The Way Between the Worlds (26 page)

His blank stare told me he could see nothing at all.

I did not let that affect me. I felt jubilant, invincible. With my eyes fixed on the shining track, I stepped forward. We were walking under a clear blue sky, and the welcome, blessed sun was beating down on our backs.

I spun round.

Not even one little puff of fog remained, and there was no sign of the storm.

I wondered what would happen if we set off back towards the end of the path and the sea that had lapped up so close. I had little doubt that the malevolent power out there would instantly beat down on us again.

I was not going to put it to the test.

We were still too close to danger. Taking Rollo’s hand – warmer now, I was relieved to find – I urged him on.

I had long lost count of the time, but as we neared the line of dunes that marked the end of the salt marsh, the light suggested that it was around noon. Rollo was almost done for. I knew he must rest, and hopefully eat and drink a little, for his strength was all used up. I raised my eyes and looked along the ridge of higher ground, searching for some sort of shelter. The weather was warm and sunny, but I had just had an eloquent demonstration of how quickly conditions could change, and I did not want our period of restoration to be interrupted by having to leap up and find somewhere out of the rain.

Eventually, I spotted something that I thought might do. It would mean a trudge through the dunes, which would be hard work on legs already aching with fatigue, but I thought it would be worth it. A few hundred paces back from the dunes, I could make out a row of sea-buckthorn bushes, and behind them the dark form of a stand of pine trees. It was, I decided, the best we were going to find.

The journey across the dunes almost finished us. I don’t know how Rollo kept moving. He was so far gone that he did not even notice when I took his pack from him and slung it on my back. With that heavy load and my leather satchel, it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other.

Finally, we reached the pine trees. There were eight or ten of them, and I saw that further inland there were more. But this first little stand was enough. The ground was slippery with a bed of pine needles, which would insulate us if the temperature dropped. I found a sort of cave beneath the lowest branches of two trees, standing so close together that their limbs intertwined. I wriggled my way in, finding that it was just about big enough for two.

Rollo had slumped down against a tree trunk the moment I had removed my arm from around his waist. Without even asking, I opened his pack and delved down through the first few layers. I found he was well supplied for the outdoors. I also discovered why his pack was so heavy, for in addition to a cloak and a thick blanket, he had a rolled-up animal skin that had been cured so as to make it waterproof.

I wished I’d looked in his pack when we’d been out there beneath that furious storm. Then – and the thought was an unwelcome one – I wondered why Rollo hadn’t remembered about the contents of his pack himself. Was that malign power so strong, then, that it could even affect a man’s mind, making him unable to help himself?

I put that thought from me. We were safe now, I assured myself.

I spread out the animal skin and smoothed Rollo’s blanket on top. Then I got out my own blanket, for, although it was warm enough then, it would grow cold as the day wore on towards evening. Backing out of the pine tree cave, I unwound my shawl and spread it on the ground to dry, in a patch of sunshine that filtered down through the trees to the floor of the glade. My gown was soaked, too, and after a moment’s reflection, I took it off and laid it down beside my shawl.

Then I turned to Rollo. He was almost asleep, or perhaps lapsing into unconsciousness; I did not know. I felt the urge to hurry, so without giving myself time to think about it, I unfastened his belt and then took off his tunic and hose, spreading them beside my clothes. His undershirt, too, was wringing wet, so I took that off as well. There was a cut on his upper chest, quite new. It ought to have been stitched, for it had healed ragged and bumpy.

I had to keep telling myself that at that moment he was my patient and I was honour bound to do my best for him. The fact that I was taking such thrilled delight from the sight of his beautiful, naked body must be put right to the back of my mind  . . .

I half-led, half-dragged him inside the shelter. I made him lie down on his blanket, then covered him as far as the waist with mine. I watched as he turned on his side, curling up his legs. His breathing deepened, and I knew he was asleep.

I stood thinking. My shift was uncomfortably clammy, and once I was lying beside Rollo, it would make him cold. That was my excuse.

I took it off, put it with the rest of our clothes and, mother-naked, slipped under the blanket beside him.

Rollo had endured a living nightmare. Physically and mentally exhausted, he slept, motionless and dreamless, for a long time. When at last he began to struggle up towards wakefulness, he found himself, in a mixture of dream vision and memory, going back to the events of the last hours. The path that led nowhere. The terrible quicksand. Strega, dying while he stood helplessly watching. The storm that had driven him to the ground like a feeble blade of grass.

Kneeling there, collapsing over on his side, believing he was about to die.

Then, a miracle: Lassair, appearing out of the mist like a beautiful angel  . . .

He was awake.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the branches of a tree. There was a strong smell of pine resin, reminding him of the wine the Greeks made, sealing their bottles with resin so that the wine was subtly scented with the essence of the tree. He stared down across the blanket that covered him, peering out into the glade beyond. It must be night, for the space between the trees was full of moonlight.

He realized he was naked. Moving first an arm, then a leg, and feeling warm flesh beside him, he realized that she was lying next to him. She was on her back, and she, too, was naked.

He could remember only vaguely how they had ended up here beneath the trees. She had virtually carried him for the last few yards, his heavy pack slung over her back, bowing under the combined load. They had both been drenched to the skin. She must have put their clothes out to dry.

He felt something under his head: a bundle of some sort. Exploring it with one hand, he discovered that it was his tunic and hose. She must have got up at nightfall to fetch them, because if she’d left them out in the glade, they would by now be damp again, from the dew. He reached out and touched a similar bundle under Lassair’s head. He smiled. She could easily have dressed once her gown was dry, and he was both touched and excited by the fact that she had chosen to stay as bare as he was.

The moonlight was strong, and, looking down at her, he could make out her features quite well. Her face was thinner, he thought, but still beautiful in his eyes. The high cheekbones stood out more clearly now, and he could see the fine white scar on her left cheek, shaped like the crescent moon. He had been with her when she had acquired it. She had fought like a tiger that night, throwing her whole self into the struggle, just as she had in the interminable journey from the end of the path back to safety.

Her body next to him was filling his senses, and he was responding to her powerfully. He very much wanted to touch her, to run his fingers over her smooth flesh until she woke up, and then to bend down and kiss her: her mouth, her neck, her throat, her small, firm breasts, her flat stomach  . . .

He clenched his hand into a fist and firmly drew it back. She was naked, yes, and she had stripped him too, but he knew full well why. They had both been worn out, and had they slumped down and slept as they were, soaked through, they would have woken cold and shivering. As it was, both of them were warm and dry, and their clothes were neatly folded, ready to be put on when they rose. He did not believe she would repulse him if he reached out for her, but somehow he felt that it would have been taking advantage. She meant far too much to him to risk taking a wrong step, especially now, at the beginning of it all.

He knew without even having to think about it that this was indeed the beginning.

He lay down again. She sensed his movement and turned on to her side, facing away from him. Her breathing settled down again, rhythmic and deep, and he realized she hadn’t woken up.

He curled his long body round behind hers, arm around her slim waist, legs drawn up and pressed to hers. For a while, her nearness aroused him, but he told himself that now was not the time. Besides, he was still very weary. Soon he fell asleep again.

It was daylight when I woke up. I lay looking out at the thin sunshine in the glade beyond our shelter, and I knew from the quality of the light that it wasn’t long after dawn. I was blissfully comfortable, for Rollo’s blanket beneath us was thick and soft, and the animal skin had kept the ground chill from penetrating. I was warm, too, for not only were we covered by my own blanket, but also his arms were around me and his body was pressed against my back. I sighed with pleasure, relaxing against him.

As I grew more fully awake, the reality of my situation dawned on me. I was lying naked with a man I barely knew! Yes, I loved him, and I was fairly sure he loved me. The fact that I’d heard him when he called out to me, even though he was far away, told me that, in some great pattern that humans are not meant to understand, he and I were bound together.

Nevertheless, we were virtually strangers to each other, and the fact of our sharing a bed without a stitch on was out of necessity, not desire. Well, I desired him then, without a doubt, and I could tell it was the same for him, for all that he was still asleep.

It would happen, and I knew it. One day, probably quite soon, we would fulfil our destiny and become lovers. The day was not that day, however; every instinct told me so. Carefully removing his arms – not without several pangs of regret – I crept out of our lair and, gathering up the bundle of my folded clothes, stepped out into the glade and got dressed.

I had just finished brushing and braiding my hair – quite dry now – and was putting on my coif when I felt eyes on me. Bending down to look back inside the shelter, I saw he was propped up on one elbow, watching me with a smile on his face.

His eyes ran over me, from my head to my feet and back again, taking in the fact that I was dressed. I thought he murmured, ‘Shame.’ Then he unfolded his own clothes, and I turned my back to give him privacy.

I felt him come and stand behind me. He put his arms round me – already they felt familiar – and he said, right in my ear, ‘You came to find me, and you saved my life. I am now bound to you, by ties of indebtedness and also by ties of love.’ Then he turned me to face him and, as if putting a seal on his words, gently kissed me on the lips.

It was the first time he had spoken to me of love; the first time any man had done so. Glad, so very glad, that it was Rollo, I lifted my chin so that I was looking into his eyes. ‘As I am to you,’ I whispered.

We stood for some moments, not speaking, not moving, simply absorbing each other. It felt as if we were enchanted, as if that little glade among the pine trees was a place of magic that had bestowed its gift on us.

With a sigh, he broke the spell.

‘We should get going,’ he said, and the obvious regret in his tone made me want to sing. ‘There is much I have to tell you, my love, and a task that I must complete.’

‘Let me help,’ I said, without even a pause to think. I didn’t care what his task was. It would be dangerous – of course it would, for yesterday the forces ranged against him had had him at their mercy, on the point of death. I wanted to share the danger. Just at that moment, I was so exhilarated, so full of joy, that I’d have died with him if he’d asked me to.

He was watching me, his dark eyes intent. ‘I am reluctant to ask you,’ he muttered, ‘but I have the feeling that I’m not going to be able to fulfil my mission without your help.’

‘I will do anything,’ I said softly.

He made a sound in his throat, half anguish, half a moan of happiness. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘That is why I don’t want to involve you.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ I said gently. ‘Remember who it was who got us away from the storm at the end of the path?’

He smiled grimly. ‘I’m not likely to forget.’

We studied each other for some moments. I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking. It must have come hard, for a man such as he to face the fact that a skinny village healer could do something he couldn’t do, and that, in truth, he still had need of her assistance.

In the end he gave a sigh, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop the grin spreading over his face. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

It was not what I was expecting, but I was, very. ‘Starving,’ I said.

‘Me too.’ He reached down for my hand, gave it a squeeze and released it. ‘Let’s pack up and head off for some place where they’ll serve us breakfast. I’ll treat you to anything and everything you fancy –’ he patted a purse at his waist and I heard the chink of coins – ‘and when we’ve eaten all we want, I’ll tell you why I’m here and what I have to do. What do you say?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

SIXTEEN

G
urdyman leaned back in his chair, kneading the flesh of his brow as if his head hurt. Watching him, Hrype would not have been surprised if it did. The intense concentration he had brought to bear on the matter, and the awful, underlying sense of urgency spurring them both on, were enough to give anyone a headache.

‘If the man at Chatteris isn’t Father Clement,’ Gurdyman said heavily, removing his hand, ‘then who is he? And if we are right in our conclusion that the dead man
is
Father Clement, then what was he doing over in the eastern fens? Was he killed at the spot where he became entangled with the boat, or did the murderer take the body there because it was a fitting place for his sacrifice?’

Hrype gave a brief sound of frustrated irritation. ‘Too many questions, Gurdyman,’ he said shortly. ‘I can give no answers other than useless speculation.’