The Way Between the Worlds (30 page)

He raised his head and stared up into the sky. He looked fierce, full of energy that could not be released in the direction he desired.

‘I have a suggestion,’ I said, moving closer to him. ‘The dread deed whose echoes still haunt the very air here may be far beyond my experience, but I know of not one but two men who will be able to help.’ I was not quite as certain as I was making out, but I was desperate to get him away before he did something rash. ‘I’m not sure where one of these men is just now –’ Hrype could have been almost anywhere – ‘but the other one does not venture far from his home, so I would wager that’s where we’ll find him.’

I had Rollo’s attention now, so fully focused on me that it almost hurt. ‘Where does this man live?’ he demanded.

I smiled. ‘In a twisty-turny house in Cambridge.’

He shouldered his pack and set off down the road. Hiding a grin, I hurried to catch him up.

Hrype was on the road too, heading for the same destination. He was half a day ahead, although recently he had been only a few miles away.

He had covered the journey from Crowland to Lynn in a very short time, driving himself on and only giving in and taking a short rest when he was all but exhausted, and he conserved his strength wherever possible by waiting for ferries and lone boatmen to take him by water and give his aching legs a respite.

Nevertheless, it was mid-afternoon of the next day when he finally reached the port. He was intending to request an audience with a bishop, so he found a quiet back street where nobody would notice him and spent some time amending his appearance. When he was satisfied, he stepped out from his alley and mingled seamlessly with the crowd pushing and shoving along the quay.

He had not known what to expect of Lynn. He understood it to be little more than a trading settlement which had grown up because of its location, on the south-east corner of the Wash at a spot where several river and land routes converged. Yet the port he entered that day was virtually growing before his eyes, with building work on many sites and a general sense of stimulating activity. Hrype bought himself a pie and a mug of ale from a stall by an impromptu fish market and engaged the man standing beside him in conversation.

In response to Hrype’s mild remark that the town seemed much busier than he recalled, the man drowned him in a flood of chatty, gossipy comments. ‘It’s all thanks to our Bishop Herbert,’ he said brightly. ‘That’s Herbert de Losigna, him that the king brought here, but we’ve got over minding about him being a Norman in view of what he’s doing for the town.’ He ran a hand down the cloth of what was very plainly a new tunic, and Hrype guessed that he was benefiting in no small measure from Lynn’s new prosperity. Leaning so close that Hrype could smell the onion and garlic taint of his breath, the man added, ‘They say he paid the king handsomely for Thetford, but we’re prepared to forgive him that as well, being as how he’s all set to build us a fine new church!’

‘Really?’ Hrype responded, slipping into the role of wide-eyed innocent visitor. ‘I heard tell of maybe a priory as well?’

The man gave him a sly look. ‘That’s only talk as yet,’ he said reprovingly. ‘But the church, why, they’re already pegging out the site, and it’s going to be a fine building, my friend!’

‘Has the bishop constructed a fine building for himself, too?’ Hrype asked.

‘He has, and you can go and see it for yourself if you head out across the square and take the road over there!’ The man waved his beer mug in demonstration, and, thanking him, Hrype slipped away.

The bishop’s residence was clearly still in the process of construction but already very fine. Hrype got as far as a big hall just off the courtyard, where he was informed by a black-robed cleric with a permanent sneer on his thin face that Bishop de Losigna was very busy and could not be expected to make time for importunate strangers demanding to see him without an appointment. Hrype adopted a humble pose and said would it be all right if he waited, just in case? The cleric gave a sniff, a swirl of his generously-cut robe and turned away, as if to say:
if you want to waste the rest of the day, it’s up to you
.

The bishop appeared shortly afterwards, and Hrype leapt up and went to stand in his path. One of the two men flanking the bishop tried to brush him aside, but Hrype would not be moved. He leaned close to the bishop and said softly, ‘My Lord Bishop, it is imperative I speak to you concerning Father Clement, late of Crowland Abbey, who I understand came to see you some months ago and who, I regret to tell you, is dead.’

The swift words achieved the right effect: the bishop grabbed Hrype’s arm and hustled him aside, down a short passage and into a beautiful room furnished with plain oak, the very simplicity of which spoke of fine craftsmanship.

‘How and when did he die?’ The bishop, it seemed, was not one to waste words.

‘He was found on the fen margins a little to the south-west of here,’ Hrype replied. ‘He had been poisoned, stabbed and garrotted, and his body was tethered to stakes. It would appear that he was killed soon after he came to see you, probably as he set out for Chatteris, where another man impersonates him.’

The bishop assimilated all this information without comment. There was a brief silence, and then he said, ‘There is no doubt of this?’

‘Very little, if any,’ Hrype replied. ‘The description of the dead man appears to be that of Father Clement.’

That seemed to satisfy Bishop Herbert. ‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded.

‘I need to know when he came to see you, and when he set out for Chatteris.’

The bishop thought briefly, located the relevant information and said, ‘November last year. Crowland had burned; the few monks who remain there could go to the Thorney priest for confession, and there was no need for a man of Father Clement’s abilities to stay. He came to ask me to reconsider, but I had already decided to send him to Chatteris. We spoke briefly; he accepted my orders and left.’

It accorded with what Abbot Ingulphus had said. ‘This was early in the month?’

‘No. It was the last week of November. I remember it because we were almost in Advent.’

So Father Clement’s body had been in the fen for five months or more. And there it would have stayed, Hrype reflected, but for a boat captain losing his way.

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ Hrype said. ‘I will take my leave.’

‘Wait.’ The word was spoken mildly, but carried great authority. Hrype, who had already turned towards the door, stopped. ‘I wish to see the man who killed my priest brought to justice,’ the bishop said softly.

Hrype turned back to him. ‘I do not know who that man is, nor where to find him.’

‘You have some ideas, though. In here.’ The bishop tapped his head. ‘You are a resourceful man.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish me to provide you with men to help you in your quest?’

Trying not to show how much he didn’t, Hrype shook his head. ‘No. If the killer can indeed be sought out, it will be by subtlety and not by force.’

The bishop regarded him steadily for some time. Then he said, ‘Please make sure that I am kept informed.’

Hrype returned the look. This was, he realized, a man to have on your side. ‘I will,’ he said. And meant it.

Rollo and I made good time to Cambridge, taking advantage of where we were and where we were bound by going by sea to Wisbech and then down the river to Cambridge. It made such a difference to travelling when you didn’t have to worry about not having any money; Rollo’s coin purse seemed inexhaustible. To a man like him, though, no doubt our expenditure seemed modest in the extreme.

I realized, as we progressed smoothly over the dark water, that at some point we must have begun to follow the boat that had unwittingly towed the body of the man in the fen to Cambridge  . . .

We tied up at the quayside late the following day. I led the way down the road towards the centre of the town, crossing the market square and diving off into the maze of alleyways that led to Gurdyman’s house. I knocked on the door, and it opened almost instantly; he probably knew I was on my way.

I saw a big, beaming smile spread across his face. He turned to speak over his shoulder: ‘She’s here!’

Another figure materialized out of the shadows, and Hrype strode down the passage and briefly took hold of me by my shoulders, looking intently into my eyes. ‘You are unharmed,’ he said. It was not a question; he knew I was.

Then he saw who I had brought with me, and his entire body went very still. He glared at Rollo, a fierceness in his eyes that I had rarely seen before. I turned to say something to Rollo and observed that he was glaring right back.

Gurdyman intervened. He pushed Hrype unceremoniously away from the doorway – only Gurdyman, I reflected, would have dared shove Hrype so firmly – and ushered Rollo and me inside. ‘Go on into the courtyard,’ he murmured to me. ‘Take your friend and help yourselves to food and wine. It’s all set out ready.’

He
had
known I was coming. It was both a thrilling and a rather scary thought.

I very much wanted to stay and listen to what Gurdyman was saying so urgently to Hrype, but I did not dare. I took Rollo’s hand and led him down the passage and through the archway into the courtyard. It was still warm from the day’s sunshine and lit with the soft golden light of evening. Wine, goblets and a platter of bread, cheese and dried meat had been set out, but neither Rollo nor I were hungry. We did, however, both pour out wine, and Rollo raised his goblet to me in a silent toast.

Then Gurdyman came out into the courtyard, Hrype close behind. Gurdyman gave me a quick glance of apology, then said, ‘You are welcome, both of you.’ There was a definite emphasis on
both
. ‘There are grave matters for us to discuss,’ he went on, ‘but before we can do so, Hrype wishes to speak.’ He shot an irritated glance at Hrype. ‘Go on, then,’ he said tersely.

Hrype stared at Rollo. ‘You are a Norman,’ he said baldly. He narrowed his eyes. ‘There is something else in your blood that I do not recognize, but your allegiance is to the king.’

‘It is,’ Rollo said coldly. ‘Not because he is a Norman, but because I have seen strife tear a land apart, and I believe peace is better. A strong ruler on the throne brings peace.’

‘We were used to life under our own kings!’ Hrype replied. ‘We had no need of the brute force of William and his son to bestow their
peace
on us!’ He all but spat the word.

Rollo made no reply but for an ironically raised eyebrow. I thought for a moment that Hrype was going to hit him, but, with a very obvious effort, he held back.

I could not have stood it if they had fought. I stepped between then and said, ‘Hrype, Rollo is my choice. Do not judge him by what you believe him to be; wait and discover for yourself what he truly is.’

I intercepted a look between Hrype and Gurdyman. There was a message in it, for I could tell that Gurdyman was urgently putting a thought into Hrype’s head, although I could not tell what it was. Hrype made himself relax, and the tension went out of the air.

‘We shall sit down and have some wine,’ Gurdyman said, in the sort of tone that does not allow dissent, ‘and then we shall all reveal what we have discovered and what we think we should do next.’

Rollo and I sat down on a bench; Hrype subsided, with very obvious reluctance, on to a stool; and Gurdyman walked round and poured more of the lovely, cool white wine into each of our goblets. Then he sat down in his own chair, took a slow and appreciative sip and said, ‘Hrype informs me that the real Father Clement left Crowland back in November, visited his bishop over in Lynn at the end of that month and then, it seems, was murdered soon after he left Lynn for Chatteris. Another man now poses as Father Clement at Chatteris, and we surmise that this man probably murdered the real Father Clement, although we do not know why. This impostor also killed a young nun at Chatteris and attempted to poison another, who is sister to Lassair here. Again, we suggest no motive. Now, Lassair –’ he glanced at me with a smile, which he then turned on Rollo – ‘what have you and your friend to tell us?’

I nudged Rollo. ‘You’d better go first,’ I muttered. I did not know how much of his secret mission he would be prepared to reveal to two men he’d only just met, one of them distinctly hostile, and, as it turned out, the answer was not very much.

‘There was a violent storm off the east coast last September,’ Rollo said. ‘There’s a rumour that it was raised deliberately, to destroy the king’s ship-army, which was on its way to the north of England.’

‘Raised deliberately?’ Hrype’s sudden interest seemed to be overcoming his antipathy. ‘You speak of a tempestarius?’

‘I do,’ Rollo said shortly. He glanced at me. ‘Lassair tells me such people are not unheard of among your kind, and I do not speak of the strange legends and tall tales of the Magonians.’

Gurdyman went straight to the point. ‘This storm, you think, was raised by someone who supported the king’s enemies in the north? Who wished to hamper the king in his retaliatory measures by removing half his army?’

‘Yes.’

Gurdyman thought about that. ‘Scotland is by no means entirely under the rule of King Malcolm,’ he said. ‘The northern and the western reaches of the land are Norse and Gaelic, and neither people look kindly on King Malcolm and his queen, for Margaret is a forcibly Christian woman and wishes her entire country to be as devout as she is herself.’ He paused. ‘And the ability to raise storms was said to be a particular talent of the Norsemen who lived in the lands now ruled by Malcolm and his rigid wife.’

That was all very well, but in my opinion we were drifting away from the main point. ‘We should look at what connects the activities of the storm-raiser and the killing of Father Clement,’ I said decisively. Three pairs of male eyes turned to stare at me, with varying amounts of warmth in them, but I pressed on. ‘Rollo and I have fairly convincing proof that the storm-raiser carried out his magic up on the northern tip of the land, where the ancient wood circle once stood at the crossing place.’ Briefly, I described what we had learned and what we had experienced up there. Neither Hrype nor Gurdyman argued with our conclusion. ‘The nearest settlement of any size to the spot where the storm hit is Lynn, which is where Father Clement was last seen and near to where his body was left. In addition, the little nun who was killed at Chatteris came from up beyond Lynn.’ I echoed the exact words of the cheese-selling woman who had told me this. ‘She arrived at Chatteris last September.’