He was just, as Mattie had so accurately said, sad.
I stared at the veiled woman, and, as if she felt my eyes on her, she turned to face me. ‘What is his name?’ I asked.
She glared at me. There was a long pause, and I was just deciding that she was going to refuse to tell me, and, moreover, order me out of her room for my presumption, when she spoke. ‘Leafric.’
‘Leafric,’ I repeated under my breath. I was surprised, for it was a Saxon name; one of the old names that had been in use before the Normans came. There were Leafrics in my own ancestry. I had inherited the role of bard from my Granny Cordeilla, and one of my responsibilities was to memorize the long list of our forebears. I should have expected such a name, for the baby’s light eyes and fair hair had already suggested to me that his other parent must have originated a lot further north than the veiled woman.
I risked another question, although I held out little hope that she would give me an answer. ‘Your boy was named for his father, perhaps?’
Again, the long pause, while she fixed me with her dark-rimmed, black-eyed stare as if calculating how much to reveal to this brash and forward stranger sitting on her bed beside her son. ‘Not his father.’ Another pause. ‘But, yes, an ancestor. Of my late husband,’ she added.
She was a widow, then. That alone should have made me more compassionate. The baby was no more than six months old, so this poor woman’s loss must have been quite recent. ‘I am sorry,’ I murmured.
‘Sorry?’
‘For the death of your husband.’ Surely it was obvious?
‘Oh.’ The veiled woman lowered her head. Then – and it sounded as if she had to force out the words – ‘Thank you.’
There was much more I wanted to know. My thoughts were whirling. Things that I had just been observing were reminding me of matters which Edild had touched on, as together we treated and, later, discussed the patients who beat a steady path to the door of her little house back in Aelf Fen.
I was tempted to begin asking questions there and then. As if she sensed it, the veiled woman said, with a note of cold command in her voice that expected instant obedience, ‘And now you will leave. I wish to rest.’
I managed not to slam the door. There was the baby to consider. I strode off along the passage, the heavy satchel in which I carry the requirements of my craft banging painfully on my hip, and flung myself out of the inn, all the while muttering under my breath, calling the veiled woman the sort of names that would deeply have shocked my parents.
Out on the street, my failure to see beyond my own fury made me temporarily blind, and I marched right into a man coming the other way. I came off worse, for he was so stocky and hard-muscled that it was like walking into a stone wall. I lost my footing, and a strong hand caught my elbow, holding me upright.
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, that was entirely my fault. I wasn’t – Oh!’
I had just bumped into Jack Chevestrier.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, restoring the strap of my satchel to its place over my shoulder.
‘No.’
‘You appear to be cross about something.’
It seemed he’d heard my cursing. ‘Er – yes.’
He nodded in the direction of the inn. ‘I think I might be able to guess the cause of your anger.’
I smiled. ‘You’d be right. She’s not an easy woman to help.’
Sudden sharp interest flared in his eyes. ‘You’d gone to help her?’
‘Well, her baby more than her. Mattie sought me out – she said you’d told her to.’
‘It wasn’t a command, Lassair,’ he said mildly. ‘I said if she happened to see you, she might ask if you’d give your professional opinion concerning the baby.’
I studied him. To look at him – not over-tall, sturdily built, thick with muscle and habitually grave of expression – you’d take him for the sort of powerful, unsophisticated and boneheaded strongman with whom the great lords who uphold the law like to surround themselves. His apparel supported this, for he was armed with sword and knife, and the sleeveless jerkin, made of sturdy leather, was marked with what looked like the scuffs and scars of old fights. Yet I sensed there was far more to him than that. For one thing, his manner of speech was not that of a common thug – he had just made a courteous remark – and, for another, I had the feeling that there was a fine intelligence inside his round, close-cropped head.
He appeared to be waiting for me to speak. I brought myself back to the matter in hand. ‘Mattie said the baby wasn’t ill, but seemed sad,’ I said. ‘Now that I’ve seen him, I agree.’
‘Can you-’
He was interrupted by a gaggle of women shoving their way along the street, laughing and chattering, making so much noise that he’d have had to shout to make himself heard. His face creased in impatience, and, once they had passed, he said, ‘We’ll go somewhere quieter. If you can spare the time?’
‘Yes, I can.’
He led the way off up the street. We crossed the alley that runs to the west of the market place, threaded our way between two churches, then emerged on to the long, wide stretch of gently sloping grassland that borders the river. He stopped some distance short of the water; down there, it was only marginally less busy than the centre of the town.
Turning to me with a smile, he said, ‘Now, tell me about the baby.’
I’d been assembling my thoughts as we walked. Jack Chevestrier was obeying orders and keeping a watchful eye on the veiled woman and her child. He’d been asking Mattie about her, and, just now when I’d walked into him, it was likely he’d been heading for the inn. Given what I’d concluded concerning his intelligence, I didn’t think he’d be satisfied with anything but a full answer.
I took a breath, then said, ‘To judge by her clothing and the fact that she has no idea how to nurse or even care for her child, the veiled lady is a noblewoman. Until very recently, she’s had a wet-nurse for the baby, and, I imagine, other servants too. The baby is well-fed, dressed in costly garments, clean and, as far as I can tell, healthy. Her attire, too, is luxurious and in good condition. Someone’s been polishing those fine leather boots, and her robe and cloak have been diligently maintained.’
I paused, thinking. ‘She’s a widow, and her bereavement must have been within the last fifteen months, because I don’t think the baby is more than six months old. The baby’s name is Leafric, and, although the veiled woman is a foreigner – originally from the south, perhaps, to judge by her very dark eyes and olive skin – her late husband must have been a northerner. There’s the baby’s name, for one thing – the woman told me he was named for a forebear of her husband’s, and Leafric is a Saxon name – and also his colouring. Although he has her olive skin, his hair is fair and his eyes are light blue. Oh, and I think the woman may be a Saracen – for one thing, there’s her veil, which I haven’t yet seen her without, and I’m sure I heard her putting it on when I tapped on the door of her room just now. Also, her little boy’s been circumcised, and that’s not a custom we routinely practise here.’
Was she a Saracen? I wondered. Where had she come from? What did she-
Jack Chevestrier, I noticed, emerging from my intense concentration, was waiting.
‘I think something frightening must have happened to her very recently,’ I said. ‘When we first encountered her, you asked if she had kin or servants with her, and she said she was alone. She also said she was making for the fens.’
‘She did,’ Jack Chevestrier murmured. ‘I told her to be more specific.’
‘She’s had a shocking experience of some sort,’ I went on, ‘and it’s very likely she’s still suffering from the after-effects. That would account for her strange air of detachment, and-’
‘And her failure to engage with the child?’ he suggested.
‘Oh, no, I think that has more to do with the level of society she comes from,’ I said. ‘It’s usual for high-born ladies to hand the whole matter of raising their babies over to others. No: I think there was an accident of some sort, and somehow – although I’ve not the first idea how, for it seems so unlikely – the veiled lady became separated from her travelling companions and from her servants. Well, I can’t swear that she had travelling companions, but, as I just explained, she must have had servants. Or, at least, a nursemaid and wet-nurse, or maybe it was the same person.’