Out of the Dawn Light by Alys Clare Page B

so he was about sixteen; I did not know exactly. His mother Froya was quite young, for all that her careworn air made her look older, and would have borne Sibert in round about 1071 or 72. I had always been led to believe that Edmer had died as a result of the wound he received fighting with Hereward, but in fact he must have lived on for a while if I was right about Sibert’s age. So, that was one misapprehension gone. What about the other part of that stirring tale? The bit that had Froya, heavy with the child that would be Sibert, making her secret, desperate journey with her dying husband through the Fens to the sanctuary of Aelf Fen?
    I realized suddenly that I had no idea where I had come by these scant details of Sibert’s life. Perhaps I had made them up. Perhaps I had been fed a lie. That hurt, for as a consummate liar myself, I pride myself on my ability to detect when I am being lied to.
    There was no mistaking the honesty of that terrible cry that broke out of Sibert when he saw Drakelow: Where is my house? I knew this did not necessarily mean that he had lived at Drakelow; it was equally likely that he had been brought up believing it was his true home, which would be enough to make anyone possessive about it. So, someone – presumably his mother or his uncle Hrype, his father being dead – must have fed the poison into Sibert. Drakelow is your home. It was ours, it has been in our family since time out of mind – since when? I wondered, but I would come back to that – and it ought to be yours.
    They must have encouraged Sibert to come and look at his ancestors’ home. When he returned from each visit, did they increase the pressure on him? Did they present a future when he might win it back for them? Oh, but if they did, how cruel, for what could a slimly built youth do against the might of the ruling Norman lords, especially the one who now owned Drakelow?
    Only, of course, he didn’t own it. This Baudouin de la Flèche had been kicked out of his grand manor and his strutting new castle, just as Sibert’s forefathers had before him.
    Which appeared to open up all sorts of possibilities . . . and all at once I had a flash of understanding and I believed that I knew Romain’s mind. At the same time I perceived the major flaw in the argument that he must have employed to win Sibert’s help.
    I made myself sit very still and I relaxed the muscles of my entire body, from my feet to my scalp, just as Edild had taught me. It worked, as it always does, and the nervous tension dissipated. I knew I could not return to Romain and Sibert until I had regained control. I breathed slowly and gently – in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . and finally I was ready.
    I stood up, brushed down my skirt and wrapped Elfritha’s shawl around me, for the afternoon was over and evening was approaching, bringing a lowering of the temperature. Then I strolled back until I stood before Romain.
    ‘I had hoped, when I first set eyes on that rather crude habitation before us, that you would offer us accommodation there tonight,’ I said. His head shot up and I noticed that he was eyeing me warily. Good. ‘But, of course, if it isn’t yours, I suppose you won’t be.’ I gave a little sigh. ‘I shall have to say goodbye to my images of a good, hot meal, some of that fine French wine you spoke of and a luxurious night’s sleep in a warm, snug bed on a goose-feather mattress.’
    He had the grace to lower his eyes.
    ‘I suppose we had better move on,’ I continued. ‘You won’t really want to be found loitering in the vicinity, will you, Romain? Under the circumstances, it would hardly be wise.’
    He dropped his face into his hands. ‘No, it wouldn’t.’ His words were muffled.
    Suddenly I felt very sorry for him. I wanted to reach out and touch the bowed, defeated head, and with that urgent desire all my starry-eyed feelings for him came rushing back.
    Why was I being so unkind to him?
    ‘I’m