The Way Between the Worlds (28 page)

Hrype felt a moment’s violent exaltation. The trail was becoming clear  . . .

He became aware of Ingulphus’s eyes on him, their expression hard. ‘I am thinking about this man at Chatteris who pretends to be Father Clement,’ Ingulphus said, and Hrype could sense the abbot’s anger, although it was tightly controlled. ‘The fact that he has taken my friend’s place suggests strongly to me that he may also have taken his life.’

‘I am inclined to agree,’ Hrype murmured.

Ingulphus studied him for some time, and Hrype had the definite impression that he was being sized up. ‘I believe I trust you,’ the abbot said. ‘I dare say you have reasons of your own for pursuing the business of this murder,’ he went on shrewdly, ‘but the fact remains that, whatever they are, your present desire coincides with mine. You wish to see the killer brought to justice and Father Clement’s death thereby avenged.’

‘I do,’ Hrype agreed. He hesitated, then said, ‘Your priest was not the only victim. The killer also murdered a young novice at Chatteris and poisoned another.’

Ingulphus gasped, muttering a swift prayer for the dead girl. ‘But the second one is still alive?’ he asked anxiously.

‘When last I saw her, she seemed to be a little improved.’

‘I shall pray for her,’ Ingulphus announced. ‘As I shall for the souls of my friend and the young nun.’

There was a short silence. Then Ingulphus said, ‘Will you stay the night here? The day wears on, and you would not, I am sure, wish to be caught in the marshes once the light fails.’

‘I would gladly accept your hospitality, but—’ Hrype began.

‘Such as it is,’ the abbot put in.

‘—but I am filled with urgency, and I sense that there is not a moment to lose,’ he finished.

Ingulphus watched him, compassion in his face. ‘There is so much that you do not tell me,’ he mused. ‘You are a man of deep secrets, my friend, and I sense something very alien in you.’

The words sounded like the prelude to an attack, yet, even with his highly efficient defences fully alert, Hrype felt no threat. On the contrary, he had rarely sensed such well-being flowing towards him out of a man who had been until very recently a stranger.

‘I am many things,’ Hrype said carefully. ‘By my own lights, I am not evil.’

‘
Evil
?’ The abbot gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Indeed you are not. But come, if you are resolved upon going, I will take you across the water in our little boat.’

They walked together away from the ruins of the abbey and down across the foreshore. Leading the way off to the left, the abbot pointed to a small rowing boat. The two of them dragged the craft down to the water and got in, Ingulphus taking up the oars. In a short time, they were gently bumping up against the bank on the far side.

Hrype got out, turning to say farewell.

Ingulphus was studying him again, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘May I ask you something?’ he said, and the tentative quality of the question was surprising in a man of his status.

‘Of course.’

‘Would it offend you if I said I will pray for you?’

Several answers flashed through Hrype’s mind. He had formed an opinion of men of the church – soundly based, in his view, and uncompromising. Yet there was something about this Ingulphus  . . . From out of nowhere came a quiet voice, echoing in Hrype’s head:
all gods are one god, and behind them is the truth
.

And it had been a long time since he had met a man quite like Ingulphus of Crowland.

He bowed his head. ‘I would be honoured.’

Then he shouldered his pack, swirled his cloak around him and strode away.

SEVENTEEN

R
ollo and I had drifted eastwards to find our shelter under the pine trees, and now we set off back towards the fens. We seemed to be on a different track from the one I’d come out on, although it was difficult to tell, for there were many barely-visible animal trails leading along the ridges that had built up like frozen waves behind the foreshore. We veered slightly inland, and presently emerged on to a proper road, simultaneously dragged out of our magical solitude and back into the world of living men and women.

The road was busy with traffic of every kind, from single pedestrians, most of them carrying loads of varying weights and sizes, to huge, overloaded ox carts lumbering along right on the crown of the road and holding everyone up. After only perhaps a quarter of a mile, we came to a crossroads, where another track ran roughly north-south and intersected with the one we were on, going east-west.

As soon as I set foot on the track that came up out of the south, I knew it for what it was. Involuntarily, I stopped, quite unable to go on.

Rollo, beside me, spun round to look at me, his face full of concern. ‘What is it?’ His voice was so low that nobody but I could have heard.

I shook my head, incapable of putting into words the huge emotions that were coursing through me. He took hold of my arm and led me to the side of the road; by pure chance, the place where we sat down on the grassy bank beside the crossroads happened to be on the east-west stretch rather than the north-south. Immediately, the fierce sensations abated and I was able to speak.

‘The road coming up from the south is a greenway,’ I said, my voice rather shaky. I knew he would not know what that meant, so I made myself go on. ‘It’s difficult to explain, but there are certain tracks which have always been used: some for reasons of practicality, perhaps because they run along higher ground and so keep relatively dry; some because they are power paths which link places where the forces in the earth are particularly strong. I can—’ No: that would be too boastful. ‘The paths emit a sort of vibration –’ it was the best word I could think of, yet it did not begin to describe the extraordinary feeling that had so recently fizzed and sparkled up through me – ‘and some people can sense it.’

He nodded. ‘And you are one of these people.’

‘I’m only—’

‘No time to be coy, Lassair,’ he said with a grin. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve already seen what you can do with a concealed path across a bog.’ I knew what he meant, although I could have argued with his description. ‘These greenways,’ he went on, ‘link particular places, you said?’

‘Yes.’ It seemed that he would not be content with the brief explanation, so I thought quickly for a way to elaborate that would not involve being there all day. ‘Our ancestors have always lived in these lands,’ I began, ‘or so we are led to believe. Our bards trace the lineage back to the days of the gods, and legends tell of a time long, long ago when men were given the gift of fire and taught how to use metals. In those days the spirits still walked the earth, teaching mankind and encouraging them always to question, always to explore, to push back the boundaries of darkness and superstition so that they could see the pure light. In return, mankind honoured the spirits, making sacred spaces where they were worshipped and where sacrifices were made. These holy sites are long gone, but their power was so strong that they have left an echo.’

‘Which people like you can sense,’ he said softly.

‘I – yes.’ It was not really a time for false modesty. I was about to go on, but a glance at his expression suggested he had something very important on his mind: his dark eyes were full of light, and he looked as if his entire being had suddenly been lifted up.

‘That place at the end of the path,’ he said, ‘where I was about to die and where you found me. Is there one of these sacred places anywhere near it?’

‘There is,’ I whispered, although there was nobody anywhere near enough to have overheard, and those who were passing by were far too intent on their own troubles. ‘There once was an ancient wooden circle, in the centre of which stood an upturned oak stump, its splayed roots open to the sky.’

And I went on to tell him, as briefly as I could, about the dream I’d had which had led me to him.

When I had finished there was a long silence. After a while he reached out and took my hand. I had no idea what he felt about magic; on the one hand he was a Norman, and the Normans were not renowned for being sympathetic to the old ways. On the other hand, the strange abilities with which I’d been bestowed had saved his life.

When at long last he spoke, it was not at all what I was expecting.

‘Before we go any further,’ he said – in itself a lovely remark because it suggested we would go on together – ‘I should tell you that, while my father was born into a powerful Norman family, he refused to marry the suitable but dull daughter of his father’s best friend who had been selected for him. Instead he chose my mother – they never bothered to get married – and she is a dark-haired, black-eyed woman of the south, fiery and fierce, and the peasants of Sicily fear her because they say she is a
strega
.’ A shadow passed over his face, and for a moment he looked grief-stricken. ‘Strega means witch,’ he said huskily. ‘My mare was called Strega.’

Then I understood the sorrow. Before we left our shelter in the pine trees, we had said a blessing for his lost horse. I had seen his face wet with tears, and loved him the more.

I felt the sharp edge of his grief retreat a little, and the respite allowed me to reflect on what he had just told me. So his mother was a witch, was she? That answered quite a lot of questions I’d been storing up about him  . . .

One of us had to reassert the impatient present, and it was him. ‘So this old road led up to the wooden circle?’ he said.

‘They do say so,’ I agreed. ‘It’s claimed that it was built by the southern invaders when they needed to be able to move their armies around quickly – after the Great Revolt – but we know there was a greenway there long before that. There’s nowhere else it could lead to except the shrine of the crossing place.’

‘The crossing place,’ he repeated, almost to himself. I knew there was no need to explain; he already understood. Then, so abruptly that it took me by surprise, he stood up, pulled me up after him and said, ‘This is a crossroads, and where you find them you usually also find an inn, so let’s go and seek it out.’

He kept his promise and treated me to the biggest meal I’d ever eaten. It was probably breakfast, because although we seemed to have been awake for ages, it was still early. There was another promise he had made – to explain what he was doing – and he had not yet honoured that one. I was prepared to wait, for a while at least.

We were sitting at a long table, sharing it with other hungry travellers. One of them mentioned the weather – in a group of strangers flung together, someone usually does – and after a few grumbles about it being too wet, too cold, too hot and not hot enough, an old man next to Rollo leaned closer into the group and said, ‘No more storms like that one back at Michaelmas,’ and a sudden silence fell.

It was Rollo who broke it. ‘I heard tell of that storm,’ he said, an awed note in his voice. ‘Many men died, or so it was said.’

‘Many men is right,’ another man agreed. Wide-eyed, he added, ‘Bodies washed up all along the shore, there were! Made you scared to venture out of your door, for fear of what you’d find waiting for you.’

‘That weren’t no normal storm,’ another old man put in. I saw the sudden sharp attention in Rollo’s eyes, as if this were somehow of crucial interest. ‘I’ve lived on this coast all my life,’ the old man went on, ‘and I’ve never seen a force like that. Straight out of the north it came, like a snow spirit whipping up a vast team of wolves and driving them ahead of it. Water built up like a wall, and down it fell on everything and everyone in its way. And
cold
!’ He paused, rheumy old blue eyes wide for dramatic effect. ‘There’s never been cold like that, I’m telling you; it bit clear through to the bone. Those poor bastards in the sea didn’t stand a chance. They’d have frozen to death even before the waters rushed in and drowned them.’

Poor bastards
. I wondered why he had called them that. He seemed sympathetic for the terrible way they had died, and I concluded that the disparaging term was just his usual habit.

‘There was wreckage and all!’ a new, excited voice put in. ‘All sorts of goods washed up on the shore, and we –
ouch
!’

The abrupt cessation of his remark suggested strongly that somebody had kicked him, very hard, to stop him blabbing to a couple of outsiders how the locals had helped themselves to the bounty that the storm had so kindly provided.

‘What happened to the bodies?’ Rollo asked after an awkward few moments.

‘They were taken away and buried up at Frythe,’ the first speaker said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Up on the coast road.’ The man waved an arm roughly towards the north and the sea.

‘They came from the water,’ the very old man said in a wavering voice. ‘Seemed only right to lay them to rest close as possible to the place they were lost.’

Frythe. I committed to name to memory. Glancing at Rollo, I knew he had done too.

We stayed chatting to our fellow diners for a while longer, talking about everything except the storm. Then Rollo got up, saying we had to be on our way. It might have been just my imagination, but I don’t think the men were sorry to see us go.

Frythe turned out to be a small village set to the west of the road as it drove on towards the sea. There was an open space with a pond, a row of mean-looking dwellings, one or two bigger houses and some hovels. There was also a dilapidated inn and a church, beside which was a graveyard enclosed within a stone wall set with flints. Rollo and I went to look, and straight away we saw several lines of raw new graves. Not one had any flower or token to indicate there was someone who cared about the dead body lying down there in the earth.

The sacristan was over by the church, busy sweeping the path leading up to the iron-studded wooden door. He had a barrow beside him on which lay a heavy spade; perhaps his next job was to dig another grave. It was clear that he had seen us, and presently he put down his broom and came to pass the time of day.

‘There are a lot of fresh graves,’ Rollo remarked once we had exchanged greetings and the sacristan had observed that it was warm for the time of year. ‘Are they all casualties of the September storm?’