took me a moment or two to realize that whoever it was by Ida’s grave, it wasn’t Lady Claude.

  It was a man, and I had never seen him before.

  He was crouched on the grass beside the grave. His eyes were closed, and he was muttering to himself, although his words were inaudible. He was probably praying. I wondered if I ought to tiptoe away; it did not seem right to disturb him. I studied him. He was, I guessed, in early middle age; maybe seven or eight years younger than my parents. He was slight, not very tall and rather hunched, as if he habitually crouched over his work. His hair was long, its colour brown streaked with grey. He wore a soft leather belt fastened over a tunic that was too big for him, as if he had lost weight and had not bothered to have the garment taken in. His hose were of good wool but much darned, although there was a fresh hole in one knee. He carried a knife in a scabbard hanging from his belt.