"Peters, Ellis - Brother Cadfael 00 - A Rare Benedictine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Peters Ellis)The
Advent of Brother Cadfael By Ellis
Peters Table
of Contents A Light on the Road to Woodstock BROTHER
CADFAEL SPRANG TO LIFE SUDDENLY AND UNEXPECTEDLY WHEN HE WAS ALREADY
APPROACHING SIXTY, mature, experienced, fully armed and seventeen years
tonsured. He emerged as the necessary protagonist when I had the idea of
deriving a plot for a murder mystery from the true history of Shrewsbury Abbey
in the twelfth century, and needed the high mediaeval equivalent of a
detective, an observer and agent of justice in the centre of the action. I had
no idea then what I was launching on the world, nor to how demanding a mentor I
was subjecting myself. Nor did I intend a series of books about him, indeed I
went on immediately to write a modern detective novel, and returned to the
twelfth century and Shrewsbury only when I could no longer resist the
temptation to shape another book round the siege of Shrewsbury and the massacre
of the garrison by King Stephen, which followed shortly after the prior’s
expedition into Wales to bring back the relics of Saint Winifred for his Abbey.
From then on Brother Cadfael was well into his stride, and there was no turning
back. Since
the action in the first book was almost all in Wales, and even in succeeding
ones went back and forth freely across the border, just as the history of
Shrewsbury always has, Cadfael had to be Welsh, and very much at home there.
His name was chosen as being so rare that I can find it only once in Welsh
history, and even in that instance it disappears almost as soon as it is
bestowed in baptism. Saint Cadog, contemporary and rival of Saint David, a
powerful saint in Glamorgan, was actually christened Cadfael, but ever after
seems to have been ‘familiarly known’, as Sir John Lloyd says, as Cadog. A name
of which the saint had no further need, and which appears, as far as I know,
nowhere else, seemed just the thing for my man. No implication of saintliness was
intended, though indeed when affronted Saint Cadog seems to have behaved with
the unforgiving ferocity of most of his kind, at least in legend. My monk had
to be a man of wide worldly experience and an inexhaustible fund of resigned
tolerance for the human condition. His crusading and seafaring past, with all
its enthusiasms and disillusionments, was referred to from the beginning. Only
later did readers begin to wonder and ask about his former roving life, and how
and why he became a monk. For
reasons of continuity I did not wish to go back in time and write a book about
his crusading days. Whatever else may be true of it, the entire sequence of
novels proceeds steadily season by season, year by year, in a progressive
tension which I did not want to break. But when I had the opportunity to cast a
glance behind by way of a short story, to shed light on his vocation, I was
glad to use it. So
here he is, not a convert, for this is not a conversion. In an age of
relatively uncomplicated faith, not yet obsessed and tormented by cantankerous
schisms, sects and politicians, Cadfael has always been an unquestioning
believer. What happens to him on the road to Woodstock is simply the acceptance
of a revelation from within that the life he has lived to date, active, mobile
and often violent, has reached its natural end, and he is confronted by a new
need and a different challenge. In
India it is not unknown for a man who has possessed great power and wealth to
discard everything when he reaches a certain age recognisable to him when it
comes not by dates and times, but by an inward certainty put on the yellow robe
of a sannyasi, and go away with nothing but a begging bowl, at once into the
world and out of it. Given
the difference in climate and tradition between the saffron robe and the
voluminous black habit, the solitary with the wilderness for his cloister, and
the wall suddenly enclosing and embracing the traveller over half the world,
that is pretty much what Cadfael does in entering the Rule of Saint Benedict in
the Abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury. Thereafter,
on occasions and for what he feels to be good reasons, he may break the rules.
He will never transgress against the Rule, and never abandon it. Ellis Peters 1988 A
Light on the Road to Woodstock THE
KING’S COURT WAS IN NO HURRY TO RETURN TO ENGLAND, that late autumn of 1120,
even though the fighting, somewhat desultory in these last stages, was long
over, and the enforced peace sealed by a royal marriage. King Henry had brought
to a successful conclusion his sixteen years of patient, cunning, relentless
plotting, fighting and manipulating, and could now sit back in high content,
master not only of England but of Normandy, too. What the Conqueror had
misguidedly dealt out in two separate parcels to his two elder sons, his
youngest son had now put together again and clamped into one. Not without a
hand in removing from the light of day, some said, both of his brothers, one of
whom had been shovelled into a hasty grave under the tower at Winchester, while
the other was now a prisoner in Devizes, and unlikely ever to be seen again by
the outer world. The
court could well afford to linger to enjoy victory, while Henry trimmed into
neatness the last loose edges still to be made secure. But his fleet was
already preparing at Barfleur for the voyage back to England, and he would be
home before the month ended. Meantime, many of his barons and knights who had
fought his battles were withdrawing their contingents and making for home,
among them one Roger Mauduit, who had a young and handsome wife waiting for
him, certain legal business on his mind, and twenty-five men to ship back to
England, most of them to be paid off on landing. There
were one or two among the miscellaneous riff-raff he had recruited here in
Normandy on his lord’s behalf whom it might be worth keeping on in his own
service, along with the few men of his household, at least until he was safely
home. The vagabond clerk turned soldier, let him be unfrocked priest or what he
might, was an excellent copyist and a sound Latin scholar, and could put legal
documents in their best and most presentable form, in good time for the King’s
court at Woodstock. And the Welsh man-at-arms, blunt and insubordinate as he
was, was also experienced and accomplished in arms, a man of his word, once
given, and utterly reliable in whatever situation on land or sea, for in both
elements he had long practice behind him. Roger was well aware that he was not
greatly loved, and had little faith in either the valour or the loyalty of his
own men. But this Welshman from Gwynedd, by way of Antioch and Jerusalem and
only God knew where else, had imbibed the code of arms and wore it as a second
nature. With or without love, such service as he pledged, that he would provide. Roger
put it to them both as his men were embarking at Barfleur, in the middle of a
deceptively placid November, and upon a calm sea. “I
would have you two accompany me to my manor of Sutton Mauduit by Northampton,
when we disembark, and stay in my pay until a certain lawsuit I have against
the abbey of Shrewsbury is resolved. The King intends to come to Woodstock when
he arrives in England, and will be there to preside over my case on the
twenty-third day of this month. Will you remain in my service until that day?” The
Welshman said that he would, until that day or until the case was resolved. He
said it indifferently, as one who has no business of any importance anywhere in
the world to pull him in another direction. As well Northampton as anywhere else.
As well Woodstock. And after Woodstock? Why anywhere in particular? There was
no identifiable light beckoning him anywhere, along any road. The world was
wide, fair and full of savour, but without signposts. Alard,
the tatterdemalion clerk, hesitated, scratched his thick thatch of grizzled red
hair, and finally also said yes, but as if some vague regret drew him in
another direction. It meant pay for some days more, he could not afford to say
no. “I
would have gone with him with better heart,” he said later, when they were
leaning on the rail together, watching the low blue line of the English shore
rise out of a placid sea, “if he had been taking a more westerly road.” “Why
that?” asked Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd. “Have you kin in the west?” “I
had once. I have not now.” “Dead?” “I
am the one who died.” Alard heaved lean shoulders in a helpless shrug, and
grinned. “Fifty-seven brothers I had, and now I’m brotherless. I begin to miss
my kin, now I’m past forty. I never valued them when I was young.” He slanted a
rueful glance at his companion and shook his head. “I was a monk of Evesham, an
oblatus, given to God by my father when I was five years old. When I was
fifteen I could no longer abide to live my life in one place, and I ran.
Stability is one of the vows we take to be content in one stay, and go abroad
only when ordered. That was not for me, not then. My sort they call vagus
frivolous minds that must wander. Well, I’ve wandered far enough, God knows, in
my time. I begin to fear I can never stand still again.” The
Welshman drew his cloak about him against the chill of the wind. “Are you
hankering for a return?” “Even
you seamen must drop anchor somewhere at last,” said Alard. “They’d have my
hide if I went back, that I know. But there’s this about penance, it pays all
debts, and leaves the record clear. They’d find a place for me, once I’d paid.
But I don’t know... I don’t know... The vagus is still in me. I’m torn two
ways.” “After
twenty-five years,” said Cadfael, “a month or two more for quiet thinking can
do no harm. Copy his papers for him and take your case until his business is
settled.” They
were much of an age, though the renegade monk looked the elder by ten years,
and much knocked about by the world he had coveted from within the cloister. It
had never paid him well in goods or gear, for he went threadbare and thin, but
in wisdom he might have got his fair wages. A little soldiering, a little
clerking, some horse-tending, any labour that came to hand, until he could turn
his hand to almost anything a hale man can do. He had seen, he said, Italy as
far south as Rome, served once for a time under the Count of Flanders, crossed
the mountains into Spain, never abiding anywhere for long. His feet still
served him, but his mind grew weary of the road. “And
you?” he said, eyeing his companion, whom he had known now for a year in this
last campaign. “You’re something of a vagus yourself, by your own account. All
those years crusading and battling corsairs in the midland sea, and still you
have not enough of it, but must cross the sea again to get buffeted about
Normandy. Had you no better business of your own, once you got back to England,
but you must enlist again in this muddled melee of a war? No woman to take your
mind off fighting?” “What
of yourself? Free of the cloister, free of the vows!” “Somehow,”
said Alard, himself puzzled, “I never saw it so. A woman here and there, yes,
when the heat was on me, and there was a woman by and willing, but marriage and
wiving... it never seemed to me I had the right.” The
Welshman braced his feet on the gently swaying deck and watched the distant
shore draw nearer. A broad-set, sturdy, muscular man in his healthy prime,
brown-haired and brown-skinned from eastern suns and outdoor living,
well-provided in leather coat and good cloth, and well-armed with sword and
dagger. A comely enough face, strongly featured, with the bold bones of his
race there had been women, in his time, who had found him handsome. “I
had a girl,” he said meditatively, “years back, before ever I went crusading.
But I left her when I took the Cross, left her for three years and stayed away
seventeen. The truth is, in the east I forgot her, and in the west she, thanks
be to God, had forgotten me. I did enquire, when I got back. She’d made a better
bargain, and married a decent, solid man who had nothing of the vagus in him. A
guildsman and counsellor of the town of Shrewsbury, no less. So I shed the load
from my conscience and went back to what I knew, soldiering. With no regrets,”
he said simply. “It was all over and done, years since. I doubt if I should
have known her again, or she me.” There had been other women’s faces in the
years between, still vivid in his memory, while hers had faded into mist. “And
what will you do,” asked Alard, “now the King’s got everything he wanted,
married his son to Anjou and Maine, and made an end of fighting? Go back to the
east? There’s never any want of squabbles there to keep a man busy.” “No,”
said Cadfael, eyes fixed on the shore that began to show the solidity of land
and the undulations of cliff and down. For that, too, was over and done, years
since, and not as well done as once he had hoped. This desultory campaigning in
Normandy was little more than a postscriptum, an afterthought, a means of
filling in the interim between what was past and what was to come, and as yet
unrevealed. All he knew of it was that it must be something new and momentous,
a door opening into another room. “It seems we have both a few days’ grace, you
and I, to find out where we are going. We’d best make good use of the time.” There
was stir enough before night to keep them from wondering beyond the next
moment, or troubling their minds about what was past or what was to come. Their
ship put into the roads with a steady and favourable wind, and made course into
Southampton before the light faded, and there was work for Alard checking the
gear as it was unloaded, and for Cadfael disembarking the horses. A night’s
sleep in lodgings and stables in the town, and they would be on their way with
the dawn. “So
the King’s due in Woodstock,” said Alard, rustling sleepily in his straw in a
warm loft over the horses, “in time to sit in judgement on the twenty-third of
the month. He makes his forest lodges the hub of his kingdom, there’s more statecraft
talked at Woodstock, so they say, than ever at Westminster. And he keeps his
beasts there—lions and leopards, even camels. Did you ever see camels, Cadfael?
There in the east?” “Saw
them and rode them. Common as horses there, hard-working and serviceable, but
uncomfortable riding, and foul-tempered. Thank God it’s horses we’ll be
mounting in the morning.” And after a long silence, on the edge of sleep, he
asked curiously into the straw-scented darkness: “If ever you do go back, what
is it you want of Evesham?” “Do
I know?” responded Alard drowsily, and followed that with a sudden sharpening
sigh, again fully awake. “The silence, it might be... or the stillness. To have
no more running to do... to have arrived, and have no more need to run. The appetite
changes. Now I think it would be a beautiful thing to be still.” The
manor which was the head of Roger Mauduit’s scattered and substantial honour
lay somewhat south-east of Northampton, comfortably under the lee of the long
ridge of wooded hills where the king had a chase, and spreading its extensive
fields over the rich lowland between. The house was of stone, and ample, over a
deep undercroft, and with a low tower providing two small chambers at the
eastern end, and the array of sturdy byres, barns and stables that lined the
containing walls was impressive. Someone had proved a good steward while the
lord was away about King Henry’s business. The
furnishings of the hall were no less eloquent of good management, and the men
and maids of the household went about their work with a brisk wariness that
showed they went in some awe of whoever presided over their labours. It needed
only a single day of watching the Lady Eadwina in action to show who ruled the
roost here. Roger Mauduit had married a wife not only handsome, but also
efficient and masterful. She had had her own way here for three years, and by
all the signs had enjoyed her dominance. She might, even, be none too glad to
resign her charge now, however glad she might be to have her lord home again. She
was a tall, graceful woman, ten years younger than Roger, with an abundance of
fair hair, and large blue eyes that went discreetly half-veiled by absurdly
long lashes most of the time, but flashed a bright and steely challenge when
she opened them fully. Her smile was likewise discreet and almost constant,
concealing rather than revealing whatever went on in her mind; and though her
welcome to her returning lord left nothing to be desired, but lavished on him
every possible tribute of ceremony and affection from the moment his horse
entered at the gate, Cadfael could not but wonder whether she was not, at the
same time, taking stock of every man he brought in with him, and every article
of gear or harness or weaponry in their equipment, as one taking jealous
inventory of his goods and reserves to make sure nothing was lacking. She
had her little son by the hand, a boy of about seven years old, and the child
had the same fair colouring, the same contained and almost supercilious smile,
and was as spruce and fine as his mother. The
lady received Alard with a sweeping glance that deprecated his tatterdemalion
appearance and doubted his morality, but nevertheless was willing to accept and
make use of his abilities. The clerk who kept the manor roll and the accounts
was efficient enough, but had no Latin, and could not write a good court hand.
Alard was whisked away to a small table set in the angle of the great hearth,
and kept hard at work copying certain charters and letters, and preparing them
for presentation. “This
suit of his is against the abbey of Shrewsbury,” said Alard, freed of his
labours after supper in hall. “I recall you said that girl of yours had married
a merchant in that town. Shrewsbury is a Benedictine house, like mine of
Evesham.” His, he called it still, after so many years of abandoning it; or his
again, after time had brushed away whatever division there had ever been. “You
must know it, if you come from there.” “I
was born in Trefriw, in Gwynedd,” said Cadfael, “but I took service early with
an English wool-merchant, and came to Shrewsbury with his household. Fourteen,
I was then in Wales fourteen is manhood, and as I was a good lad with the short
bow, and took kindly to the sword, I suppose I was worth my keep. The best of
my following years were spent in Shrewsbury, I know it like my own palm, abbey
and all. My master sent me there a year and more, to get my letters. But I quit
that service when he died. I’d pledged nothing to the son, and he was a poor
shadow of his father. That was when I took the Cross. So did many like me, all
afire. I won’t say what followed was all ash, but it burned very low at times.” “It’s
Mauduit who holds this disputed land,” said Alard, “and the abbey that sues to
recover it, and the thing’s been going on four years without a settlement, ever
since the old man here died. From what I know of the Benedictines, I’d rate
their honesty above our Roger’s, I tell you straight. And yet his charters seem
to be genuine, as far as I can tell.” “Where
is this land they’re fighting over?” asked Cadfael. “It’s
a manor by the name of Rotesley, near Stretton, demesne, village, advowson of
the church and all. It seems when the great earl was just dead and his abbey
still building, Roger’s father gave Rotesley to the abbey. No dispute about
that, the charter’s there to show it. But the abbey granted it back to him as
tenant for life, to live out his latter years there undisturbed, Roger being
then married and installed here at Sutton. That’s where the dispute starts. The
abbey claims it was clearly agreed the tenancy ended with the old man’s death,
that he himself understood it so, and intended it should be restored to the
abbey as soon as he was out of it. While Roger says there was no such agreement
to restore it unconditionally, but the tenancy was granted to the Mauduits, and
ought to be hereditary. And so far he’s hung on to it tooth and claw. After
several hearings they remitted it to the King himself. And that’s why you and
I, my friend, will be off with his lordship to Woodstock the day after
tomorrow.” “And
how do you rate his chances of success? He seems none too sure himself,” said
Cadfael, “to judge by his short temper and nail-biting this last day or so.” “Why,
the charter could have been worded better. It says simply that the village is
granted back in tenancy during the old man’s lifetime, but fails to say
anything about what shall happen afterwards, whatever may have been intended.
From what I hear, they were on very good terms, Abbot Fulchered and the old
lord, agreements between them on other matters in the manor book are worded as
between men who trusted each other. The witnesses are all of them dead, as
Abbot Fulchered is dead. It’s one Godefrid now. But for all I know the abbey
may hold letters that have passed between the two, and a letter is witness of
intent, no less than a formal charter. All in good time we shall see.” The
nobility still sat at the high table, in no haste to retire, Roger brooding
over his wine, of which he had already drunk his fair share and more. Cadfael
eyed them with interest, seen thus in a family setting. The boy had gone to his
bed, hauled away by an elderly nurse, but the Lady Eadwina sat in close
attendance at her lord’s left hand, and kept his cup well filled, smiling her
faint, demure smile. On her left sat a very fine young squire of about
twenty-five years, deferential and discreet, with a smile somehow the male
reflection of her own. The source of both was secret, the spring of their
pleasure or amusement, or whatever caused them so to smile, remained private
and slightly unnerving, like the carved stone smiles of certain very old
statues Cadfael had seen in Greece, long ago. For all his mild, amiable and
ornamental appearance, combed and curled and courtly, he was a big, well-set-up
young fellow, with a set to his smooth jaw. Cadfael studied him with interest,
for he was plainly privileged here. “Goscelin,”
said Alard by way of explanation, following his friend’s glance. “Her
right-hand man while Roger was away.” Her
left-hand man now, by the look of it, thought Cadfael. For her left hand and
Goscelin’s right were private under the table, while she spoke winningly into
her husband’s ear; and if those two hands were not paddling palms at this
moment Cadfael was very much deceived. Above and below the drapings of the
board were two different worlds. “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “what she’s
breathing into Roger’s ear now.” What
the lady was breathing into her husband’s ear was, in fact: “You fret over
nothing, my lord. What does it matter how strong his proofs, if he never
reaches Woodstock in time to present them? You know the law: if one party fails
to appear, judgement is given for the other. The assize judges may allow more
than one default if they please, but do you think King Henry will? Whoever
fails of keeping tryst with him will be felled on the spot. And you know the
road by which Prior Heribert must come.” Her voice was a silken purr in his
ear. “And have you not a hunting-lodge in the forest north of Woodstock,
through which that road passes?” Roger’s
hand had stiffened round the stem of his wine cup. He was not so drunk but he
was listening intently. “Shrewsbury
to Woodstock will be a two or three-day journey to such a rider. All you need
do is have a watcher on the road north of you, to give warning. The woods are
thick enough, masterless men have been known to haunt there. Even if he comes
by daylight, your part need never be known. Hide him but a few days, it will be
long enough. Then turn him loose by night, and who’s ever to know what footpads
held and robbed him? You need not even touch his parchments, robbers would
count them worthless. Take what common thieves would take, and theirs will be
the blame.” Roger
opened his tight-shut mouth to say in a doubtful growl: “He’ll not be
travelling alone.” “Hah!
Two or three abbey servants they’ll run like hares. You need not trouble
yourself over them. Three stout, silent men of your own will be more than
enough.” He
brooded, and began to think so, too, and to review in his mind the men of his
household, seeking the right hands for such work. Not the Welshman and the
clerk, the strangers here; their part was to be the honest onlookers, in case
there should ever be questions asked. They
left Sutton Mauduit on the twentieth day of November, which seemed
unnecessarily early, though as Roger had decreed that they should settle in his
hunting-lodge in the forest close by Woodstock, which meant conveying stores
with them to make the house habitable and provision it for a party for, presumably,
a stay of three nights at least, it was perhaps a wise precaution. Roger was
taking no chances in his suit, he said; he meant to be established on the
ground in good time, and have all his proofs in order. “But
so he has,” said Alard, pricked in his professional pride, “for I’ve gone over
everything with him, and the case, if open in default of specific instructions,
is plain enough and will stand up. What the abbey can muster, who knows? They
say the abbot is not well, which is why his prior comes in his place. My work
is done.” He
had the faraway look in his eye, as the party rode out and faced westward, of
one either penned and longing to be where he could but see, or loose and weary
and being drawn home. Either a vagus escaping outward, or a penitent flying
back in haste before the doors should close against him. There must indeed be
something desirable and lovely to cause a man to look towards it with that look
on his face. Three
men-at-arms and two grooms accompanied Roger, in addition to Alard and Cadfael,
whose term of service would end with the session in court, after which they
might go where they would, Cadfael horsed, since he owned his own mount, Alard
afoot, since the pony he rode belonged to Roger. It came as something of a
surprise to Cadfael that the squire Goscelin should also saddle up and ride
with the party, very debonair and well-armed with sword and dagger. “I
marvel,” said Cadfael drily, “that the lady doesn’t need him at home for her
own protection, while her lord’s absent.” The
Lady Eadwina, however, bade farewell to the whole party with the greatest
serenity, and to her husband with demonstrative affection, putting forward her
little son to be embraced and kissed. Perhaps, thought Cadfael, relenting, I do
her wrong, simply because I feel chilled by that smile of hers. For all I know
she may be the truest wife living. They
set out early, and before Buckingham made a halt at the small and penurious
priory of Bradwell, where Roger elected to spend the night, keeping his three
men-at-arms with him, while Goscelin with the rest of the party rode on to the
hunting-lodge to make all ready for their lord’s reception the following day.
It was growing dark by the time they arrived, and the bustle of kindling fire
and torches, and unloading the bed-linen and stores from the sumpter ponies
went on into the night. The lodge was small, stockaded, well-furnished with
stabling and mews, and in thick woodland, a place comfortable enough once they
had a roaring fire on the hearth and food on the table. “The
road the prior of Shrewsbury will be coming by,” said Alard, warming himself by
the fire after supper, “passes through Evesham. As like as not they’ll stay the
last night there.” With every mile west Cadfael had seen him straining forward
with mounting eagerness. “The road cannot be far away from us here, it passes
through this forest.” “It
must be nearly thirty miles to Evesham,” said Cadfael. “A long day’s riding for
a clerical party. It will be night by the time they ride past into Woodstock.
If you’re set on going, stay at least to get your pay, for you’ll need it
before the thirty miles is done.” They
went to their slumber in the warmth of the hall without a word more said. But
he would go, Alard, whether he himself knew it yet or not. Cadfael knew it. His
friend was a tired horse with the scent of the stable in his nostrils; nothing
would stop him now until he reached it. It
was well into the middle of the day when Roger and his escort arrived, and they
approached not directly, as the advance party had done, but from the woods to
the north, as though they had been indulging in a little hunting or hawking by
the way, except that they had neither hawk nor hound with them. A fine, clear,
cool day for riding, there was no reason in the world why they should not go
roundabout for the pure pleasure of it and indeed, they seemed to come in high
content! but that Roger’s mind had been so preoccupied and so anxious
concerning his lawsuit that distractions seemed unlikely. Cadfael was given to
thinking about unlikely developments, which from old campaigns he knew to prove
significant in most cases. Goscelin, who was out at the gate to welcome them
in, was apparently oblivious to the direction from which they came. That way
lay Alard’s highway to his rest. But what meaning ought it to have for Roger
Mauduit? The
table was lavish that night, and lord and squire drank well and ate well, and
gave no sign of any care, though they might, Cadfael thought, watching them
from his lower place, seem a little tight and knife-edged. Well, the King’s
court could account for that. Shrewsbury’s prior was drawing steadily nearer,
with whatever weapons he had for the battle. But it seemed rather an exultant
tension than an anxious one. Was Roger counting his chickens already? The
morning of the twenty-second of November dawned, and the noon passed, and with
every moment Alard’s restlessness and abstraction grew, until with evening it
possessed him utterly, and he could no longer resist. He presented himself
before Roger after supper, when his mood might be mellow from good food and
wine. “My
lord, with the morrow my service to you is completed. You need me no longer,
and with your goodwill I would set forth now for where I am going. I go afoot
and need provision for the road. If you have been content with my work, pay me
what is due, and let me go.” It
seemed that Roger had been startled out of some equally absorbing preoccupation
of his own, and was in haste to return to it, for he made no demur, but paid at
once. To do him justice, he had never been a grudging paymaster. He drove as
hard a bargain as he could at the outset, but once the agreement was made, he
kept it. “Go
when you please,” he said. “Fill your bag from the kitchen for the journey when
you leave. You did good work, I give you that.” And
he returned to whatever it was that so engrossed his thoughts, and Alard went
to collect the proffered largesse and his own meagre possessions. “I
am going,” he said, meeting Cadfael in the hall doorway. “I must go.” There was
no more doubt in voice or face. “They will take me back, though in the lowest
place. From that there’s no falling. The blessed Benedict wrote in the Rule
that even to the third time of straying a man may be received again if he
promise full amendment.” It
was a dark night, without moon or stars but in fleeting moments when the wind
ripped apart the cloud covering to let through a brief gleam of moonlight. The
weather had grown gusty and wild in the last two days, the King’s fleet must
have had a rough crossing from Barfleur. “You’d
do better,” urged Cadfael, “to wait for morning, and go by daylight. Here’s a
safe bed, and the King’s peace, however well enforced, hardly covers every mile
of the King’s highroads.” But
Alard would not wait. The yearning was on him too strongly, and a penniless
vagabond who had ventured all the roads of Christendom by day or night was
hardly likely to flinch from the last thirty miles of his wanderings. “Then
I’ll go with you as far as the road, and see you on your way,” said Cadfael. There
was a mile or so of track through thick forest between them and the highroad
that bore away west-north-west on the upland journey to Evesham. The ribbon of
open highway, hemmed on both sides by trees, was hardly less dark than the
forest itself. King Henry had fenced in his private park at Woodstock to house
his wild beasts, but maintained also his hunting chase here, many miles in
extent. At the road they parted, and Cadfael stood to watch his friend march
steadily away towards the west, eyes fixed ahead, upon his penance and his
absolution, a tired man with a rest assured. Cadfael
turned back towards the lodge as soon as the receding shadow had melted into
the night. He was in no haste to go in, for the night, though blustery, was not
cold, and he was in no mind to seek the company of others of the party now that
the one best known to him was gone, and gone in so mysteriously rapt a fashion.
He walked on among the trees, turning his back on his bed for a while. The
constant thrashing of branches in the wind all but drowned the scuffling and
shouting that suddenly broke out behind him, at some distance among the trees,
until a horse’s shrill whinny brought him about with a jerk, and set him
running through the underbrush towards the spot where confused voices yelled
alarm and broken bushes thrashed. The clamour seemed some little way off, and
he was startled as he shouldered his way headlong through a thicket to collide
heavily with two entangled bodies, send them spinning apart, and himself fall a-sprawl
upon one of them in the flattened grass. The man under him uttered a scared and
angry cry, and the voice was Roger’s. The other man had made no sound at all,
but slid away very rapidly and lightly to vanish among the trees, a tall shadow
swallowed in shadows. Cadfael
drew off in haste, reaching an arm to hoist the winded man. “My lord, are you
hurt? What, in God’s name, is to do here?” The sleeve he clutched slid warm and
wet under his hand. “You’re injured! Hold fast, let’s see what harm’s done before
you move...” Then
there was the voice of Goscelin, for once loud and vehement in alarm, shouting
for his lord and crashing headlong through bush and brake to fall on his knees
beside Roger, lamenting and raging. “My
lord, my lord, what happened here? What rogues were those, loose in the woods?
Dared they waylay travellers so close to the King’s highway? You’re hurt here’s
blood...” Roger
got his breath back and sat up, feeling at his left arm below the shoulder, and
wincing. “A scratch. My arm... God curse him, whoever he may be, the fellow
struck for my heart. Man, if you had not come charging like a bull, I might
have been dead. You hurled me off the point of his dagger. Thank God, there’s
no great harm, but I bleed... Help me back home!” “That
a man may not walk by night in his own woods,” fumed Goscelin, hoisting his
lord carefully to his feet, “without being set upon by outlaws! Help here, you,
Cadfael, take his other arm... Footpads so close to Woodstock! Tomorrow we must
turn out the watch to comb these tracks and hunt them out of cover, before they
kill...” “Get
me withindoors,” snapped Roger, “and have this coat and shirt off me, and let’s
staunch this bleeding. I’m alive, that’s the main!” They
helped him back between them, through the more open ways towards the lodge. It
dawned on Cadfael, as they went, that the clamour of furtive battle had ceased
completely, even the wind had abated, and somewhere on the road, distantly, he
caught the rhythm of galloping hooves, very fast and light, as of a riderless
horse in panic flight. The
gash in Roger Mauduit’s left arm, just below the shoulder, was long but not
deep, and grew shallower as it descended. The stroke that marked him thus could
well have been meant for his heart. Cadfael’s hurtling impact, at the very
moment the attack was launched, had been the means of averting murder. The
shadow that had melted into the night had no form, nothing about it rendered it
human or recognisable. He had heard an outcry and run towards it, a projectile
to strike attacked and attacker apart; questioned, that was all he could say. For
which, said Roger, bandaged and resting and warmed with mulled wine, he was
heartily thankful. And indeed, Roger was behaving with remarkable fortitude and
calm for a man who had just escaped death. By the time he had demonstrated to
his dismayed grooms and men-at-arms that he was alive and not much the worse,
appointed the hour when they should set out for Woodstock in the morning, and
been helped to his bed by Goscelin, there was even a suggestion of complacency
about him, as though a gash in the arm was a small price to pay for the
successful retention of a valuable property and the defeat of his clerical
opponents. In
the court of the palace of Woodstock the King’s chamberlains, clerks and judges
were fluttering about in a curiously distracted manner, or so it seemed to
Cadfael, standing apart among the commoners to observe their antics. They
gathered in small groups, conversing in low voices and with anxious faces,
broke apart to regroup with others of their kind, hurried in and out among the
litigants, avoiding or brushing off all questions, exchanged documents, hurried
to the door to peer out, as if looking for some late arrival. And there was
indeed one litigant who had not kept to his time, for there was no sign of a
Benedictine prior among those assembled, nor had anyone appeared to explain or
justify his absence. And Roger Mauduit, in spite of his stiff and painful arm,
continued to relax, with ever-increasing assurance, into shining complacency.
The appointed hour was already some minutes past when four agitated fellows,
two of them Benedictine brothers, made a hasty entrance, and accosted the
presiding clerk. Sir,”
bleated the leader, loud in nervous dismay, “we here are come from the abbey of
Shrewsbury, escort to our prior, who was on his way to plead a case at law
here. Sir, you must hold him excused, for it is not his blame nor ours that he
cannot appear. In the forest some two miles north, as we rode hither last night
in the dark, we were attacked by a band of lawless robbers, and they have
seized our prior and dragged him away...” The
spokesman’s voice had risen shrilly in his agitation, he had the attention of
every man in the hall by this time. Certainly he had Cadfael’s. Masterless men
some two miles out of Woodstock, plying their trade last night, could only be
the same who had happened upon Roger Mauduit and all but been the death of him.
Any such gang, so close to the court, was astonishing enough, there could
hardly be two. The clerk was outraged at the very idea. “Seized
and captured him? And you four were with him? Can this be true? How many were
they who attacked you?” “We
could not tell for certain. Three at least but they were lying in ambush, we
had no chance to stand them off. They pulled him from his horse and were off
into the trees with him. They knew the woods, and we did not. Sir, we did go
after them, but they beat us off.” It
was evident they had done their best, for two of them showed bruised and
scratched, and all were soiled and torn as to their clothing. “We
have hunted through the night, but found no trace, only we caught his horse a
mile down the highway as we came hither. So we plead here that our prior’s
absence be not seen as a default, for indeed he would have been here in the
town last night if all had gone as it should.” “Hush,
wait!’ said the clerk peremptorily. All
heads had turned towards the door of the hall, where a great flurry of
officials had suddenly surged into view, cleaving through the press with fixed
and ominous haste, to take the centre of the floor below the King’s empty dais.
A chamberlain, elderly and authoritative, struck the floor loudly with his
staff and commanded silence. And at sight of his face silence fell like a
stone. “My
lords, gentlemen, all who have pleas here this day, and all others present, you
are bidden to disperse, for there will be no hearings today. All suits that
should be heard here must be postponed three days, and will be heard by His
Grace’s judges. His Grace the King cannot appear.” This
time the silence fell again like a heavy curtain, muffling even thought or
conjecture. “The
court is in mourning from this hour. We have received news of desolating
import. His Grace with the greater part of his fleet made the crossing to
England safely, as is known, but the Blanche Nef, in which His Grace’s son and
heir, Prince William, with all his companions and many other noble souls were
embarked, put to sea late, and was caught in gales before ever clearing
Barfleur. The ship is lost, split upon a rock, foundered with all hands, not a
soul is come safe to land. Go hence quietly, and pray for the souls of the
flower of this realm.” So
that was the end of one man’s year of triumph, an empty achievement, a ruinous
victory, Normandy won, his enemies routed, and now everything swept aside,
broken apart upon an obstinate rock, washed away in a malicious sea. His only
lawful son, recently married in splendour, now denied even a coffin and a
grave, for if ever they found those royal bodies it would be by the relenting
grace of God, for the sea seldom put its winnings ashore by Barfleur. Even some
of his unlawful sons, of whom there were many, gone down with their royal
brother, no one left but the one legal daughter to inherit a barren empire. Cadfael
walked alone in a corner of the King’s park and considered the foolishness of
mortal vainglory, that was paid for with such a bitter price. But also he
thought of the affairs of little men, to whom even a luckless King owed
justice. For somewhere there was still to be sought the lost prior of
Shrewsbury, carried off by masterless men in the forest, a litigant who might
still be lost three days hence, when his suit came up again for hearing, unless
someone in the meantime knew where to look for him. He
was in little doubt now. A lawless gang at liberty so close to a royal palace
was in any case unlikely enough, and Cadfael was liable to brood on the
unlikely. But that there should be two no, that was impossible. And if one
only, then that same one whose ambush he had overheard at some distance, yet
close enough, too close for comfort, to Roger Mauduit’s hunting-lodge. Probably
the unhappy brothers from Shrewsbury were off beating the wilds of the forest
afresh. Cadfael knew better where to look. No doubt Roger was biting his nails
in some anxiety over the delay, but he had no reason to suppose that three days
would release the captive to appear against him, nor was he paying much
attention to what his Welsh man-at-arms was doing with his time. Cadfael
took his horse and rode back without haste towards the hunting-lodge. He left
in the early dusk, as soon as the evening meal was over in Mauduit’s lodging.
No one was paying any heed to him by that time of day. All Roger had to do was
hold his tongue and keep his wits about him for three days, and the disputed
manor would still be adjudged to him. Everything was beautifully in hand, after
all. Two
of the men-at-arms and one groom had been left behind at the hunting-lodge.
Cadfael doubted if the man they guarded was to be found in the house itself,
for unless he was blindfolded he would be able to gather far too much knowledge
of his surroundings, and the fable of the masterless men would be tossed into
the rubbish-heap. No, he would be held in darkness, or dim light at best, even
during the day, in straw or the rush flooring of a common hut, fed adequately
but plainly and roughly, as wild men might keep a prisoner they were too
cautious to kill, or too superstitious, until they turned him loose in some
remote place, stripped of everything he had of value. On the other hand, he
must be somewhere securely inside the boundary fence, otherwise there would be
too high a risk of his being found. Between the gate and the house there were
trees enough to obscure the large holding of a man of consequence. Somewhere
among the stables and barns, or the now empty kennels, there he must be held. Cadfael
tethered his horse in cover well aside from the lodge and found himself a perch
in a tall oak tree, from which vantage point he could see over the fence into
the courtyard. He
was in luck. The three within fed themselves at leisure before they fed their
prisoner, preferring to wait for dark. By the time the groom emerged from the
hall with a pitcher and a bowl in his hands, Cadfael had his night eyes. They
were quite easy about their charge, expecting no interference from any man. The
groom vanished momentarily between the trees within the enclosure, but appeared
again at one of the low buildings tucked under the fence, set down his pitcher
for a moment while he hoisted clear a heavy wooden bar that held the door fast
shut, and vanished within. The door thudded to after him, as though he had
slammed it shut with his back braced against it, taking no chances even with an
elderly monastic. In a few minutes he emerged again empty-handed, hauled the
bar into place again, and returned, whistling, to the hall and the enjoyment of
Mauduit’s ale. Not
the stables nor the kennels, but a small, stout hay-store built on short wooden
piles raised from the ground. At least the prior would have fairly snug lying. Cadfael
let the last of the light fade before he made a move. The wooden wall was stout
and high, but more than one of the old trees outside leaned a branch over it,
and it was no great labour to climb without and drop into the deep grass
within. He made first for the gate, and quietly unbarred the narrow wicket set
into it. Faint threads of torchlight filtered through the chinks in the hall
shutters, but nothing else stirred. Cadfael laid hold of the heavy bar of the
storehouse door, and eased it silently out of its socket, opening the door by
cautious inches, and whispering through the chink: “Father...?” There
was a sharp rustling of hay within, but no immediate reply. “Father
Prior, is it you? Softly... Are you bound?” A
hesitant and slightly timorous voice said: “No.” And in a moment, with better
assurance: “My son, you are not one of these sinful men?” “Sinful
man I am, but not of their company. Hush, quietly now! I have a horse close by.
I came from Woodstock to find you. Reach me your hand, Father, and come forth.” A
hand came wavering out of the hay-scented darkness to clutch convulsively at
Cadfael’s hand. The pale patch of a tonsured crown gleamed faintly, and a small,
rounded figure crept forth and stepped into the thick grass. He had the wit to
waste no breath then on questions, but stood docile and silent while Cadfael
re-barred the door on emptiness, and, taking him by the hand, led him softly
along the fence to the unfastened wicket in the great gate. Only when the door
was closed as softly behind them did he heave a great, thankful sigh. They
were out, it was done, and no one would be likely to learn of the escape until
morning, Cadfael led the way to where he had left his horse tethered. The
forest lay serene and quiet about them. “You
ride, Father, and I’ll walk with you. It’s no more than two miles into
Woodstock. We’re safe enough now.” Bewildered
and confused by so sudden a reversal, the prior confided and obeyed like a
child. Not until they were out on the silent highroad did he say sadly, “I have
failed of my mission. Son, may God bless you for this kindness which is beyond
my understanding. For how did you know of me, and how could you divine where to
find me? I understand nothing of what has been happening to me. And I am not a
very brave man... But my failure is no fault of yours, and my blessing I owe
you without stint.” “You
have not failed, Father,” said Cadfael simply. “The suit is still unheard, and
will be for three days more. All your companions are safe in Woodstock, except
that they fret and search for you. And if you know where they will be lodging,
I would recommend that you join them now, by night, and stay well out of sight
until the day the case is heard. For if this trap was designed to keep you from
appearing in the King’s court, some further attempt might yet be made. Have you
your evidences safe? They did not take them?” “Brother
Orderic, my clerk, was carrying the documents, but he could not conduct the
case in court. I only am accredited to represent my abbot. But, my son, how is
it that the case still goes unheard? The King keeps strict day and time, it’s
well known. How comes it that God and you have saved me from disgrace and
loss?” “Father,
for all too bitter reason the King could not be present.” Cadfael
told him the whole of it, how half the young chivalry of England had been wiped
out in one blow, and the King left without an heir. Prior Heribert, shocked and
dismayed, fell to praying in a grieving whisper for both dead and living, and
Cadfael walked beside the horse in silence, for what more was there to be said?
Except that King Henry, even in this shattering hour, willed that his justice
should still prevail, and that was virtue in any monarch. Only when they came
into the sleeping town did Cadfael again interrupt the prior’s fervent prayers
with a strange question. “Father,
was any man of your escort carrying steel? A dagger, or any such weapon?” “No,
no, God forbid!’ said the prior, shocked. “We have no use for arms. We trust in
God’s peace, and after it in the King’s.” “So
I thought,” said Cadfael, nodding. “It is another discipline, for another
venture.” By
the change in Mauduit’s countenance Cadfael knew the hour of the following day
when the news reached him that his prisoner was flown. All the rest of that day
he went about with nerves at stretch and ears pricked for any sensational
rumours being bandied around the town, and eyes roving anxiously in dread of
the sight of Prior Heribert in court or street, braced to pour out his
complaint to the King’s officers. But as the hours passed and still there was
no sign, he began to be a little eased in his mind, and to hope still for a
miraculous deliverance. The Benedictine brothers were seen here and there, mute
and sombre-faced; surely they could have had no word of their superior. There
was nothing to be done but set his teeth, keep his countenance, wait and hope. The
second day passed, and the third day came, and Mauduit’s hopes had soared
again, for still there was no word. He made his appearance before the King’s
judge confidently, his charters in hand. The abbey was the suitor. If all went
well, Roger would not even have to state his case, for the plea would fail of
itself when the pleader failed to appear. It
came as a shattering shock when a sudden stir at the door, prompt to the hour
appointed, blew into the hall a small, round, unimpressive person in the
Benedictine habit, hugging to him an armful of vellum rolls, and followed by
his black-gowned brothers in close attendance. Cadfael, too, was observing him
with interest, for it was the first time he had seen him clearly. A modest man
of comfortable figure and amiable countenance, rosy and mild. Not so old as
that night journey had suggested, perhaps forty-five, with a shining innocence
about him. But to Roger Mauduit it might have been a fire-breathing dragon
entering the hall. And
who would have expected, from that gentle, even deprecating presence, the
clarity and expertise with which that small man deployed his original charter,
punctiliously identical to Roger’s, according to the account Alard had given,
and omitting any specific mention of what should follow Arnulf Mauduit’s death,
how scrupulously he pointed out the omission and the arguments to which it
might give rise, and followed it up with two letters written by that same
Arnulf Mauduit to Abbot Fulchered, referring in plain terms to the obligatory
return of the manor and village after his death, and pledging his son’s loyal
observance of the obligation. It
might have been want of proofs that caused Roger to make so poor a job of
refuting the evidence, or it might have been craven conscience. Whatever the
cause, judgement was given for the abbey. Cadfael
presented himself before the lord he was leaving barely an hour after the
verdict was given. “My
lord, your suit is concluded, and my service with it. I have done what I
pledged, here I part from you.” Roger
sat sunk in gloom and rage, and lifted upon him a glare that should have felled
him, but failed of its impact. “I
misdoubt me,” said Roger, smouldering, “how you have observed your loyalty to
me. Who else could know...” He bit his tongue in time, for as long as it
remained unsaid no accusation had been made, and no rebuttal was needed. He
would have liked to ask: How did you know? But he thought better of it. “Go,
then, if you have nothing more to say.” “As
to that,” said Cadfael meaningly, “nothing more need be said. It’s over.” And
that was recognisable as a promise, but with uneasy implications, for plainly
on some other matter he still had a thing to say. “My
lord, give some thought to this, for I was until now in your service, and wish
you no harm. Of those four who attended Prior Heribert on his way here, not one
carried arms. There was neither sword nor dagger nor knife of any kind among
the five of them.” He
saw the significance of that go home, slowly but with bitter force. The
masterless men had been nothing but a children’s tale, but until now Roger had
thought, as he had been meant to think, that that dagger-stroke in the forest
had been a bold attempt by an abbey servant to defend his prior. He blinked and
swallowed and stared, and began to sweat, beholding a perilous gulf into which
he had all but stumbled. “There
were none there who bore arms,” said Cadfael, “but your own.” A
double-edged ambush that had been, to have him out in the forest by night, all
unsuspecting. And there were as many miles between Woodstock and Sutton Mauduit
returning as coming, and there would be other nights as dark on the way. “Who?”
asked Roger in a grating whisper. “Which of them? Give him a name!” “No,”
said Cadfael simply. “Do your own divining. I am no longer in your service, I
have said all I mean to say.” Roger’s
face had turned grey. He was hearing again the plan unfolded so seductively in
his ear. “You cannot leave me so! If you know so much, for God’s sake return
with me, see me safely home, at least. You I could trust!” “No,”
said Cadfael again. “You are warned, now guard yourself.” It
was fair, he considered; it was enough. He turned and went away without another
word. He went, just as he was, to Vespers in the parish church, for no better
reason or so he thought then than that the dimness within the open doorway
beckoned him as he turned his back on a duty completed, inviting him to
quietness and thought, and the bell was just sounding. The little prior was
there, ardent in thanksgiving, one more creature who had fumbled his way to the
completion of a task, and the turning of a leaf in the book of his life. Cadfael
watched out the office, and stood mute and still for some time after priest and
worshippers had departed. The silence after their going was deeper than the
ocean and more secure than the earth. Cadfael breathed and consumed it like new
bread. It was the light touch of a small hand on the hilt of his sword that
startled him out of that profound isolation. He looked down to see a little
acolyte, no higher than his elbow, regarding him gravely from great round eyes of
blinding blue, intent and challenging, as solemn as ever was angelic messenger. “Sir,”
said the child in stern treble reproof, tapping the hilt with an infant finger,
“should not all weapons of war be laid aside here?” “Sir,”
said Cadfael hardly less gravely, though he was smiling, “you may very well be
right.” And slowly he unbuckled the sword from his belt, and went and laid it
down, flatlings, on the lowest step under the altar. It looked strangely
appropriate and at peace there. The hilt, after all, was a cross. Prior
Heribert was at a frugal supper with his happy brothers in the parish priest’s
house when Cadfael asked audience with him. The little man came out graciously
to welcome a stranger, and knew him for an acquaintance at least, and now at a
breath certainly a friend. “You,
my son! And surely it was you at Vespers? I felt that I should know the shape
of you. You are the most welcome of guests here, and if there is anything I and
mine can do to repay you for what you did for us, you need but name it.” “Father,”
said Cadfael, briskly Welsh in his asking, “do you ride for home tomorrow?” “Surely,
my son, we leave after Prime. Abbot Godefrid will be waiting to hear how we
have fared.” Then,
Father, here am I at the turning of my life, free of one master’s service, and
finished with arms. Take me with you!” HAMO
FITZHAMON OF LIDYATE HELD TWO FAT MANORS in the northeastern corner of the
county, towards the border of Cheshire. Though a gross feeder, a heavy drinker,
a self-indulgent lecher, a harsh landlord and a brutal master, he had reached
the age of sixty in the best of health, and it came as a salutary shock to him
when he was at last taken with a mild seizure, and for the first time in his
life saw the next world yawning before him, and woke to the uneasy
consciousness that it might see fit to treat him somewhat more austerely than
this world had done. Though he repented none of them, he was aware of a whole
register of acts in his past which heaven might construe as heavy sins. It
began to seem to him a prudent precaution to acquire merit for his soul as
quickly as possible. Also as cheaply, for he was a grasping and possessive man.
A judicious gift to some holy house should secure the welfare of his soul.
There was no need to go so far as endowing an abbey, or a new church of his
own. The Benedictine abbey of Shrewsbury could put up a powerful assault of
prayers on his behalf in return for a much more modest gift. The
thought of alms to the poor, however ostentatiously bestowed in the first
place, did not recommend itself. Whatever was given would be soon consumed and
forgotten, and a rag-tag of beggarly blessings from the indigent could carry
very little weight, besides failing to confer a lasting lustre upon himself.
No, he wanted something that would continue in daily use and daily respectful
notice, a permanent reminder of his munificence and piety. He took his time
about making his decision, and when he was satisfied of the best value he could
get for the least expenditure, he sent his law-man to Shrewsbury to confer with
abbot and prior, and conclude with due ceremony and many witnesses the charter
that conveyed to the custodian of the altar of St Mary, within the abbey
church, one of his free tenant farmers, the rent to provide light for Our
Lady’s altar throughout the year. He promised also, for the proper displaying
of his charity, the gift of a pair of fine silver candlesticks, which he
himself would bring and see installed on the altar at the coming Christmas
feast. Abbot
Heribert, who after a long life of repeated disillusionments still contrived to
think the best of everybody, was moved to tears by this penitential generosity.
Prior Robert, himself an aristocrat, refrained, out of Norman solidarity, from
casting doubt upon Hamo’s motive, but he elevated his eyebrows, all the same.
Brother Cadfael, who knew only the public reputation of the donor, and was
sceptical enough to suspend judgement until he encountered the source, said
nothing, and waited to observe and decide for himself. Not that he expected
much; he had been in the world fifty-five years, and learned to temper all his
expectations, bad or good. It
was with mild and detached interest that he observed the arrival of the party
from Lidyate, on the morning of Christmas Eve. A hard, cold Christmas it was
proving to be, that year of 1135, all bitter black frost and grudging snow,
thin and sharp as whips before a withering east wind. The weather had been
vicious all the year, and the harvest a disaster. In the villages people
shivered and starved, and Brother Oswald the almoner fretted and grieved the
more that the alms he had to distribute were not enough to keep all those
bodies and souls together. The sight of a cavalcade of three good riding
horses, ridden by travellers richly wrapped up from the cold, and followed by
two pack-ponies, brought all the wretched petitioners crowding and crying,
holding out hands blue with frost. All they got out of it was a single
perfunctory handful of small coin, and when they hampered his movements
FitzHamon used his whip as a matter of course to clear the way. Rumour, thought
Brother Cadfael, pausing on his way to the infirmary with his daily medicines
for the sick, had probably not done Hamo FitzHamon any injustice. Dismounting
in the great court, the knight of Lidyate was seen to be a big, over-fleshed,
top-heavy man with bushy hair and beard and eyebrows, all grey-streaked from
their former black, and stiff and bristling as wire. He might well have been a
very handsome man before indulgence purpled his face and pocked his skin and
sank his sharp black eyes deep into flabby sacks of flesh. He looked more than
his age, but still a man to be reckoned with. The
second horse carried his lady, pillion behind a groom. A small figure she made,
even swathed almost to invisibility in her woollens and furs, and she rode
snuggled comfortably against the groom’s broad back, her arms hugging him round
the waist. And a very well-looking young fellow he was, this groom, a strapping
lad barely twenty years old, with round, ruddy cheeks and merry, guileless
eyes, long in the legs, wide in the shoulders, everything a country youth
should be, and attentive to his duties into the bargain, for he was down from
the saddle in one lithe leap, and reaching up to take the lady by the waist,
every bit as heartily as she had been clasping him a moment before, and lift
her lightly down. Small, gloved hands rested on his shoulders a brief moment
longer than was necessary. His respectful support of her continued until she
was safe on the ground and sure of her footing; perhaps a few seconds more.
Hamo FitzHamon was occupied with Prior Robert’s ceremonious welcome, and the
attentions of the hospitaller, who had made the best rooms of the guest-hall
ready for him. The
third horse also carried two people, but the woman on the pillion did not wait
for anyone to help her down, but slid quickly to the ground and hurried to help
her mistress off with the great outer cloak in which she had travelled. A
quiet, submissive young woman, perhaps in her middle twenties, perhaps older,
in drab homespun, her hair hidden away under a coarse linen wimple. Her face
was thin and pale, her skin dazzlingly fair, and her eyes, reserved and weary,
were of a pale, clear blue, a fierce colour that ill suited their humility and
resignation. Lifting
the heavy folds from her lady’s shoulders, the maid showed a head the taller of
the two, but drab indeed beside the bright little bird that emerged from the
cloak. Lady FitzHamon came forth graciously smiling on the world in scarlet and
brown, like a robin, and just as confidently. She had dark hair braided about a
small, shapely head, soft, full cheeks flushed rosy by the chill air, and large
dark eyes assured of their charm and power. She could not possibly have been
more than thirty, probably not so much. FitzHamon had a grown son somewhere,
with children of his own, and waiting, some said with little patience, for his
inheritance. This girl must be a second or a third wife, a good deal younger
than her stepson, and a beauty, at that. Hamo was secure enough and important
enough to keep himself supplied with wives as he wore them out. This one must
have cost him dear, for she had not the air of a poor but pretty relative sold
for a profitable alliance, rather she looked as if she knew her own status very
well indeed, and meant to have it acknowledged She would look well presiding
over the high table at Lidyate, certainly, which was probably the main
consideration. The
groom behind whom the maid had ridden was an older man, lean and wiry, with a
face like the bole of a knotty oak. By the sardonic patience of his eyes he had
been in close and relatively favoured attendance on FitzHamon for many years,
knew the best and the worst his moods could do, and was sure of his own ability
to ride the storms. Without a word he set about unloading the pack-horses, and
followed his lord to the guest-hall, while the young man took FitzHamon’s
bridle, and led the horses away to the stables. Cadfael
watched the two women cross to the doorway, the lady springy as a young hind,
with bright eyes taking in everything around her, the tall maid keeping always
a pace behind, with long steps curbed to keep her distance. Even thus,
frustrated like a mewed hawk, she had a graceful gait. Almost certainly of
villein stock, like the two grooms. Cadfael had long practice in distinguishing
the free from the unfree. Not that the free had any easy life, often they were
worse off than the villeins of their neighbourhood; there were plenty of free
men, this Christmas, gaunt and hungry, forced to hold out begging hands among
the throng round the gatehouse. Freedom, the first ambition of every man, still
could not fill the bellies of wives and children in a bad season. FitzHamon
and his party appeared at Vespers in full glory, to see the candlesticks
reverently installed upon the altar in the Lady Chapel. Abbot, prior and
brothers had no difficulty in sufficiently admiring the gift, for they were
indeed things of beauty, two fluted stems ending in the twin cups of flowering
lilies. Even the veins of the leaves showed delicate and perfect as in the
living plant. Brother Oswald the almoner, himself a skilled silversmith when he
had time to exercise his craft, stood gazing at the new embellishments of the
altar with a face and mind curiously torn between rapture and regret, and
ventured to delay the donor for a moment, as he was being ushered away to sup
with Abbot Heribert in his lodging. “My
lord, these are of truly noble workmanship. I have some knowledge of precious
metals, and of the most notable craftsmen in these parts, but I never saw any
work so true to the plant as this. A countryman’s eye is here, but the hand of
a court craftsman. May we know who made them?” FitzHamon’s
marred face curdled into deeper purple, as if an unpardonable shadow had been
cast upon his hour of self-congratulation. He said brusquely: “I commissioned
them from a fellow in my own service. You would not know his name a villein
born, but he had some skill.” And with that he swept on, avoiding further
question, and wife and men-servants and maid trailed after him. Only the older
groom, who seemed less in awe of his lord than anyone, perhaps by reason of
having so often presided over the ceremony of carrying him dead-drunk to his
bed, turned back for a moment to pluck at Brother Oswald’s sleeve, and advise
him in a confidential whisper: “You’ll find him short to question on that head.
The silversmith Alard, his name was cut and ran from his service last
Christmas, and for all they hunted him as far as London, where the signs
pointed, he’s never been found. I’d let that matter lie, if I were you.” And
with that he trotted away after his master, and left several thoughtful faces
staring after him. “Not
a man to part willingly with any property of his,” mused Brother Cadfael,
“metal or man, but for a price, and a steep price at that.” “Brother,
be ashamed!” reproved Brother Jerome at his elbow. “Has he not parted with
these very treasures from pure charity?” Cadfaei
refrained from elaborating on the profit FitzHamon expected for his
benevolence. It was never worth arguing with Jerome, who in any case knew as
well as anyone that the silver lilies and the rent of one farm were no free
gift. But Brother Oswald said grievingly: “I wish he had directed his charity
better. Surely these are beautiful things, a delight to the eyes, but well
sold, they could have provided money enough to buy the means of keeping my
poorest petitioners alive through the winter, some of whom will surely die for the
want of them.” Brother
Jerome was scandalised. “Has he not given them to Our Lady herself?” he
lamented indignantly. “Beware of the sin of those apostles who cried out with
the same complaint against the woman who brought the pot of spikenard, and poured
it over the Saviour’s feet. Remember Our Lord’s reproof to them, that they
should let her alone, for she had done well!” “Our
Lord was acknowledging a well-meant impulse of devotion,” said Brother Oswald
with spirit, “He did not say it was well advised! “She hath done what she
could” is what he said. He never said that with a little thought she might not
have done better. What use would it have been to wound the giver, after the
thing was done? Spilled oil of spikenard could hardly be recovered.” His
eyes dwelt with love and compunction upon the silver lilies, with their tall
stems of wax and flame. For these remained, and to divert them to other use was
still possible, or would have been possible if the donor had been a more
approachable man. He had, after all, a right to dispose as he wished of his own
property. “It
is sin,” admonished Jerome sanctimoniously, “even to covet for other use,
however worthy, that which has been given to Our Lady. The very thought is
sin.” “If
Our Lady could make her own will known,” said Brother Cadfael drily, “we might
learn which is the graver sin, and which the more acceptable sacrifice.” “Could
any price be too high for the lighting of this holy altar?” demanded Jerome. It
was a good question, Cadfael thought, as they went to supper in the refectory.
Ask Brother Jordan, for instance, the value of light. Jordan was old and frail,
and gradually going blind. As yet he could distinguish shapes, but like shadows
in a dream, though he knew his way about cloisters and precincts so well that
his gathering darkness was no hindrance to his freedom of movement. But as
every day the twilight closed in on him by a shade, so did his profound love of
light grow daily more devoted, until he had forsaken other duties, and taken
upon himself to tend all the lamps and candles on both altars, for the sake of
being always irradiated by light, and sacred light, at that. As soon as
Compline was over, this evening, he would be busy devoutly trimming the wicks
of candle and lamp, to have the steady flames smokeless and immaculate for the
Matins of Christmas Day. Doubtful if he would go to his bed at all until Matins
and Lauds were over. The very old need little sleep, and sleep is itself a kind
of darkness. But what Jordan treasured was the flame of light, and not the
vessel holding it; and would not those splendid two-pound candles shine upon
him just as well from plain wooden sconces? Cadfael
was in the warming-house with the rest of the brothers, about a quarter of an
hour before Compline, when a lay brother from the guest-hall came enquiring for
him. “The
lady asks if you’ll speak with her. She’s complaining of a bad head, and that
she’ll never be able to sleep. Brother Hospitaller recommended her to you for a
remedy.” Cadfael
went with him without comment, but with some curiosity, for at Vespers the Lady
FitzHamon had looked in blooming health and sparkling spirits. Nor did she seem
greatly changed when he met her in the hall, though she was still swathed in
the cloak she had worn to cross the great court to and from the abbot’s house,
and had the hood so drawn that it shadowed her face. The silent maid hovered at
her shoulder. “You
are Brother Cadfael? They tell me you are expert in herbs and medicines, and
can certainly help me. I came early back from the lord abbot’s supper, with
such a headache, and have told my lord that I shall go early to bed. But I have
such disturbed sleep, and with this pain how shall I be able to rest? Can you
give me some draught that will ease me? They say you have a perfect
apothecarium in your herb garden, and all your own work, growing, gathering,
drying, brewing and all. There must be something there that can soothe pain and
bring deep sleep.” Well,
thought Cadfael, small blame to her if she sometimes sought a means to ward off
her old husband’s rough attentions for a night, especially for a festival night
when he was likely to have drunk heavily. Nor was it Cadfael’s business to
question whether the petitioner really needed his remedies. A guest might ask
for whatever the house afforded. “I
have a syrup of my own making,” he said, “which may do you good service. I’ll
bring you a vial of it from my workshop store.” “May
I come with you? I should like to see your workshop,” She had forgotten to
sound frail and tired, the voice could have been a curious child’s. “As I
already am cloaked and shod,” she said winningly. “We just returned from the
lord abbot’s table.” “But
should you not go in from the cold, madam? Though the snow’s swept here in the
court, it lies on some of the garden paths,” “A
few minutes in the fresh air will help me,” she said, “before trying to sleep.
And it cannot be far,” It
was not far. Once away from the subdued lights of the buildings they were aware
of the stars, snapping like sparks from a cold fire, in a clear black sky just
engendering a few tattered snow-clouds in the east. In the garden, between the
pleached hedges, it seemed almost warm, as though the sleeping trees breathed
tempered air as well as cutting off the bleak wind. The silence was profound.
The herb garden was walled, and the wooden hut where Cadfael brewed and stored
his medicines was sheltered from the worst of the cold. Once inside, and a
small lamp kindled, Lady FitzHamon forgot her invalid role in wonder and
delight, looking round her with bright, inquisitive eyes. The maid, submissive
and still, scarcely turned her head, but her eyes ranged from left to right,
and a faint colour touched life into her cheeks. The many faint, sweet scents
made her nostrils quiver, and her lips curve just perceptibly with pleasure. Curious
as a cat, the lady probed into every sack and jar and box, peered at mortars
and bottles, and asked a hundred questions in a breath. “And
this is rosemary, these little dried needles? And in this great sack is it grain?”
She plunged her hands wrist-deep inside the neck of it, and the hut was filled
with sweetness. “Lavender? Such a great harvest of it? Do you, then, prepare
perfumes for us women?” “Lavender
has other good properties,” said Cadfael. He was filling a small vial with a
clear syrup he made from eastern poppies, a legacy of his crusading years. “It
is helpful for all disorders that trouble the head and spirit, and its scent is
calming. I’ll give you a little pillow filled with that and other herbs, that shall
help to bring you sleep. But this draught will ensure it. You may take all that
I give you here, and get no harm, only a good night’s rest.” She
had been playing inquisitively with a pile of small clay dishes he kept by his
work-bench, rough dishes in which the fine seeds sifted from fruiting plants
could be spread to dry out; but she came at once to gaze eagerly at the modest
vial he presented to her. “Is it enough? It takes much to give me sleep.” “This,”
he assured her patiently, “would bring sleep to a strong man. But it will not
harm even a delicate lady like you.” She
took it in her hand with a small, sleek smile of satisfaction. “Then I thank
you indeed! I will make a gift shall I? to your almoner in requital. Elfgiva,
you bring the little pillow. I shall breathe it all night long. It should
sweeten dreams.” So
her name was Elfgiva. A Norse name. She had Norse eyes, as he had already
noted, blue as ice, and pale, fine skin worn finer and whiter by weariness. All
this time she had noted everything that passed, motionless, and never said
word. Was she older, or younger, than her lady? There was no guessing. The one
was so clamant, and the other so still. He
put out his lamp and closed the door, and led them back to the great court just
in time to take leave of them and still be prompt for Compline. Clearly the
lady had no intention of attending. As for the lord, he was just being helped
away from the abbot’s lodging, his grooms supporting him one on either side,
though as yet he was not gravely drunk. They headed for the guest-hall at an
easy roll. No doubt only the hour of Compline had concluded the drawn-out
supper, probably to the abbot’s considerable relief. He was no drinker, and
could have very little in common with Hamo FitzHamon. Apart, of course, from a
deep devotion to the altar of St. Mary. The
lady and her maid had already vanished within the guest-hall. The younger groom
carried in his free hand a large jug, full, to judge by the way he held it. The
young wife could drain her draught and clutch her herbal pillow with
confidence; the drinking was not yet at an end, and her sleep would be solitary
and untroubled. Brother Cadfael went to Compline mildly sad, and obscurely
comforted. Only
when service was ended, and the brothers on the way to their beds, did he
remember that he had left his flask of poppy syrup unstoppered. Not that it
would come to any harm in the frosty night, but his sense of fitness drove him
to go and remedy the omission before he slept. His
sandalled feet, muffled in strips of woollen cloth for warmth and safety on the
frozen paths, made his coming quite silent, and he was already reaching out a
hand to the latch of the door, but not yet touching, when he was brought up
short and still by the murmur of voices within. Soft, whispering, dreamy voices
that made sounds less and more than speech, caresses rather than words, though
once at least words surfaced for a moment. A man’s voice, young, wary, saying:
“But how if he does ...?” And a woman’s soft, suppressed laughter: “He’ll sleep
till morning, never fear!” And her words were suddenly hushed with kissing, and
her laughter became huge, ecstatic sighs; the young man’s breath heaving
triumphantly, but still, a moment later, the note of fear again, half-enjoyed:
“Still, you know him, he may...” And she, soothing: “Not for an hour, at
least... then we’ll go... it will grow cold here...” That,
at any rate, was true; small fear of them wishing to sleep out the night here,
even two close-wrapped in one cloak on the bench-bed against the wooden wall.
Brother Cadfael withdrew very circumspectly from the herb garden, and made his
way back in chastened thought towards the dortoir. Now he knew who had
swallowed that draught of his, and it was not the lady. In the pitcher of wine
the young groom had been carrying? Enough for a strong man, even if he had not
been drunk already. Meantime, no doubt, the body-servant was left to put his
lord to bed, somewhere apart from the chamber where the lady lay supposedly
nursing her indisposition and sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Ah, well, it
was no business of Cadfael’s, nor had he any intention of getting involved. He
did not feel particularly censorious. Doubtful if she ever had any choice about
marrying Hamo; and with this handsome boy for ever about them, to point the
contrast... A brief experience of genuine passion, echoing old loves, pricked
sharply through the years of his vocation. At least he knew what he was
condoning. And who could help feeling some admiration for her opportunist
daring, the quick wit that had procured the means, the alert eye that had
seized on the most remote and adequate shelter available? Cadfael
went to bed, and slept without dreams, and rose at the Matin bell, some minutes
before midnight. The procession of the brothers wound its way down the night
stairs into the church, and into the soft, full glow of the lights before St
Mary’s altar. Withdrawn
reverently some yards from the step of the altar, old Brother Jordan, who
should long ago have been in his cell with the rest, kneeled upright with
clasped hands and ecstatic face, in which the great, veiled eyes stared full
into the light he loved. When Prior Robert exclaimed in concern at finding him
there on the stones, and laid a hand on his shoulder, he started as if out of a
trance, and lifted to them a countenance itself all light. “Oh,
brothers; I have been so blessed! I have lived through a wonder... Praise God
that ever it was granted to me! But bear with me, for I am forbidden to speak
of it to any, for three days. On the third day from today I may speak...!” “Look,
brothers!’ wailed Jerome suddenly, pointing. “Look at the altar!” Every
man present, except Jordan, who still serenely prayed and smiled, turned to
gape where Jerome pointed. The tall candles stood secured by drops of their own
wax in two small clay dishes, such as Cadfael used for sorting seeds. The two
silver lilies were gone from the place of honour. Through
loss, disorder, consternation and suspicion, Prior Robert would still hold fast
to the order of the day. Let Hamo FitzHamon sleep in happy ignorance till
morning, still Matins and Lauds must be properly celebrated. Christmas was
larger than all the giving and losing of silverware. Grimly he saw the services
of the church observed, and despatched the brethren back to their beds until
Prime, to sleep or lie wakeful and fearful, as they might. Nor would he allow
any pestering of Brother Jerome by others, though possibly he did try in
private to extort something more satisfactory from the old man. Clearly the
theft, whether he knew anything about it or not, troubled Jordan not at all. To
everything he said only: “I am enjoined to silence until midnight of the third
day.” And when they asked by whom? he smiled seraphically, and was silent. It
was Robert himself who broke the news to Hamo FitzHamon, in the morning, before
Mass. The uproar, though vicious, was somewhat tempered by the after-effects of
Cadfael’s poppy draught, which dulled the edges of energy, if not of malice.
His body-servant, the older groom Sweyn, was keeping well back out of reach,
even with Robert still present, and the lady sat somewhat apart, too, as though
still frail and possibly a little out of temper. She exclaimed dutifully, and
apparently sincerely, at the outrage done to her husband, and echoed his demand
that the thief should be hunted down, and the candlesticks recovered. Prior
Robert was just as zealous in the matter. No effort should be spared to regain
the princely gift, of that they could be sure. He had already made certain of
various circumstances which should limit the hunt. There had been a brief fall
of snow after Compline, just enough to lay down a clean film of white on the
ground. No single footprint had as yet marked this pure layer. He had only to
look for himself at the paths leading from both parish doors of the church to
see that no one had left by that way. The porter would swear that no one had
passed the gatehouse; and on the one side of the abbey grounds not walled, the
Meole brook was full and frozen, but the snow on both sides of it was virgin.
Within the enclave, of course, tracks and cross-tracks were trodden out
everywhere; but no one had left the enclave since Compline, when the
candlesticks were still in their place. “So
the miscreant is still within the walls?” said Hamo, glinting vengefully. “So
much the better! Then his booty is still here within, too, and if we have to
turn all your abode doors out of dortoirs, we’ll find it! It, and him!” “We
will search everywhere,” agreed Robert, “and question every man. We are as
deeply offended as your lordship at this blasphemous crime. You may yourself
oversee the search, if you will.” So
all that Christmas Day, alongside the solemn rejoicings in the church, an angry
hunt raged about the precincts in full cry. It was not difficult for all the
monks to account for their time to the last minute, their routine being so
ordered that brother inevitably extricated brother from suspicion; and such as
had special duties that took them out of the general view, like Cadfael in his
visit to the herb garden, had all witnesses to vouch for them. The lay brothers
ranged more freely, but tended to work in pairs, at least. The servants and the
few guests protested their innocence, and if they had not, all of them, others
willing to prove it, neither could Hamo prove the contrary. When it came to his
own two grooms, there were several witnesses to testify that Sweyn had returned
to his bed in the lofts of the stables as soon as he had put his lord to bed,
and certainly empty-handed; and Sweyn, as Cadfael noted with interest, swore
unblinkingly that young Madoc, who had come in an hour after him, had none the
less returned with him, and spent that hour, at Sweyn’s order, tending one of
the pack-ponies, which showed signs of a cough, and that otherwise they had
been together throughout. A
villein instinctively closing ranks with his kind against his lord? wondered
Cadfael. Or does Sweyn know very well where that young man was last night, or
at least what he was about, and is he intent on protecting him from a worse
vengeance? No wonder Madoc looked a shade less merry and ruddy than usual this
morning, though on the whole he kept his countenance very well, and refrained
from even looking at the lady, while her tone to him was cool, sharp and
distant. Cadfael
left them hard at it again after the miserable meal they made of dinner, and
went into the church alone. While they were feverishly searching every corner
for the candlesticks he had forborne from taking part, but now they were
elsewhere he might find something of interest there. He would not be looking
for anything so obvious as two large silver candlesticks. He made obeisance at
the altar, and mounted the step to look closely at the burning candles. No one
had paid any attention to the modest containers that had been substituted for
Hamo’s gift, and just as well, in the circumstances, that Cadfael’s workshop
was very little visited, or these little clay pots might have been recognised
as coming from there. He moulded and baked them himself as he wanted them. He
had no intention of condoning theft, but neither did he relish the idea of any
creature, however sinful, falling into Hamo FitzHamon’s mercies. Something
long and fine, a thread of silver-gold, was caught and coiled in the wax at the
base of one candle. Carefully he detached candle from holder, and unlaced from
it a long, pale hair; to make sure of retaining it, he broke off the
imprisoning disc of wax with it, and then hoisted and turned the candle to see
if anything else was to be found under it. One tiny oval dot showed; with a
fingernail he extracted a single seed of lavender. Left in the dish from
beforetime? He thought not. The stacked pots were all empty. No, this had been
brought here in the fold of a sleeve, most probably, and shaken out while the
candle was being transferred. The
lady had plunged both hands with pleasure into the sack of lavender, and moved
freely about his workshop investigating everything. It would have been easy to
take two of these dishes unseen, and wrap them in a fold of her cloak. Even
more plausible, she might have delegated the task to young Madoc, when they
crept away from their assignation. Supposing, say, they had reached the
desperate point of planning flight together, and needed funds to set them on
their way to some safe refuge... yes, there were possibilities. In the
meantime, the grain of lavender had given Cadfael another idea. And there was,
of course, that long, fine hair, pale as flax, but brighter. The boy was fair.
But so fair? He
went out through the frozen garden to his herbarium, shut himself securely into
his workshop, and opened the sack of lavender, plunging both arms to the elbow
and groping through the chill, smooth sweetness that parted and slid like
grain. They were there, well down, his fingers traced the shape first of one,
then a second. He sat down to consider what must be done. Finding
the lost valuables did not identify the thief. He could produce and restore
them at once, but FitzHamon would certainly pursue the hunt vindictively until
he found the culprit; and Cadfael had seen enough of him to know that it might
cost life and all before this complainant was satisfied. He needed to know more
before he would hand over any man to be done to death. Better not leave the things
here, however. He doubted if they would ransack his hut, but they might. He
rolled the candlesticks in a piece of sacking, and thrust them into the centre
of the pleached hedge where it was thickest. The meagre, frozen snow had
dropped with the brief sun. His arm went in to the shoulder, and when he
withdrew it, the twigs sprang back and covered all, holding the package
securely. Whoever had first hidden it would surely come by night to reclaim it,
and show a human face at last. It
was well that he had moved it, for the searchers, driven by an increasingly
angry Hamo, reached his hut before Vespers, examined everything within it,
while he stood by to prevent actual damage to his medicines, and went away
satisfied that what they were seeking was not there. They had not, in fact,
been very thorough about the sack of lavender, the candlesticks might well have
escaped notice even if he had left them there. It did not occur to anyone to
tear the hedges apart, luckily. When they were gone, to probe all the fodder
and grain in the barns, Cadfael restored the silver to its original place. Let
the bait lie safe in the trap until the quarry came to claim it, as he surely
would, once relieved of the fear that the hunters might find it first. Cadfael
kept watch that night. He had no difficulty in absenting himself from the
dortoir, once everyone was in bed and asleep. His cell was by the night stairs,
and the prior slept at the far end of the long room, and slept deeply. And
bitter though the night air was, the sheltered hut was barely colder than his
cell, and he kept blankets there for swathing some of his jars and bottles
against frost. He took his little box with tinder and flint, and hid himself in
the corner behind the door. It might be a wasted vigil; the thief, having
survived one day, might think it politic to venture yet another before removing
his spoils. But
it was not wasted. He reckoned it might be as late as ten o’clock when he heard
a light hand at the door. Two hours before the bell would sound for Matins,
almost two hours since the household had retired. Even the guest-hall should be
silent and asleep by now; the hour was carefully chosen. Cadfael held his
breath, and waited. The door swung open, a shadow stole past him, light steps
felt their way unerringly to where the sack of lavender was propped against the
wall. Equally silently Cadfael swung the door to again, and set his back
against it. Only then did he strike a spark, and hold the blown flame to the
wick of his little lamp. She
did not start or cry out, or try to rush past him and escape into the night.
The attempt would not have succeeded, and she had had long practice in enduring
what could not be cured. She stood facing him as the small flame steadied and
burned taller, her face shadowed by the hood of her cloak, the candlesticks
clasped possessively to her breast. “Elfgiva!’
said Brother Cadfael gently. And then: “Are you here for yourself, or for your
mistress?” But he thought he knew the answer already. That frivolous young wife
would never really leave her rich husband and easy life, however tedious and
unpleasant Hamo’s attentions might be, to risk everything with her penniless
villein lover. She would only keep him to enjoy in secret whenever she felt it
safe. Even when the old man died she would submit to marriage at an overlord’s
will to another equally distasteful. She was not the stuff of which heroines
and adventurers are made. This was another kind of woman. Cadfael
went close, and lifted a hand gently to put back the hood from her head. She
was tall, a hand’s-breadth taller than he, and erect as one of the lilies she
clasped. The net that had covered her hair was drawn off with the hood, and a
great flood of silver-gold streamed about her in the dim light, framing the
pale face and startling blue eyes. Norse hair! The Danes had left their seed as
far south as Cheshire, and planted this tall flower among them. She was no
longer plain, tired and resigned. In this dim but loving light she shone in
austere beauty! Just so must Brother Jordan’s veiled eyes have seen her. “Now
I see!” said Cadfael. “You came into the Lady Chapel, and shone upon our
half-blind brother’s darkness as you shine here. You are the visitation that
brought him awe and bliss, and enjoined silence upon him for three days.” The
voice he had scarcely heard speak a word until then, a voice level, low and
beautiful, said: “I made no claim to be what I am not. It was he who mistook
me. I did not refuse the gift.” “I
understand. You had not thought to find anyone there, he took you by surprise
as you took him. He took you for Our Lady herself, disposing as she saw fit of
what had been given her. And you made him promise you three days’ grace.” The
lady had plunged her hands into the sack, yes, but Elfgiva had carried the
pillow, and a grain or two had filtered through the muslin to betray her. “Yes,”
she said, watching him with unwavering blue eyes. “So
in the end you had nothing against him making known how the candlesticks were
stolen.” It was not an accusation, he was pursuing his way to understanding. But
at once she said clearly: “I did not steal them. I took them. I will restore
them to their owner.” “Then
you don’t claim they are yours?” “No,”
she said, “they are not mine. But neither are they FitzHamon’s.” “Do
you tell me,” said Cadfael mildly, “that there has been no theft at all?” “Oh,
yes,” said Elfgiva, and her pallor burned into a fierce brightness, and her
voice vibrated like a harp-string. “Yes, there has been a theft, and a vile,
cruel theft, too, but not here, not now. The theft was a year ago, when
FitzHamon received these candlesticks from Alard who made them, his villein,
like me. Do you know what the promised price was for these? Manumission for
Alard, and marriage with me, what we had begged of him three years and more.
Even in villeinage we would have married and been thankful. But he promised
freedom! Free man makes free wife, and I was promised, too. But when he got the
fine works he wanted, then he refused the promised price. He laughed! I saw, I
heard him! He kicked Alard away from him like a dog. So what was his due, and
denied him, Alard took. He ran! On St Stephen’s Day he ran!” “And
left you behind?” said Cadfael gently. “What
chance had he to take me? Or even to bid me farewell? He was thrust out to manual
labour on FitzHamon’s other manor. When his chance came, he took it and fled. I
was not sad! I rejoiced! Whether I live or die, whether he remembers or forgets
me, he is free. No, but in two days more he will be free. For a year and a day
he will have been working for his living in his own craft, in a charter
borough, and after that he cannot be haled back into servitude, even if they
find him.” “I
do not think,” said Brother Cadfael, “that he will have forgotten you! Now I
see why our brother may speak after three days. It will be too late then to try
to reclaim a runaway serf. And you hold that these exquisite things you are
cradling belong by right to Alard who made them?” “Surely,”
she said, “seeing he never was paid for them, they are still his.” “And
you are setting out tonight to take them to him. Yes! As I heard it, they had
some cause to pursue him towards London... indeed, into London, though they
never found him. Have you had better word of him? From him?” The
pale face smiled. “Neither he nor I can read or write. And whom should he trust
to carry word until his time is complete, and he is free? No, never any word.” “But
Shrewsbury is also a charter borough, where the unfree may work their way to
freedom in a year and a day. And sensible boroughs encourage the coming of good
craftsmen, and will go far to hide and protect them. I know! So you think he
may be here. And the trail towards London a false trail. True, why should he
run so far, when there’s help so near? But, daughter, what if you do not find
him in Shrewsbury?” “Then
I will look for him elsewhere until I do. I can live as a runaway, too, I have
skills, I can make my own way until I do get word of him. Shrewsbury can as
well make room for a good seamstress as for a man’s gifts, and someone in the
silversmith’s craft will know where to find a brother so talented as Alard. I
shall find him!” “And
when you do? Oh, child, have you looked beyond that?” To
the very end,” said Elfgiva firmly. “If I find him and he no longer wants me,
no longer thinks of me, if he is married and has put me out of his mind, then I
will deliver him these things that belong to him, to do with as he pleases, and
go my own way and make my own life as best I may without him. And wish well to
him as long as I live.” Oh,
no, small fear, she would not be easily forgotten, not in a year, not in many
years. “And if he is utterly glad of you, and loves you still?” “Then,”
she said, gravely smiling, “if he is of the same mind as I, I have made a vow
to Our Lady, who lent me her semblance in the old man’s eyes, that we will sell
these candlesticks where they may fetch their proper price, and that price
shall be delivered to your almoner to feed the hungry. And that will be our
gift, Alard’s and mine, though no one will ever know it.” “Our
Lady will know it,” said Cadfael, “and so shall I. Now, how were you planning
to get out of this enclave and into Shrewsbury? Both our gates and the town
gates are closed until morning.” She
lifted eloquent shoulders. “The parish doors are not barred. And even if I
leave tracks, will it matter, provided I find a safe hiding-place inside the
town?” “And
wait in the cold of the night? You would freeze before morning. No, let me
think. We can do better for you than that.” Her
lips shaped: “We?” in silence, wondering, but quick to understand. She did not
question his decisions, as he had not questioned hers. He thought he would long
remember the slow, deepening smile, the glow of warmth mantling her cheeks.
“You believe me!” she said. “Every
word! Here, give me the candlesticks, let me wrap them, and do you put up your
hair again in net and hood. We’ve had no fresh snow since morning, the path to
the parish door is well trodden, no one will know your tracks among the many.
And, girl, when you come to the town end of the bridge there’s a little house
off to the left, under the wall, close to the town gate. Knock there and ask
for shelter over the night till the gates open, and say that Brother Cadfael
sent you. They know me, I doctored their son when he was sick. They’ll give you
a warm corner and a place to lie, for kindness’ sake, and ask no questions, and
answer none from others, either. And likely they’ll know where to find the
silversmiths of the town, to set you on your way.” She
bound up her pale, bright hair and covered her head, wrapping the cloak about
her, and was again the maidservant in homespun. She obeyed without question his
every word, moved silently at his back round the great court by way of the
shadows, halting when he halted, and so he brought her to the church, and let
her out by the parish door into the public street, still a good hour before
Matins. At the last moment she said, close at his shoulder within the half-open
door. “I shall be grateful always. Some day I shall send you word.” “No
need for words,” said Brother Cadfael, “if you send me the sign I shall be
waiting for. Go now, quickly, there’s not a soul stirring.” She
was gone, lightly and silently, flitting past the abbey gatehouse like a tall
shadow, towards the bridge and the town. Cadfael closed the door softly, and
went back up the night stairs to the dortoir, too late to sleep, but in good
time to rise at the sound of the bell, and return in procession to celebrate
Matins. There
was, of course, the resultant uproar to face next morning, and he could not
afford to avoid it, there was too much at stake. Lady FitzHamon naturally
expected her maid to be in attendance as soon as she opened her eyes, and
raised a petulant outcry when there was no submissive shadow waiting to dress
her and do her hair. Calling failed to summon and search to find Elfgiva, but
it was an hour or more before it dawned on the lady that she had lost her
accomplished maid for good. Furiously she made her own toilet, unassisted, and
raged out to complain to her husband, who had risen before her, and was waiting
for her to accompany him to Mass. At her angry declaration that Elfgiva was
nowhere to be found, and must have run away during the night, he first scoffed,
for why should a sane girl take herself off into a killing frost when she had
warmth and shelter and enough to eat where she was? Then he made the inevitable
connection, and let out a roar of rage. “Gone,
is she? And my candlesticks gone with her, I dare swear! So it was she! The
foul little thief! But I’ll have her yet, I’ll drag her back, she shall not
live to enjoy her ill-gotten gains...” It
seemed likely that the lady would heartily endorse all this; her mouth was
already open to echo him when Brother Cadfael, brushing her sleeve close as the
agitated brothers ringed the pair, contrived to shake a few grains of lavender
on to her wrist. Her mouth closed abruptly. She gazed at the tiny things for
the briefest instant before she shook them off, she flashed an even briefer
glance at Brother Cadfael, caught his eye, and heard in a rapid whisper:
“Madam, softly! proof of the maid’s innocence is also proof of the mistress’s.” She
was by no means a stupid woman. A second quick glance confirmed what she had
already grasped, that there was one man here who had a weapon to hold over her
at least as deadly as any she could use against Elfgiva. She was also a woman
of decision, and wasted no time in bitterness once her course was chosen. The
tone in which she addressed her lord was almost as sharp as that in which she
had complained of Elfgiva’s desertion. “She
your thief, indeed! That’s folly, as you should very well know. The girl is an
ungrateful fool to leave me, but a thief she never has been, and certainly is
not this time. She can’t possibly have taken the candlesticks, you know well
enough when they vanished, and you know I was not well that night, and went
early to bed. She was with me until long after Brother Prior discovered the
theft. I asked her to stay with me until you came to bed. As you never did!”
she ended tartly. “You may remember!” Hamo
probably remembered very little of that night; certainly he was in no position
to gainsay what his wife so roundly declared. He took out a little of his
ill-temper on her, but she was not so much in awe of him that she dared not
reply in kind. Of course she was certain of what she said! She had not drunk
herself stupid at the lord abbot’s table, she had been nursing a bad head of
another kind, and even with Brother Cadfael’s remedies she had not slept until after
midnight, and Elfgiva had then been still beside her. Let him hunt a runaway
maidservant, by all means, the thankless hussy, but never call her a thief, for
she was none. Hunt
her he did, though with less energy now it seemed clear he would not recapture
his property with her. He sent his grooms and half the lay servants off in both
directions to enquire if anyone had seen a solitary girl in a hurry; they were
kept at it all day, but they returned empty-handed. The
party from Lidyate, less one member, left for home next day. Lady FitzHamon
rode demurely behind young Madoc, her cheek against his broad shoulders; she
even gave Brother Cadfael the flicker of a conspiratorial smile as the
cavalcade rode out of the gates, and detached one arm from round Madoc’s waist
to wave as they reached the roadway. So Hamo was not present to hear when
Brother Jordan, at last released from his vow, told how Our Lady had appeared
to him in a vision of light, fair as an angel, and taken away with her the
candlesticks that were hers to take and do with as she would, and how she had
spoken to him, and enjoined on him his three days of silence. And if there were
some among the listeners who wondered whether the fair woman had not been a
more corporeal being, no one had the heart to say so to Jordan, whose vision
was comfort and consolation for the fading of the light. That
was at Matins, at midnight of the day of St Stephen’s. Among the scattering of
alms handed in at the gatehouse next morning for the beggars, there was a
little basket that weighed surprisingly heavily. The porter could not remember
who had brought it, taking it to be some offerings of food or old clothing,
like all the rest; but when it was opened it sent Brother Oswald, almost
incoherent with joy and wonder, running to Abbot Heribert to report what seemed
to be a miracle. For the basket was full of gold coin, to the value of more
than a hundred marks. Well used, it would ease all the worst needs of his
poorest petitioners, until the weather relented. “Surely,”
said Brother Oswald devoutly, “Our Lady has made her own will known. Is not
this the sign we have hoped for?” Certainly
it was for Cadfael, and earlier than he had dared to hope for it. He had the
message that needed no words. She had found him, and been welcomed with joy.
Since midnight Alard the silversmith had been a free man, and free man makes
free wife. Presented with such a woman as Elfgiva, he could give as gladly as
she, for what was gold, what was silver, by comparison? Eye Witness IT
WAS UNDOUBTEDLY INCONSIDERATE OF BROTHER AMBROSE to fall ill with a raging
quinsy just a few days before the yearly rents were due for collection, and
leave the rolls still uncopied, and the new entries still to be made. No one
knew the abbey rolls as Brother Ambrose did. He had been clerk to Brother
Matthew, the cellarer, for four years, during which time fresh grants to the
abbey had been flooding in richly, a new mill on the Tern, pastures, assarts,
messuages in the town, glebes in the countryside, a fishery up-river, even a
church or two, and there was no one who could match him at putting a finger on
the slippery tenant or the field-lawyer, or the householder who had always
three good stories to account for his inability to pay. And here was the
collection only a day away, and Brother Ambrose on his back in the infirmary,
croaking like a sick raven, and about as much use. Brother
Matthew’s chief steward, who always made the collection within the town and
suburbs of Shrewsbury in person, took it almost as a personal injury. He had
had to install as substitute a young lay clerk who had entered the abbey
service not four months previously. Not that he had found any cause to complain
of the young man’s work. He had copied industriously and neatly, and shown
great alertness and interest in his quick grasp of what he copied, making
round, respectful eyes at the value of the rent-roll. But
Master William Rede had been put out, and was bent on letting everyone know of
it. He was a querulous, argumentative man in his fifties, who, if you said
white to him, would inevitably say black, and bring documentary evidence to
back up his contention. He came to visit his old friend and helper in the abbey
infirmary, the day before the town collection was due, but whether to comfort
or reproach was matter for speculation. Brother Ambrose, still voiceless,
essayed speech and achieved only a painful wheeze, before Brother Cadfael, who
was anointing his patient’s throat afresh with goose-grease, and had a soothing
syrup of orpine standing by, laid a palm over the sufferer’s mouth and ordered
silence. “Now,
William,” he said tolerantly, “if you can’t comfort, don’t vex. This poor
soul’s got you on his conscience as it is, and you know, as well as I do, that
you have the whole matter at your finger-ends. You tell him so, and fetch up a
smile, or out you go.” And he wrapped a length of good Welsh flannel round the
glistening throat, and reached for the spoon that stood in the beaker of syrup.
Brother Ambrose opened his mouth with the devoted resignation of a little bird
waiting to be fed, and sucked in the dose with an expression of slightly
surprised appreciation. But
William Rede was not going to be done out of his grievance so easily. “Oh, no
fault of yours,” he owned grudgingly, “but very ill luck for me, as if I had
not enough on my hands in any event, with the rent-roll grown so long, and the
burden of scribe’s work for ever lengthening, as it does. And I have troubles
of my own nearer home, into the bargain, with that rogue son of mine nothing
but brawler and gamester as he is. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a score
of times, the next time he comes to me to pay his debts or buy him out of
trouble, he’ll come in vain, he may sweat it out in gaol, and serve him right.
A man would think he could get a little peace and comfort from his own flesh
and blood. All I get is vexation.” Once
launched upon this tune, he was liable to continue the song indefinitely, and
Brother Ambrose was already looking apologetic and abject, as though not
William, but he, had engendered the unsatisfactory son. Cadfael could not
recall that he had ever spoken with young Rede, beyond exchanging the time of
day, and knew enough about fathers and sons, and the expectations each had of
the other, to take all such complaints with wary reserve. Report certainly said
the young man was a wild one, but at twenty-two which of the town hopefuls was
not? By thirty they were most of them working hard, and minding their own
purses, homes and wives. “Your lad will mend, like many another,” said Cadfael
comfortably, edging the voluble visitor out from the infirmary into the
sunshine of the great court. Before them on their left the great west tower of
the church loomed; on their right, the long block of the guest-halls, and
beyond, the crowns of the garden trees just bursting into leaf and bud, with a
moist, pearly light filming over stonework and cobbles and all with a soft
Spring sheen. “And as for the rents, you know very well, old humbug, that you
have your finger on every line of the leiger book, and tomorrow’s affair will
go like a morning walk. At any rate, you can’t complain of your prentice hand.
He’s worked hard enough over those books of yours.” “Jacob
has certainly shown application,” the steward agreed cautiously. “I own I’ve
been surprised at the grasp he has of abbey affairs, in so short a time. Young
people nowadays take so little interest in what they’re set to do fly-by-nights
and frivolous, most of them. It’s been heartening to see one of them work with
such zeal. I daresay he knows the value due from every property of the house by
this time. Yes, a good boy. But too ingenuous, Cadfael, there’s his flaw too
affable. Figures and characters on vellum cannot baffle him, but a rogue with a
friendly tongue might come over him. He cannot stand men off he cannot put
frost between. It’s not well to be too open with all men.” It
was mid-afternoon; in an hour or so it would be time for Vespers. The great
court had always some steady flow of activity, but at this hour it was at its
quietest. They crossed the court together at leisure, Brother Cadfael to return
to his workshop in the herb garden, the steward to the north walk of the
cloister, where his assistant was hard at work in the scriptorium. But before
they had reached the spot where their paths would divide, two young men emerged
from the cloister in easy conversation, and came towards them. Jacob
of Bouldon was a sturdy, square-set young fellow from the south of the shire,
with a round, amiable face, large, candid eyes, and a ready smile. He came with
a vellum leaf doubled in one hand, and a pen behind his ear, in every
particular the eager, hard-working clerk. A little too open to any man’s
approaches, perhaps, as his master had said. The lanky, narrow-headed fellow
attentive at his side had a very different look about him, weather-beaten,
sharp-eyed and drab in hard-wearing dark clothes, with a leather jerkin to bear
the rubbing of a heavy pack. The back of the left shoulder was scrubbed pallid
and dull from much carrying, and his hat was wide and drooping of brim, to shed
off rain. A travelling haberdasher with a few days’ business in Shrewsbury, no
novelty in the commoners’ guest-hall of the abbey. His like were always on the
roads, somewhere about the shire. The
pedlar louted to Master William with obsequious respect, said his goodday, and
made off to his lodging. Early to be home for the night, surely, but perhaps he
had done good business and come back to replenish his stock. A wise tradesman
kept something in reserve, when he had a safe store to hand, rather than carry
his all on every foray. Master
William looked after him with no great favour. “What had that fellow to do thus
with you, boy?” he questioned suspiciously. “He’s a deal too curious, with that
long nose of his. I’ve seen him making up to any of the household he can back
into a corner. What was he after in the scriptorium?” Jacob
opened his wide eyes even wider. “Oh, he’s an honest fellow enough, sir, I’m
sure. Though he does like to probe into everything, I grant you, and asks a lot
of questions...” “Then
you give him no answers,” said the steward firmly. “I
don’t, nothing but general talk that leaves him no wiser. Though I think he’s
but naturally inquisitive and no harm meant. He likes to curry favour with everyone,
but that’s by way of his trade. A rough-tongued pedlar would not sell many
tapes and laces,” said the young man blithely, and flourished the leaf of
vellum he carried. “I was coming to ask you about this carucate of land in
Recordine there’s an erasure in the leiger book, I looked up the copy to
compare. You’ll remember, sir, it was disputed land for a while, the heir tried
to recover it...” “I
do recall. Come, I’ll show you the original copy. But have as little to say to
these travelling folk as you can with civility,” Master William adjured
earnestly. “There are rogues on the roads as well as honest tradesmen. There,
you go before, I’ll follow you.” He
looked after the jaunty figure as it departed smartly, back to the scriptorium.
“As I said, Cadfael, too easily pleased with every man. It’s not wise to look
always for the best in men. But for all that,” he added, reverting morosely to
his private grievance, “I wish that scamp of mine was more like him. In debt
already for some gambling folly, and he has to get himself picked up by the
sergeants for a street brawl, and fined, and cannot pay the fine. And to keep
my own name in respect, he’s confident I shall have to buy him clear. I must
see to it tomorrow, one way or the other, when I’ve finished my rounds in the
town, for he has but three days left to pay. If it weren’t for his mother...
Even so, even so, this time I ought to let him stew.” He
departed after his clerk, shaking his head bitterly over his troubles. And
Cadfael went off to see what feats of idiocy or genius Brother Oswin had
wrought in the herb garden in his absence. In
the morning, when the brothers came out from Prime, Brother Cadfael saw the
steward departing to begin his round, the deep leather satchel secured to his
locked belt, and swinging by two stout straps. By evening it would be heavy
with the annual wealth of the city rents, and those from the northern suburbs
outside the walls. Jacob was there to see him go, listening dutifully to his
last emphatic instructions, and sighing as he was left behind to complete the
bookwork. Warm Harefoot, the packman, was off early, too, to ply his trade
among the housewives either of the town or the parish of the Foregate. A
pliable fellow, full of professional bows and smiles, but by the look of him
all his efforts brought him no better than a meagre living. So
there went Jacob, back to his pen and inkhorn in the cloisters, and forth to
his important business went Master William. And who knows, thought Cadfael,
which is in the right, the young man who sees the best in all, and trusts all,
or the old one who suspects all until he has probed them through and through?
The one may stumble into a snare now and then, but at least enjoy sunshine
along the way, between falls. The other may never miss his footing, but seldom
experience joy. Better find a way somewhere between! It
was a curious chance that seated him next to Brother Eutropius at breakfast,
for what did anyone know about Brother Eutropius? He had come to the abbey of
Saint Peter and Saint Paul of Shrewsbury only two months ago, from a minor
grange of the order. But in two months of Brother Oswin, say, that young man
would have been an open book to every reader, whereas Eutropius contained
himself as tightly as did his skin, and gave out much less in the way of
information. A taciturn man, thirty or so at a guess, who kept himself apart
and looked solitary discontent at everything that crossed his path, but never
complained. It might be merely newness and shyness, in one naturally
uncommunicative, or it might be a gnawing inward anger against his lot and all
the world. Rumour said, a man frustrated in love, and finding no relief in his
resort to the cowl. But rumour was using its imagination, for want of fuel more
reliable. Eutropius
also worked under Brother Matthew, the cellarer, and was intelligent and
literate, but not a good or a quick scribe. Perhaps, when Brother Ambrose fell
ill, he would have liked to be trusted to take over his books. Perhaps he
resented the lay clerk being preferred before him. Perhaps! With Eutropius
everything, thus far, was conjecture. Some day someone would pierce that
carapace of his, with an unguarded word or a sudden irresistible motion of
grace, and the mystery would no longer be a mystery, or the stranger a stranger. Brother
Cadfael knew better than to be in a hurry, where souls were concerned. There
was plenty of elbow-room in eternity. In
the afternoon, returning to the grange court to collect some seed he had left
stored in the loft, Cadfael encountered Jacob, his scribing done for the
moment, setting forth importantly with his own leather satchel into the
Foregate, “So he’s left you a parcel to clear for him,” said Cadfael. “I
would gladly have done more,” said Jacob, mildly aggrieved and on his dignity.
He looked less than his twenty-five years, well-grown as he was, with that
cherubic face. “But he says I’m sure to be slow, not knowing the rounds or the
tenants, so he’s let me take only the outlying lanes here in the Foregate,
where I can take my time. I daresay he’s right, it will take me longer than I
think. I ‘m sorry to see him so worried about his son,” he said, shaking his
head. “He has to see to this business with the law, he told me not to worry if
he was late returning today. I hope all goes well,” said the loyal subordinate,
and set forth sturdily to do his own duty towards his master, however beset he
might be by other cares. Cadfael
took his seed back to the garden, put in an hour or so of contented work there,
washed his hands, and went to check on the progress of Brother Ambrose, who was
just able to croak in his ear, more audibly than yesterday: “I could rise and
help poor William such a day for him...! He
was halted there by a large, rough palm. “Lie quiet,” said Cadfael, “like a
wise man. Let them see how well they can fend without you, and they’ll value
you the better hereafter. And about time, too!” And he fed his captive bird
again, and returned to his labours in the garden. At
Vespers, Brother Eutropius came late and in haste, and took his place breathing
rapidly, but as impenetrable as ever. And when they emerged to go to supper in
the refectory, Jacob of Bouldon was just coming in at the gatehouse with his
leather satchel of rents jealously guarded by one hand and looking round
hopefully for his master, who had not yet returned. Nor had he some twenty
minutes later, when supper was over; but in the gathering dusk Warin Harefoot
trudged wearily across the court to the guest-hall, and the pack on his
shoulder looked hardly lighter than when he had gone out in the morning. Madog
of the Dead-Boat, in addition to his primary means of livelihood, which was
salvaging dead bodies from the River Severn at any season, had a number of
seasonal occupations that afforded him sport as well as a living. Of these the
one he enjoyed most was fishing, and of all the fishing seasons the one he
liked best was the early Spring run up-river of the mature salmon, fine,
energetic young males which had arrived early in the estuary, and would run and
leap like athletes many miles upstream before they spawned. Madog was expert at
taking them, and had had one out of the water this same day, before he paddled
his coracle into the thick bushes under the castle’s water-gate, a narrow lane
running down from the town, and dropped a lesser line into the river to pick up
whatever else offered. Here he was in good, leafy cover, and could stake
himself into the bank and lie back to drowse until his line jerked him awake.
From above, whether castle ramparts, town wall or upper window, he could not be
seen. It
was beginning to grow dusk when he was startled wide awake by the hollow splash
of something heavy plunging into the water, just upstream. Alert in a moment,
he shoved off a yard or so from shore to look that way, but saw nothing to
account for the sound, until an eddy in midstream showed him a dun-coloured
sleeve breaking surface, and then the oval pallor of a face rising and sinking
again from sight. A man’s body turned slowly in the current as it sailed past.
Madog was out after it instantly, his paddle plying. Getting a body from river
into a coracle is a tricky business, but he had practised it so long that he
had it perfect, balance and heft and all, from his first grasp on the billowing
sleeve to the moment when the little boat bobbed like a cork and spun like a
drifting leaf, with the drowned man in-board and streaming water. They were
halfway across the river by that time, and there were half a dozen lay brothers
just leaving their work in the vegetable gardens along the Gaye, on the other
side, the nearest help in view. Madog made for their shore, and sent a halloo
ahead of him to halt their departure and bring them running. He
had the salvaged man out on the bank by the time they reached him, and had
turned him face-down into the grass and hoisted him firmly by the middle to
shake the water out of him, squeezing energetically with big, gnarled hands. “He’s
been in the river no more than a breath or two, I heard him souse into the
water. Did you see ought over there by the water-gate?” But they shook their
heads, concerned and anxious, and stooped to the drenched body, which at that
instant heaved in breath, choked, and vomited the water it had swallowed. “He’s
breathing. He’ll do. But he was meant to drown, sure enough. See here!” On
the back of the head of thick, greying hair blood slowly seeped, along a broken
and indented wound. One
of the lay brothers exclaimed aloud, and kneeled to turn up to the light the
streaked and pallid face. “Master William! This is our steward! He was
collecting rents in the town... See, the pouch is gone from his belt! Two
rubbed and indented spots showed where the heavy satchel had bruised the
leather beneath, and the lower edge of the stout belt itself showed a nick from
a sharp knife, where the thongs had been sliced through in haste. “Robbery and
murder!” “The
one, surely, but not the other, not yet,” said Madog practically. “He’s
breathing, you’ve not lost him yet. But we’d best get him to the nearest and
best-tended bed, and that’ll be in your infirmary, I take it. Make use of those
hoes and spades of yours, lads, and here’s a coat of mine to spare, if some of
you will give up yours...” They
made a litter to carry Master William back to the abbey, as quickly and
steadily as they could. Their entry at the gatehouse brought out porters,
guests and brothers in alarm and concern. Brother Edmund the infirmarer came
running and led the way to a bed beside the fire in the sick quarters. Jacob of
Bouldon, rushing to confirm his fears, set up a distressed cry, but recovered
himself gallantly, and ran for Brother Cadfael. The sub-prior, once informed of
the circumstances by Madog, who was too accustomed to drowned and near-drowned
men to get excited, sensibly sent a messenger hot-foot into the town to tell
provost and sheriff what had happened, and the hunt was up almost before the
victim was stripped of his soaked clothes, rolled in blankets and put to bed. The
sheriff’s sergeant came, and listened to Madog’s tale, with only a momentary
narrowing of eyes at the fleeting suspicion that the tough old Welsh waterman
might be adept at putting men into the water, as well as pulling them out. But
in that case he would have been more likely to make sure that his victim went
under, unless he was certain he could not name or identify his attacker. Madog
saw the moment of doubt, and grinned scornfully. “I
get my living better ways. But if you need to question, there must be some
among those gardeners from the Gaye who saw me come downriver and drop my line
in under the trees there, and can tell you I never set foot ashore until I
brought this one over, and shouted them to come and help with him. Maybe you
don’t know me, but these brothers here do.” The
sergeant, surely one of the few new enough to service in Shrewsbury castle to
be ignorant of Madog’s special position along the river, accepted Brother
Edmund’s warm assurances, and shrugged off his doubts. “But
sorry I am,” allowed Madog, mollified, “that I neither saw nor heard anything
until he plumped into the water, for I was drowsing. All I can say is that he
went in upstream of me, but not far I’d say someone slid him in from the cover
of the water-gate.” “A
narrow, dark place, that,” said the sergeant. “And
a warren of passages above. And the light fading, though not far gone... Well,
maybe when he comes round he’ll be able to tell you. something he may have seen
the man that did it.” The
sergeant settled down resignedly to wait for Master William to stir, which so
far he showed no sign of doing. Cadfael had cleaned and bandaged the wound,
dressing it with a herbal salve, and the steward lay with eyes closed and
sunken, mouth painfully open upon snoring breath. Madog reclaimed his coat,
which had been drying before the fire, and shrugged into it placidly. “Let’s hope
nobody’s thought the time right to help himself to my fish while my back was
turned.” He had wrapped his salmon in an armful of wet grass and covered it
with his upturned boat. “I’ll bid you goodnight, brothers, and wish your sick
man hale again and his pouch recovered, too, though that I doubt.” From
the infirmary doorway he turned back to say: “You have a patient lad here
sitting shivering on the doorstep, waiting for word. Can he not come in and see
his master, he says. I’ve told him the man’s likely to live his old age out
with no worse than a dunt on the head to show for it, and he’d best be off to
his bed, for he’ll get nothing here as yet. Would you want him in?” Cadfael
went out with him to shoo away any such premature visits. Jacob of Bouldon, pale
and anxious, was sitting with arms folded closely round his drawn-up knees,
hunched against the chill of the night. He looked up hopefully as they came out
to him, and opened his mouth eagerly to plead. Madog clouted him amiably on the
shoulder as he passed, and made off towards the gatehouse, a squat, square
figure, brown and crusty as the bole of an oak. “You’d
best be off, too, into the warm,” said Brother Cadfael, not unkindly. “Master
William will recover well enough, but he’s likely to be without his wits some
time yet, no call for you to catch your death here on the stone.” “I
couldn’t rest,” said Jacob earnestly. “I told him, I begged him, take me with
you, you should have someone. But he said, folly, he had collected rents for
the abbey many years, and never felt any need for a guard. And now, see...
Could I not come in and sit by him? I’d make no sound, never trouble him... He
has not spoken?” “Nor
will for some hours yet, and even then I doubt he can tell us much. I’m here
with him in case of need, and Brother Edmund is on call. The fewer about him,
the better.” “I’ll
wait a little while yet,” said Jacob, fretting, and hugged his knees the
tighter. Well,
if he would, he would, but cramp and cold would teach him better sense and more
patience. Cadfael went back to his vigil, and closed the door. Still, it was no
bad thing to encounter one lad whose devotion gave the lie to Master William’s
forebodings concerning the younger generation. Before
midnight there was another visitor enquiring. The porter opened the door softly
and came in to whisper that Master William’s son was here, asking after his
father and wanting to come in and see him. Since the sergeant, departing when
it seemed certain his vigil was fruitless until morning, had pledged himself to
go and reassure Mistress Rede that her man was alive, well cared for, and
certain to make a good recovery, Cadfael might well have gone out to bid the
young man go home and take care of his mother rather than waste his time here,
if the young man had not forestalled him by making a silent and determined
entry on his herald’s heels. A tall, shock-headed, dark-eyed youth, hunched of
shoulder just now, and grim of face, but admittedly very quiet in movement, and
low-voiced. His look was by no means tender or solicitous. His eyes went at
once to the figure in the bed, sweaty-browed now, and breathing somewhat more
easily and naturally. He brooded, glaring, and wasting no time on question or
explanation, said in a level whisper: “I will stay.” And with aggressive
composure stayed, settling himself on the bench beside his father’s bed, his
two long, muscular hands gripped tightly between his knees. The
porter met Cadfael’s eye, hoisted his shoulders, and went quietly away. Cadfael
sat down on the other side of the bed, and contemplated the pair, father and
son. Both faces looked equally aloof and critical, even hostile, yet there they
were, close and quiet together. The
young man asked but two questions, each after a long silence. The first,
uttered almost grudgingly, was: “Will it be well with him?” Cadfael, watching
the easing flow of breath and the faint flush of colour, said simply: “Yes.
Only give him time.” The second was: “He has not spoken yet?” “Not
yet,” said Cadfael. Now
which of those, he wondered, was the more vital question? There was one man,
somewhere, who must at this moment be very anxious indeed about what William
Rede might have to say, when he did speak. The
young man his name was Edward, Cadfael recalled, after the Confessor Eddi Rede
sat all night long almost motionless, brooding over his father’s bed. Most of
that time, and certainly every time he had been aware of being watched in his
turn, he had been scowling. Well
before Prime the sergeant was back again to his watch, and Jacob was again hovering
unhappily about the doorway, peering in anxiously whenever it was opened, but
not quite venturing to come in until he was invited. The sergeant eyed Eddi
very hard and steadily, but said no word to disturb the injured man’s
increasingly restful sleep. It was past seven when at last Master William
stirred, opened vague eyes, made a few small sounds which were not yet words,
and tried feebly to put up a hand to his painful head, startled by the sudden
twinge when he moved. The sergeant stooped close, but Cadfael laid a
restraining hand on his arm. “Give
him time! A knock on the head like that will have addled his wits. We’ll need
to tell him things before he tells us any.” And to the wondering patient he
said tranquilly: “You know me “Cadfael, Edmund will be here to relieve me as
soon as Prime is over. You’re in his care, in the infirmary, and past the
worst. Fret for nothing, lie still and let others do that. You’ve had a mighty
dunt on the crown, and a dowsing in the river, but both are past, and thanks
be, you’re safe enough now.” The
wandering hand reached its goal this time. Master William groaned and stared
indignant surprise, and his eyes cleared and sharpened, though his voice was
weak as he complained, with quickening memory: “He came behind me someone out
of an open yard door... That’s the last I know...” Sudden realisation shook
him; he gave a stricken howl, and tried to rise from his pillow, but gave up at
the pang it cost him. The rents the abbey rents!” “Your
life’s better worth than the abbey rents,” said Cadfael heartily, “and even
they may be regained.” “The
man who felled you,” said the sergeant, leaning dose, “cut your satchel loose
with a knife, and made off with it. But if you can help us we’ll lay him by the
heels yet. Where was this that he struck you down?” “Not
a hundred paces from my own house,” lamented William bitterly. “I went there
when I had finished, to check my rolls and make all fast, and...” He shut his
mouth grimly on the overriding reason. Hazily he had been aware all this time
of the silent and sullen young man sitting beside him, now he fixed his eyes on
him until his vision cleared. The mutual glare was spirited, and came of long
practice. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Waiting
to have better news of you to take to my mother,” said Eddi shortly. He looked
up defiantly into the sergeant’s face. “He came home to read me all my sins
over, and warn me that the fine that’s due from me in two days more is my
burden now, not his, and if I can’t make shift for it on my own I may go to
gaol, and pay in another coin. Or it may be,” he added with grudging fairness,
“that he came rather to flay me and then pay my dues, as he’s done more than
once. But I was in no mind to listen, and he was in no mind to be flouted, so I
flung out and went down to the butts. And won the good half of what I owe, for
what that’s worth,” “So
this was a bitter quarrel you had between you,” said the sergeant, narrowing
suspicious eyes. “And not long after it you, master, went out to bring your rents
home, and were set upon, robbed, and left for dead. And now you, boy, have the
half of what you need to stay out of prison.” Cadfael,
watching father and son, felt that it had not even occurred to Eddi, until
then, that he might fall under suspicion of this all too opportune attack; and
further, that even now it had not dawned on Master William that such a thought
could occur to any sane man. He was scowling at his son for no worse reason
than old custom and an aching head. “Why
are you not looking after your mother at home?” he demanded querulously. “So
I will, now I’ve seen and heard you more like yourself. Mother’s well enough
cared for; Cousin Alice is with her. But she’ll be the better for knowing that
you’re still the same cantankerous worrit, and likely to be a plague to us
twenty years yet. I’ll go,” said Eddi grimly, “when I’m let. But he wants your
witness before he can leave you to your rest. Better get it said.” Master
William submitted wearily, knitting his brows in the effort to remember. “I
came from the house, along the passage towards Saint Mary’s, above the
water-gate. The door of the tanner’s yard was standing open, I know I’d passed
it... But I never heard a step behind me. As if the wall had fallen on me! I
recall nothing after, except sudden cold, deadly cold... Who brought me back,
then, that I’m snug here?” They
told him, and he shook his head helplessly over the great blank between. “You
think the fellow must have been hiding behind that yard-door, lying in wait?” “So
it seems.” “And
you caught never a glimpse? Never had time to turn your head? You can tell us
nothing to trace him? Not even a guess at his build? His age?” Nothing.
Simply, there had been early dusk before him, his own steps the only sound, no
man in sight between the high walls of gardens, yards and warehouses going down
to the river, and then the shock of the blow, and abrupt darkness. He was
growing tired again, but his mind was clear enough. There would be no more to
get from him. Brother
Edmund came in, eyed his patient, and silently nodded the visitors out at the
door, to leave him in peace. Eddi kissed his father’s dangling hand, but
brusquely, rather as though he would as lief have bitten it, and marched out to
blink at the sunlight in the great court. With a face grimly defiant he waited
for the sergeant’s dismissal. “I
left him as I told you, I went to the butts, and played into a wager there, and
shot well. You’ll want names from me. I can give them. And I’m still short the
half of my fine, for what that’s worth. I knew nothing of this until I went
home, and that was late, after your messenger had been there. Can I go home?
I’m at your disposal.” “You
can,” granted the sergeant, so readily that it was clear the young man would
not be unwatched on the way, or on arrival. “And there stay, for I shall want
more from you than merely names. I’m away to take their tales from the lay
brothers who were working late at the Gaye yesterday, but I’ll not be long
after you in the town.” The
workers were already assembling in the court and moving off to their day’s
labour. The sergeant strode forth to find his men, and left Eddi glowering
after him, and Cadfael mildly observing the wary play of thought in the dark
young face. Not a bad-looking lad, if he would wear a sunnier visage; but
perhaps at this moment he had little cause. “He
will truly be a hale man again?” he asked suddenly, turning his black gaze on
Cadfael. “As
whole and hearty as ever he was.” “And
you’ll take good care of him?” “So
we will,” agreed Cadfael innocently, “even though he may be a cantankerous
worrit and a plague.” “I
‘m sure none of you here have any call to say so,” flashed the young man with
abrupt ferocity. “The abbey has had loyal and solid service from him all these
years, and owes him more thanks than abuse.” And he turned his back and stalked
away out of the great court, leaving Cadfael looking after him with a
thoughtful face and the mere trace of a smile. He
was careful to wipe off the smile before he went back to Master William, who
was in no mood to take himself, his son and his troubles anything but
seriously. He lay trying to blink and frown away his headache, and fulminating
about his offspring in a glum undertone. “You
see what I have to complain of, who should be able to look for comfort and
support at home. A wild, unbiddable good-for-nothing, and insolent into the
bargain...” “So
he is,” agreed Cadfael sympathetically, wooden-faced. “No wonder you mean to
let him pay for his follies in prison, and small blame to you.” He got an acid
glare as reward. “I shall do no such thing!” snapped Master William sharply.
“The boy’s no worse than you or I at his age, I daresay. Nothing wrong with him
that time won’t cure.” Master
William’s disaster, it seemed, had shaken the serenity of the abbey from choir
to guest-hall. The enquiries were many and assiduous. Young Jacob had been
hopping about outside the infirmary from dawn, unable to tear himself away even
to the duties he owed his injured master, until Cadfael had taken pity on his
obvious anxiety, and stopped to tell him that there was no need for such
distress, for the worst was over, and all would be well with Master William. “You
are sure, brother? He has regained his senses? He has spoken? His mind is
clear?” Patiently
Cadfael repeated his reassurances. “But
such villainy! Has he been able to help the sheriff’s men? Did he see his
attacker? Has he any notion who it could have been?” “Not
that, no. Never a glimpse, he was struck from behind, and knew no more until he
came to this morning in the infirmary. He’s no help to the law, I fear. It was
not to be expected.” “But
he himself will be well and strong again?” “As
ever he was, and before long, too.” “Thank
God, brother!” said Jacob fervently, and went away satisfied to his accounts.
For even with the town rents lost, there was still bookwork to be done on what
remained. More
surprising it seemed to be stopped on the way to the dortoir by Warin Harefoot,
the haberdasher, with a very civil enquiry after the steward’s health. Warin
did not presume to display the agitation of a favoured colleague like Jacob,
but rather the mannerly sympathy of a humble guest of the house, and the
law-abiding citizen’s indignation at evil-doing, and desire that justice should
pursue the evildoer. Had his honour been able to put a name or a face to his
attacker? A great pity! Yet justice, he hoped, might still be done. And would
there should any man be so fortunate as to trace the missing satchel with its
treasure would there be a small reward for such a service? To an honest man who
restored it, Cadfael thought, there well might. Warin went off to his day’s
peddling in Shrewsbury, humping his heavy pack. The back view of him, for some
reason, looked both purposeful and jaunty. But
the strangest and most disturbing enquirer made, in fact, no enquiry, but came
silently in, as Cadfael was paying another brief visit to the infirmary in the
early afternoon, after catching up with some of his lost sleep. Brother
Eutropius stood motionless and intent at the foot of the steward’s bed, staring
down with great hollow eyes in a face like a stone mask. He gave never a glance
to Cadfael. All he regarded was the sleeping man, now so placid and eased for
all his bandaged head, a man back from the river, back from the grave. He stood
there for a long time, his lips moving on inaudible formulae of prayer Suddenly
he shuddered, like someone waking from a trance, and crossed himself, and went
away as silently as he had come. Cadfael
was so concerned at his manner and his closed face that he went out after him,
no less quietly, and followed him at a distance through the cloisters and into
the church. Brother
Eutropius was on his knees before the high altar, his marble face upraised over
clasped hands. His eyelids were closed, but the dark lashes glittered. A
handsome, agonised man of thirty, with a strong body and a fierce, tormented
heart, his lips framing silently but readably in the altar-light. “Mea culpa...
maxima mea culpa...” Cadfael
would have liked to pierce the distance and the ice between, but it was not the
time. He went away quietly, and left Brother Eutropius to the remnant of his
disrupted solitude, for whatever had happened to him, the shell was cracked and
disintegrating, and never again would he be able to reassemble it about him. Cadfael
went into the town before Vespers, to call upon Mistress Rede, and take her the
latest good word of her man. It was by chance that he met the sergeant at the
High Cross, and stopped to exchange news. It had been a routine precaution to
round up a few of the best-known rogues in Shrewsbury, and make them account
for their movements the previous day, but that had yielded nothing. Eddi’s
fellow-marksmen at the butts under the town wall had sworn to his story
willingly, but seeing they were all his cronies from boyhood, that meant little
enough. The one new thing, and it marked the exact spot of the attack past
question, was the discovery in the passage above the water-gate of the one loop
of leather from Master William’s pouch, the one which had been sliced clean
through and left lying in the thief’s haste, and the dim light under the high
walls. “Right
under the clothier’s cart-yard. The walls are ten feet high, and the passage
narrow. Never a place from which the lane can be overlooked. No chance in the
world of an eye witness. He chose his place well.” “Ah,
but there is one place, then, from which a man might have watched the deed,”
said Cadfael, enlightened. “The loft above that cart-house and barn has a hatch
higher than the wall, and close to it. And Roger Clothier lets Rhodri Fychan
sleep up there the old Welshman who begs at Saint Mary’s church. By that time
of the evening he may have been up in the hay already, and on a fine evening
he’d be sitting by the open hatch. And even if he had not come home at that
time, who’s to be sure of that? It’s enough that he could have been there. He
had been right about the sergeant; the man was an incomer, not yet acquainted
with the half of what went on in Shrewsbury. He had not known Madog of the
Dead-Boat, he did not know Rhodri Fychan. Pure chance had cast this particular
affair into the hands of such a man, and perhaps no ill chance, either. “You
have given me a notion,” said Cadfael, “that may bring us nearer the truth yet.
Not that I’d let the old man run any risk, but no need for that. Listen,
there’s a baited trap we might try, if you’re agreeable. If it succeeds you may
have your man. If it fails, we shall have lost nothing. But it’s a matter of
doing it quietly, no public proclamation, leave the baiting to me. Will you
give it a trial? It’s your credit if we hook our fish, and it costs but a
night-watch.” The
sergeant stared, already sniffing at the hope of praise and promotion, but
cautious still. “What is it you have in mind?” “Say
you had done this thing, there between blind walls, and then suddenly heard
that an old man slept above every night of the year, and may have been there
when you struck. And say you were told that this old beggar has not yet been
questioned but tomorrow he will be...” “Brother,”
said the sergeant, “I am with you. I am listening.” There
were two things to be done, after that, if the spring was to succeed, and
imperil no one but the guilty. No need to worry, as yet, about getting
permission to be absent in the night, or, failing that, making his own
practised but deprecated way out without permission. Though he had confidence
in Abbot Radulfus, who had, before now, shown confidence in him. Justice is a
permitted passion, the just respect it. Meantime, Cadfael went up to Saint Mary’s
churchyard, and sought out the venerable beggar who sat beside the west door,
in his privileged and honoured place. Rhodri the Less for his father had been
Rhodri, too, and a respected beggar like his son knew the footstep, and turned
up a wrinkled and pock-marked face, brown as the soil, smiling. “Brother
Cadfael, well met, and what’s the news with you?” Cadfael
sat down beside him, and took his time. “You’ll have heard of this bad business
that was done right under your bedchamber, yesterday evening. Were you there,
last night?” “Not
when this befell,” said the old man, scratching his white poll thoughtfully,
“and can find no one who was down there at that time, either. Last night I
begged late, it was a mild evening. Vespers was over and gone here before I
went home.” “No
matter,” said Cadfael. “Now listen, friend, for I’m borrowing your nest
tonight, and you’ll be a guest elsewhere, if you’ll be my helper...” “For
a Welshman,” said the old man comfortably, “whatever he asks. You need only
tell me.” But when it was told, he shook his head firmly. “There’s an inner
loft. In the worst of the winter I move in there for the warmth, away from the
frosty air. Why should not I be present? There’s a door between, and room for
you and more. And I should like, Brother Cadfael, I should like of all things
to be witness when Will Rede’s murderer gets his come-uppance.” He
leaned to rattle his begging-bowl at a pious lady who had been putting up
prayers in the church. Business was business, and the pitch he held was the
envy of the beggars of Shrewsbury. He blessed the giver, and reached a delaying
hand to halt Cadfael, who was rising to depart. “Brother,
a word for you that might come helpfully, who knows! They are saying that one
of your monks was down under the bridge yesterday evening, about the time Madog
took up Will out of the water. They say he stood there under the stone a long
time, like a man in a dream, but no good dream. One they know but very little,
a man in his prime, dark-avised, solitary...” “He
came late to Vespers,” said Cadfael, remembering. “You
know I have those who tell me things, for no evil purpose a man who sits still
must have the world come to him. They tell me this brother walked into the
water, above his sandals, and would have gone deeper, but it was then Madog of
the Dead-Boat hallooed that he had a drowned man aboard. And the strange monk
drew back out of the water and fled from his devil. So they say. Does it mean
anything to you?” “Yes,”
said Cadfael slowly. “Yes, it means much.” When
Cadfael had finished reassuring the steward’s brisk, birdlike little wife that
she should have her man back in a day or two as good as new, he drew Eddi out
with him into the yard, and told him all that was in the wind. “And
I am off back now to drop the quiet word into a few ears I can think of, where
it may raise the fiercest itch. But not too early, or why should not the
thought be passed on to the sheriff’s man at once for action? No, last thing,
after dark, when all good brothers are making their peace with the day before
bed, I shall have recalled that there’s one place from which yonder lane can be
overlooked, and one man who sleeps the nights there, year round, and may have
things to tell. First thing tomorrow, I shall let them know, I’ll send the sheriff
the word, and let him deal. Whoever fears an eye witness shall have but this
one night to act.” The
young man eyed him with a doubtful face but a glint in his glance. “Since you
can hardly expect to take me in that trap, brother, I reckon you have another
use for me.” “This
is your father. If you will, you may be with the witnesses in the rear loft.
But mark, I do not know, no one can know yet, that the bait will fetch any
man.” “And
if it does not,” said Eddi with a wry grin, “if no one comes, I can still find
the hunt hard on my heels.” “True!
But if it succeeds...” He
nodded grimly. “Either way, I have nothing to lose. But listen, one thing I
want amended, or I’ll spring your trap before the time. It is not I who will be
in the rear loft with Rhodri Fychan and your sergeant. It is you. I shall be
the sleeper in the straw, waiting for a murderer. You said rightly, brother
this is my father. Mine, not yours!” This
had been no part of Brother Cadfael’s plans, but for all that, he found it did
not greatly surprise him. Nor, by the set of the intent young face and the tone
of the quiet voice, did he think demur would do much good. But he tried. “Son,
since it is your father, think better of it. He’ll have need of you. A man who
has tried once to kill will want to make certain this time. He’ll come with a
knife, if he comes at all. And you, however sharp your ears and stout your
heart, still at a disadvantage, lying in a feigned sleep...” “And
are your senses any quicker than mine, and your sinews any suppler and
stronger?” Eddi grinned suddenly, and clapped him on the shoulder with a large
and able hand. “Never fret, brother, I am well prepared for when that man and I
come to grips. You go and sow your good seed, and may it bear fruit! I’ll make
ready.” When
robbery and attempted murder are but a day and a half old, and still the
sensation of a whole community, it is by no means difficult to introduce the
subject and insert into the speculations whatever new crumb of interest you may
wish to propagate. As Cadfael found, going about his private business in the
half-hour after Compline. He did not have to introduce the subject, in fact,
for no one was talking about anything else. The only slight difficulty was in
confiding his sudden idea to each man in solitude, since any general
announcement would at once have caused some native to blurt out the obvious
objection, and give the entire game away. But even that gave little trouble,
for certainly the right man, if he really was among those approached, would not
say one word of it to anyone else, and would have far too much to think about
to want company or conversation the rest of the night. Young Jacob, emerging
cramped and yawning after hours of assiduous scribing, broken only by snatched
meals and a dutiful visit to his master, now sitting up by the infirmary
hearth, received Brother Cadfael’s sudden idea wide-eyed and eager, and
offered, indeed, to hurry to the castle even at this late hour to tell the
watch about it, but Cadfael considered that hardworking officers of the law
might be none too grateful at having their night’s rest disrupted; and in any
case nothing would be changed by morning. To
half a dozen guests of the commoners’ hall, who came to make kind enquiry after
Master William, he let fall his idea openly, as a simple possibility, since
none of them was a Shrewsbury man, or likely to know too much about the
inhabitants. Warin Harefoot was among the six, and perhaps the instigator of
the civil gesture. He looked, as always, humble, zealous, and pleased at any
motion, even the slightest, towards justice. There
remained one mysterious and troubled figure. Surely not a murderer, not even
quite a self-murderer, though by all the signs he had come very close. But for
Madog’s cry of ‘Drowned man!’ he might indeed have waded into the full flow of
the stream and let it take him. It was as if God himself had set before him,
like a lightning stroke from heaven, the enormity of the act he contemplated,
and driven him back from the brink with the dazzle of hell-fire. But those who
returned stricken and penitent to face this world had need also of men, and the
communicated warmth of men. Before
Cadfael so much as opened the infirmary door, on a last visit to the patient
within, he had a premonition of what he would find. Master William and Brother
Eutropius sat companionably one on either side of the hearth, talking together
in low, considerate voices, with silences as acceptable as speech, and speech
no more eloquent than the silences. There was no defining the thread that
linked them, but there would never be any breaking it. Cadfael would have
withdrawn unnoticed, but the slight creak of the door drew Brother Eutropius’
attention, and he rose to take his leave. “Yes,
brother, I know I’ve overstayed. I’ll come.” It
was time to withdraw to the dortoir and their cells, and sleep the sleep of men
at peace. And Eutropius, as he fell in beside Cadfael in the great court, had
the face of a man utterly at peace. Drained, still dazed by the thunderbolt of
revelation, but already, surely, confessed and absolved. Empty now, and still a
little at a loss in reaching out a hand to a fellow-man. “Brother,
I think it was you who came into the church, this afternoon. I am sorry if I
caused you anxiety. I had but newly looked my fault in the face. It seemed to
me that my sin had all but killed another, an innocent, man. Brother, I have
long known in my head that despair is mortal sin. Now I know it with my blood
and bowels and heart.” Cadfael
said, stepping delicately: “No sin is mortal, if it is deeply and truly
repented. He lives, and you live. You need not see your case as extreme,
brother. Many a man has fled from grief into the cloister, only to find that
grief can follow him there.” “There
was a woman...” said Eutropius, his voice low, laboured but calm. “Until now I
could not speak of this. A woman who played me false, bitterly, yet I could not
leave loving. Without her my life seemed of no worth. I know its value better
now. For the years left to me I will pay its price in full, and carry it
without complaint.” To
him Cadfael said nothing more. If there was one man in all this web of guilt
and innocence who would sleep deeply and well in his own bed that night, it was
Brother Eutropius. As
for Cadfael himself, he had best make haste to take advantage of his leave of
absence, and get to the clothier’s loft by the shortest way, for it was fully
dark, and if the bait had been taken the end could not long be delayed. The
steep ladder had been left where it always leaned, against the wall below
Rhodri’s hatch. In the outer loft the darkness was not quite complete, for the
square of the hatch stood open as always on a space of starlit sky. The air
within was fresh, but warm and fragrant with the dry, heaped hay and straw,
stored from the previous summer, and dwindling now from the winter’s
depredations, but still ample for a comfortable bed. Eddi lay stretched out on
his left side, turned towards the square of luminous sky, his right arm flung
up round his head, to give him cover as he kept watch. In
the inner loft, with the door ajar between to let sounds pass, Brother Cadfael,
the sergeant, and Rhodri Fychan sat waiting, with lantern, flint and steel
ready to hand They had more than an hour to wait. If he was coming at all, he
had had the cold patience and self-control to wait for the thick of the night,
when sleep is deepest. But
come he did, when Cadfael, for one, had begun to think their fish had refused
the bait. It must have been two o’clock in the morning, or past, when Eddi,
watching steadily beneath his sheltering arm, saw the level base of the square
of sky broken, as the crown of a head rose into view, black against darkest
blue, but clear to eyes already inured to darkness. He lay braced and still,
and tuned his breathing to the long, impervious rhythm of sleep, as the head
rose stealthily, and the intruder paused for a long time, head and shoulders in
view, motionless, listening. The silhouette of a man has neither age nor
colouring, only a shape. He might have been twenty or fifty, there was no
knowing. He could move with formidable silence. But
he was satisfied. He had caught the steady sound of breathing, and now with
surprising speed mounted the last rungs of the ladder and was in through the
hatch, and the bulk of him cut off the light. Then he was still again, to make
sure the movement had not disturbed the sleeper. Eddi was listening no less
acutely, and heard the infinitely small whisper of steel sliding from its
sheath. A dagger is the most silent of weapons to use, but has its own voices.
Eddi turned very slightly, with wincing care, to free his left arm under him,
ready for the grapple. The
bulk and shadow, a moving darkness, mere sensation rather than anything seen,
drew close. He felt the leaning warmth from a man’s body, and the stirring of
the air from his garments, and was aware of a left hand and arm outstretched
with care to find how he lay, hovering rather than touching. He had time to
sense how the assassin stooped, and judge where his right hand lay waiting with
the knife, while the left selected the place to strike. Under the sacking that
covered him for beggars do not lie in good woollens Eddi braced himself to meet
the shock. When
the blow came, there was even a splinter of light tracing the lunge of the
blade, as the murderer drew back to put his weight into the stroke, and
uncovered half the blessed frame of sky. Eddi flung over on his back, and took
the lunging dagger-hand cleanly by the wrist in his left hand. He surged out of
the straw ferociously, forcing the knife away at arm’s length, and with his
right hand reached for and found his opponent’s throat. They rolled out of the
nest of rustling, straw and across the floor, struggling, and fetched up
against the timbers of the wall. The attacker had uttered one startled, muted
cry before he was half-choked. Eddi had made no sound at all but the fury of
his movements. He let himself be clawed by his enemy’s flailing left hand,
while he laid both hands to get possession of the dagger. With all his strength
he dashed the elbow of the arm he held against the floor. A strangled yelp
answered him, the nerveless fingers parted, and gave up the knife. Eddi sat
back astride a body suddenly limp and gasping, and laid the blade above a face
still nameless. In
the inner loft the sergeant had started up and laid hand to the door, but
Cadfael took him by the arm and held him still. The
feverish whisper reached them clearly, but whispers have neither sex nor age
nor character. “Don’t strike wait, listen!” He was terrified, but still
thinking, still scheming. “It is you I know you, I’ve heard about you... his
son! Don’t kill me, why should you? It wasn’t you I expected I never meant you
harm...” What
you may have heard about him, thought Cadfael, braced behind the door with his
hand on the tinder-box he might need at any moment, may be as misleading as
common report so often is. There are overtones and undertones to be listened
for, that not every ear can catch. “Lie
still,” said Eddi’s voice, perilously calm and reasonable, “and say what you
have to say where you lie. I can listen just as well with this toy at your
throat. Have I said I mean to kill you?” “But
do not!” begged the eager voice, breathless and low. Cadfael knew it, now. The
sergeant probably did not. In all likelihood Rhodri Fychan, leaning close and
recording all, had never heard it, or he would have known it, for his ears
could pick up even the shrillest note of the bat. “I can do you good. You have
a fine unpaid, and only a day to run before gaol. He told me so. What do you
owe him? He would not clear you, would he? But I can see you cleared. Listen,
never say word of this, loose me and keep your own counsel, and the half is
yours the half of the abbey rents. I promise it!” There
was a blank silence. If Eddi was tempted, it was certainly not to bargain, more
likely to strike, but he held his hand, at whatever cost. “Join
me,” urged the voice, taking heart from his silence, “and no one need ever
know. No one! They said there was a beggar slept here, but he’s away, however
it comes, and no one here but you and I, to know what befell. Even if they were
using you, think better of it, and who’s to know? Only let me go hence, and you
keep a close mouth, and all’s yet well, for you as well as me.” After
another bleak silence Eddi’s voice said with cold suspicion, “Let you loose,
and you the only one who knows where you’ve hidden the plunder? Do you take me
for a fool? I should never see my share! Tell me the place, exact, and bring me
to it with you, or I give you to the law.” The
listeners within felt, rather than heard, the faint sounds of writhing and
struggling and baulking, like a horse resisting a rider, and then the sudden
collapse, the abject surrender. “I put the money into my pouch with my own few
marks,” owned the voice bitterly, “and threw his satchel into the river. The
money is in my bed in the abbey. No one paid any heed to my entry with the
Foregate dues remaining, why should they? And those I’ve accounted for
properly. Come down with me, and I’ll satisfy you, I’ll pay you. More than the
half, if you’ll only keep your mouth shut, and let me go free...” “You
within there,” suddenly bellowed Eddi, shaking with detestation, “come forth,
for the love of God, and take this carrion away from under me, before I cut his
villain throat, and rob the hangman of his own. Come out, and see what we’ve
caught!” And
out they came, the sergeant to thrust across at once to bar any escape by the
hatch, Cadfael to set his lantern safely on a beam well clear of the hay and
straw, and tap away diligently with flint and steel until the tinder caught and
glowed, and the wick burned up into a tiny flame. Eddi’s captive had uttered
one despairing oath, and made one frantic effort to throw off the weight that
held him down and break for the open air, but was flattened back to the boards
with a thump, a large, vengeful hand splayed on his chest. “He
dares, he dares,” Eddi was grating through his teeth, “to try and buy my
father’s head from me with money stolen money, abbey money! You heard? You
heard?” The
sergeant leaned from the hatch and whistled for the two men he had had in
hiding below in the barn. He was glad he had given the plan a hearing. The
injured man live and mending well, the money located and safe everything would
redound to his credit. Now send the prisoner bound and helpless with his escort
to the castle, and off to the abbey to unearth the money. The
guarded flame of the lantern burned up and cast a yellow light about the loft.
Eddi rose and stood back from his enemy, who sat up slowly and sullenly, still
breathless and bruised, and blinked round them all with the large, ingenuous
eyes and round, youthful face of Jacob of Bouldon, that paragon of clerks, so
quick to learn the value of a rent-roll, so earnest to win the trust and
approval of his master, and lift from him every burden, particularly the burden
of a full satchel of the abbey’s dues. He
was grazed and dusty now, and the cheerful, lively mask had shrivelled into
hostile and malevolent despair. With flickering, sidelong glances he viewed
them all, and saw no way out of the circle. Longest he looked at the little,
spry, bowed old man who came forth smiling at Cadfael’s shoulder. For in the
wrinkled, lively face the lantern-light showed two eyes that caught reflected
light though they had none of their own, eyes opaque as grey pebbles and as
insensitive. Jacob stared and moaned, and softly and viciously began to curse. “Yes,”
said Brother Cadfael, “you might have saved yourself so vain an effort. I fear
I was forced to practise a measure of deceit, which would hardly have taken in
a true-born Shrewsbury man. Rhodri Fychan has been blind from birth.” It
was in some way an apt ending, when Brother Cadfael and the sergeant arrived
back at the abbey gatehouse, about first light, to find Warin Harefoot waiting
in the porter’s room for the bell for Prime to rouse the household and deliver
him of his charge, which he had brought here for safety in the night. He was
seated on a bench by the empty hearth, one hand clutching firmly at the neck of
a coarse canvas sack. “He has not let go of it all night,” said the porter,
“nor let me leave sitting t’other side of it as guard.” Warin
was willing enough, however, even relieved, to hand over his responsibility to
the law, with a monk of the house for witness, seeing abbot and prior were not
yet up to take precedence. He undid the neck of the sack proudly, and displayed
the coins within. “You
did say, brother, there might be a reward, if a man was so lucky as to find it.
I had my doubts of that young clerk. I never trust a too-honest face! And if it
was he well, I reasoned he must hide what he stole quickly. And he had a pouch
on him the like of the other, near enough, and nobody was going to wonder at
seeing him wearing it, or having money in it, either, seeing he had a small
round of his own. And if he came a thought late, well, he’d made a point he
might make a slower job of it than he’d expected, being a novice at the
collecting. So I kept my eye on him, and got my chance this night, when I saw
him creep forth after dark. In his bed it was, sewn into a corner of the straw
pallet. And here it is, and speak for me with the lord abbot. Trade’s none so
good, and a poor pedlar must live...” Gaping
down at him long and wonderingly, the sergeant questioned at last: “And did you
never for a moment consider slipping the whole into your own pack, and out
through the gates with it in the morning?” Warin
cast up a shy, disarming glance. “Well, sir, for a moment it may be I did. But
I was never the lucky sort if I did the like, never a once but I was found out.
Wisdom and experience turned me honest. Better, I hold, a small profit come by
honestly than great gains gone down the wind, and me in prison for it just the
same. So here’s the abbey’s gold again, every penny, and now I look to the lord
abbot to treat a poor, decent man fair.” About
the Author ELLIS PETERS is the
nom-de-crime of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of books
under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award, conferred
by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted Edgar,
awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well known as
a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded the Gold
Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for her
services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at
home in her beloved Shropshire. The
Advent of Brother Cadfael By Ellis
Peters Table
of Contents A Light on the Road to Woodstock BROTHER
CADFAEL SPRANG TO LIFE SUDDENLY AND UNEXPECTEDLY WHEN HE WAS ALREADY
APPROACHING SIXTY, mature, experienced, fully armed and seventeen years
tonsured. He emerged as the necessary protagonist when I had the idea of
deriving a plot for a murder mystery from the true history of Shrewsbury Abbey
in the twelfth century, and needed the high mediaeval equivalent of a
detective, an observer and agent of justice in the centre of the action. I had
no idea then what I was launching on the world, nor to how demanding a mentor I
was subjecting myself. Nor did I intend a series of books about him, indeed I
went on immediately to write a modern detective novel, and returned to the
twelfth century and Shrewsbury only when I could no longer resist the
temptation to shape another book round the siege of Shrewsbury and the massacre
of the garrison by King Stephen, which followed shortly after the prior’s
expedition into Wales to bring back the relics of Saint Winifred for his Abbey.
From then on Brother Cadfael was well into his stride, and there was no turning
back. Since
the action in the first book was almost all in Wales, and even in succeeding
ones went back and forth freely across the border, just as the history of
Shrewsbury always has, Cadfael had to be Welsh, and very much at home there.
His name was chosen as being so rare that I can find it only once in Welsh
history, and even in that instance it disappears almost as soon as it is
bestowed in baptism. Saint Cadog, contemporary and rival of Saint David, a
powerful saint in Glamorgan, was actually christened Cadfael, but ever after
seems to have been ‘familiarly known’, as Sir John Lloyd says, as Cadog. A name
of which the saint had no further need, and which appears, as far as I know,
nowhere else, seemed just the thing for my man. No implication of saintliness was
intended, though indeed when affronted Saint Cadog seems to have behaved with
the unforgiving ferocity of most of his kind, at least in legend. My monk had
to be a man of wide worldly experience and an inexhaustible fund of resigned
tolerance for the human condition. His crusading and seafaring past, with all
its enthusiasms and disillusionments, was referred to from the beginning. Only
later did readers begin to wonder and ask about his former roving life, and how
and why he became a monk. For
reasons of continuity I did not wish to go back in time and write a book about
his crusading days. Whatever else may be true of it, the entire sequence of
novels proceeds steadily season by season, year by year, in a progressive
tension which I did not want to break. But when I had the opportunity to cast a
glance behind by way of a short story, to shed light on his vocation, I was
glad to use it. So
here he is, not a convert, for this is not a conversion. In an age of
relatively uncomplicated faith, not yet obsessed and tormented by cantankerous
schisms, sects and politicians, Cadfael has always been an unquestioning
believer. What happens to him on the road to Woodstock is simply the acceptance
of a revelation from within that the life he has lived to date, active, mobile
and often violent, has reached its natural end, and he is confronted by a new
need and a different challenge. In
India it is not unknown for a man who has possessed great power and wealth to
discard everything when he reaches a certain age recognisable to him when it
comes not by dates and times, but by an inward certainty put on the yellow robe
of a sannyasi, and go away with nothing but a begging bowl, at once into the
world and out of it. Given
the difference in climate and tradition between the saffron robe and the
voluminous black habit, the solitary with the wilderness for his cloister, and
the wall suddenly enclosing and embracing the traveller over half the world,
that is pretty much what Cadfael does in entering the Rule of Saint Benedict in
the Abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury. Thereafter,
on occasions and for what he feels to be good reasons, he may break the rules.
He will never transgress against the Rule, and never abandon it. Ellis Peters 1988 A
Light on the Road to Woodstock THE
KING’S COURT WAS IN NO HURRY TO RETURN TO ENGLAND, that late autumn of 1120,
even though the fighting, somewhat desultory in these last stages, was long
over, and the enforced peace sealed by a royal marriage. King Henry had brought
to a successful conclusion his sixteen years of patient, cunning, relentless
plotting, fighting and manipulating, and could now sit back in high content,
master not only of England but of Normandy, too. What the Conqueror had
misguidedly dealt out in two separate parcels to his two elder sons, his
youngest son had now put together again and clamped into one. Not without a
hand in removing from the light of day, some said, both of his brothers, one of
whom had been shovelled into a hasty grave under the tower at Winchester, while
the other was now a prisoner in Devizes, and unlikely ever to be seen again by
the outer world. The
court could well afford to linger to enjoy victory, while Henry trimmed into
neatness the last loose edges still to be made secure. But his fleet was
already preparing at Barfleur for the voyage back to England, and he would be
home before the month ended. Meantime, many of his barons and knights who had
fought his battles were withdrawing their contingents and making for home,
among them one Roger Mauduit, who had a young and handsome wife waiting for
him, certain legal business on his mind, and twenty-five men to ship back to
England, most of them to be paid off on landing. There
were one or two among the miscellaneous riff-raff he had recruited here in
Normandy on his lord’s behalf whom it might be worth keeping on in his own
service, along with the few men of his household, at least until he was safely
home. The vagabond clerk turned soldier, let him be unfrocked priest or what he
might, was an excellent copyist and a sound Latin scholar, and could put legal
documents in their best and most presentable form, in good time for the King’s
court at Woodstock. And the Welsh man-at-arms, blunt and insubordinate as he
was, was also experienced and accomplished in arms, a man of his word, once
given, and utterly reliable in whatever situation on land or sea, for in both
elements he had long practice behind him. Roger was well aware that he was not
greatly loved, and had little faith in either the valour or the loyalty of his
own men. But this Welshman from Gwynedd, by way of Antioch and Jerusalem and
only God knew where else, had imbibed the code of arms and wore it as a second
nature. With or without love, such service as he pledged, that he would provide. Roger
put it to them both as his men were embarking at Barfleur, in the middle of a
deceptively placid November, and upon a calm sea. “I
would have you two accompany me to my manor of Sutton Mauduit by Northampton,
when we disembark, and stay in my pay until a certain lawsuit I have against
the abbey of Shrewsbury is resolved. The King intends to come to Woodstock when
he arrives in England, and will be there to preside over my case on the
twenty-third day of this month. Will you remain in my service until that day?” The
Welshman said that he would, until that day or until the case was resolved. He
said it indifferently, as one who has no business of any importance anywhere in
the world to pull him in another direction. As well Northampton as anywhere else.
As well Woodstock. And after Woodstock? Why anywhere in particular? There was
no identifiable light beckoning him anywhere, along any road. The world was
wide, fair and full of savour, but without signposts. Alard,
the tatterdemalion clerk, hesitated, scratched his thick thatch of grizzled red
hair, and finally also said yes, but as if some vague regret drew him in
another direction. It meant pay for some days more, he could not afford to say
no. “I
would have gone with him with better heart,” he said later, when they were
leaning on the rail together, watching the low blue line of the English shore
rise out of a placid sea, “if he had been taking a more westerly road.” “Why
that?” asked Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd. “Have you kin in the west?” “I
had once. I have not now.” “Dead?” “I
am the one who died.” Alard heaved lean shoulders in a helpless shrug, and
grinned. “Fifty-seven brothers I had, and now I’m brotherless. I begin to miss
my kin, now I’m past forty. I never valued them when I was young.” He slanted a
rueful glance at his companion and shook his head. “I was a monk of Evesham, an
oblatus, given to God by my father when I was five years old. When I was
fifteen I could no longer abide to live my life in one place, and I ran.
Stability is one of the vows we take to be content in one stay, and go abroad
only when ordered. That was not for me, not then. My sort they call vagus
frivolous minds that must wander. Well, I’ve wandered far enough, God knows, in
my time. I begin to fear I can never stand still again.” The
Welshman drew his cloak about him against the chill of the wind. “Are you
hankering for a return?” “Even
you seamen must drop anchor somewhere at last,” said Alard. “They’d have my
hide if I went back, that I know. But there’s this about penance, it pays all
debts, and leaves the record clear. They’d find a place for me, once I’d paid.
But I don’t know... I don’t know... The vagus is still in me. I’m torn two
ways.” “After
twenty-five years,” said Cadfael, “a month or two more for quiet thinking can
do no harm. Copy his papers for him and take your case until his business is
settled.” They
were much of an age, though the renegade monk looked the elder by ten years,
and much knocked about by the world he had coveted from within the cloister. It
had never paid him well in goods or gear, for he went threadbare and thin, but
in wisdom he might have got his fair wages. A little soldiering, a little
clerking, some horse-tending, any labour that came to hand, until he could turn
his hand to almost anything a hale man can do. He had seen, he said, Italy as
far south as Rome, served once for a time under the Count of Flanders, crossed
the mountains into Spain, never abiding anywhere for long. His feet still
served him, but his mind grew weary of the road. “And
you?” he said, eyeing his companion, whom he had known now for a year in this
last campaign. “You’re something of a vagus yourself, by your own account. All
those years crusading and battling corsairs in the midland sea, and still you
have not enough of it, but must cross the sea again to get buffeted about
Normandy. Had you no better business of your own, once you got back to England,
but you must enlist again in this muddled melee of a war? No woman to take your
mind off fighting?” “What
of yourself? Free of the cloister, free of the vows!” “Somehow,”
said Alard, himself puzzled, “I never saw it so. A woman here and there, yes,
when the heat was on me, and there was a woman by and willing, but marriage and
wiving... it never seemed to me I had the right.” The
Welshman braced his feet on the gently swaying deck and watched the distant
shore draw nearer. A broad-set, sturdy, muscular man in his healthy prime,
brown-haired and brown-skinned from eastern suns and outdoor living,
well-provided in leather coat and good cloth, and well-armed with sword and
dagger. A comely enough face, strongly featured, with the bold bones of his
race there had been women, in his time, who had found him handsome. “I
had a girl,” he said meditatively, “years back, before ever I went crusading.
But I left her when I took the Cross, left her for three years and stayed away
seventeen. The truth is, in the east I forgot her, and in the west she, thanks
be to God, had forgotten me. I did enquire, when I got back. She’d made a better
bargain, and married a decent, solid man who had nothing of the vagus in him. A
guildsman and counsellor of the town of Shrewsbury, no less. So I shed the load
from my conscience and went back to what I knew, soldiering. With no regrets,”
he said simply. “It was all over and done, years since. I doubt if I should
have known her again, or she me.” There had been other women’s faces in the
years between, still vivid in his memory, while hers had faded into mist. “And
what will you do,” asked Alard, “now the King’s got everything he wanted,
married his son to Anjou and Maine, and made an end of fighting? Go back to the
east? There’s never any want of squabbles there to keep a man busy.” “No,”
said Cadfael, eyes fixed on the shore that began to show the solidity of land
and the undulations of cliff and down. For that, too, was over and done, years
since, and not as well done as once he had hoped. This desultory campaigning in
Normandy was little more than a postscriptum, an afterthought, a means of
filling in the interim between what was past and what was to come, and as yet
unrevealed. All he knew of it was that it must be something new and momentous,
a door opening into another room. “It seems we have both a few days’ grace, you
and I, to find out where we are going. We’d best make good use of the time.” There
was stir enough before night to keep them from wondering beyond the next
moment, or troubling their minds about what was past or what was to come. Their
ship put into the roads with a steady and favourable wind, and made course into
Southampton before the light faded, and there was work for Alard checking the
gear as it was unloaded, and for Cadfael disembarking the horses. A night’s
sleep in lodgings and stables in the town, and they would be on their way with
the dawn. “So
the King’s due in Woodstock,” said Alard, rustling sleepily in his straw in a
warm loft over the horses, “in time to sit in judgement on the twenty-third of
the month. He makes his forest lodges the hub of his kingdom, there’s more statecraft
talked at Woodstock, so they say, than ever at Westminster. And he keeps his
beasts there—lions and leopards, even camels. Did you ever see camels, Cadfael?
There in the east?” “Saw
them and rode them. Common as horses there, hard-working and serviceable, but
uncomfortable riding, and foul-tempered. Thank God it’s horses we’ll be
mounting in the morning.” And after a long silence, on the edge of sleep, he
asked curiously into the straw-scented darkness: “If ever you do go back, what
is it you want of Evesham?” “Do
I know?” responded Alard drowsily, and followed that with a sudden sharpening
sigh, again fully awake. “The silence, it might be... or the stillness. To have
no more running to do... to have arrived, and have no more need to run. The appetite
changes. Now I think it would be a beautiful thing to be still.” The
manor which was the head of Roger Mauduit’s scattered and substantial honour
lay somewhat south-east of Northampton, comfortably under the lee of the long
ridge of wooded hills where the king had a chase, and spreading its extensive
fields over the rich lowland between. The house was of stone, and ample, over a
deep undercroft, and with a low tower providing two small chambers at the
eastern end, and the array of sturdy byres, barns and stables that lined the
containing walls was impressive. Someone had proved a good steward while the
lord was away about King Henry’s business. The
furnishings of the hall were no less eloquent of good management, and the men
and maids of the household went about their work with a brisk wariness that
showed they went in some awe of whoever presided over their labours. It needed
only a single day of watching the Lady Eadwina in action to show who ruled the
roost here. Roger Mauduit had married a wife not only handsome, but also
efficient and masterful. She had had her own way here for three years, and by
all the signs had enjoyed her dominance. She might, even, be none too glad to
resign her charge now, however glad she might be to have her lord home again. She
was a tall, graceful woman, ten years younger than Roger, with an abundance of
fair hair, and large blue eyes that went discreetly half-veiled by absurdly
long lashes most of the time, but flashed a bright and steely challenge when
she opened them fully. Her smile was likewise discreet and almost constant,
concealing rather than revealing whatever went on in her mind; and though her
welcome to her returning lord left nothing to be desired, but lavished on him
every possible tribute of ceremony and affection from the moment his horse
entered at the gate, Cadfael could not but wonder whether she was not, at the
same time, taking stock of every man he brought in with him, and every article
of gear or harness or weaponry in their equipment, as one taking jealous
inventory of his goods and reserves to make sure nothing was lacking. She
had her little son by the hand, a boy of about seven years old, and the child
had the same fair colouring, the same contained and almost supercilious smile,
and was as spruce and fine as his mother. The
lady received Alard with a sweeping glance that deprecated his tatterdemalion
appearance and doubted his morality, but nevertheless was willing to accept and
make use of his abilities. The clerk who kept the manor roll and the accounts
was efficient enough, but had no Latin, and could not write a good court hand.
Alard was whisked away to a small table set in the angle of the great hearth,
and kept hard at work copying certain charters and letters, and preparing them
for presentation. “This
suit of his is against the abbey of Shrewsbury,” said Alard, freed of his
labours after supper in hall. “I recall you said that girl of yours had married
a merchant in that town. Shrewsbury is a Benedictine house, like mine of
Evesham.” His, he called it still, after so many years of abandoning it; or his
again, after time had brushed away whatever division there had ever been. “You
must know it, if you come from there.” “I
was born in Trefriw, in Gwynedd,” said Cadfael, “but I took service early with
an English wool-merchant, and came to Shrewsbury with his household. Fourteen,
I was then in Wales fourteen is manhood, and as I was a good lad with the short
bow, and took kindly to the sword, I suppose I was worth my keep. The best of
my following years were spent in Shrewsbury, I know it like my own palm, abbey
and all. My master sent me there a year and more, to get my letters. But I quit
that service when he died. I’d pledged nothing to the son, and he was a poor
shadow of his father. That was when I took the Cross. So did many like me, all
afire. I won’t say what followed was all ash, but it burned very low at times.” “It’s
Mauduit who holds this disputed land,” said Alard, “and the abbey that sues to
recover it, and the thing’s been going on four years without a settlement, ever
since the old man here died. From what I know of the Benedictines, I’d rate
their honesty above our Roger’s, I tell you straight. And yet his charters seem
to be genuine, as far as I can tell.” “Where
is this land they’re fighting over?” asked Cadfael. “It’s
a manor by the name of Rotesley, near Stretton, demesne, village, advowson of
the church and all. It seems when the great earl was just dead and his abbey
still building, Roger’s father gave Rotesley to the abbey. No dispute about
that, the charter’s there to show it. But the abbey granted it back to him as
tenant for life, to live out his latter years there undisturbed, Roger being
then married and installed here at Sutton. That’s where the dispute starts. The
abbey claims it was clearly agreed the tenancy ended with the old man’s death,
that he himself understood it so, and intended it should be restored to the
abbey as soon as he was out of it. While Roger says there was no such agreement
to restore it unconditionally, but the tenancy was granted to the Mauduits, and
ought to be hereditary. And so far he’s hung on to it tooth and claw. After
several hearings they remitted it to the King himself. And that’s why you and
I, my friend, will be off with his lordship to Woodstock the day after
tomorrow.” “And
how do you rate his chances of success? He seems none too sure himself,” said
Cadfael, “to judge by his short temper and nail-biting this last day or so.” “Why,
the charter could have been worded better. It says simply that the village is
granted back in tenancy during the old man’s lifetime, but fails to say
anything about what shall happen afterwards, whatever may have been intended.
From what I hear, they were on very good terms, Abbot Fulchered and the old
lord, agreements between them on other matters in the manor book are worded as
between men who trusted each other. The witnesses are all of them dead, as
Abbot Fulchered is dead. It’s one Godefrid now. But for all I know the abbey
may hold letters that have passed between the two, and a letter is witness of
intent, no less than a formal charter. All in good time we shall see.” The
nobility still sat at the high table, in no haste to retire, Roger brooding
over his wine, of which he had already drunk his fair share and more. Cadfael
eyed them with interest, seen thus in a family setting. The boy had gone to his
bed, hauled away by an elderly nurse, but the Lady Eadwina sat in close
attendance at her lord’s left hand, and kept his cup well filled, smiling her
faint, demure smile. On her left sat a very fine young squire of about
twenty-five years, deferential and discreet, with a smile somehow the male
reflection of her own. The source of both was secret, the spring of their
pleasure or amusement, or whatever caused them so to smile, remained private
and slightly unnerving, like the carved stone smiles of certain very old
statues Cadfael had seen in Greece, long ago. For all his mild, amiable and
ornamental appearance, combed and curled and courtly, he was a big, well-set-up
young fellow, with a set to his smooth jaw. Cadfael studied him with interest,
for he was plainly privileged here. “Goscelin,”
said Alard by way of explanation, following his friend’s glance. “Her
right-hand man while Roger was away.” Her
left-hand man now, by the look of it, thought Cadfael. For her left hand and
Goscelin’s right were private under the table, while she spoke winningly into
her husband’s ear; and if those two hands were not paddling palms at this
moment Cadfael was very much deceived. Above and below the drapings of the
board were two different worlds. “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “what she’s
breathing into Roger’s ear now.” What
the lady was breathing into her husband’s ear was, in fact: “You fret over
nothing, my lord. What does it matter how strong his proofs, if he never
reaches Woodstock in time to present them? You know the law: if one party fails
to appear, judgement is given for the other. The assize judges may allow more
than one default if they please, but do you think King Henry will? Whoever
fails of keeping tryst with him will be felled on the spot. And you know the
road by which Prior Heribert must come.” Her voice was a silken purr in his
ear. “And have you not a hunting-lodge in the forest north of Woodstock,
through which that road passes?” Roger’s
hand had stiffened round the stem of his wine cup. He was not so drunk but he
was listening intently. “Shrewsbury
to Woodstock will be a two or three-day journey to such a rider. All you need
do is have a watcher on the road north of you, to give warning. The woods are
thick enough, masterless men have been known to haunt there. Even if he comes
by daylight, your part need never be known. Hide him but a few days, it will be
long enough. Then turn him loose by night, and who’s ever to know what footpads
held and robbed him? You need not even touch his parchments, robbers would
count them worthless. Take what common thieves would take, and theirs will be
the blame.” Roger
opened his tight-shut mouth to say in a doubtful growl: “He’ll not be
travelling alone.” “Hah!
Two or three abbey servants they’ll run like hares. You need not trouble
yourself over them. Three stout, silent men of your own will be more than
enough.” He
brooded, and began to think so, too, and to review in his mind the men of his
household, seeking the right hands for such work. Not the Welshman and the
clerk, the strangers here; their part was to be the honest onlookers, in case
there should ever be questions asked. They
left Sutton Mauduit on the twentieth day of November, which seemed
unnecessarily early, though as Roger had decreed that they should settle in his
hunting-lodge in the forest close by Woodstock, which meant conveying stores
with them to make the house habitable and provision it for a party for, presumably,
a stay of three nights at least, it was perhaps a wise precaution. Roger was
taking no chances in his suit, he said; he meant to be established on the
ground in good time, and have all his proofs in order. “But
so he has,” said Alard, pricked in his professional pride, “for I’ve gone over
everything with him, and the case, if open in default of specific instructions,
is plain enough and will stand up. What the abbey can muster, who knows? They
say the abbot is not well, which is why his prior comes in his place. My work
is done.” He
had the faraway look in his eye, as the party rode out and faced westward, of
one either penned and longing to be where he could but see, or loose and weary
and being drawn home. Either a vagus escaping outward, or a penitent flying
back in haste before the doors should close against him. There must indeed be
something desirable and lovely to cause a man to look towards it with that look
on his face. Three
men-at-arms and two grooms accompanied Roger, in addition to Alard and Cadfael,
whose term of service would end with the session in court, after which they
might go where they would, Cadfael horsed, since he owned his own mount, Alard
afoot, since the pony he rode belonged to Roger. It came as something of a
surprise to Cadfael that the squire Goscelin should also saddle up and ride
with the party, very debonair and well-armed with sword and dagger. “I
marvel,” said Cadfael drily, “that the lady doesn’t need him at home for her
own protection, while her lord’s absent.” The
Lady Eadwina, however, bade farewell to the whole party with the greatest
serenity, and to her husband with demonstrative affection, putting forward her
little son to be embraced and kissed. Perhaps, thought Cadfael, relenting, I do
her wrong, simply because I feel chilled by that smile of hers. For all I know
she may be the truest wife living. They
set out early, and before Buckingham made a halt at the small and penurious
priory of Bradwell, where Roger elected to spend the night, keeping his three
men-at-arms with him, while Goscelin with the rest of the party rode on to the
hunting-lodge to make all ready for their lord’s reception the following day.
It was growing dark by the time they arrived, and the bustle of kindling fire
and torches, and unloading the bed-linen and stores from the sumpter ponies
went on into the night. The lodge was small, stockaded, well-furnished with
stabling and mews, and in thick woodland, a place comfortable enough once they
had a roaring fire on the hearth and food on the table. “The
road the prior of Shrewsbury will be coming by,” said Alard, warming himself by
the fire after supper, “passes through Evesham. As like as not they’ll stay the
last night there.” With every mile west Cadfael had seen him straining forward
with mounting eagerness. “The road cannot be far away from us here, it passes
through this forest.” “It
must be nearly thirty miles to Evesham,” said Cadfael. “A long day’s riding for
a clerical party. It will be night by the time they ride past into Woodstock.
If you’re set on going, stay at least to get your pay, for you’ll need it
before the thirty miles is done.” They
went to their slumber in the warmth of the hall without a word more said. But
he would go, Alard, whether he himself knew it yet or not. Cadfael knew it. His
friend was a tired horse with the scent of the stable in his nostrils; nothing
would stop him now until he reached it. It
was well into the middle of the day when Roger and his escort arrived, and they
approached not directly, as the advance party had done, but from the woods to
the north, as though they had been indulging in a little hunting or hawking by
the way, except that they had neither hawk nor hound with them. A fine, clear,
cool day for riding, there was no reason in the world why they should not go
roundabout for the pure pleasure of it and indeed, they seemed to come in high
content! but that Roger’s mind had been so preoccupied and so anxious
concerning his lawsuit that distractions seemed unlikely. Cadfael was given to
thinking about unlikely developments, which from old campaigns he knew to prove
significant in most cases. Goscelin, who was out at the gate to welcome them
in, was apparently oblivious to the direction from which they came. That way
lay Alard’s highway to his rest. But what meaning ought it to have for Roger
Mauduit? The
table was lavish that night, and lord and squire drank well and ate well, and
gave no sign of any care, though they might, Cadfael thought, watching them
from his lower place, seem a little tight and knife-edged. Well, the King’s
court could account for that. Shrewsbury’s prior was drawing steadily nearer,
with whatever weapons he had for the battle. But it seemed rather an exultant
tension than an anxious one. Was Roger counting his chickens already? The
morning of the twenty-second of November dawned, and the noon passed, and with
every moment Alard’s restlessness and abstraction grew, until with evening it
possessed him utterly, and he could no longer resist. He presented himself
before Roger after supper, when his mood might be mellow from good food and
wine. “My
lord, with the morrow my service to you is completed. You need me no longer,
and with your goodwill I would set forth now for where I am going. I go afoot
and need provision for the road. If you have been content with my work, pay me
what is due, and let me go.” It
seemed that Roger had been startled out of some equally absorbing preoccupation
of his own, and was in haste to return to it, for he made no demur, but paid at
once. To do him justice, he had never been a grudging paymaster. He drove as
hard a bargain as he could at the outset, but once the agreement was made, he
kept it. “Go
when you please,” he said. “Fill your bag from the kitchen for the journey when
you leave. You did good work, I give you that.” And
he returned to whatever it was that so engrossed his thoughts, and Alard went
to collect the proffered largesse and his own meagre possessions. “I
am going,” he said, meeting Cadfael in the hall doorway. “I must go.” There was
no more doubt in voice or face. “They will take me back, though in the lowest
place. From that there’s no falling. The blessed Benedict wrote in the Rule
that even to the third time of straying a man may be received again if he
promise full amendment.” It
was a dark night, without moon or stars but in fleeting moments when the wind
ripped apart the cloud covering to let through a brief gleam of moonlight. The
weather had grown gusty and wild in the last two days, the King’s fleet must
have had a rough crossing from Barfleur. “You’d
do better,” urged Cadfael, “to wait for morning, and go by daylight. Here’s a
safe bed, and the King’s peace, however well enforced, hardly covers every mile
of the King’s highroads.” But
Alard would not wait. The yearning was on him too strongly, and a penniless
vagabond who had ventured all the roads of Christendom by day or night was
hardly likely to flinch from the last thirty miles of his wanderings. “Then
I’ll go with you as far as the road, and see you on your way,” said Cadfael. There
was a mile or so of track through thick forest between them and the highroad
that bore away west-north-west on the upland journey to Evesham. The ribbon of
open highway, hemmed on both sides by trees, was hardly less dark than the
forest itself. King Henry had fenced in his private park at Woodstock to house
his wild beasts, but maintained also his hunting chase here, many miles in
extent. At the road they parted, and Cadfael stood to watch his friend march
steadily away towards the west, eyes fixed ahead, upon his penance and his
absolution, a tired man with a rest assured. Cadfael
turned back towards the lodge as soon as the receding shadow had melted into
the night. He was in no haste to go in, for the night, though blustery, was not
cold, and he was in no mind to seek the company of others of the party now that
the one best known to him was gone, and gone in so mysteriously rapt a fashion.
He walked on among the trees, turning his back on his bed for a while. The
constant thrashing of branches in the wind all but drowned the scuffling and
shouting that suddenly broke out behind him, at some distance among the trees,
until a horse’s shrill whinny brought him about with a jerk, and set him
running through the underbrush towards the spot where confused voices yelled
alarm and broken bushes thrashed. The clamour seemed some little way off, and
he was startled as he shouldered his way headlong through a thicket to collide
heavily with two entangled bodies, send them spinning apart, and himself fall a-sprawl
upon one of them in the flattened grass. The man under him uttered a scared and
angry cry, and the voice was Roger’s. The other man had made no sound at all,
but slid away very rapidly and lightly to vanish among the trees, a tall shadow
swallowed in shadows. Cadfael
drew off in haste, reaching an arm to hoist the winded man. “My lord, are you
hurt? What, in God’s name, is to do here?” The sleeve he clutched slid warm and
wet under his hand. “You’re injured! Hold fast, let’s see what harm’s done before
you move...” Then
there was the voice of Goscelin, for once loud and vehement in alarm, shouting
for his lord and crashing headlong through bush and brake to fall on his knees
beside Roger, lamenting and raging. “My
lord, my lord, what happened here? What rogues were those, loose in the woods?
Dared they waylay travellers so close to the King’s highway? You’re hurt here’s
blood...” Roger
got his breath back and sat up, feeling at his left arm below the shoulder, and
wincing. “A scratch. My arm... God curse him, whoever he may be, the fellow
struck for my heart. Man, if you had not come charging like a bull, I might
have been dead. You hurled me off the point of his dagger. Thank God, there’s
no great harm, but I bleed... Help me back home!” “That
a man may not walk by night in his own woods,” fumed Goscelin, hoisting his
lord carefully to his feet, “without being set upon by outlaws! Help here, you,
Cadfael, take his other arm... Footpads so close to Woodstock! Tomorrow we must
turn out the watch to comb these tracks and hunt them out of cover, before they
kill...” “Get
me withindoors,” snapped Roger, “and have this coat and shirt off me, and let’s
staunch this bleeding. I’m alive, that’s the main!” They
helped him back between them, through the more open ways towards the lodge. It
dawned on Cadfael, as they went, that the clamour of furtive battle had ceased
completely, even the wind had abated, and somewhere on the road, distantly, he
caught the rhythm of galloping hooves, very fast and light, as of a riderless
horse in panic flight. The
gash in Roger Mauduit’s left arm, just below the shoulder, was long but not
deep, and grew shallower as it descended. The stroke that marked him thus could
well have been meant for his heart. Cadfael’s hurtling impact, at the very
moment the attack was launched, had been the means of averting murder. The
shadow that had melted into the night had no form, nothing about it rendered it
human or recognisable. He had heard an outcry and run towards it, a projectile
to strike attacked and attacker apart; questioned, that was all he could say. For
which, said Roger, bandaged and resting and warmed with mulled wine, he was
heartily thankful. And indeed, Roger was behaving with remarkable fortitude and
calm for a man who had just escaped death. By the time he had demonstrated to
his dismayed grooms and men-at-arms that he was alive and not much the worse,
appointed the hour when they should set out for Woodstock in the morning, and
been helped to his bed by Goscelin, there was even a suggestion of complacency
about him, as though a gash in the arm was a small price to pay for the
successful retention of a valuable property and the defeat of his clerical
opponents. In
the court of the palace of Woodstock the King’s chamberlains, clerks and judges
were fluttering about in a curiously distracted manner, or so it seemed to
Cadfael, standing apart among the commoners to observe their antics. They
gathered in small groups, conversing in low voices and with anxious faces,
broke apart to regroup with others of their kind, hurried in and out among the
litigants, avoiding or brushing off all questions, exchanged documents, hurried
to the door to peer out, as if looking for some late arrival. And there was
indeed one litigant who had not kept to his time, for there was no sign of a
Benedictine prior among those assembled, nor had anyone appeared to explain or
justify his absence. And Roger Mauduit, in spite of his stiff and painful arm,
continued to relax, with ever-increasing assurance, into shining complacency.
The appointed hour was already some minutes past when four agitated fellows,
two of them Benedictine brothers, made a hasty entrance, and accosted the
presiding clerk. Sir,”
bleated the leader, loud in nervous dismay, “we here are come from the abbey of
Shrewsbury, escort to our prior, who was on his way to plead a case at law
here. Sir, you must hold him excused, for it is not his blame nor ours that he
cannot appear. In the forest some two miles north, as we rode hither last night
in the dark, we were attacked by a band of lawless robbers, and they have
seized our prior and dragged him away...” The
spokesman’s voice had risen shrilly in his agitation, he had the attention of
every man in the hall by this time. Certainly he had Cadfael’s. Masterless men
some two miles out of Woodstock, plying their trade last night, could only be
the same who had happened upon Roger Mauduit and all but been the death of him.
Any such gang, so close to the court, was astonishing enough, there could
hardly be two. The clerk was outraged at the very idea. “Seized
and captured him? And you four were with him? Can this be true? How many were
they who attacked you?” “We
could not tell for certain. Three at least but they were lying in ambush, we
had no chance to stand them off. They pulled him from his horse and were off
into the trees with him. They knew the woods, and we did not. Sir, we did go
after them, but they beat us off.” It
was evident they had done their best, for two of them showed bruised and
scratched, and all were soiled and torn as to their clothing. “We
have hunted through the night, but found no trace, only we caught his horse a
mile down the highway as we came hither. So we plead here that our prior’s
absence be not seen as a default, for indeed he would have been here in the
town last night if all had gone as it should.” “Hush,
wait!’ said the clerk peremptorily. All
heads had turned towards the door of the hall, where a great flurry of
officials had suddenly surged into view, cleaving through the press with fixed
and ominous haste, to take the centre of the floor below the King’s empty dais.
A chamberlain, elderly and authoritative, struck the floor loudly with his
staff and commanded silence. And at sight of his face silence fell like a
stone. “My
lords, gentlemen, all who have pleas here this day, and all others present, you
are bidden to disperse, for there will be no hearings today. All suits that
should be heard here must be postponed three days, and will be heard by His
Grace’s judges. His Grace the King cannot appear.” This
time the silence fell again like a heavy curtain, muffling even thought or
conjecture. “The
court is in mourning from this hour. We have received news of desolating
import. His Grace with the greater part of his fleet made the crossing to
England safely, as is known, but the Blanche Nef, in which His Grace’s son and
heir, Prince William, with all his companions and many other noble souls were
embarked, put to sea late, and was caught in gales before ever clearing
Barfleur. The ship is lost, split upon a rock, foundered with all hands, not a
soul is come safe to land. Go hence quietly, and pray for the souls of the
flower of this realm.” So
that was the end of one man’s year of triumph, an empty achievement, a ruinous
victory, Normandy won, his enemies routed, and now everything swept aside,
broken apart upon an obstinate rock, washed away in a malicious sea. His only
lawful son, recently married in splendour, now denied even a coffin and a
grave, for if ever they found those royal bodies it would be by the relenting
grace of God, for the sea seldom put its winnings ashore by Barfleur. Even some
of his unlawful sons, of whom there were many, gone down with their royal
brother, no one left but the one legal daughter to inherit a barren empire. Cadfael
walked alone in a corner of the King’s park and considered the foolishness of
mortal vainglory, that was paid for with such a bitter price. But also he
thought of the affairs of little men, to whom even a luckless King owed
justice. For somewhere there was still to be sought the lost prior of
Shrewsbury, carried off by masterless men in the forest, a litigant who might
still be lost three days hence, when his suit came up again for hearing, unless
someone in the meantime knew where to look for him. He
was in little doubt now. A lawless gang at liberty so close to a royal palace
was in any case unlikely enough, and Cadfael was liable to brood on the
unlikely. But that there should be two no, that was impossible. And if one
only, then that same one whose ambush he had overheard at some distance, yet
close enough, too close for comfort, to Roger Mauduit’s hunting-lodge. Probably
the unhappy brothers from Shrewsbury were off beating the wilds of the forest
afresh. Cadfael knew better where to look. No doubt Roger was biting his nails
in some anxiety over the delay, but he had no reason to suppose that three days
would release the captive to appear against him, nor was he paying much
attention to what his Welsh man-at-arms was doing with his time. Cadfael
took his horse and rode back without haste towards the hunting-lodge. He left
in the early dusk, as soon as the evening meal was over in Mauduit’s lodging.
No one was paying any heed to him by that time of day. All Roger had to do was
hold his tongue and keep his wits about him for three days, and the disputed
manor would still be adjudged to him. Everything was beautifully in hand, after
all. Two
of the men-at-arms and one groom had been left behind at the hunting-lodge.
Cadfael doubted if the man they guarded was to be found in the house itself,
for unless he was blindfolded he would be able to gather far too much knowledge
of his surroundings, and the fable of the masterless men would be tossed into
the rubbish-heap. No, he would be held in darkness, or dim light at best, even
during the day, in straw or the rush flooring of a common hut, fed adequately
but plainly and roughly, as wild men might keep a prisoner they were too
cautious to kill, or too superstitious, until they turned him loose in some
remote place, stripped of everything he had of value. On the other hand, he
must be somewhere securely inside the boundary fence, otherwise there would be
too high a risk of his being found. Between the gate and the house there were
trees enough to obscure the large holding of a man of consequence. Somewhere
among the stables and barns, or the now empty kennels, there he must be held. Cadfael
tethered his horse in cover well aside from the lodge and found himself a perch
in a tall oak tree, from which vantage point he could see over the fence into
the courtyard. He
was in luck. The three within fed themselves at leisure before they fed their
prisoner, preferring to wait for dark. By the time the groom emerged from the
hall with a pitcher and a bowl in his hands, Cadfael had his night eyes. They
were quite easy about their charge, expecting no interference from any man. The
groom vanished momentarily between the trees within the enclosure, but appeared
again at one of the low buildings tucked under the fence, set down his pitcher
for a moment while he hoisted clear a heavy wooden bar that held the door fast
shut, and vanished within. The door thudded to after him, as though he had
slammed it shut with his back braced against it, taking no chances even with an
elderly monastic. In a few minutes he emerged again empty-handed, hauled the
bar into place again, and returned, whistling, to the hall and the enjoyment of
Mauduit’s ale. Not
the stables nor the kennels, but a small, stout hay-store built on short wooden
piles raised from the ground. At least the prior would have fairly snug lying. Cadfael
let the last of the light fade before he made a move. The wooden wall was stout
and high, but more than one of the old trees outside leaned a branch over it,
and it was no great labour to climb without and drop into the deep grass
within. He made first for the gate, and quietly unbarred the narrow wicket set
into it. Faint threads of torchlight filtered through the chinks in the hall
shutters, but nothing else stirred. Cadfael laid hold of the heavy bar of the
storehouse door, and eased it silently out of its socket, opening the door by
cautious inches, and whispering through the chink: “Father...?” There
was a sharp rustling of hay within, but no immediate reply. “Father
Prior, is it you? Softly... Are you bound?” A
hesitant and slightly timorous voice said: “No.” And in a moment, with better
assurance: “My son, you are not one of these sinful men?” “Sinful
man I am, but not of their company. Hush, quietly now! I have a horse close by.
I came from Woodstock to find you. Reach me your hand, Father, and come forth.” A
hand came wavering out of the hay-scented darkness to clutch convulsively at
Cadfael’s hand. The pale patch of a tonsured crown gleamed faintly, and a small,
rounded figure crept forth and stepped into the thick grass. He had the wit to
waste no breath then on questions, but stood docile and silent while Cadfael
re-barred the door on emptiness, and, taking him by the hand, led him softly
along the fence to the unfastened wicket in the great gate. Only when the door
was closed as softly behind them did he heave a great, thankful sigh. They
were out, it was done, and no one would be likely to learn of the escape until
morning, Cadfael led the way to where he had left his horse tethered. The
forest lay serene and quiet about them. “You
ride, Father, and I’ll walk with you. It’s no more than two miles into
Woodstock. We’re safe enough now.” Bewildered
and confused by so sudden a reversal, the prior confided and obeyed like a
child. Not until they were out on the silent highroad did he say sadly, “I have
failed of my mission. Son, may God bless you for this kindness which is beyond
my understanding. For how did you know of me, and how could you divine where to
find me? I understand nothing of what has been happening to me. And I am not a
very brave man... But my failure is no fault of yours, and my blessing I owe
you without stint.” “You
have not failed, Father,” said Cadfael simply. “The suit is still unheard, and
will be for three days more. All your companions are safe in Woodstock, except
that they fret and search for you. And if you know where they will be lodging,
I would recommend that you join them now, by night, and stay well out of sight
until the day the case is heard. For if this trap was designed to keep you from
appearing in the King’s court, some further attempt might yet be made. Have you
your evidences safe? They did not take them?” “Brother
Orderic, my clerk, was carrying the documents, but he could not conduct the
case in court. I only am accredited to represent my abbot. But, my son, how is
it that the case still goes unheard? The King keeps strict day and time, it’s
well known. How comes it that God and you have saved me from disgrace and
loss?” “Father,
for all too bitter reason the King could not be present.” Cadfael
told him the whole of it, how half the young chivalry of England had been wiped
out in one blow, and the King left without an heir. Prior Heribert, shocked and
dismayed, fell to praying in a grieving whisper for both dead and living, and
Cadfael walked beside the horse in silence, for what more was there to be said?
Except that King Henry, even in this shattering hour, willed that his justice
should still prevail, and that was virtue in any monarch. Only when they came
into the sleeping town did Cadfael again interrupt the prior’s fervent prayers
with a strange question. “Father,
was any man of your escort carrying steel? A dagger, or any such weapon?” “No,
no, God forbid!’ said the prior, shocked. “We have no use for arms. We trust in
God’s peace, and after it in the King’s.” “So
I thought,” said Cadfael, nodding. “It is another discipline, for another
venture.” By
the change in Mauduit’s countenance Cadfael knew the hour of the following day
when the news reached him that his prisoner was flown. All the rest of that day
he went about with nerves at stretch and ears pricked for any sensational
rumours being bandied around the town, and eyes roving anxiously in dread of
the sight of Prior Heribert in court or street, braced to pour out his
complaint to the King’s officers. But as the hours passed and still there was
no sign, he began to be a little eased in his mind, and to hope still for a
miraculous deliverance. The Benedictine brothers were seen here and there, mute
and sombre-faced; surely they could have had no word of their superior. There
was nothing to be done but set his teeth, keep his countenance, wait and hope. The
second day passed, and the third day came, and Mauduit’s hopes had soared
again, for still there was no word. He made his appearance before the King’s
judge confidently, his charters in hand. The abbey was the suitor. If all went
well, Roger would not even have to state his case, for the plea would fail of
itself when the pleader failed to appear. It
came as a shattering shock when a sudden stir at the door, prompt to the hour
appointed, blew into the hall a small, round, unimpressive person in the
Benedictine habit, hugging to him an armful of vellum rolls, and followed by
his black-gowned brothers in close attendance. Cadfael, too, was observing him
with interest, for it was the first time he had seen him clearly. A modest man
of comfortable figure and amiable countenance, rosy and mild. Not so old as
that night journey had suggested, perhaps forty-five, with a shining innocence
about him. But to Roger Mauduit it might have been a fire-breathing dragon
entering the hall. And
who would have expected, from that gentle, even deprecating presence, the
clarity and expertise with which that small man deployed his original charter,
punctiliously identical to Roger’s, according to the account Alard had given,
and omitting any specific mention of what should follow Arnulf Mauduit’s death,
how scrupulously he pointed out the omission and the arguments to which it
might give rise, and followed it up with two letters written by that same
Arnulf Mauduit to Abbot Fulchered, referring in plain terms to the obligatory
return of the manor and village after his death, and pledging his son’s loyal
observance of the obligation. It
might have been want of proofs that caused Roger to make so poor a job of
refuting the evidence, or it might have been craven conscience. Whatever the
cause, judgement was given for the abbey. Cadfael
presented himself before the lord he was leaving barely an hour after the
verdict was given. “My
lord, your suit is concluded, and my service with it. I have done what I
pledged, here I part from you.” Roger
sat sunk in gloom and rage, and lifted upon him a glare that should have felled
him, but failed of its impact. “I
misdoubt me,” said Roger, smouldering, “how you have observed your loyalty to
me. Who else could know...” He bit his tongue in time, for as long as it
remained unsaid no accusation had been made, and no rebuttal was needed. He
would have liked to ask: How did you know? But he thought better of it. “Go,
then, if you have nothing more to say.” “As
to that,” said Cadfael meaningly, “nothing more need be said. It’s over.” And
that was recognisable as a promise, but with uneasy implications, for plainly
on some other matter he still had a thing to say. “My
lord, give some thought to this, for I was until now in your service, and wish
you no harm. Of those four who attended Prior Heribert on his way here, not one
carried arms. There was neither sword nor dagger nor knife of any kind among
the five of them.” He
saw the significance of that go home, slowly but with bitter force. The
masterless men had been nothing but a children’s tale, but until now Roger had
thought, as he had been meant to think, that that dagger-stroke in the forest
had been a bold attempt by an abbey servant to defend his prior. He blinked and
swallowed and stared, and began to sweat, beholding a perilous gulf into which
he had all but stumbled. “There
were none there who bore arms,” said Cadfael, “but your own.” A
double-edged ambush that had been, to have him out in the forest by night, all
unsuspecting. And there were as many miles between Woodstock and Sutton Mauduit
returning as coming, and there would be other nights as dark on the way. “Who?”
asked Roger in a grating whisper. “Which of them? Give him a name!” “No,”
said Cadfael simply. “Do your own divining. I am no longer in your service, I
have said all I mean to say.” Roger’s
face had turned grey. He was hearing again the plan unfolded so seductively in
his ear. “You cannot leave me so! If you know so much, for God’s sake return
with me, see me safely home, at least. You I could trust!” “No,”
said Cadfael again. “You are warned, now guard yourself.” It
was fair, he considered; it was enough. He turned and went away without another
word. He went, just as he was, to Vespers in the parish church, for no better
reason or so he thought then than that the dimness within the open doorway
beckoned him as he turned his back on a duty completed, inviting him to
quietness and thought, and the bell was just sounding. The little prior was
there, ardent in thanksgiving, one more creature who had fumbled his way to the
completion of a task, and the turning of a leaf in the book of his life. Cadfael
watched out the office, and stood mute and still for some time after priest and
worshippers had departed. The silence after their going was deeper than the
ocean and more secure than the earth. Cadfael breathed and consumed it like new
bread. It was the light touch of a small hand on the hilt of his sword that
startled him out of that profound isolation. He looked down to see a little
acolyte, no higher than his elbow, regarding him gravely from great round eyes of
blinding blue, intent and challenging, as solemn as ever was angelic messenger. “Sir,”
said the child in stern treble reproof, tapping the hilt with an infant finger,
“should not all weapons of war be laid aside here?” “Sir,”
said Cadfael hardly less gravely, though he was smiling, “you may very well be
right.” And slowly he unbuckled the sword from his belt, and went and laid it
down, flatlings, on the lowest step under the altar. It looked strangely
appropriate and at peace there. The hilt, after all, was a cross. Prior
Heribert was at a frugal supper with his happy brothers in the parish priest’s
house when Cadfael asked audience with him. The little man came out graciously
to welcome a stranger, and knew him for an acquaintance at least, and now at a
breath certainly a friend. “You,
my son! And surely it was you at Vespers? I felt that I should know the shape
of you. You are the most welcome of guests here, and if there is anything I and
mine can do to repay you for what you did for us, you need but name it.” “Father,”
said Cadfael, briskly Welsh in his asking, “do you ride for home tomorrow?” “Surely,
my son, we leave after Prime. Abbot Godefrid will be waiting to hear how we
have fared.” Then,
Father, here am I at the turning of my life, free of one master’s service, and
finished with arms. Take me with you!” HAMO
FITZHAMON OF LIDYATE HELD TWO FAT MANORS in the northeastern corner of the
county, towards the border of Cheshire. Though a gross feeder, a heavy drinker,
a self-indulgent lecher, a harsh landlord and a brutal master, he had reached
the age of sixty in the best of health, and it came as a salutary shock to him
when he was at last taken with a mild seizure, and for the first time in his
life saw the next world yawning before him, and woke to the uneasy
consciousness that it might see fit to treat him somewhat more austerely than
this world had done. Though he repented none of them, he was aware of a whole
register of acts in his past which heaven might construe as heavy sins. It
began to seem to him a prudent precaution to acquire merit for his soul as
quickly as possible. Also as cheaply, for he was a grasping and possessive man.
A judicious gift to some holy house should secure the welfare of his soul.
There was no need to go so far as endowing an abbey, or a new church of his
own. The Benedictine abbey of Shrewsbury could put up a powerful assault of
prayers on his behalf in return for a much more modest gift. The
thought of alms to the poor, however ostentatiously bestowed in the first
place, did not recommend itself. Whatever was given would be soon consumed and
forgotten, and a rag-tag of beggarly blessings from the indigent could carry
very little weight, besides failing to confer a lasting lustre upon himself.
No, he wanted something that would continue in daily use and daily respectful
notice, a permanent reminder of his munificence and piety. He took his time
about making his decision, and when he was satisfied of the best value he could
get for the least expenditure, he sent his law-man to Shrewsbury to confer with
abbot and prior, and conclude with due ceremony and many witnesses the charter
that conveyed to the custodian of the altar of St Mary, within the abbey
church, one of his free tenant farmers, the rent to provide light for Our
Lady’s altar throughout the year. He promised also, for the proper displaying
of his charity, the gift of a pair of fine silver candlesticks, which he
himself would bring and see installed on the altar at the coming Christmas
feast. Abbot
Heribert, who after a long life of repeated disillusionments still contrived to
think the best of everybody, was moved to tears by this penitential generosity.
Prior Robert, himself an aristocrat, refrained, out of Norman solidarity, from
casting doubt upon Hamo’s motive, but he elevated his eyebrows, all the same.
Brother Cadfael, who knew only the public reputation of the donor, and was
sceptical enough to suspend judgement until he encountered the source, said
nothing, and waited to observe and decide for himself. Not that he expected
much; he had been in the world fifty-five years, and learned to temper all his
expectations, bad or good. It
was with mild and detached interest that he observed the arrival of the party
from Lidyate, on the morning of Christmas Eve. A hard, cold Christmas it was
proving to be, that year of 1135, all bitter black frost and grudging snow,
thin and sharp as whips before a withering east wind. The weather had been
vicious all the year, and the harvest a disaster. In the villages people
shivered and starved, and Brother Oswald the almoner fretted and grieved the
more that the alms he had to distribute were not enough to keep all those
bodies and souls together. The sight of a cavalcade of three good riding
horses, ridden by travellers richly wrapped up from the cold, and followed by
two pack-ponies, brought all the wretched petitioners crowding and crying,
holding out hands blue with frost. All they got out of it was a single
perfunctory handful of small coin, and when they hampered his movements
FitzHamon used his whip as a matter of course to clear the way. Rumour, thought
Brother Cadfael, pausing on his way to the infirmary with his daily medicines
for the sick, had probably not done Hamo FitzHamon any injustice. Dismounting
in the great court, the knight of Lidyate was seen to be a big, over-fleshed,
top-heavy man with bushy hair and beard and eyebrows, all grey-streaked from
their former black, and stiff and bristling as wire. He might well have been a
very handsome man before indulgence purpled his face and pocked his skin and
sank his sharp black eyes deep into flabby sacks of flesh. He looked more than
his age, but still a man to be reckoned with. The
second horse carried his lady, pillion behind a groom. A small figure she made,
even swathed almost to invisibility in her woollens and furs, and she rode
snuggled comfortably against the groom’s broad back, her arms hugging him round
the waist. And a very well-looking young fellow he was, this groom, a strapping
lad barely twenty years old, with round, ruddy cheeks and merry, guileless
eyes, long in the legs, wide in the shoulders, everything a country youth
should be, and attentive to his duties into the bargain, for he was down from
the saddle in one lithe leap, and reaching up to take the lady by the waist,
every bit as heartily as she had been clasping him a moment before, and lift
her lightly down. Small, gloved hands rested on his shoulders a brief moment
longer than was necessary. His respectful support of her continued until she
was safe on the ground and sure of her footing; perhaps a few seconds more.
Hamo FitzHamon was occupied with Prior Robert’s ceremonious welcome, and the
attentions of the hospitaller, who had made the best rooms of the guest-hall
ready for him. The
third horse also carried two people, but the woman on the pillion did not wait
for anyone to help her down, but slid quickly to the ground and hurried to help
her mistress off with the great outer cloak in which she had travelled. A
quiet, submissive young woman, perhaps in her middle twenties, perhaps older,
in drab homespun, her hair hidden away under a coarse linen wimple. Her face
was thin and pale, her skin dazzlingly fair, and her eyes, reserved and weary,
were of a pale, clear blue, a fierce colour that ill suited their humility and
resignation. Lifting
the heavy folds from her lady’s shoulders, the maid showed a head the taller of
the two, but drab indeed beside the bright little bird that emerged from the
cloak. Lady FitzHamon came forth graciously smiling on the world in scarlet and
brown, like a robin, and just as confidently. She had dark hair braided about a
small, shapely head, soft, full cheeks flushed rosy by the chill air, and large
dark eyes assured of their charm and power. She could not possibly have been
more than thirty, probably not so much. FitzHamon had a grown son somewhere,
with children of his own, and waiting, some said with little patience, for his
inheritance. This girl must be a second or a third wife, a good deal younger
than her stepson, and a beauty, at that. Hamo was secure enough and important
enough to keep himself supplied with wives as he wore them out. This one must
have cost him dear, for she had not the air of a poor but pretty relative sold
for a profitable alliance, rather she looked as if she knew her own status very
well indeed, and meant to have it acknowledged She would look well presiding
over the high table at Lidyate, certainly, which was probably the main
consideration. The
groom behind whom the maid had ridden was an older man, lean and wiry, with a
face like the bole of a knotty oak. By the sardonic patience of his eyes he had
been in close and relatively favoured attendance on FitzHamon for many years,
knew the best and the worst his moods could do, and was sure of his own ability
to ride the storms. Without a word he set about unloading the pack-horses, and
followed his lord to the guest-hall, while the young man took FitzHamon’s
bridle, and led the horses away to the stables. Cadfael
watched the two women cross to the doorway, the lady springy as a young hind,
with bright eyes taking in everything around her, the tall maid keeping always
a pace behind, with long steps curbed to keep her distance. Even thus,
frustrated like a mewed hawk, she had a graceful gait. Almost certainly of
villein stock, like the two grooms. Cadfael had long practice in distinguishing
the free from the unfree. Not that the free had any easy life, often they were
worse off than the villeins of their neighbourhood; there were plenty of free
men, this Christmas, gaunt and hungry, forced to hold out begging hands among
the throng round the gatehouse. Freedom, the first ambition of every man, still
could not fill the bellies of wives and children in a bad season. FitzHamon
and his party appeared at Vespers in full glory, to see the candlesticks
reverently installed upon the altar in the Lady Chapel. Abbot, prior and
brothers had no difficulty in sufficiently admiring the gift, for they were
indeed things of beauty, two fluted stems ending in the twin cups of flowering
lilies. Even the veins of the leaves showed delicate and perfect as in the
living plant. Brother Oswald the almoner, himself a skilled silversmith when he
had time to exercise his craft, stood gazing at the new embellishments of the
altar with a face and mind curiously torn between rapture and regret, and
ventured to delay the donor for a moment, as he was being ushered away to sup
with Abbot Heribert in his lodging. “My
lord, these are of truly noble workmanship. I have some knowledge of precious
metals, and of the most notable craftsmen in these parts, but I never saw any
work so true to the plant as this. A countryman’s eye is here, but the hand of
a court craftsman. May we know who made them?” FitzHamon’s
marred face curdled into deeper purple, as if an unpardonable shadow had been
cast upon his hour of self-congratulation. He said brusquely: “I commissioned
them from a fellow in my own service. You would not know his name a villein
born, but he had some skill.” And with that he swept on, avoiding further
question, and wife and men-servants and maid trailed after him. Only the older
groom, who seemed less in awe of his lord than anyone, perhaps by reason of
having so often presided over the ceremony of carrying him dead-drunk to his
bed, turned back for a moment to pluck at Brother Oswald’s sleeve, and advise
him in a confidential whisper: “You’ll find him short to question on that head.
The silversmith Alard, his name was cut and ran from his service last
Christmas, and for all they hunted him as far as London, where the signs
pointed, he’s never been found. I’d let that matter lie, if I were you.” And
with that he trotted away after his master, and left several thoughtful faces
staring after him. “Not
a man to part willingly with any property of his,” mused Brother Cadfael,
“metal or man, but for a price, and a steep price at that.” “Brother,
be ashamed!” reproved Brother Jerome at his elbow. “Has he not parted with
these very treasures from pure charity?” Cadfaei
refrained from elaborating on the profit FitzHamon expected for his
benevolence. It was never worth arguing with Jerome, who in any case knew as
well as anyone that the silver lilies and the rent of one farm were no free
gift. But Brother Oswald said grievingly: “I wish he had directed his charity
better. Surely these are beautiful things, a delight to the eyes, but well
sold, they could have provided money enough to buy the means of keeping my
poorest petitioners alive through the winter, some of whom will surely die for the
want of them.” Brother
Jerome was scandalised. “Has he not given them to Our Lady herself?” he
lamented indignantly. “Beware of the sin of those apostles who cried out with
the same complaint against the woman who brought the pot of spikenard, and poured
it over the Saviour’s feet. Remember Our Lord’s reproof to them, that they
should let her alone, for she had done well!” “Our
Lord was acknowledging a well-meant impulse of devotion,” said Brother Oswald
with spirit, “He did not say it was well advised! “She hath done what she
could” is what he said. He never said that with a little thought she might not
have done better. What use would it have been to wound the giver, after the
thing was done? Spilled oil of spikenard could hardly be recovered.” His
eyes dwelt with love and compunction upon the silver lilies, with their tall
stems of wax and flame. For these remained, and to divert them to other use was
still possible, or would have been possible if the donor had been a more
approachable man. He had, after all, a right to dispose as he wished of his own
property. “It
is sin,” admonished Jerome sanctimoniously, “even to covet for other use,
however worthy, that which has been given to Our Lady. The very thought is
sin.” “If
Our Lady could make her own will known,” said Brother Cadfael drily, “we might
learn which is the graver sin, and which the more acceptable sacrifice.” “Could
any price be too high for the lighting of this holy altar?” demanded Jerome. It
was a good question, Cadfael thought, as they went to supper in the refectory.
Ask Brother Jordan, for instance, the value of light. Jordan was old and frail,
and gradually going blind. As yet he could distinguish shapes, but like shadows
in a dream, though he knew his way about cloisters and precincts so well that
his gathering darkness was no hindrance to his freedom of movement. But as
every day the twilight closed in on him by a shade, so did his profound love of
light grow daily more devoted, until he had forsaken other duties, and taken
upon himself to tend all the lamps and candles on both altars, for the sake of
being always irradiated by light, and sacred light, at that. As soon as
Compline was over, this evening, he would be busy devoutly trimming the wicks
of candle and lamp, to have the steady flames smokeless and immaculate for the
Matins of Christmas Day. Doubtful if he would go to his bed at all until Matins
and Lauds were over. The very old need little sleep, and sleep is itself a kind
of darkness. But what Jordan treasured was the flame of light, and not the
vessel holding it; and would not those splendid two-pound candles shine upon
him just as well from plain wooden sconces? Cadfael
was in the warming-house with the rest of the brothers, about a quarter of an
hour before Compline, when a lay brother from the guest-hall came enquiring for
him. “The
lady asks if you’ll speak with her. She’s complaining of a bad head, and that
she’ll never be able to sleep. Brother Hospitaller recommended her to you for a
remedy.” Cadfael
went with him without comment, but with some curiosity, for at Vespers the Lady
FitzHamon had looked in blooming health and sparkling spirits. Nor did she seem
greatly changed when he met her in the hall, though she was still swathed in
the cloak she had worn to cross the great court to and from the abbot’s house,
and had the hood so drawn that it shadowed her face. The silent maid hovered at
her shoulder. “You
are Brother Cadfael? They tell me you are expert in herbs and medicines, and
can certainly help me. I came early back from the lord abbot’s supper, with
such a headache, and have told my lord that I shall go early to bed. But I have
such disturbed sleep, and with this pain how shall I be able to rest? Can you
give me some draught that will ease me? They say you have a perfect
apothecarium in your herb garden, and all your own work, growing, gathering,
drying, brewing and all. There must be something there that can soothe pain and
bring deep sleep.” Well,
thought Cadfael, small blame to her if she sometimes sought a means to ward off
her old husband’s rough attentions for a night, especially for a festival night
when he was likely to have drunk heavily. Nor was it Cadfael’s business to
question whether the petitioner really needed his remedies. A guest might ask
for whatever the house afforded. “I
have a syrup of my own making,” he said, “which may do you good service. I’ll
bring you a vial of it from my workshop store.” “May
I come with you? I should like to see your workshop,” She had forgotten to
sound frail and tired, the voice could have been a curious child’s. “As I
already am cloaked and shod,” she said winningly. “We just returned from the
lord abbot’s table.” “But
should you not go in from the cold, madam? Though the snow’s swept here in the
court, it lies on some of the garden paths,” “A
few minutes in the fresh air will help me,” she said, “before trying to sleep.
And it cannot be far,” It
was not far. Once away from the subdued lights of the buildings they were aware
of the stars, snapping like sparks from a cold fire, in a clear black sky just
engendering a few tattered snow-clouds in the east. In the garden, between the
pleached hedges, it seemed almost warm, as though the sleeping trees breathed
tempered air as well as cutting off the bleak wind. The silence was profound.
The herb garden was walled, and the wooden hut where Cadfael brewed and stored
his medicines was sheltered from the worst of the cold. Once inside, and a
small lamp kindled, Lady FitzHamon forgot her invalid role in wonder and
delight, looking round her with bright, inquisitive eyes. The maid, submissive
and still, scarcely turned her head, but her eyes ranged from left to right,
and a faint colour touched life into her cheeks. The many faint, sweet scents
made her nostrils quiver, and her lips curve just perceptibly with pleasure. Curious
as a cat, the lady probed into every sack and jar and box, peered at mortars
and bottles, and asked a hundred questions in a breath. “And
this is rosemary, these little dried needles? And in this great sack is it grain?”
She plunged her hands wrist-deep inside the neck of it, and the hut was filled
with sweetness. “Lavender? Such a great harvest of it? Do you, then, prepare
perfumes for us women?” “Lavender
has other good properties,” said Cadfael. He was filling a small vial with a
clear syrup he made from eastern poppies, a legacy of his crusading years. “It
is helpful for all disorders that trouble the head and spirit, and its scent is
calming. I’ll give you a little pillow filled with that and other herbs, that shall
help to bring you sleep. But this draught will ensure it. You may take all that
I give you here, and get no harm, only a good night’s rest.” She
had been playing inquisitively with a pile of small clay dishes he kept by his
work-bench, rough dishes in which the fine seeds sifted from fruiting plants
could be spread to dry out; but she came at once to gaze eagerly at the modest
vial he presented to her. “Is it enough? It takes much to give me sleep.” “This,”
he assured her patiently, “would bring sleep to a strong man. But it will not
harm even a delicate lady like you.” She
took it in her hand with a small, sleek smile of satisfaction. “Then I thank
you indeed! I will make a gift shall I? to your almoner in requital. Elfgiva,
you bring the little pillow. I shall breathe it all night long. It should
sweeten dreams.” So
her name was Elfgiva. A Norse name. She had Norse eyes, as he had already
noted, blue as ice, and pale, fine skin worn finer and whiter by weariness. All
this time she had noted everything that passed, motionless, and never said
word. Was she older, or younger, than her lady? There was no guessing. The one
was so clamant, and the other so still. He
put out his lamp and closed the door, and led them back to the great court just
in time to take leave of them and still be prompt for Compline. Clearly the
lady had no intention of attending. As for the lord, he was just being helped
away from the abbot’s lodging, his grooms supporting him one on either side,
though as yet he was not gravely drunk. They headed for the guest-hall at an
easy roll. No doubt only the hour of Compline had concluded the drawn-out
supper, probably to the abbot’s considerable relief. He was no drinker, and
could have very little in common with Hamo FitzHamon. Apart, of course, from a
deep devotion to the altar of St. Mary. The
lady and her maid had already vanished within the guest-hall. The younger groom
carried in his free hand a large jug, full, to judge by the way he held it. The
young wife could drain her draught and clutch her herbal pillow with
confidence; the drinking was not yet at an end, and her sleep would be solitary
and untroubled. Brother Cadfael went to Compline mildly sad, and obscurely
comforted. Only
when service was ended, and the brothers on the way to their beds, did he
remember that he had left his flask of poppy syrup unstoppered. Not that it
would come to any harm in the frosty night, but his sense of fitness drove him
to go and remedy the omission before he slept. His
sandalled feet, muffled in strips of woollen cloth for warmth and safety on the
frozen paths, made his coming quite silent, and he was already reaching out a
hand to the latch of the door, but not yet touching, when he was brought up
short and still by the murmur of voices within. Soft, whispering, dreamy voices
that made sounds less and more than speech, caresses rather than words, though
once at least words surfaced for a moment. A man’s voice, young, wary, saying:
“But how if he does ...?” And a woman’s soft, suppressed laughter: “He’ll sleep
till morning, never fear!” And her words were suddenly hushed with kissing, and
her laughter became huge, ecstatic sighs; the young man’s breath heaving
triumphantly, but still, a moment later, the note of fear again, half-enjoyed:
“Still, you know him, he may...” And she, soothing: “Not for an hour, at
least... then we’ll go... it will grow cold here...” That,
at any rate, was true; small fear of them wishing to sleep out the night here,
even two close-wrapped in one cloak on the bench-bed against the wooden wall.
Brother Cadfael withdrew very circumspectly from the herb garden, and made his
way back in chastened thought towards the dortoir. Now he knew who had
swallowed that draught of his, and it was not the lady. In the pitcher of wine
the young groom had been carrying? Enough for a strong man, even if he had not
been drunk already. Meantime, no doubt, the body-servant was left to put his
lord to bed, somewhere apart from the chamber where the lady lay supposedly
nursing her indisposition and sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Ah, well, it
was no business of Cadfael’s, nor had he any intention of getting involved. He
did not feel particularly censorious. Doubtful if she ever had any choice about
marrying Hamo; and with this handsome boy for ever about them, to point the
contrast... A brief experience of genuine passion, echoing old loves, pricked
sharply through the years of his vocation. At least he knew what he was
condoning. And who could help feeling some admiration for her opportunist
daring, the quick wit that had procured the means, the alert eye that had
seized on the most remote and adequate shelter available? Cadfael
went to bed, and slept without dreams, and rose at the Matin bell, some minutes
before midnight. The procession of the brothers wound its way down the night
stairs into the church, and into the soft, full glow of the lights before St
Mary’s altar. Withdrawn
reverently some yards from the step of the altar, old Brother Jordan, who
should long ago have been in his cell with the rest, kneeled upright with
clasped hands and ecstatic face, in which the great, veiled eyes stared full
into the light he loved. When Prior Robert exclaimed in concern at finding him
there on the stones, and laid a hand on his shoulder, he started as if out of a
trance, and lifted to them a countenance itself all light. “Oh,
brothers; I have been so blessed! I have lived through a wonder... Praise God
that ever it was granted to me! But bear with me, for I am forbidden to speak
of it to any, for three days. On the third day from today I may speak...!” “Look,
brothers!’ wailed Jerome suddenly, pointing. “Look at the altar!” Every
man present, except Jordan, who still serenely prayed and smiled, turned to
gape where Jerome pointed. The tall candles stood secured by drops of their own
wax in two small clay dishes, such as Cadfael used for sorting seeds. The two
silver lilies were gone from the place of honour. Through
loss, disorder, consternation and suspicion, Prior Robert would still hold fast
to the order of the day. Let Hamo FitzHamon sleep in happy ignorance till
morning, still Matins and Lauds must be properly celebrated. Christmas was
larger than all the giving and losing of silverware. Grimly he saw the services
of the church observed, and despatched the brethren back to their beds until
Prime, to sleep or lie wakeful and fearful, as they might. Nor would he allow
any pestering of Brother Jerome by others, though possibly he did try in
private to extort something more satisfactory from the old man. Clearly the
theft, whether he knew anything about it or not, troubled Jordan not at all. To
everything he said only: “I am enjoined to silence until midnight of the third
day.” And when they asked by whom? he smiled seraphically, and was silent. It
was Robert himself who broke the news to Hamo FitzHamon, in the morning, before
Mass. The uproar, though vicious, was somewhat tempered by the after-effects of
Cadfael’s poppy draught, which dulled the edges of energy, if not of malice.
His body-servant, the older groom Sweyn, was keeping well back out of reach,
even with Robert still present, and the lady sat somewhat apart, too, as though
still frail and possibly a little out of temper. She exclaimed dutifully, and
apparently sincerely, at the outrage done to her husband, and echoed his demand
that the thief should be hunted down, and the candlesticks recovered. Prior
Robert was just as zealous in the matter. No effort should be spared to regain
the princely gift, of that they could be sure. He had already made certain of
various circumstances which should limit the hunt. There had been a brief fall
of snow after Compline, just enough to lay down a clean film of white on the
ground. No single footprint had as yet marked this pure layer. He had only to
look for himself at the paths leading from both parish doors of the church to
see that no one had left by that way. The porter would swear that no one had
passed the gatehouse; and on the one side of the abbey grounds not walled, the
Meole brook was full and frozen, but the snow on both sides of it was virgin.
Within the enclave, of course, tracks and cross-tracks were trodden out
everywhere; but no one had left the enclave since Compline, when the
candlesticks were still in their place. “So
the miscreant is still within the walls?” said Hamo, glinting vengefully. “So
much the better! Then his booty is still here within, too, and if we have to
turn all your abode doors out of dortoirs, we’ll find it! It, and him!” “We
will search everywhere,” agreed Robert, “and question every man. We are as
deeply offended as your lordship at this blasphemous crime. You may yourself
oversee the search, if you will.” So
all that Christmas Day, alongside the solemn rejoicings in the church, an angry
hunt raged about the precincts in full cry. It was not difficult for all the
monks to account for their time to the last minute, their routine being so
ordered that brother inevitably extricated brother from suspicion; and such as
had special duties that took them out of the general view, like Cadfael in his
visit to the herb garden, had all witnesses to vouch for them. The lay brothers
ranged more freely, but tended to work in pairs, at least. The servants and the
few guests protested their innocence, and if they had not, all of them, others
willing to prove it, neither could Hamo prove the contrary. When it came to his
own two grooms, there were several witnesses to testify that Sweyn had returned
to his bed in the lofts of the stables as soon as he had put his lord to bed,
and certainly empty-handed; and Sweyn, as Cadfael noted with interest, swore
unblinkingly that young Madoc, who had come in an hour after him, had none the
less returned with him, and spent that hour, at Sweyn’s order, tending one of
the pack-ponies, which showed signs of a cough, and that otherwise they had
been together throughout. A
villein instinctively closing ranks with his kind against his lord? wondered
Cadfael. Or does Sweyn know very well where that young man was last night, or
at least what he was about, and is he intent on protecting him from a worse
vengeance? No wonder Madoc looked a shade less merry and ruddy than usual this
morning, though on the whole he kept his countenance very well, and refrained
from even looking at the lady, while her tone to him was cool, sharp and
distant. Cadfael
left them hard at it again after the miserable meal they made of dinner, and
went into the church alone. While they were feverishly searching every corner
for the candlesticks he had forborne from taking part, but now they were
elsewhere he might find something of interest there. He would not be looking
for anything so obvious as two large silver candlesticks. He made obeisance at
the altar, and mounted the step to look closely at the burning candles. No one
had paid any attention to the modest containers that had been substituted for
Hamo’s gift, and just as well, in the circumstances, that Cadfael’s workshop
was very little visited, or these little clay pots might have been recognised
as coming from there. He moulded and baked them himself as he wanted them. He
had no intention of condoning theft, but neither did he relish the idea of any
creature, however sinful, falling into Hamo FitzHamon’s mercies. Something
long and fine, a thread of silver-gold, was caught and coiled in the wax at the
base of one candle. Carefully he detached candle from holder, and unlaced from
it a long, pale hair; to make sure of retaining it, he broke off the
imprisoning disc of wax with it, and then hoisted and turned the candle to see
if anything else was to be found under it. One tiny oval dot showed; with a
fingernail he extracted a single seed of lavender. Left in the dish from
beforetime? He thought not. The stacked pots were all empty. No, this had been
brought here in the fold of a sleeve, most probably, and shaken out while the
candle was being transferred. The
lady had plunged both hands with pleasure into the sack of lavender, and moved
freely about his workshop investigating everything. It would have been easy to
take two of these dishes unseen, and wrap them in a fold of her cloak. Even
more plausible, she might have delegated the task to young Madoc, when they
crept away from their assignation. Supposing, say, they had reached the
desperate point of planning flight together, and needed funds to set them on
their way to some safe refuge... yes, there were possibilities. In the
meantime, the grain of lavender had given Cadfael another idea. And there was,
of course, that long, fine hair, pale as flax, but brighter. The boy was fair.
But so fair? He
went out through the frozen garden to his herbarium, shut himself securely into
his workshop, and opened the sack of lavender, plunging both arms to the elbow
and groping through the chill, smooth sweetness that parted and slid like
grain. They were there, well down, his fingers traced the shape first of one,
then a second. He sat down to consider what must be done. Finding
the lost valuables did not identify the thief. He could produce and restore
them at once, but FitzHamon would certainly pursue the hunt vindictively until
he found the culprit; and Cadfael had seen enough of him to know that it might
cost life and all before this complainant was satisfied. He needed to know more
before he would hand over any man to be done to death. Better not leave the things
here, however. He doubted if they would ransack his hut, but they might. He
rolled the candlesticks in a piece of sacking, and thrust them into the centre
of the pleached hedge where it was thickest. The meagre, frozen snow had
dropped with the brief sun. His arm went in to the shoulder, and when he
withdrew it, the twigs sprang back and covered all, holding the package
securely. Whoever had first hidden it would surely come by night to reclaim it,
and show a human face at last. It
was well that he had moved it, for the searchers, driven by an increasingly
angry Hamo, reached his hut before Vespers, examined everything within it,
while he stood by to prevent actual damage to his medicines, and went away
satisfied that what they were seeking was not there. They had not, in fact,
been very thorough about the sack of lavender, the candlesticks might well have
escaped notice even if he had left them there. It did not occur to anyone to
tear the hedges apart, luckily. When they were gone, to probe all the fodder
and grain in the barns, Cadfael restored the silver to its original place. Let
the bait lie safe in the trap until the quarry came to claim it, as he surely
would, once relieved of the fear that the hunters might find it first. Cadfael
kept watch that night. He had no difficulty in absenting himself from the
dortoir, once everyone was in bed and asleep. His cell was by the night stairs,
and the prior slept at the far end of the long room, and slept deeply. And
bitter though the night air was, the sheltered hut was barely colder than his
cell, and he kept blankets there for swathing some of his jars and bottles
against frost. He took his little box with tinder and flint, and hid himself in
the corner behind the door. It might be a wasted vigil; the thief, having
survived one day, might think it politic to venture yet another before removing
his spoils. But
it was not wasted. He reckoned it might be as late as ten o’clock when he heard
a light hand at the door. Two hours before the bell would sound for Matins,
almost two hours since the household had retired. Even the guest-hall should be
silent and asleep by now; the hour was carefully chosen. Cadfael held his
breath, and waited. The door swung open, a shadow stole past him, light steps
felt their way unerringly to where the sack of lavender was propped against the
wall. Equally silently Cadfael swung the door to again, and set his back
against it. Only then did he strike a spark, and hold the blown flame to the
wick of his little lamp. She
did not start or cry out, or try to rush past him and escape into the night.
The attempt would not have succeeded, and she had had long practice in enduring
what could not be cured. She stood facing him as the small flame steadied and
burned taller, her face shadowed by the hood of her cloak, the candlesticks
clasped possessively to her breast. “Elfgiva!’
said Brother Cadfael gently. And then: “Are you here for yourself, or for your
mistress?” But he thought he knew the answer already. That frivolous young wife
would never really leave her rich husband and easy life, however tedious and
unpleasant Hamo’s attentions might be, to risk everything with her penniless
villein lover. She would only keep him to enjoy in secret whenever she felt it
safe. Even when the old man died she would submit to marriage at an overlord’s
will to another equally distasteful. She was not the stuff of which heroines
and adventurers are made. This was another kind of woman. Cadfael
went close, and lifted a hand gently to put back the hood from her head. She
was tall, a hand’s-breadth taller than he, and erect as one of the lilies she
clasped. The net that had covered her hair was drawn off with the hood, and a
great flood of silver-gold streamed about her in the dim light, framing the
pale face and startling blue eyes. Norse hair! The Danes had left their seed as
far south as Cheshire, and planted this tall flower among them. She was no
longer plain, tired and resigned. In this dim but loving light she shone in
austere beauty! Just so must Brother Jordan’s veiled eyes have seen her. “Now
I see!” said Cadfael. “You came into the Lady Chapel, and shone upon our
half-blind brother’s darkness as you shine here. You are the visitation that
brought him awe and bliss, and enjoined silence upon him for three days.” The
voice he had scarcely heard speak a word until then, a voice level, low and
beautiful, said: “I made no claim to be what I am not. It was he who mistook
me. I did not refuse the gift.” “I
understand. You had not thought to find anyone there, he took you by surprise
as you took him. He took you for Our Lady herself, disposing as she saw fit of
what had been given her. And you made him promise you three days’ grace.” The
lady had plunged her hands into the sack, yes, but Elfgiva had carried the
pillow, and a grain or two had filtered through the muslin to betray her. “Yes,”
she said, watching him with unwavering blue eyes. “So
in the end you had nothing against him making known how the candlesticks were
stolen.” It was not an accusation, he was pursuing his way to understanding. But
at once she said clearly: “I did not steal them. I took them. I will restore
them to their owner.” “Then
you don’t claim they are yours?” “No,”
she said, “they are not mine. But neither are they FitzHamon’s.” “Do
you tell me,” said Cadfael mildly, “that there has been no theft at all?” “Oh,
yes,” said Elfgiva, and her pallor burned into a fierce brightness, and her
voice vibrated like a harp-string. “Yes, there has been a theft, and a vile,
cruel theft, too, but not here, not now. The theft was a year ago, when
FitzHamon received these candlesticks from Alard who made them, his villein,
like me. Do you know what the promised price was for these? Manumission for
Alard, and marriage with me, what we had begged of him three years and more.
Even in villeinage we would have married and been thankful. But he promised
freedom! Free man makes free wife, and I was promised, too. But when he got the
fine works he wanted, then he refused the promised price. He laughed! I saw, I
heard him! He kicked Alard away from him like a dog. So what was his due, and
denied him, Alard took. He ran! On St Stephen’s Day he ran!” “And
left you behind?” said Cadfael gently. “What
chance had he to take me? Or even to bid me farewell? He was thrust out to manual
labour on FitzHamon’s other manor. When his chance came, he took it and fled. I
was not sad! I rejoiced! Whether I live or die, whether he remembers or forgets
me, he is free. No, but in two days more he will be free. For a year and a day
he will have been working for his living in his own craft, in a charter
borough, and after that he cannot be haled back into servitude, even if they
find him.” “I
do not think,” said Brother Cadfael, “that he will have forgotten you! Now I
see why our brother may speak after three days. It will be too late then to try
to reclaim a runaway serf. And you hold that these exquisite things you are
cradling belong by right to Alard who made them?” “Surely,”
she said, “seeing he never was paid for them, they are still his.” “And
you are setting out tonight to take them to him. Yes! As I heard it, they had
some cause to pursue him towards London... indeed, into London, though they
never found him. Have you had better word of him? From him?” The
pale face smiled. “Neither he nor I can read or write. And whom should he trust
to carry word until his time is complete, and he is free? No, never any word.” “But
Shrewsbury is also a charter borough, where the unfree may work their way to
freedom in a year and a day. And sensible boroughs encourage the coming of good
craftsmen, and will go far to hide and protect them. I know! So you think he
may be here. And the trail towards London a false trail. True, why should he
run so far, when there’s help so near? But, daughter, what if you do not find
him in Shrewsbury?” “Then
I will look for him elsewhere until I do. I can live as a runaway, too, I have
skills, I can make my own way until I do get word of him. Shrewsbury can as
well make room for a good seamstress as for a man’s gifts, and someone in the
silversmith’s craft will know where to find a brother so talented as Alard. I
shall find him!” “And
when you do? Oh, child, have you looked beyond that?” To
the very end,” said Elfgiva firmly. “If I find him and he no longer wants me,
no longer thinks of me, if he is married and has put me out of his mind, then I
will deliver him these things that belong to him, to do with as he pleases, and
go my own way and make my own life as best I may without him. And wish well to
him as long as I live.” Oh,
no, small fear, she would not be easily forgotten, not in a year, not in many
years. “And if he is utterly glad of you, and loves you still?” “Then,”
she said, gravely smiling, “if he is of the same mind as I, I have made a vow
to Our Lady, who lent me her semblance in the old man’s eyes, that we will sell
these candlesticks where they may fetch their proper price, and that price
shall be delivered to your almoner to feed the hungry. And that will be our
gift, Alard’s and mine, though no one will ever know it.” “Our
Lady will know it,” said Cadfael, “and so shall I. Now, how were you planning
to get out of this enclave and into Shrewsbury? Both our gates and the town
gates are closed until morning.” She
lifted eloquent shoulders. “The parish doors are not barred. And even if I
leave tracks, will it matter, provided I find a safe hiding-place inside the
town?” “And
wait in the cold of the night? You would freeze before morning. No, let me
think. We can do better for you than that.” Her
lips shaped: “We?” in silence, wondering, but quick to understand. She did not
question his decisions, as he had not questioned hers. He thought he would long
remember the slow, deepening smile, the glow of warmth mantling her cheeks.
“You believe me!” she said. “Every
word! Here, give me the candlesticks, let me wrap them, and do you put up your
hair again in net and hood. We’ve had no fresh snow since morning, the path to
the parish door is well trodden, no one will know your tracks among the many.
And, girl, when you come to the town end of the bridge there’s a little house
off to the left, under the wall, close to the town gate. Knock there and ask
for shelter over the night till the gates open, and say that Brother Cadfael
sent you. They know me, I doctored their son when he was sick. They’ll give you
a warm corner and a place to lie, for kindness’ sake, and ask no questions, and
answer none from others, either. And likely they’ll know where to find the
silversmiths of the town, to set you on your way.” She
bound up her pale, bright hair and covered her head, wrapping the cloak about
her, and was again the maidservant in homespun. She obeyed without question his
every word, moved silently at his back round the great court by way of the
shadows, halting when he halted, and so he brought her to the church, and let
her out by the parish door into the public street, still a good hour before
Matins. At the last moment she said, close at his shoulder within the half-open
door. “I shall be grateful always. Some day I shall send you word.” “No
need for words,” said Brother Cadfael, “if you send me the sign I shall be
waiting for. Go now, quickly, there’s not a soul stirring.” She
was gone, lightly and silently, flitting past the abbey gatehouse like a tall
shadow, towards the bridge and the town. Cadfael closed the door softly, and
went back up the night stairs to the dortoir, too late to sleep, but in good
time to rise at the sound of the bell, and return in procession to celebrate
Matins. There
was, of course, the resultant uproar to face next morning, and he could not
afford to avoid it, there was too much at stake. Lady FitzHamon naturally
expected her maid to be in attendance as soon as she opened her eyes, and
raised a petulant outcry when there was no submissive shadow waiting to dress
her and do her hair. Calling failed to summon and search to find Elfgiva, but
it was an hour or more before it dawned on the lady that she had lost her
accomplished maid for good. Furiously she made her own toilet, unassisted, and
raged out to complain to her husband, who had risen before her, and was waiting
for her to accompany him to Mass. At her angry declaration that Elfgiva was
nowhere to be found, and must have run away during the night, he first scoffed,
for why should a sane girl take herself off into a killing frost when she had
warmth and shelter and enough to eat where she was? Then he made the inevitable
connection, and let out a roar of rage. “Gone,
is she? And my candlesticks gone with her, I dare swear! So it was she! The
foul little thief! But I’ll have her yet, I’ll drag her back, she shall not
live to enjoy her ill-gotten gains...” It
seemed likely that the lady would heartily endorse all this; her mouth was
already open to echo him when Brother Cadfael, brushing her sleeve close as the
agitated brothers ringed the pair, contrived to shake a few grains of lavender
on to her wrist. Her mouth closed abruptly. She gazed at the tiny things for
the briefest instant before she shook them off, she flashed an even briefer
glance at Brother Cadfael, caught his eye, and heard in a rapid whisper:
“Madam, softly! proof of the maid’s innocence is also proof of the mistress’s.” She
was by no means a stupid woman. A second quick glance confirmed what she had
already grasped, that there was one man here who had a weapon to hold over her
at least as deadly as any she could use against Elfgiva. She was also a woman
of decision, and wasted no time in bitterness once her course was chosen. The
tone in which she addressed her lord was almost as sharp as that in which she
had complained of Elfgiva’s desertion. “She
your thief, indeed! That’s folly, as you should very well know. The girl is an
ungrateful fool to leave me, but a thief she never has been, and certainly is
not this time. She can’t possibly have taken the candlesticks, you know well
enough when they vanished, and you know I was not well that night, and went
early to bed. She was with me until long after Brother Prior discovered the
theft. I asked her to stay with me until you came to bed. As you never did!”
she ended tartly. “You may remember!” Hamo
probably remembered very little of that night; certainly he was in no position
to gainsay what his wife so roundly declared. He took out a little of his
ill-temper on her, but she was not so much in awe of him that she dared not
reply in kind. Of course she was certain of what she said! She had not drunk
herself stupid at the lord abbot’s table, she had been nursing a bad head of
another kind, and even with Brother Cadfael’s remedies she had not slept until after
midnight, and Elfgiva had then been still beside her. Let him hunt a runaway
maidservant, by all means, the thankless hussy, but never call her a thief, for
she was none. Hunt
her he did, though with less energy now it seemed clear he would not recapture
his property with her. He sent his grooms and half the lay servants off in both
directions to enquire if anyone had seen a solitary girl in a hurry; they were
kept at it all day, but they returned empty-handed. The
party from Lidyate, less one member, left for home next day. Lady FitzHamon
rode demurely behind young Madoc, her cheek against his broad shoulders; she
even gave Brother Cadfael the flicker of a conspiratorial smile as the
cavalcade rode out of the gates, and detached one arm from round Madoc’s waist
to wave as they reached the roadway. So Hamo was not present to hear when
Brother Jordan, at last released from his vow, told how Our Lady had appeared
to him in a vision of light, fair as an angel, and taken away with her the
candlesticks that were hers to take and do with as she would, and how she had
spoken to him, and enjoined on him his three days of silence. And if there were
some among the listeners who wondered whether the fair woman had not been a
more corporeal being, no one had the heart to say so to Jordan, whose vision
was comfort and consolation for the fading of the light. That
was at Matins, at midnight of the day of St Stephen’s. Among the scattering of
alms handed in at the gatehouse next morning for the beggars, there was a
little basket that weighed surprisingly heavily. The porter could not remember
who had brought it, taking it to be some offerings of food or old clothing,
like all the rest; but when it was opened it sent Brother Oswald, almost
incoherent with joy and wonder, running to Abbot Heribert to report what seemed
to be a miracle. For the basket was full of gold coin, to the value of more
than a hundred marks. Well used, it would ease all the worst needs of his
poorest petitioners, until the weather relented. “Surely,”
said Brother Oswald devoutly, “Our Lady has made her own will known. Is not
this the sign we have hoped for?” Certainly
it was for Cadfael, and earlier than he had dared to hope for it. He had the
message that needed no words. She had found him, and been welcomed with joy.
Since midnight Alard the silversmith had been a free man, and free man makes
free wife. Presented with such a woman as Elfgiva, he could give as gladly as
she, for what was gold, what was silver, by comparison? Eye Witness IT
WAS UNDOUBTEDLY INCONSIDERATE OF BROTHER AMBROSE to fall ill with a raging
quinsy just a few days before the yearly rents were due for collection, and
leave the rolls still uncopied, and the new entries still to be made. No one
knew the abbey rolls as Brother Ambrose did. He had been clerk to Brother
Matthew, the cellarer, for four years, during which time fresh grants to the
abbey had been flooding in richly, a new mill on the Tern, pastures, assarts,
messuages in the town, glebes in the countryside, a fishery up-river, even a
church or two, and there was no one who could match him at putting a finger on
the slippery tenant or the field-lawyer, or the householder who had always
three good stories to account for his inability to pay. And here was the
collection only a day away, and Brother Ambrose on his back in the infirmary,
croaking like a sick raven, and about as much use. Brother
Matthew’s chief steward, who always made the collection within the town and
suburbs of Shrewsbury in person, took it almost as a personal injury. He had
had to install as substitute a young lay clerk who had entered the abbey
service not four months previously. Not that he had found any cause to complain
of the young man’s work. He had copied industriously and neatly, and shown
great alertness and interest in his quick grasp of what he copied, making
round, respectful eyes at the value of the rent-roll. But
Master William Rede had been put out, and was bent on letting everyone know of
it. He was a querulous, argumentative man in his fifties, who, if you said
white to him, would inevitably say black, and bring documentary evidence to
back up his contention. He came to visit his old friend and helper in the abbey
infirmary, the day before the town collection was due, but whether to comfort
or reproach was matter for speculation. Brother Ambrose, still voiceless,
essayed speech and achieved only a painful wheeze, before Brother Cadfael, who
was anointing his patient’s throat afresh with goose-grease, and had a soothing
syrup of orpine standing by, laid a palm over the sufferer’s mouth and ordered
silence. “Now,
William,” he said tolerantly, “if you can’t comfort, don’t vex. This poor
soul’s got you on his conscience as it is, and you know, as well as I do, that
you have the whole matter at your finger-ends. You tell him so, and fetch up a
smile, or out you go.” And he wrapped a length of good Welsh flannel round the
glistening throat, and reached for the spoon that stood in the beaker of syrup.
Brother Ambrose opened his mouth with the devoted resignation of a little bird
waiting to be fed, and sucked in the dose with an expression of slightly
surprised appreciation. But
William Rede was not going to be done out of his grievance so easily. “Oh, no
fault of yours,” he owned grudgingly, “but very ill luck for me, as if I had
not enough on my hands in any event, with the rent-roll grown so long, and the
burden of scribe’s work for ever lengthening, as it does. And I have troubles
of my own nearer home, into the bargain, with that rogue son of mine nothing
but brawler and gamester as he is. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a score
of times, the next time he comes to me to pay his debts or buy him out of
trouble, he’ll come in vain, he may sweat it out in gaol, and serve him right.
A man would think he could get a little peace and comfort from his own flesh
and blood. All I get is vexation.” Once
launched upon this tune, he was liable to continue the song indefinitely, and
Brother Ambrose was already looking apologetic and abject, as though not
William, but he, had engendered the unsatisfactory son. Cadfael could not
recall that he had ever spoken with young Rede, beyond exchanging the time of
day, and knew enough about fathers and sons, and the expectations each had of
the other, to take all such complaints with wary reserve. Report certainly said
the young man was a wild one, but at twenty-two which of the town hopefuls was
not? By thirty they were most of them working hard, and minding their own
purses, homes and wives. “Your lad will mend, like many another,” said Cadfael
comfortably, edging the voluble visitor out from the infirmary into the
sunshine of the great court. Before them on their left the great west tower of
the church loomed; on their right, the long block of the guest-halls, and
beyond, the crowns of the garden trees just bursting into leaf and bud, with a
moist, pearly light filming over stonework and cobbles and all with a soft
Spring sheen. “And as for the rents, you know very well, old humbug, that you
have your finger on every line of the leiger book, and tomorrow’s affair will
go like a morning walk. At any rate, you can’t complain of your prentice hand.
He’s worked hard enough over those books of yours.” “Jacob
has certainly shown application,” the steward agreed cautiously. “I own I’ve
been surprised at the grasp he has of abbey affairs, in so short a time. Young
people nowadays take so little interest in what they’re set to do fly-by-nights
and frivolous, most of them. It’s been heartening to see one of them work with
such zeal. I daresay he knows the value due from every property of the house by
this time. Yes, a good boy. But too ingenuous, Cadfael, there’s his flaw too
affable. Figures and characters on vellum cannot baffle him, but a rogue with a
friendly tongue might come over him. He cannot stand men off he cannot put
frost between. It’s not well to be too open with all men.” It
was mid-afternoon; in an hour or so it would be time for Vespers. The great
court had always some steady flow of activity, but at this hour it was at its
quietest. They crossed the court together at leisure, Brother Cadfael to return
to his workshop in the herb garden, the steward to the north walk of the
cloister, where his assistant was hard at work in the scriptorium. But before
they had reached the spot where their paths would divide, two young men emerged
from the cloister in easy conversation, and came towards them. Jacob
of Bouldon was a sturdy, square-set young fellow from the south of the shire,
with a round, amiable face, large, candid eyes, and a ready smile. He came with
a vellum leaf doubled in one hand, and a pen behind his ear, in every
particular the eager, hard-working clerk. A little too open to any man’s
approaches, perhaps, as his master had said. The lanky, narrow-headed fellow
attentive at his side had a very different look about him, weather-beaten,
sharp-eyed and drab in hard-wearing dark clothes, with a leather jerkin to bear
the rubbing of a heavy pack. The back of the left shoulder was scrubbed pallid
and dull from much carrying, and his hat was wide and drooping of brim, to shed
off rain. A travelling haberdasher with a few days’ business in Shrewsbury, no
novelty in the commoners’ guest-hall of the abbey. His like were always on the
roads, somewhere about the shire. The
pedlar louted to Master William with obsequious respect, said his goodday, and
made off to his lodging. Early to be home for the night, surely, but perhaps he
had done good business and come back to replenish his stock. A wise tradesman
kept something in reserve, when he had a safe store to hand, rather than carry
his all on every foray. Master
William looked after him with no great favour. “What had that fellow to do thus
with you, boy?” he questioned suspiciously. “He’s a deal too curious, with that
long nose of his. I’ve seen him making up to any of the household he can back
into a corner. What was he after in the scriptorium?” Jacob
opened his wide eyes even wider. “Oh, he’s an honest fellow enough, sir, I’m
sure. Though he does like to probe into everything, I grant you, and asks a lot
of questions...” “Then
you give him no answers,” said the steward firmly. “I
don’t, nothing but general talk that leaves him no wiser. Though I think he’s
but naturally inquisitive and no harm meant. He likes to curry favour with everyone,
but that’s by way of his trade. A rough-tongued pedlar would not sell many
tapes and laces,” said the young man blithely, and flourished the leaf of
vellum he carried. “I was coming to ask you about this carucate of land in
Recordine there’s an erasure in the leiger book, I looked up the copy to
compare. You’ll remember, sir, it was disputed land for a while, the heir tried
to recover it...” “I
do recall. Come, I’ll show you the original copy. But have as little to say to
these travelling folk as you can with civility,” Master William adjured
earnestly. “There are rogues on the roads as well as honest tradesmen. There,
you go before, I’ll follow you.” He
looked after the jaunty figure as it departed smartly, back to the scriptorium.
“As I said, Cadfael, too easily pleased with every man. It’s not wise to look
always for the best in men. But for all that,” he added, reverting morosely to
his private grievance, “I wish that scamp of mine was more like him. In debt
already for some gambling folly, and he has to get himself picked up by the
sergeants for a street brawl, and fined, and cannot pay the fine. And to keep
my own name in respect, he’s confident I shall have to buy him clear. I must
see to it tomorrow, one way or the other, when I’ve finished my rounds in the
town, for he has but three days left to pay. If it weren’t for his mother...
Even so, even so, this time I ought to let him stew.” He
departed after his clerk, shaking his head bitterly over his troubles. And
Cadfael went off to see what feats of idiocy or genius Brother Oswin had
wrought in the herb garden in his absence. In
the morning, when the brothers came out from Prime, Brother Cadfael saw the
steward departing to begin his round, the deep leather satchel secured to his
locked belt, and swinging by two stout straps. By evening it would be heavy
with the annual wealth of the city rents, and those from the northern suburbs
outside the walls. Jacob was there to see him go, listening dutifully to his
last emphatic instructions, and sighing as he was left behind to complete the
bookwork. Warm Harefoot, the packman, was off early, too, to ply his trade
among the housewives either of the town or the parish of the Foregate. A
pliable fellow, full of professional bows and smiles, but by the look of him
all his efforts brought him no better than a meagre living. So
there went Jacob, back to his pen and inkhorn in the cloisters, and forth to
his important business went Master William. And who knows, thought Cadfael,
which is in the right, the young man who sees the best in all, and trusts all,
or the old one who suspects all until he has probed them through and through?
The one may stumble into a snare now and then, but at least enjoy sunshine
along the way, between falls. The other may never miss his footing, but seldom
experience joy. Better find a way somewhere between! It
was a curious chance that seated him next to Brother Eutropius at breakfast,
for what did anyone know about Brother Eutropius? He had come to the abbey of
Saint Peter and Saint Paul of Shrewsbury only two months ago, from a minor
grange of the order. But in two months of Brother Oswin, say, that young man
would have been an open book to every reader, whereas Eutropius contained
himself as tightly as did his skin, and gave out much less in the way of
information. A taciturn man, thirty or so at a guess, who kept himself apart
and looked solitary discontent at everything that crossed his path, but never
complained. It might be merely newness and shyness, in one naturally
uncommunicative, or it might be a gnawing inward anger against his lot and all
the world. Rumour said, a man frustrated in love, and finding no relief in his
resort to the cowl. But rumour was using its imagination, for want of fuel more
reliable. Eutropius
also worked under Brother Matthew, the cellarer, and was intelligent and
literate, but not a good or a quick scribe. Perhaps, when Brother Ambrose fell
ill, he would have liked to be trusted to take over his books. Perhaps he
resented the lay clerk being preferred before him. Perhaps! With Eutropius
everything, thus far, was conjecture. Some day someone would pierce that
carapace of his, with an unguarded word or a sudden irresistible motion of
grace, and the mystery would no longer be a mystery, or the stranger a stranger. Brother
Cadfael knew better than to be in a hurry, where souls were concerned. There
was plenty of elbow-room in eternity. In
the afternoon, returning to the grange court to collect some seed he had left
stored in the loft, Cadfael encountered Jacob, his scribing done for the
moment, setting forth importantly with his own leather satchel into the
Foregate, “So he’s left you a parcel to clear for him,” said Cadfael. “I
would gladly have done more,” said Jacob, mildly aggrieved and on his dignity.
He looked less than his twenty-five years, well-grown as he was, with that
cherubic face. “But he says I’m sure to be slow, not knowing the rounds or the
tenants, so he’s let me take only the outlying lanes here in the Foregate,
where I can take my time. I daresay he’s right, it will take me longer than I
think. I ‘m sorry to see him so worried about his son,” he said, shaking his
head. “He has to see to this business with the law, he told me not to worry if
he was late returning today. I hope all goes well,” said the loyal subordinate,
and set forth sturdily to do his own duty towards his master, however beset he
might be by other cares. Cadfael
took his seed back to the garden, put in an hour or so of contented work there,
washed his hands, and went to check on the progress of Brother Ambrose, who was
just able to croak in his ear, more audibly than yesterday: “I could rise and
help poor William such a day for him...! He
was halted there by a large, rough palm. “Lie quiet,” said Cadfael, “like a
wise man. Let them see how well they can fend without you, and they’ll value
you the better hereafter. And about time, too!” And he fed his captive bird
again, and returned to his labours in the garden. At
Vespers, Brother Eutropius came late and in haste, and took his place breathing
rapidly, but as impenetrable as ever. And when they emerged to go to supper in
the refectory, Jacob of Bouldon was just coming in at the gatehouse with his
leather satchel of rents jealously guarded by one hand and looking round
hopefully for his master, who had not yet returned. Nor had he some twenty
minutes later, when supper was over; but in the gathering dusk Warin Harefoot
trudged wearily across the court to the guest-hall, and the pack on his
shoulder looked hardly lighter than when he had gone out in the morning. Madog
of the Dead-Boat, in addition to his primary means of livelihood, which was
salvaging dead bodies from the River Severn at any season, had a number of
seasonal occupations that afforded him sport as well as a living. Of these the
one he enjoyed most was fishing, and of all the fishing seasons the one he
liked best was the early Spring run up-river of the mature salmon, fine,
energetic young males which had arrived early in the estuary, and would run and
leap like athletes many miles upstream before they spawned. Madog was expert at
taking them, and had had one out of the water this same day, before he paddled
his coracle into the thick bushes under the castle’s water-gate, a narrow lane
running down from the town, and dropped a lesser line into the river to pick up
whatever else offered. Here he was in good, leafy cover, and could stake
himself into the bank and lie back to drowse until his line jerked him awake.
From above, whether castle ramparts, town wall or upper window, he could not be
seen. It
was beginning to grow dusk when he was startled wide awake by the hollow splash
of something heavy plunging into the water, just upstream. Alert in a moment,
he shoved off a yard or so from shore to look that way, but saw nothing to
account for the sound, until an eddy in midstream showed him a dun-coloured
sleeve breaking surface, and then the oval pallor of a face rising and sinking
again from sight. A man’s body turned slowly in the current as it sailed past.
Madog was out after it instantly, his paddle plying. Getting a body from river
into a coracle is a tricky business, but he had practised it so long that he
had it perfect, balance and heft and all, from his first grasp on the billowing
sleeve to the moment when the little boat bobbed like a cork and spun like a
drifting leaf, with the drowned man in-board and streaming water. They were
halfway across the river by that time, and there were half a dozen lay brothers
just leaving their work in the vegetable gardens along the Gaye, on the other
side, the nearest help in view. Madog made for their shore, and sent a halloo
ahead of him to halt their departure and bring them running. He
had the salvaged man out on the bank by the time they reached him, and had
turned him face-down into the grass and hoisted him firmly by the middle to
shake the water out of him, squeezing energetically with big, gnarled hands. “He’s
been in the river no more than a breath or two, I heard him souse into the
water. Did you see ought over there by the water-gate?” But they shook their
heads, concerned and anxious, and stooped to the drenched body, which at that
instant heaved in breath, choked, and vomited the water it had swallowed. “He’s
breathing. He’ll do. But he was meant to drown, sure enough. See here!” On
the back of the head of thick, greying hair blood slowly seeped, along a broken
and indented wound. One
of the lay brothers exclaimed aloud, and kneeled to turn up to the light the
streaked and pallid face. “Master William! This is our steward! He was
collecting rents in the town... See, the pouch is gone from his belt! Two
rubbed and indented spots showed where the heavy satchel had bruised the
leather beneath, and the lower edge of the stout belt itself showed a nick from
a sharp knife, where the thongs had been sliced through in haste. “Robbery and
murder!” “The
one, surely, but not the other, not yet,” said Madog practically. “He’s
breathing, you’ve not lost him yet. But we’d best get him to the nearest and
best-tended bed, and that’ll be in your infirmary, I take it. Make use of those
hoes and spades of yours, lads, and here’s a coat of mine to spare, if some of
you will give up yours...” They
made a litter to carry Master William back to the abbey, as quickly and
steadily as they could. Their entry at the gatehouse brought out porters,
guests and brothers in alarm and concern. Brother Edmund the infirmarer came
running and led the way to a bed beside the fire in the sick quarters. Jacob of
Bouldon, rushing to confirm his fears, set up a distressed cry, but recovered
himself gallantly, and ran for Brother Cadfael. The sub-prior, once informed of
the circumstances by Madog, who was too accustomed to drowned and near-drowned
men to get excited, sensibly sent a messenger hot-foot into the town to tell
provost and sheriff what had happened, and the hunt was up almost before the
victim was stripped of his soaked clothes, rolled in blankets and put to bed. The
sheriff’s sergeant came, and listened to Madog’s tale, with only a momentary
narrowing of eyes at the fleeting suspicion that the tough old Welsh waterman
might be adept at putting men into the water, as well as pulling them out. But
in that case he would have been more likely to make sure that his victim went
under, unless he was certain he could not name or identify his attacker. Madog
saw the moment of doubt, and grinned scornfully. “I
get my living better ways. But if you need to question, there must be some
among those gardeners from the Gaye who saw me come downriver and drop my line
in under the trees there, and can tell you I never set foot ashore until I
brought this one over, and shouted them to come and help with him. Maybe you
don’t know me, but these brothers here do.” The
sergeant, surely one of the few new enough to service in Shrewsbury castle to
be ignorant of Madog’s special position along the river, accepted Brother
Edmund’s warm assurances, and shrugged off his doubts. “But
sorry I am,” allowed Madog, mollified, “that I neither saw nor heard anything
until he plumped into the water, for I was drowsing. All I can say is that he
went in upstream of me, but not far I’d say someone slid him in from the cover
of the water-gate.” “A
narrow, dark place, that,” said the sergeant. “And
a warren of passages above. And the light fading, though not far gone... Well,
maybe when he comes round he’ll be able to tell you. something he may have seen
the man that did it.” The
sergeant settled down resignedly to wait for Master William to stir, which so
far he showed no sign of doing. Cadfael had cleaned and bandaged the wound,
dressing it with a herbal salve, and the steward lay with eyes closed and
sunken, mouth painfully open upon snoring breath. Madog reclaimed his coat,
which had been drying before the fire, and shrugged into it placidly. “Let’s hope
nobody’s thought the time right to help himself to my fish while my back was
turned.” He had wrapped his salmon in an armful of wet grass and covered it
with his upturned boat. “I’ll bid you goodnight, brothers, and wish your sick
man hale again and his pouch recovered, too, though that I doubt.” From
the infirmary doorway he turned back to say: “You have a patient lad here
sitting shivering on the doorstep, waiting for word. Can he not come in and see
his master, he says. I’ve told him the man’s likely to live his old age out
with no worse than a dunt on the head to show for it, and he’d best be off to
his bed, for he’ll get nothing here as yet. Would you want him in?” Cadfael
went out with him to shoo away any such premature visits. Jacob of Bouldon, pale
and anxious, was sitting with arms folded closely round his drawn-up knees,
hunched against the chill of the night. He looked up hopefully as they came out
to him, and opened his mouth eagerly to plead. Madog clouted him amiably on the
shoulder as he passed, and made off towards the gatehouse, a squat, square
figure, brown and crusty as the bole of an oak. “You’d
best be off, too, into the warm,” said Brother Cadfael, not unkindly. “Master
William will recover well enough, but he’s likely to be without his wits some
time yet, no call for you to catch your death here on the stone.” “I
couldn’t rest,” said Jacob earnestly. “I told him, I begged him, take me with
you, you should have someone. But he said, folly, he had collected rents for
the abbey many years, and never felt any need for a guard. And now, see...
Could I not come in and sit by him? I’d make no sound, never trouble him... He
has not spoken?” “Nor
will for some hours yet, and even then I doubt he can tell us much. I’m here
with him in case of need, and Brother Edmund is on call. The fewer about him,
the better.” “I’ll
wait a little while yet,” said Jacob, fretting, and hugged his knees the
tighter. Well,
if he would, he would, but cramp and cold would teach him better sense and more
patience. Cadfael went back to his vigil, and closed the door. Still, it was no
bad thing to encounter one lad whose devotion gave the lie to Master William’s
forebodings concerning the younger generation. Before
midnight there was another visitor enquiring. The porter opened the door softly
and came in to whisper that Master William’s son was here, asking after his
father and wanting to come in and see him. Since the sergeant, departing when
it seemed certain his vigil was fruitless until morning, had pledged himself to
go and reassure Mistress Rede that her man was alive, well cared for, and
certain to make a good recovery, Cadfael might well have gone out to bid the
young man go home and take care of his mother rather than waste his time here,
if the young man had not forestalled him by making a silent and determined
entry on his herald’s heels. A tall, shock-headed, dark-eyed youth, hunched of
shoulder just now, and grim of face, but admittedly very quiet in movement, and
low-voiced. His look was by no means tender or solicitous. His eyes went at
once to the figure in the bed, sweaty-browed now, and breathing somewhat more
easily and naturally. He brooded, glaring, and wasting no time on question or
explanation, said in a level whisper: “I will stay.” And with aggressive
composure stayed, settling himself on the bench beside his father’s bed, his
two long, muscular hands gripped tightly between his knees. The
porter met Cadfael’s eye, hoisted his shoulders, and went quietly away. Cadfael
sat down on the other side of the bed, and contemplated the pair, father and
son. Both faces looked equally aloof and critical, even hostile, yet there they
were, close and quiet together. The
young man asked but two questions, each after a long silence. The first,
uttered almost grudgingly, was: “Will it be well with him?” Cadfael, watching
the easing flow of breath and the faint flush of colour, said simply: “Yes.
Only give him time.” The second was: “He has not spoken yet?” “Not
yet,” said Cadfael. Now
which of those, he wondered, was the more vital question? There was one man,
somewhere, who must at this moment be very anxious indeed about what William
Rede might have to say, when he did speak. The
young man his name was Edward, Cadfael recalled, after the Confessor Eddi Rede
sat all night long almost motionless, brooding over his father’s bed. Most of
that time, and certainly every time he had been aware of being watched in his
turn, he had been scowling. Well
before Prime the sergeant was back again to his watch, and Jacob was again hovering
unhappily about the doorway, peering in anxiously whenever it was opened, but
not quite venturing to come in until he was invited. The sergeant eyed Eddi
very hard and steadily, but said no word to disturb the injured man’s
increasingly restful sleep. It was past seven when at last Master William
stirred, opened vague eyes, made a few small sounds which were not yet words,
and tried feebly to put up a hand to his painful head, startled by the sudden
twinge when he moved. The sergeant stooped close, but Cadfael laid a
restraining hand on his arm. “Give
him time! A knock on the head like that will have addled his wits. We’ll need
to tell him things before he tells us any.” And to the wondering patient he
said tranquilly: “You know me “Cadfael, Edmund will be here to relieve me as
soon as Prime is over. You’re in his care, in the infirmary, and past the
worst. Fret for nothing, lie still and let others do that. You’ve had a mighty
dunt on the crown, and a dowsing in the river, but both are past, and thanks
be, you’re safe enough now.” The
wandering hand reached its goal this time. Master William groaned and stared
indignant surprise, and his eyes cleared and sharpened, though his voice was
weak as he complained, with quickening memory: “He came behind me someone out
of an open yard door... That’s the last I know...” Sudden realisation shook
him; he gave a stricken howl, and tried to rise from his pillow, but gave up at
the pang it cost him. The rents the abbey rents!” “Your
life’s better worth than the abbey rents,” said Cadfael heartily, “and even
they may be regained.” “The
man who felled you,” said the sergeant, leaning dose, “cut your satchel loose
with a knife, and made off with it. But if you can help us we’ll lay him by the
heels yet. Where was this that he struck you down?” “Not
a hundred paces from my own house,” lamented William bitterly. “I went there
when I had finished, to check my rolls and make all fast, and...” He shut his
mouth grimly on the overriding reason. Hazily he had been aware all this time
of the silent and sullen young man sitting beside him, now he fixed his eyes on
him until his vision cleared. The mutual glare was spirited, and came of long
practice. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Waiting
to have better news of you to take to my mother,” said Eddi shortly. He looked
up defiantly into the sergeant’s face. “He came home to read me all my sins
over, and warn me that the fine that’s due from me in two days more is my
burden now, not his, and if I can’t make shift for it on my own I may go to
gaol, and pay in another coin. Or it may be,” he added with grudging fairness,
“that he came rather to flay me and then pay my dues, as he’s done more than
once. But I was in no mind to listen, and he was in no mind to be flouted, so I
flung out and went down to the butts. And won the good half of what I owe, for
what that’s worth,” “So
this was a bitter quarrel you had between you,” said the sergeant, narrowing
suspicious eyes. “And not long after it you, master, went out to bring your rents
home, and were set upon, robbed, and left for dead. And now you, boy, have the
half of what you need to stay out of prison.” Cadfael,
watching father and son, felt that it had not even occurred to Eddi, until
then, that he might fall under suspicion of this all too opportune attack; and
further, that even now it had not dawned on Master William that such a thought
could occur to any sane man. He was scowling at his son for no worse reason
than old custom and an aching head. “Why
are you not looking after your mother at home?” he demanded querulously. “So
I will, now I’ve seen and heard you more like yourself. Mother’s well enough
cared for; Cousin Alice is with her. But she’ll be the better for knowing that
you’re still the same cantankerous worrit, and likely to be a plague to us
twenty years yet. I’ll go,” said Eddi grimly, “when I’m let. But he wants your
witness before he can leave you to your rest. Better get it said.” Master
William submitted wearily, knitting his brows in the effort to remember. “I
came from the house, along the passage towards Saint Mary’s, above the
water-gate. The door of the tanner’s yard was standing open, I know I’d passed
it... But I never heard a step behind me. As if the wall had fallen on me! I
recall nothing after, except sudden cold, deadly cold... Who brought me back,
then, that I’m snug here?” They
told him, and he shook his head helplessly over the great blank between. “You
think the fellow must have been hiding behind that yard-door, lying in wait?” “So
it seems.” “And
you caught never a glimpse? Never had time to turn your head? You can tell us
nothing to trace him? Not even a guess at his build? His age?” Nothing.
Simply, there had been early dusk before him, his own steps the only sound, no
man in sight between the high walls of gardens, yards and warehouses going down
to the river, and then the shock of the blow, and abrupt darkness. He was
growing tired again, but his mind was clear enough. There would be no more to
get from him. Brother
Edmund came in, eyed his patient, and silently nodded the visitors out at the
door, to leave him in peace. Eddi kissed his father’s dangling hand, but
brusquely, rather as though he would as lief have bitten it, and marched out to
blink at the sunlight in the great court. With a face grimly defiant he waited
for the sergeant’s dismissal. “I
left him as I told you, I went to the butts, and played into a wager there, and
shot well. You’ll want names from me. I can give them. And I’m still short the
half of my fine, for what that’s worth. I knew nothing of this until I went
home, and that was late, after your messenger had been there. Can I go home?
I’m at your disposal.” “You
can,” granted the sergeant, so readily that it was clear the young man would
not be unwatched on the way, or on arrival. “And there stay, for I shall want
more from you than merely names. I’m away to take their tales from the lay
brothers who were working late at the Gaye yesterday, but I’ll not be long
after you in the town.” The
workers were already assembling in the court and moving off to their day’s
labour. The sergeant strode forth to find his men, and left Eddi glowering
after him, and Cadfael mildly observing the wary play of thought in the dark
young face. Not a bad-looking lad, if he would wear a sunnier visage; but
perhaps at this moment he had little cause. “He
will truly be a hale man again?” he asked suddenly, turning his black gaze on
Cadfael. “As
whole and hearty as ever he was.” “And
you’ll take good care of him?” “So
we will,” agreed Cadfael innocently, “even though he may be a cantankerous
worrit and a plague.” “I
‘m sure none of you here have any call to say so,” flashed the young man with
abrupt ferocity. “The abbey has had loyal and solid service from him all these
years, and owes him more thanks than abuse.” And he turned his back and stalked
away out of the great court, leaving Cadfael looking after him with a
thoughtful face and the mere trace of a smile. He
was careful to wipe off the smile before he went back to Master William, who
was in no mood to take himself, his son and his troubles anything but
seriously. He lay trying to blink and frown away his headache, and fulminating
about his offspring in a glum undertone. “You
see what I have to complain of, who should be able to look for comfort and
support at home. A wild, unbiddable good-for-nothing, and insolent into the
bargain...” “So
he is,” agreed Cadfael sympathetically, wooden-faced. “No wonder you mean to
let him pay for his follies in prison, and small blame to you.” He got an acid
glare as reward. “I shall do no such thing!” snapped Master William sharply.
“The boy’s no worse than you or I at his age, I daresay. Nothing wrong with him
that time won’t cure.” Master
William’s disaster, it seemed, had shaken the serenity of the abbey from choir
to guest-hall. The enquiries were many and assiduous. Young Jacob had been
hopping about outside the infirmary from dawn, unable to tear himself away even
to the duties he owed his injured master, until Cadfael had taken pity on his
obvious anxiety, and stopped to tell him that there was no need for such
distress, for the worst was over, and all would be well with Master William. “You
are sure, brother? He has regained his senses? He has spoken? His mind is
clear?” Patiently
Cadfael repeated his reassurances. “But
such villainy! Has he been able to help the sheriff’s men? Did he see his
attacker? Has he any notion who it could have been?” “Not
that, no. Never a glimpse, he was struck from behind, and knew no more until he
came to this morning in the infirmary. He’s no help to the law, I fear. It was
not to be expected.” “But
he himself will be well and strong again?” “As
ever he was, and before long, too.” “Thank
God, brother!” said Jacob fervently, and went away satisfied to his accounts.
For even with the town rents lost, there was still bookwork to be done on what
remained. More
surprising it seemed to be stopped on the way to the dortoir by Warin Harefoot,
the haberdasher, with a very civil enquiry after the steward’s health. Warin
did not presume to display the agitation of a favoured colleague like Jacob,
but rather the mannerly sympathy of a humble guest of the house, and the
law-abiding citizen’s indignation at evil-doing, and desire that justice should
pursue the evildoer. Had his honour been able to put a name or a face to his
attacker? A great pity! Yet justice, he hoped, might still be done. And would
there should any man be so fortunate as to trace the missing satchel with its
treasure would there be a small reward for such a service? To an honest man who
restored it, Cadfael thought, there well might. Warin went off to his day’s
peddling in Shrewsbury, humping his heavy pack. The back view of him, for some
reason, looked both purposeful and jaunty. But
the strangest and most disturbing enquirer made, in fact, no enquiry, but came
silently in, as Cadfael was paying another brief visit to the infirmary in the
early afternoon, after catching up with some of his lost sleep. Brother
Eutropius stood motionless and intent at the foot of the steward’s bed, staring
down with great hollow eyes in a face like a stone mask. He gave never a glance
to Cadfael. All he regarded was the sleeping man, now so placid and eased for
all his bandaged head, a man back from the river, back from the grave. He stood
there for a long time, his lips moving on inaudible formulae of prayer Suddenly
he shuddered, like someone waking from a trance, and crossed himself, and went
away as silently as he had come. Cadfael
was so concerned at his manner and his closed face that he went out after him,
no less quietly, and followed him at a distance through the cloisters and into
the church. Brother
Eutropius was on his knees before the high altar, his marble face upraised over
clasped hands. His eyelids were closed, but the dark lashes glittered. A
handsome, agonised man of thirty, with a strong body and a fierce, tormented
heart, his lips framing silently but readably in the altar-light. “Mea culpa...
maxima mea culpa...” Cadfael
would have liked to pierce the distance and the ice between, but it was not the
time. He went away quietly, and left Brother Eutropius to the remnant of his
disrupted solitude, for whatever had happened to him, the shell was cracked and
disintegrating, and never again would he be able to reassemble it about him. Cadfael
went into the town before Vespers, to call upon Mistress Rede, and take her the
latest good word of her man. It was by chance that he met the sergeant at the
High Cross, and stopped to exchange news. It had been a routine precaution to
round up a few of the best-known rogues in Shrewsbury, and make them account
for their movements the previous day, but that had yielded nothing. Eddi’s
fellow-marksmen at the butts under the town wall had sworn to his story
willingly, but seeing they were all his cronies from boyhood, that meant little
enough. The one new thing, and it marked the exact spot of the attack past
question, was the discovery in the passage above the water-gate of the one loop
of leather from Master William’s pouch, the one which had been sliced clean
through and left lying in the thief’s haste, and the dim light under the high
walls. “Right
under the clothier’s cart-yard. The walls are ten feet high, and the passage
narrow. Never a place from which the lane can be overlooked. No chance in the
world of an eye witness. He chose his place well.” “Ah,
but there is one place, then, from which a man might have watched the deed,”
said Cadfael, enlightened. “The loft above that cart-house and barn has a hatch
higher than the wall, and close to it. And Roger Clothier lets Rhodri Fychan
sleep up there the old Welshman who begs at Saint Mary’s church. By that time
of the evening he may have been up in the hay already, and on a fine evening
he’d be sitting by the open hatch. And even if he had not come home at that
time, who’s to be sure of that? It’s enough that he could have been there. He
had been right about the sergeant; the man was an incomer, not yet acquainted
with the half of what went on in Shrewsbury. He had not known Madog of the
Dead-Boat, he did not know Rhodri Fychan. Pure chance had cast this particular
affair into the hands of such a man, and perhaps no ill chance, either. “You
have given me a notion,” said Cadfael, “that may bring us nearer the truth yet.
Not that I’d let the old man run any risk, but no need for that. Listen,
there’s a baited trap we might try, if you’re agreeable. If it succeeds you may
have your man. If it fails, we shall have lost nothing. But it’s a matter of
doing it quietly, no public proclamation, leave the baiting to me. Will you
give it a trial? It’s your credit if we hook our fish, and it costs but a
night-watch.” The
sergeant stared, already sniffing at the hope of praise and promotion, but
cautious still. “What is it you have in mind?” “Say
you had done this thing, there between blind walls, and then suddenly heard
that an old man slept above every night of the year, and may have been there
when you struck. And say you were told that this old beggar has not yet been
questioned but tomorrow he will be...” “Brother,”
said the sergeant, “I am with you. I am listening.” There
were two things to be done, after that, if the spring was to succeed, and
imperil no one but the guilty. No need to worry, as yet, about getting
permission to be absent in the night, or, failing that, making his own
practised but deprecated way out without permission. Though he had confidence
in Abbot Radulfus, who had, before now, shown confidence in him. Justice is a
permitted passion, the just respect it. Meantime, Cadfael went up to Saint Mary’s
churchyard, and sought out the venerable beggar who sat beside the west door,
in his privileged and honoured place. Rhodri the Less for his father had been
Rhodri, too, and a respected beggar like his son knew the footstep, and turned
up a wrinkled and pock-marked face, brown as the soil, smiling. “Brother
Cadfael, well met, and what’s the news with you?” Cadfael
sat down beside him, and took his time. “You’ll have heard of this bad business
that was done right under your bedchamber, yesterday evening. Were you there,
last night?” “Not
when this befell,” said the old man, scratching his white poll thoughtfully,
“and can find no one who was down there at that time, either. Last night I
begged late, it was a mild evening. Vespers was over and gone here before I
went home.” “No
matter,” said Cadfael. “Now listen, friend, for I’m borrowing your nest
tonight, and you’ll be a guest elsewhere, if you’ll be my helper...” “For
a Welshman,” said the old man comfortably, “whatever he asks. You need only
tell me.” But when it was told, he shook his head firmly. “There’s an inner
loft. In the worst of the winter I move in there for the warmth, away from the
frosty air. Why should not I be present? There’s a door between, and room for
you and more. And I should like, Brother Cadfael, I should like of all things
to be witness when Will Rede’s murderer gets his come-uppance.” He
leaned to rattle his begging-bowl at a pious lady who had been putting up
prayers in the church. Business was business, and the pitch he held was the
envy of the beggars of Shrewsbury. He blessed the giver, and reached a delaying
hand to halt Cadfael, who was rising to depart. “Brother,
a word for you that might come helpfully, who knows! They are saying that one
of your monks was down under the bridge yesterday evening, about the time Madog
took up Will out of the water. They say he stood there under the stone a long
time, like a man in a dream, but no good dream. One they know but very little,
a man in his prime, dark-avised, solitary...” “He
came late to Vespers,” said Cadfael, remembering. “You
know I have those who tell me things, for no evil purpose a man who sits still
must have the world come to him. They tell me this brother walked into the
water, above his sandals, and would have gone deeper, but it was then Madog of
the Dead-Boat hallooed that he had a drowned man aboard. And the strange monk
drew back out of the water and fled from his devil. So they say. Does it mean
anything to you?” “Yes,”
said Cadfael slowly. “Yes, it means much.” When
Cadfael had finished reassuring the steward’s brisk, birdlike little wife that
she should have her man back in a day or two as good as new, he drew Eddi out
with him into the yard, and told him all that was in the wind. “And
I am off back now to drop the quiet word into a few ears I can think of, where
it may raise the fiercest itch. But not too early, or why should not the
thought be passed on to the sheriff’s man at once for action? No, last thing,
after dark, when all good brothers are making their peace with the day before
bed, I shall have recalled that there’s one place from which yonder lane can be
overlooked, and one man who sleeps the nights there, year round, and may have
things to tell. First thing tomorrow, I shall let them know, I’ll send the sheriff
the word, and let him deal. Whoever fears an eye witness shall have but this
one night to act.” The
young man eyed him with a doubtful face but a glint in his glance. “Since you
can hardly expect to take me in that trap, brother, I reckon you have another
use for me.” “This
is your father. If you will, you may be with the witnesses in the rear loft.
But mark, I do not know, no one can know yet, that the bait will fetch any
man.” “And
if it does not,” said Eddi with a wry grin, “if no one comes, I can still find
the hunt hard on my heels.” “True!
But if it succeeds...” He
nodded grimly. “Either way, I have nothing to lose. But listen, one thing I
want amended, or I’ll spring your trap before the time. It is not I who will be
in the rear loft with Rhodri Fychan and your sergeant. It is you. I shall be
the sleeper in the straw, waiting for a murderer. You said rightly, brother
this is my father. Mine, not yours!” This
had been no part of Brother Cadfael’s plans, but for all that, he found it did
not greatly surprise him. Nor, by the set of the intent young face and the tone
of the quiet voice, did he think demur would do much good. But he tried. “Son,
since it is your father, think better of it. He’ll have need of you. A man who
has tried once to kill will want to make certain this time. He’ll come with a
knife, if he comes at all. And you, however sharp your ears and stout your
heart, still at a disadvantage, lying in a feigned sleep...” “And
are your senses any quicker than mine, and your sinews any suppler and
stronger?” Eddi grinned suddenly, and clapped him on the shoulder with a large
and able hand. “Never fret, brother, I am well prepared for when that man and I
come to grips. You go and sow your good seed, and may it bear fruit! I’ll make
ready.” When
robbery and attempted murder are but a day and a half old, and still the
sensation of a whole community, it is by no means difficult to introduce the
subject and insert into the speculations whatever new crumb of interest you may
wish to propagate. As Cadfael found, going about his private business in the
half-hour after Compline. He did not have to introduce the subject, in fact,
for no one was talking about anything else. The only slight difficulty was in
confiding his sudden idea to each man in solitude, since any general
announcement would at once have caused some native to blurt out the obvious
objection, and give the entire game away. But even that gave little trouble,
for certainly the right man, if he really was among those approached, would not
say one word of it to anyone else, and would have far too much to think about
to want company or conversation the rest of the night. Young Jacob, emerging
cramped and yawning after hours of assiduous scribing, broken only by snatched
meals and a dutiful visit to his master, now sitting up by the infirmary
hearth, received Brother Cadfael’s sudden idea wide-eyed and eager, and
offered, indeed, to hurry to the castle even at this late hour to tell the
watch about it, but Cadfael considered that hardworking officers of the law
might be none too grateful at having their night’s rest disrupted; and in any
case nothing would be changed by morning. To
half a dozen guests of the commoners’ hall, who came to make kind enquiry after
Master William, he let fall his idea openly, as a simple possibility, since
none of them was a Shrewsbury man, or likely to know too much about the
inhabitants. Warin Harefoot was among the six, and perhaps the instigator of
the civil gesture. He looked, as always, humble, zealous, and pleased at any
motion, even the slightest, towards justice. There
remained one mysterious and troubled figure. Surely not a murderer, not even
quite a self-murderer, though by all the signs he had come very close. But for
Madog’s cry of ‘Drowned man!’ he might indeed have waded into the full flow of
the stream and let it take him. It was as if God himself had set before him,
like a lightning stroke from heaven, the enormity of the act he contemplated,
and driven him back from the brink with the dazzle of hell-fire. But those who
returned stricken and penitent to face this world had need also of men, and the
communicated warmth of men. Before
Cadfael so much as opened the infirmary door, on a last visit to the patient
within, he had a premonition of what he would find. Master William and Brother
Eutropius sat companionably one on either side of the hearth, talking together
in low, considerate voices, with silences as acceptable as speech, and speech
no more eloquent than the silences. There was no defining the thread that
linked them, but there would never be any breaking it. Cadfael would have
withdrawn unnoticed, but the slight creak of the door drew Brother Eutropius’
attention, and he rose to take his leave. “Yes,
brother, I know I’ve overstayed. I’ll come.” It
was time to withdraw to the dortoir and their cells, and sleep the sleep of men
at peace. And Eutropius, as he fell in beside Cadfael in the great court, had
the face of a man utterly at peace. Drained, still dazed by the thunderbolt of
revelation, but already, surely, confessed and absolved. Empty now, and still a
little at a loss in reaching out a hand to a fellow-man. “Brother,
I think it was you who came into the church, this afternoon. I am sorry if I
caused you anxiety. I had but newly looked my fault in the face. It seemed to
me that my sin had all but killed another, an innocent, man. Brother, I have
long known in my head that despair is mortal sin. Now I know it with my blood
and bowels and heart.” Cadfael
said, stepping delicately: “No sin is mortal, if it is deeply and truly
repented. He lives, and you live. You need not see your case as extreme,
brother. Many a man has fled from grief into the cloister, only to find that
grief can follow him there.” “There
was a woman...” said Eutropius, his voice low, laboured but calm. “Until now I
could not speak of this. A woman who played me false, bitterly, yet I could not
leave loving. Without her my life seemed of no worth. I know its value better
now. For the years left to me I will pay its price in full, and carry it
without complaint.” To
him Cadfael said nothing more. If there was one man in all this web of guilt
and innocence who would sleep deeply and well in his own bed that night, it was
Brother Eutropius. As
for Cadfael himself, he had best make haste to take advantage of his leave of
absence, and get to the clothier’s loft by the shortest way, for it was fully
dark, and if the bait had been taken the end could not long be delayed. The
steep ladder had been left where it always leaned, against the wall below
Rhodri’s hatch. In the outer loft the darkness was not quite complete, for the
square of the hatch stood open as always on a space of starlit sky. The air
within was fresh, but warm and fragrant with the dry, heaped hay and straw,
stored from the previous summer, and dwindling now from the winter’s
depredations, but still ample for a comfortable bed. Eddi lay stretched out on
his left side, turned towards the square of luminous sky, his right arm flung
up round his head, to give him cover as he kept watch. In
the inner loft, with the door ajar between to let sounds pass, Brother Cadfael,
the sergeant, and Rhodri Fychan sat waiting, with lantern, flint and steel
ready to hand They had more than an hour to wait. If he was coming at all, he
had had the cold patience and self-control to wait for the thick of the night,
when sleep is deepest. But
come he did, when Cadfael, for one, had begun to think their fish had refused
the bait. It must have been two o’clock in the morning, or past, when Eddi,
watching steadily beneath his sheltering arm, saw the level base of the square
of sky broken, as the crown of a head rose into view, black against darkest
blue, but clear to eyes already inured to darkness. He lay braced and still,
and tuned his breathing to the long, impervious rhythm of sleep, as the head
rose stealthily, and the intruder paused for a long time, head and shoulders in
view, motionless, listening. The silhouette of a man has neither age nor
colouring, only a shape. He might have been twenty or fifty, there was no
knowing. He could move with formidable silence. But
he was satisfied. He had caught the steady sound of breathing, and now with
surprising speed mounted the last rungs of the ladder and was in through the
hatch, and the bulk of him cut off the light. Then he was still again, to make
sure the movement had not disturbed the sleeper. Eddi was listening no less
acutely, and heard the infinitely small whisper of steel sliding from its
sheath. A dagger is the most silent of weapons to use, but has its own voices.
Eddi turned very slightly, with wincing care, to free his left arm under him,
ready for the grapple. The
bulk and shadow, a moving darkness, mere sensation rather than anything seen,
drew close. He felt the leaning warmth from a man’s body, and the stirring of
the air from his garments, and was aware of a left hand and arm outstretched
with care to find how he lay, hovering rather than touching. He had time to
sense how the assassin stooped, and judge where his right hand lay waiting with
the knife, while the left selected the place to strike. Under the sacking that
covered him for beggars do not lie in good woollens Eddi braced himself to meet
the shock. When
the blow came, there was even a splinter of light tracing the lunge of the
blade, as the murderer drew back to put his weight into the stroke, and
uncovered half the blessed frame of sky. Eddi flung over on his back, and took
the lunging dagger-hand cleanly by the wrist in his left hand. He surged out of
the straw ferociously, forcing the knife away at arm’s length, and with his
right hand reached for and found his opponent’s throat. They rolled out of the
nest of rustling, straw and across the floor, struggling, and fetched up
against the timbers of the wall. The attacker had uttered one startled, muted
cry before he was half-choked. Eddi had made no sound at all but the fury of
his movements. He let himself be clawed by his enemy’s flailing left hand,
while he laid both hands to get possession of the dagger. With all his strength
he dashed the elbow of the arm he held against the floor. A strangled yelp
answered him, the nerveless fingers parted, and gave up the knife. Eddi sat
back astride a body suddenly limp and gasping, and laid the blade above a face
still nameless. In
the inner loft the sergeant had started up and laid hand to the door, but
Cadfael took him by the arm and held him still. The
feverish whisper reached them clearly, but whispers have neither sex nor age
nor character. “Don’t strike wait, listen!” He was terrified, but still
thinking, still scheming. “It is you I know you, I’ve heard about you... his
son! Don’t kill me, why should you? It wasn’t you I expected I never meant you
harm...” What
you may have heard about him, thought Cadfael, braced behind the door with his
hand on the tinder-box he might need at any moment, may be as misleading as
common report so often is. There are overtones and undertones to be listened
for, that not every ear can catch. “Lie
still,” said Eddi’s voice, perilously calm and reasonable, “and say what you
have to say where you lie. I can listen just as well with this toy at your
throat. Have I said I mean to kill you?” “But
do not!” begged the eager voice, breathless and low. Cadfael knew it, now. The
sergeant probably did not. In all likelihood Rhodri Fychan, leaning close and
recording all, had never heard it, or he would have known it, for his ears
could pick up even the shrillest note of the bat. “I can do you good. You have
a fine unpaid, and only a day to run before gaol. He told me so. What do you
owe him? He would not clear you, would he? But I can see you cleared. Listen,
never say word of this, loose me and keep your own counsel, and the half is
yours the half of the abbey rents. I promise it!” There
was a blank silence. If Eddi was tempted, it was certainly not to bargain, more
likely to strike, but he held his hand, at whatever cost. “Join
me,” urged the voice, taking heart from his silence, “and no one need ever
know. No one! They said there was a beggar slept here, but he’s away, however
it comes, and no one here but you and I, to know what befell. Even if they were
using you, think better of it, and who’s to know? Only let me go hence, and you
keep a close mouth, and all’s yet well, for you as well as me.” After
another bleak silence Eddi’s voice said with cold suspicion, “Let you loose,
and you the only one who knows where you’ve hidden the plunder? Do you take me
for a fool? I should never see my share! Tell me the place, exact, and bring me
to it with you, or I give you to the law.” The
listeners within felt, rather than heard, the faint sounds of writhing and
struggling and baulking, like a horse resisting a rider, and then the sudden
collapse, the abject surrender. “I put the money into my pouch with my own few
marks,” owned the voice bitterly, “and threw his satchel into the river. The
money is in my bed in the abbey. No one paid any heed to my entry with the
Foregate dues remaining, why should they? And those I’ve accounted for
properly. Come down with me, and I’ll satisfy you, I’ll pay you. More than the
half, if you’ll only keep your mouth shut, and let me go free...” “You
within there,” suddenly bellowed Eddi, shaking with detestation, “come forth,
for the love of God, and take this carrion away from under me, before I cut his
villain throat, and rob the hangman of his own. Come out, and see what we’ve
caught!” And
out they came, the sergeant to thrust across at once to bar any escape by the
hatch, Cadfael to set his lantern safely on a beam well clear of the hay and
straw, and tap away diligently with flint and steel until the tinder caught and
glowed, and the wick burned up into a tiny flame. Eddi’s captive had uttered
one despairing oath, and made one frantic effort to throw off the weight that
held him down and break for the open air, but was flattened back to the boards
with a thump, a large, vengeful hand splayed on his chest. “He
dares, he dares,” Eddi was grating through his teeth, “to try and buy my
father’s head from me with money stolen money, abbey money! You heard? You
heard?” The
sergeant leaned from the hatch and whistled for the two men he had had in
hiding below in the barn. He was glad he had given the plan a hearing. The
injured man live and mending well, the money located and safe everything would
redound to his credit. Now send the prisoner bound and helpless with his escort
to the castle, and off to the abbey to unearth the money. The
guarded flame of the lantern burned up and cast a yellow light about the loft.
Eddi rose and stood back from his enemy, who sat up slowly and sullenly, still
breathless and bruised, and blinked round them all with the large, ingenuous
eyes and round, youthful face of Jacob of Bouldon, that paragon of clerks, so
quick to learn the value of a rent-roll, so earnest to win the trust and
approval of his master, and lift from him every burden, particularly the burden
of a full satchel of the abbey’s dues. He
was grazed and dusty now, and the cheerful, lively mask had shrivelled into
hostile and malevolent despair. With flickering, sidelong glances he viewed
them all, and saw no way out of the circle. Longest he looked at the little,
spry, bowed old man who came forth smiling at Cadfael’s shoulder. For in the
wrinkled, lively face the lantern-light showed two eyes that caught reflected
light though they had none of their own, eyes opaque as grey pebbles and as
insensitive. Jacob stared and moaned, and softly and viciously began to curse. “Yes,”
said Brother Cadfael, “you might have saved yourself so vain an effort. I fear
I was forced to practise a measure of deceit, which would hardly have taken in
a true-born Shrewsbury man. Rhodri Fychan has been blind from birth.” It
was in some way an apt ending, when Brother Cadfael and the sergeant arrived
back at the abbey gatehouse, about first light, to find Warin Harefoot waiting
in the porter’s room for the bell for Prime to rouse the household and deliver
him of his charge, which he had brought here for safety in the night. He was
seated on a bench by the empty hearth, one hand clutching firmly at the neck of
a coarse canvas sack. “He has not let go of it all night,” said the porter,
“nor let me leave sitting t’other side of it as guard.” Warin
was willing enough, however, even relieved, to hand over his responsibility to
the law, with a monk of the house for witness, seeing abbot and prior were not
yet up to take precedence. He undid the neck of the sack proudly, and displayed
the coins within. “You
did say, brother, there might be a reward, if a man was so lucky as to find it.
I had my doubts of that young clerk. I never trust a too-honest face! And if it
was he well, I reasoned he must hide what he stole quickly. And he had a pouch
on him the like of the other, near enough, and nobody was going to wonder at
seeing him wearing it, or having money in it, either, seeing he had a small
round of his own. And if he came a thought late, well, he’d made a point he
might make a slower job of it than he’d expected, being a novice at the
collecting. So I kept my eye on him, and got my chance this night, when I saw
him creep forth after dark. In his bed it was, sewn into a corner of the straw
pallet. And here it is, and speak for me with the lord abbot. Trade’s none so
good, and a poor pedlar must live...” Gaping
down at him long and wonderingly, the sergeant questioned at last: “And did you
never for a moment consider slipping the whole into your own pack, and out
through the gates with it in the morning?” Warin
cast up a shy, disarming glance. “Well, sir, for a moment it may be I did. But
I was never the lucky sort if I did the like, never a once but I was found out.
Wisdom and experience turned me honest. Better, I hold, a small profit come by
honestly than great gains gone down the wind, and me in prison for it just the
same. So here’s the abbey’s gold again, every penny, and now I look to the lord
abbot to treat a poor, decent man fair.” About
the Author ELLIS PETERS is the
nom-de-crime of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of books
under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award, conferred
by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted Edgar,
awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well known as
a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded the Gold
Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for her
services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at
home in her beloved Shropshire. |
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