"Peters, Ellis - Brother Cadfael 14 - Hermit of Eyton Forest, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Peters Ellis)The Hermit of Eyton Forest The year is 1142, and all England is in the iron grip of a civil
war. And within the sheltered cloisters of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Peter
and St. Paul, there begins a chain of events no less momentous than the
political upheavals of the outside world. First, there is the sad demise of
Richard Ludel, Lord of Eaton, whose ten-year-old son and heir, also named
Richard, is a pupil at the Abbey. Supported by Abbot Radulfus, the boy refuses
to surrender his new powers to Dionysia, his furious, formidable grandmother. A
stranger to the region is the hermit Cuthred, who enjoys the protection of Lady
Dionysia, and whose young companion, Hyacinth, befriends Richard. Despite his
reputation for holiness, Cuthred’s arrival heralds a series of mishaps for the
monks. When Richard disappears and a corpse is found in Eyton forest, Brother
Cadfael is once more forced to leave the tranquillity of his herb garden and
devote his knowledge of human nature to tracking down a ruthless murderer. The
Fourteenth Chronicle of Brother Cadfael, of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint
Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury By Ellis PetersChapter One IT WAS ON THE EIGHTEENTH DAY of October of
that year 1142 that Richard Ludel, hereditary tenant of the manor of Eaton,
died of a debilitating weakness, left after wounds received at the battle of
Lincoln, in the service of King Stephen. The news was duly brought to Hugh
Beringar in Shrewsbury castle, since Eaton was one of the many manors in the
shire which had been expropriated from William Fitz Alan, after that powerful
nobleman took arms on the wrong side in the struggle for the throne, held
Shrewsbury for the Empress Maud, and took to flight when Stephen besieged and
captured the town. His wide lands, forfeited to the crown, had been placed in
the sheriff’s care as overlord, but their tenants of long standing had been
left undisturbed, once it was clear that they had wisely accepted the judgement
of battle, and pledged their allegiance to the king. Ludel, indeed, had done
more than declare his loyalty, he had proved it in arms at Lincoln, and now, it
seemed, paid a high price for his fealty, for he was no more than thirty-five
years old at his death. Hugh received the news with the mild regret natural to
one who had barely known the man, and whose duties were unlikely to be
complicated by any closer contact with the death. There was an heir, and no
second son to cloud the issue of inheritance, certainly no need to interfere
with the smooth succession. The Ludels were Stephen’s men, and loyal, even if
the new incumbent was hardly likely to take arms for his king for many years to
come, being, Hugh recalled, about ten years old. The boy was in school at the
abbey, placed there by his father when the mother died, most likely, so rumour
said, to get him out of the hands of a domineering grandmother, rather than
simply to ensure that he learned his letters. It seemed, therefore, that the abbey, if
not the castle, had some unenviable responsibility in the matter, for someone
would have to tell young Richard that his father was dead. The funeral rites
would not fall to the abbey, Eaton having its own church and parish priest, but
the custody of the heir was a matter of importance. And as for me, thought
Hugh, I had better make certain how competent a steward Ludel has left to
manage the boy’s estate, while he’s not yet of age to manage it himself. “You have not taken this word to the lord
abbot yet?” he asked the groom who had brought the message. “No, my lord, I came first to you.” “And have you orders from the lady to
speak with the heir himself?” “No, my lord, and would as soon leave that
to those who have the daily care of him.” “You may well be right there,” Hugh
agreed. “I’ll go myself and speak with Abbot Radulfus. He’ll know best how to
deal. As to the succession, Dame Dionisia need have no concern, the boy’s title
is secure enough.” In times full of trouble, with cousins contending bitterly
for the throne, and opportunist lords changing their coats according to the
pendulum fortunes of this desultory war, Hugh was only too glad to be guardian
of a shire which had changed hands but once, and settled down doggedly
thereafter to keep King Stephen’s title unchallenged and the tide of unrest at
bay from its borders, whether the threat came from the empress’s forces, the
unpredictable cantrips of the wild Welshmen of Powys to the west, or the
calculating ambition of the earl of Chester in the north. Hugh had balanced his
relationships with all these perilous neighbours for some years now with fair
success, it would have been folly to consider handing over Eaton to another
tenant, whatever the possible drawbacks of allowing the succession to pass
unbroken to a child. Why upset a family which had remained submissive and
loyal, and dug in its heels sturdily to await events when its overlord fled to
France? Recent rumour had it that William Fitz Alan was back in England, and
had joined the empress in Oxford, and the sense of his presence, even at that
distance, might stir older loyalties among his former tenants, but that was a
risk to be met when it showed signs of arising. To give Eaton to another tenant
might well be to rouse the old allegiance needlessly from its prudent slumber.
No, Ludel’s son should have his rights. But it would be well to have a look at
the steward, and make sure he could be trusted, both to keep to his late lord’s
policies and to take good care of his new lord’s interests and lands. Hugh rode out unhurriedly through the
town, in the fine mid-morning—after the early mist had lifted, gently uphill to
the High Cross, steeply downhill again by the winding Wyle to the eastward
gate, and across the stone bridge towards the Foregate, where the crossing
tower of the abbey church loomed solidly against a pale blue sky. The Severn
ran rapid but tranquil under the arches of the bridge, still at its mild summer
level, its two small, grassy islands rimmed with a narrow edging of bleached
brown which would be covered again when the first heavy rain brought
storm-water down from Wales. To the left, where the highroad opened before him,
the clustering bushes and trees rising from the riverside just touched the
dusty rim of the road, before the small houses and yards and gardens of the
Foregate began. To the right the mill-pool stretched away between its grassy
banks, a faint bloom of lingering mist blurring its silver surface, and beyond,
the wall of the abbey enclave arose, and the arch of the gatehouse. Hugh dismounted as the porter came out to
take his bridle. He was as well known here as any who wore the Benedictine
habit and belonged within the walls. “If you’re wanting Brother Cadfael, my
lord,” offered the porter helpfully, “he’s away to Saint Giles to replenish
their medicine cupboard. But he’s been gone an hour or so now, he left after
chapter. He’ll be back soon, surely, if you’re minded to wait for him.” “My business is with the lord abbot
first,” said Hugh, acknowledging without protest the assumption that his every
visit here must inevitably be in search of one close crony. “Though no doubt
Cadfael will hear the same word afterwards, if he hasn’t heard it in advance!
The winds always seem to blow news his way before they trouble about the rest
of us.” “His duties take him forth, more than most
of us ever get the chance,” said the porter good-humouredly. “Come to that, how
do the poor afflicted souls at Saint Giles ever come to hear so much of what
goes on in the wide world? For he seldom comes back without some piece of
gossip that’s amazement to everybody this end of the Foregate. Father Abbot’s
down in his own garden. He’s been closeted over accounts with the sacristan for
an hour or more, but I saw Brother Benedict leave him a little while ago.” He
reached a veined brown hand to caress the horse’s neck, very respectfully, for
Hugh’s big, raw-boned grey, as cross-grained as he was strong, had little but
contempt for all things human except his master, and even he was regarded
rather as an equal, to be respected but kept in his place. “There’s no news
from Oxford yet?” Even within the cloister they could not choose but keep one
ear cocked for news of the siege. Success there now might well see the empress
a prisoner, and force an end at last to this dissension that tore the land
apart. “Not since the king got his armies through the ford and into the town.
We may hear something soon, if some who had time to get out of the city drift
up this way. But the garrison will have made sure the castle larders were well
filled. I doubt it will drag on for many weeks yet.” Siege is slow strangulation, and King
Stephen had never been noted for patience and tenacity, and might yet find it
tedious to sit waiting for his enemies to reach starvation, and take himself
off to find brisker action elsewhere. It had happened before, and could happen
again. Hugh shrugged off his liege lord’s
shortcomings, and set off down the great court to the abbot’s lodging, to
distract Father Radulfus from his cherished if slightly jaded roses. Brother Cadfael was back from the hospital
of Saint Giles and busy in his workshop, sorting beans for next year’s seed,
when Hugh came back from the abbot’s lodging and made his way to the herbarium.
Recognising the swift, light tread on the gravel, Cadfael greeted him without
turning his head. “Brother Porter told me you’d be here. Business with Father
Abbot, he says. What’s in the wind? Nothing new from
Oxford?” “No,” said Hugh, seating himself
comfortably on the bench against the timber wall, “nearer home. This is from no
farther off than Eaton. Richard Ludel is dead. The dowager sent a groom with
the news this morning. You’ve got the boy here at school.” Cadfael turned then, with one of the clay
saucers, full of seed dried on the vine, in his hand. “So we have. Well, so his
sire’s gone, is he? We heard he was dwindling. The youngster was no more than
five when he was sent here, and they fetch him home very seldom. I think his
father thought the child was better here with a few fellows near his own age
than kept around a sick man’s bed.” “And under the rule of a strong-willed
grandmother, from all I hear. I don’t know the lady,” said Hugh thoughtfully,
“except by reputation. I did know the man, though I’ve seen nothing of him
since we got our wounded back from Lincoln. A good fighter and a decent soul,
but dour, no talker. What’s the boy like?” “Sharp venturesome… A very fetching imp,
truth to tell, but as often in trouble as out of it. Bright at his letters, but
he’d rather be out at play. Paul will have the task of telling him his father’s
dead, and himself master of a manor. It may trouble Paul more than it does the
boy. He hardly knows his sire. I suppose there’s no question about his tenure?” “None in the world! I’m all for letting
well alone, and Ludel earned his immunity. It’s a good property, too, fat land,
and much of it under the plough. Good grazing, water-meadows and woodland, and
it’s been well tended, seemingly, for it’s valued higher now than ten years
since. But I must get to know the steward, and make sure he’ll do the boy
right.” “John of Longwood,” said Cadfael promptly.
“He’s a good man and a good husbandman. We know him well, we’ve had dealings
with him, and always found him reasonable and fair. That land falls between the
abbey holdings of Eyton-by-Severn on the one side, and Aston-under-Wrekin on
the other, and John has always given our forester free access between the two
woodlands whenever needed, to save him time and labour. We bring wood out from
our part of the Wrekin forest that way. It suits us both very well. Ludel’s part
of Eyton forest bites into ours there, it would be folly to fall out. Ludel had
left everything to John these last two years, you’ll have no trouble there.” “The abbot tells me,” said Hugh, nodding
satisfaction with this good-neighbourliness, “that Ludel gave the boy as ward
into his hands, four years ago, should he himself not live to see his son grown
to manhood. It seems he made all possible provision for the future, as if he
saw his own death coming towards him.” And he added, somewhat grimly: “As well
most of us have no such clear sight, or there’d be some hundreds in Oxford now
hurrying to buy Masses for their souls. By this time the king must hold the
town. It would fall into his hands of itself once he was over the ford. But the
castle could hold out to the year’s end, at a pinch, and there’s no cheap way
in there, it’s a matter of starving them out. And if Robert of Gloucester in
Normandy has not had word of all this by now, then his intelligencers are less
able than I gave them credit for. If he knows how his sister’s pressed, he’ll
be on his way home in haste. I’ve known the besiegers become the besieged
before now, it could as well happen again.” “It will take him some time to get back,”
Cadfael pointed out comfortably. “And by all accounts no better provided than
when he went.” The empress’s half-brother and best soldier had been sent
overseas, much against his inclination, to ask help for the lady from her less
than loving husband, but Count Geoffrey of Anjou was credibly reported to be
much more interested in his own ambitions in Normandy than in his wife’s in
England, and had been astute enough to inveigle Earl Robert into helping him
pick off castle after castle in the duchy, instead of rushing to his wife’s
side to assist her to the crown of England. As early as June Robert had sailed
from Wareham, against his own best judgement but at his sister’s urgent
entreaty, and Geoffrey’s insistence, if he was to entertain any ambassador from
her at all. And here was September ended, Wareham back in King Stephen’s hands,
and Robert still detained in Geoffrey’s thankless service in Normandy. No, it
would not be any quick or easy matter for him to come to his sister’s rescue.
The iron grip of siege tightened steadily round Oxford castle, and for once Stephen
showed no sign of abandoning his purpose. Never yet had he come so close to
making his cousin and rival his prisoner, and forcing her acceptance of his
sovereignty. “Does he realise,” wondered Cadfael, closing the lid of a stone
jar on his selected seed, “how near he’s come to getting her into his power at
last? How would you feel, Hugh, if you were in his shoes, and truly got your
hands on her?” “Heaven forefend!” said Hugh fervently,
and grinned at the very thought. “For I shouldn’t know what to do with her! And
the devil of it is, neither will Stephen, if ever it comes to that. He could
have kept her tight shut into Arundel the day she landed, if he’d had the
sense. And what did he do? Gave her an escort, and sent her off to Bristol to
join her brother! But if the queen ever gets the lady into her power, that will
be another story. If he’s a grand fighter, she’s the better general, and knows
how to hold on to her advantages.” Hugh rose and stretched, and a rising breeze
from the open door ruffled his smooth black hair, and rustled the dangling
bunches of dried herbs hanging from the roof beams. “Well, there’s no hurrying
the siege to an end, we must wait and see. I hear they’ve finally given you a
lad to help you in the herb garden, is it true? I noticed your hedge has had a
second clipping, was that his work?” “It was.” Cadfael went out with him along
the gravel path between the patterned beds of herbs, grown a little wiry at
this end of the growing season. The box hedge at one side had indeed been neatly
trimmed of the straggling shoots that come late in the summer. “Brother
Winfrid—you’ll see him busy in the patch where we’ve cleared the bean vines,
digging in the holms. A big, gangling lad all elbows and knees. Not long out of
his novitiate. Willing, but slow. But he’ll do. They sent him to me, I fancy,
because he turned out fumble-fisted with either pen or brush, but give him a
spade, and that’s more his measure. He’ll do!” Outside the walled herb garden the
vegetable plots extended, and beyond the slight rise on their right the
harvested pease fields ran down to the Meole Brook, which was the rear border
of the abby enclave. And there was Brother Winfrid in full vigorous action, a
big, loose-jointed youth with a shock-head of wiry hair hedging in his shaven
crown, his habit kilted to brawny knees, and a broad foot shod in a wooden clog
driving the steel-edged spade through the fibrous tangle of bean holms as
through blades of grass. He gave them one beaming glance as they passed, and
returned to his work without breaking the rhythm. Hugh had one glimpse of a
weather-browned country face and round, guileless blue eyes. “Yes, I should think he might do very
well,” he said, impressed and amused, “whether with a spade or a battle-axe. I
could do with a dozen such at the castle whenever they care to offer their
services.” “He’d be no use to you,” said Cadfael with
certainty. “Like most big men, the gentlest soul breathing. He’d throw his
sword away to pick up the man he’d flattened. It’s the little, shrill terriers
that bare their teeth.” They emerged into the band of flowerbeds beyond the
kitchen garden, where the rose bushes had grown leggy and begun to shed their
leaves. Rounding the corner of the box hedge, they came out into the great
court, at this working hour of the morning almost deserted but for one or two
travellers coming and going about the guest hall, and a stir of movement down
in the stables. Just as they rounded the tall hedge to step into the court, a
small figure shot out of the gate of the grange court, where the barns and
storage lofts lined three sides of a compact yard, and made off at a run across
the narrows of the court into the cloister, to emerge a minute later at the
other end at a decorous walk, with eyes lowered in seemly fashion, and plump,
childish hands devoutly linked at his belt, the image of innocence. Cadfael
halted considerately, with a hand on Hugh’s arm, to avoid confronting the boy
too obviously. The child reached the corner of the infirmary, rounded it, and
vanished. There was a distinct impression that as he quit the sight of any
watchers in the great court he broke into a run again, for a bare heel flashed
suddenly and was gone. Hugh was grinning. Cadfael caught his friend’s eye, and
said nothing. “Let me hazard!” said Hugh, twinkling. “You picked your apples
yesterday, and they’re not yet laid up in the trays in the loft. Lucky it was
not Prior Robert who saw him at it, and he with the breast of his cotte bulging
like a portly dame!” “Oh, there are some of us have a sort of
silent understanding. He’ll have taken the biggest, but only four. He thieves
in moderation. Partly from decent obligation, partly because half the sport is
to tempt providence again and again.” Hugh’s agile black eyebrow signalled
amused enquiry. “Why four?” “Because we have but four boys still in
school, and if he thieves at all, he thieves for all. There are several novices
not very much older, but to them he has no obligation. They must do their own
thieving, or go without. And do you know,” asked Cadfael complacently, “who
that young limb is?” “I do not, but you are about to astonish
me.” “I doubt if I am. That is Master Richard
Ludel, the new lord of Eaton. Though plainly,” said Cadfael, wryly
contemplating shadowed innocence, “he does not yet know it.” Richard was sitting cross-legged on the
grassy bank above the mill-pond, thoughtfully nibbling out the last shreds of
white flesh from round his apple core, when one of the novices came looking for
him. “Brother Paul wants you,” announced the messenger, with the austerely
complacent face of one aware of his own virtue, and delivering a probably
ominous summons to another. “He’s in the parlour. You’d best hurry.” “Me?” said Richard, round-eyed, looking up
from his enjoyment of the stolen apple. No one had any great cause to be afraid
of Brother Paul, the master of the novices and the children, who was the
gentlest and most patient of men, but even a reproof from him was to be evaded
if possible. “What does he want me for?” “You should best know that,” said the
novice, with mildly malicious intent. “It was not likely he’d tell me. Go and
find out for yourself, if you truly have no notion.” Richard committed his denuded core to the
pond, and rose slowly from the grass. “In the parlour, you say?” The use of so
private and ceremonial a place argued something grave, and though he was
unaware of any but the most venial of misdeeds that could be laid to his
account during the past weeks, it behoved him to be wary. He went off slowly
and thoughtfully, trailing his bare feet in the coolness of the grass,
deliberately scuffing hard little soles along the cobbles of the court, and
duly presented himself in the small, dim parlour, where visitors from the
outside world might occasionally talk in private with their cloistered sons. Brother Paul was standing with his back to
the single window, rendering the small room even dimmer than it need have been.
The straight, close-shorn ring of hair round his polished crown was still black
and thick at fifty, and he habitually stood, as indeed he also sat, stooped a
little forward, from so many years of dealing with creatures half his size, and
desiring to reassure them rather than awe them with his stature and bearing. A
kindly, scholarly, indulgent man, but a good teacher for all that, and one who
could keep his chicks in order without having to keep them in terror. The
oldest remaining oblatus, given to God when he was five years old, and now
approaching fifteen and his novitiate, told awful stories of Brother Paul’s
predecessor, who had ruled with the rod, and been possessed of an eye that
could freeze the blood. Richard made his small obligatory obeisance, and stood
squarely before his master, lifting to the light an impenetrable countenance,
lit by two blue-green eyes of radiant innocence. A thin, active child, small
for his years but agile and supple as a cat, with a thick, curly crest of light
brown hair, and a band of golden freckles over both cheekbones and the bridge
of his neat, straight nose. He stood with feet braced sturdily apart, toes
gripping the floorboards, and stared up into Brother Paul’s face, dutiful and
guileless. Paul was well acquainted with that unblinking gaze. “Richard,” he said gently, “come, sit down
with me. I have something I must tell you.” That in itself was enough to discount one
slight childish unease, only to replace it with another and graver, for the
tone was so considerate and indulgent as to prophesy the need for comfort. But
what Richard’s sudden flickering frown expressed was simple bewilderment. He
allowed himself to be drawn to the bench and seated there within the circle of
Brother Paul’s arm, bare toes just touching the floor, and braced there hard.
He could be prepared for scolding, but here was surely something for which he
was not prepared, and had no idea how to confront. “You know that your father fought at
Lincoln for the king, and was wounded? And that he has since been in poor
health.” Secure in robust, well-fed and well-tended youth, Richard hardly knew
what poor health might be, except that it was something that happened to the
old. But he said: “Yes, Brother Paul!” in a
small, accommodating voice, since it was expected of him. “Your grandmother sent a groom to the lord
sheriff this morning. He has brought a sad message, Richard. Your father has
made his last confession and received his Saviour. He is dead, my child. You
are his heir, and you must be worthy of him. In life and in death,” said
Brother Paul, “he is in the hand of God. So are we all.” The look of thoughtful bewilderment had
not changed. Richard’s toes shoved hard against the floor, and his hands
gripped the edge of the bench on which he was perched. “My father is dead?” he repeated
carefully. “Yes, Richard. Soon or late, it touches us
all. Every son must one day step into his father’s place and take up his
father’s duties.” “Then I shall be the lord of Eaton now?” Brother Paul did not make the mistake of
taking this for a simple expression of self-congratulation on a personal gain,
rather as an intelligent acceptance of what he himself had just said. The heir
must take up the burden and the privilege his sire had laid down. “Yes, you are the lord of Eaton, or you
will be as soon as you are of fit age. You must study to get wisdom, and manage
your lands and people well. Your father would expect that of you.” Still struggling with the practicalities
of his new situation, Richard probed back into his memory for a clear vision of
this father who was now challenging him to be worthy. In his rare recent visits
home at Christmas and Easter he had been admitted on arrival and departure to a
sick-room that smelled of herbs and premature aging, and allowed to kiss a
grey, austere face and listen to a deep voice, indifferent with weakness,
calling him son and exhorting him to study and be virtuous. But there was
little more, and even the face had grown dim in his memory. Of what he did
remember he went in awe. They had never been close enough for anything more
intimate. “You loved your father, and did your best
to please him, did you not, Richard?” Brother Paul prompted gently. “You must
still do what is pleasing to him. And you may say prayers for his soul, which
will be a comfort also to you.” “Shall I have to go home now?” asked
Richard, whose mind was on the need for information rather than comfort. “To your father’s burial, certainly. But
not to remain there, not yet. It was your father’s wish that you should learn
to read and write, and be properly instructed in figures. And you’re young yet,
your steward will take good care of your manor until you come to manhood.” “My grandmother,” said Richard by way of
explanation, “sees no sense in my learning my letters. She was angry when my
father sent me here. She says a lettered clerk is all any manor needs, and
books are no fit employment for a nobleman.” “Surely she will comply with your father’s
wishes. All the more is that a sacred trust, now that he is dead.” Richard jutted a doubtful lip. “But my
grandmother has other plans for me. She wants to marry me to our neighbour’s
daughter, because Hiltrude has no brother, and will be the heiress to both
Leighton and Wroxeter. Grandmother will want that more than ever now,” said
Richard simply, and looked up ingenuously into Brother Paul’s slightly startled
face. It took a few moments to assimilate this
news, and relate it to the boy’s entry into the abbey school when he was barely
five years old. The manors of Leighton and Wroxeter lay one on either side of
Eaton, and might well be a tempting prospect, but plainly Richard Ludel had not
concurred in his mother’s ambitious plans for her grandson, since he had taken
steps to place the boy out of the lady’s reach, and a year later had made Abbot
Radulfus Richard’s guardian, should he himself have to relinquish the charge
too soon. Father Abbot had better know what’s in the wind, thought Brother
Paul. For of such a misuse of his ward, thus almost in infancy, he would
certainly not approve. Very warily he said, fronting the boy’s
unwavering stare with a grave face:
“Your father said nothing of what his plans for you might be, some day
when you are fully grown. Such matters must wait their proper time, and that is
not yet. You need not trouble your head about any such match for years yet. You
are in Father Abbot’s charge, and he will do what is best for you.” And he
added cautiously, giving way to natural human curiosity: “Do you know this
child—this neighbour’s daughter?” “She isn’t a child,” Richard stated
scornfully. “She’s quite old. She was betrothed once, but her bridegroom died.
My grandmother was pleased, because after waiting some years for him, Hiltrude
wouldn’t have many suitors, not being even pretty, so she would be left for
me.” Brother Paul’s blood chilled at the
implications. “Quite old” probably meant no more than a few years past twenty,
but even that was an unacceptable difference. Such marriages, of course, were a
commonplace, where there was property and land to be won, but they were
certainly not to be encouraged. Abbot Radulfus had long had qualms of
conscience about accepting infants committed by their fathers to the cloister,
and had resolved to admit no more boys until they were of an age to make the
choice for themselves. He would certainly look no more favourably on committing
a child to the equally grave and binding discipline of matrimony. “Well, you
may put all such matters out of your mind,” he said very firmly. “Your only
concern now and for some years to come must be with your lessons and the
pastimes proper to your years. Now you may go back to your fellows, if you wish,
or stay here quietly for a while, as you prefer.” Richard slid out of the
supporting arm readily and stood up sturdily from the bench, willing to face
the world and his curious fellow pupils at once, and seeing no reason why he
should shun the meeting even for a moment. He had yet to comprehend the thing
that had happened to him. The fact he could grasp, the implications were slow
to reach beyond his intelligence into his heart. “If there is anything more you
wish to ask,” said Brother Paul, eyeing him anxiously, “or if you feel the need
for comfort or counsel, come back to me, and we’ll go to Father Abbot. He is
wiser than I, and abler to help you through this time.” So he might be, but a boy in school was
hardly likely to submit himself voluntarily to an interview with so awesome a
personage. Richard’s solemn face had settled into the brooding frown of one
making his way through unfamiliar and thorny paths. He made his parting
reverence and went out briskly enough, and Brother Paul, having watched him out
of sight from the window, and seen no signs of imminent distress, went to
report to the abbot what Dame Dionisia Ludel was said to be planning for her
grandson. Radulfus heard him out with alert
attention and a thoughtful frown. To unite Eaton with both its neighbouring
manors was an understandable ambition. The resulting property would be a power
in the shire, and no doubt the formidable lady considered herself more than
capable of ruling it, over the heads of bride, bride’s father and infant
bridegroom. Land greed was a strong driving force, and children were
possessions expendable for so desirable a profit. “But we trouble needlessly,”
said Radulfus, shaking the matter resolutely from his shoulders. “The boy is in
my care, and here he stays. Whatever she may intend, she will not be able to
touch him. We can forget the matter. She is no threat to Richard or to us.” Wise as he might be, this was one occasion
when Abbot Radulfus was to find his predictions going far astray. Chapter Two THEY WERE ALL AT CHAPTER, on the twentieth
morning of October, when the steward of the manor of Eaton presented himself,
requesting a hearing with a message from his mistress. John of Longwood was a burly, bearded man
of fifty, with a balding crown and neat, deliberate movements. He made a
respectful obeisance to the abbot, and delivered his errand bluntly and
practically, as one performing a duty but without committing himself to
approval or disapproval. “My lord, Dame Dionisia Ludel sends me to you with her
devout greetings, and asks that you will send back to her, in my charge, her
grandson Richard, to take up his rightful place as lord of the manor of Eaton
in his father’s room.” Abbot Radulfus leaned back in his stall and regarded the
messenger with an impassive face. “Certainly Richard shall attend his father’s
funeral. When is that to be?” “Tomorrow, my lord, before High Mass. But
that is not my mistress’s meaning. She wants the young lord to leave his
studies here and come to take his proper place as lord of Eaton. I’m to say
that Dame Dionisia feels herself to be the proper person to have charge of him,
now that he’s come into his inheritance, as she’s assured he shall do, without
delay or hindrance. I have orders to bring him back with me.” “I fear, master steward,” said the abbot
with deliberation, “that you may not be able to carry out your orders. Richard
Ludel committed the care of his son to me, should he himself die before the boy
came to manhood. It was his wish that his son should be properly educated, the
better to manage his estate when he came to inherit. I intend to fulfil what I
undertook. Richard remains in my care until he comes of age and takes control
of his own affairs. Until which time, I am sure, you will serve him as well as
you have served his father, and keep his lands in good heart.” “Very surely I will, my lord,” said John
of Longwood, with more warmth than he had shown in delivering his mistress’s
message. “My lord Richard has left all to me since Lincoln, and he never had
cause to find fault, and neither shall his son ever be the loser by me. On that
you may rely.” “So I do. And therefore we may continue
here with easy minds, and take as good care of Richard’s schooling and
wellbeing as you do of his estates.” “And what reply am I to take back to Dame
Dionisia?” asked John, without any apparent disappointment or reluctance. “Say to your lady that I greet her
reverently in Christ, and that Richard shall come tomorrow, as is due, properly
escorted,” said the abbot with a slightly admonitory emphasis, “but that I have
his father’s sacred charge to hold him in wardship myself until he is a man,
and by his father’s wishes I shall abide.” “I will say so, my lord,” said John with a
straight, wide stare and a deep reverence, and walked jauntily out of the chapterhouse.
Brother Cadfael and Brother Edmund the infirmarer emerged into the great court
just in time to see the messenger from Eaton mount his stocky Welsh cob at the
gatehouse and ride unhurriedly out into the Foregate. “There goes a man, unless
I’m much mistaken,” remarked Brother Cadfael sagely, “no way seriously
displeased at taking back a flat refusal. Nor at all afraid of delivering it. A
man might almost think he’ll savour the moment.” “He is not dependent on the dame’s good
will,” said Brother Edmund. “Only the sheriff as overlord can threaten his
tenure, until the boy is his own master, and John knows his worth. And so does
she, for that matter, having a shrewd head and proper appreciation of good
management. For the sake of peace he’ll do her bidding, he does not have to
relish the task, only to keep his mouth shut.” And John of Longwood was a man
of few words at the best of times, it would probably be no hardship to him to
contain his dissent and keep a wooden face. “But this will not be the end of
it,” Cadfael warned. “If she has a greedy eye on Wroxeter and Leighton she’ll
not give up so easily, and the boy’s her only means of getting her hands on
them. We shall yet hear more from Dame Dionisia Ludel.” Abbot Radulfus had taken the warning seriously.
Young Richard was accompanied to Eaton by Brother Paul, Brother Anselm and
Brother Cadfael, a bodyguard stout enough to fend off even an attempt at
abduction by force, which was unlikely in the extreme. Far more probable that
the lady would try using the fond persuasions of affection and the ties of
blood to work upon the boy with tears and blandishments, and turn him into a
homesick ally in the enemy camp. If she had any such ideas, Cadfael reflected,
studying Richard’s face along the way, she was under-estimating the innocent
shrewdness of children. The boy was quite capable of weighing up his own
interests and making the most of what advantages he had. He was happy enough at
school, he had companions of his own age, he would not lightly abandon a known
and pleasant life for one as yet strange, devoid of brothers, and threatened
with a bride already old in his eyes. No doubt he valued and longed for his
inheritance, but his it was, and safe, and whether he stayed at school or came
home, he would not yet be allowed to rule it as he wished. No, it would take
more than grandmotherly tears and embraces to secure Richard’s alliance,
especially tears and embraces from a source never before known to be
demonstratively fond. It was a matter of seven miles or more
from the abbey to the manor of Eaton, and for the honour and dignity of the
monastery of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, in attendance on so solemn an
occasion, they were sent forth mounted. Dame Dionisia had sent a groom with a
stout Welsh pony for her grandson, perhaps as a first move in a campaign to
enlist him as her ally, and the gift had been received with greedy pleasure,
but it would not therefore necessarily produce a return in kind. A gift is a
gift, and children are shrewd enough, and have a sharp enough perception of the
motives of their elders, to take what is offered unsolicited, without the least
intention of paying for it in the fashion expected of them. Richard sat his new
pony proudly and happily, and in the fine, dewy autumn morning and the pleasure
of being loosed from school for the day, almost forgot the sombre reason for
the ride. The groom, a long-legged boy of sixteen, loped cheerfully beside him,
and led the pony as they splashed through the ford at Wroxeter, where centuries
back the Romans had crossed the Severn before them. Nothing remained of their
sojourn now but a gaunt, broken wall standing russet against the green fields,
and a scattering of stones long ago plundered by the villagers for their own
building purposes. In the place of what some said had been a city and a
fortress there was now a flourishing manor blessed with fat, productive land,
and a prosperous church that maintained four canons. Cadfael viewed it with
some interest as they passed, for this was one of the two manors which Dame
Dionisia hoped to secure to the Ludel estate by marrying off Richard to the
girl Hiltrude Astley. So fine a property was certainly tempting. All this
stretch of country on the northern side of the river extended before them in
rich water meadows and undulating fields, rising here and there into a gentle
hill, and starred with clusters of trees just melting into the first gold of
their autumn foliage. The land rose on the skyline into the forested ridge of
the Wrekin, a great heaving fleece of woodland that spread downhill to the
Severn, and cast a great tress of its dark mane across Ludel land and into the
abbey’s woods of Eyton-by-Severn. There was barely a mile between the grange of
Eyton, close beside the river, and Richard Ludel’s manor house at Eaton. The
very names sprang from the same root, though time had prised them apart, and
the Norman passion for order and formulation had fixed and ratified the
differences. As they rode nearer, their view of the long hog-back of forest
changed and foreshortened. By the time they reached the manor they were viewing
it from its end, and the hill had grown into an abrupt mountain, with a few
sheer faces of rock just breaking the dark fell of the trees near the summit.
The village sat serenely in the meadows, just short of the foothills, the manor
within its long stockade raised over an undercroft, and the small church close
beside it. Originally it had been a dependent chapel of the church at its
neighbour Leighton, downriver by a couple of miles. They dismounted within the stockade, and
Brother Paul took Richard firmly by the hand as soon as the boy’s foot touched
ground, as Dame Dionisia came sweeping down the steps from the hall to meet
them, advanced with authority upon her grandson, and stooped to kiss him.
Richard lifted his face somewhat warily, and submitted to the salute, but he
kept fast hold of Paul’s hand. With one power bidding for his custody he knew
where he stood, with the other he could not be sure of his standing. Cadfael eyed the lady with interest, for
though her reputation was known to him, he had never before been in her
presence. Dionisia was tall and erect, certainly no more than fifty-five years
old, and in vigorous health. She was, moreover, a handsome woman, if in a
somewhat daunting fashion, with sharp, clear features and cool grey eyes. But
their coolness showed one warning flash of fire as they swept over Richard’s
escort, recording the strength of the enemy. The household had come out at her
back, the parish priest was at her side. There would be no engagement here.
Later, perhaps, when Richard Ludel was safely entombed, and she could open the
house in funeral hospitality, she might make a first move. The heir could
hardly be kept from his grandmother’s society on this day of all days. The solemn rites for Richard Ludel took
their appointed course. Brother Cadfael made good use of the time to survey the
dead man’s household, from John of Longwood to the youngest villein herdsman.
There was every indication that the place had thrived well under John’s
stewardship, and his men were well content with their lot. Hugh would have good
reason to let well alone. There were neighbours present, too, Fulke Astley
among them, keeping a weather eye on what he himself might have to gain if the
proposed match ever took place. Cadfael had seen him once or twice in
Shrewsbury, a gross, self-important man in his late forties, running to fat,
ponderous of movement, and surely no match for that restless, active,
high-tempered woman standing grim-faced over her son’s hier. She had Richard
beside her, a hand possessively rather than protectively on his shoulder. The
boy’s eyes had dilated to engulf half his face, solemn as the grave that had
been opened for his father, and was now about to be sealed. Distant death is
one thing, its actual presence quite another. Not until this minute had Richard
fully realised the finality of this deprivation and severance. The grandmotherly hand did not leave his
shoulder as the cortege of mourners wound its way back to the manor, and the
funeral meats spread for them in the hall. The long, lean, aging fingers had a
firm grip on the cloth of the boy’s best coat, and she guided him with her
among guests and neighbours, properly but with notable emphasis making him the man
of the house, and presiding figure at his father’s obsequies. That did no harm
at all. Richard was fully aware of his position, and well able to resent any
infringement of his privilege. Brother Paul watched with some anxiety, and
whispered to Cadfael that they had best get the boy away before all the guests
departed, or they might fail to get him away at all, for want of witnesses.
While the priest was still present, and those few others not of the household,
he could hardly be retained by force. Cadfael had been observing those of the
company not well known to him. There were two grey-habited monks from the
Savigniac house of Buildwas, a few miles away down-river, to which Ludel had
been a generous patron on occasion, and with them, though withdrawn modestly
throughout into the background, was a personage less easily identifiable. He
wore a monastic gown, rusty black and well worn at the hems, but a head of
unshorn dark hair showed within his cowl, and a gleam of reflected light picked
out two or three metallic gleams from his shoulder that looked like the medals
of more than one pilgrimage. Perhaps a wandering religious about to settle for
the cloister. Savigny had been at Buildwas now for some forty years, a
foundation of Roger de Clinton, bishop of Lichfield. Good, detached observers
surely, these three. Before such reverend guests no violence could be
attempted. Brother Paul approached Dionisia
courteously to take a discreet leave and reclaim his charge, but the lady took
the wind from his sails with a brief, steely flash of her eyes and a voice
deceptively sweet: “Brother, let me plead with you to let me keep Richard
overnight. He has had a tiring day and begins to be weary now. He should not
leave until tomorrow.” But she did not say that she would send him back on the
morrow, and her hand retained its grip on his shoulder. She had spoken loudly
enough to be heard by all, a solicitous matron anxious for her young. “Madam,” said Brother Paul, making the
best of a disadvantaged position, “I was about to tell you, sadly, that we must
be going. I have no authority to let Richard stay here with you, we are
expected back for Vespers. I pray you pardon us.” The lady’s smile was honey, but her eyes
were sharp and cold as knives. She made one more assay, perhaps to establish
her own case with those who overheard, rather than with any hope of achieving
anything immediately, for she knew the occasion rendered her helpless. “Surely Abbot Radulfus would understand my
desire to have the child to myself one more day. My own flesh and blood, the
only one left to me, and I have seen so little of him these last years. You
leave me uncomforted if you take him from me so soon.” “Madam,” said Brother Paul, firm but
uneasy, “I grieve to withstand your wish, but I have no choice. I am bound in
obedience to my abbot to bring Richard back with me before evening. Come,
Richard, we must be going.” There was an instant while she kept and tightened
her hold, tempted to act even thus publicly, but she thought better of it. This
was no time to put herself in the wrong, rather to recruit sympathy. She opened
her hand, and Richard crept doubtfully away from her to Paul’s side. “Tell the lord abbot,” said Dionisia, her
eyes daggers, but her voice still mellow and sweet, “that I shall seek a
meeting with him very soon.” “Madam, I will tell him so,” said Brother
Paul. She was as good as her word. She rode into the abbey enclave the next
day, well attended, bravely mounted, and in her impressive best, to ask
audience of the abbot. She was closeted with him for almost an hour, but came
forth in a cold blaze of resentment and rage, stormed across the great court
like a sudden gale, scattering unoffending novices like blown leaves, and rode
away again for home at a pace her staid jennet did not relish, with her grooms
trailing mute and awed well in the rear. “There goes a lady who is used to getting
her own way,” remarked Brother Anselm, “but for once, I fancy, she’s met her
match.” “We have not heard the last of it,
however,” said Brother Cadfael drily, watching the dust settle after her going. “I don’t doubt her will,” agreed Anselm,
“but what can she do?” “That,” said Cadfael, not without
quickening interest, “no doubt we shall see, all in good time.” They had but two days to wait. Dame
Dionisia’s man of law announced himself ceremoniously at chapter, requesting a
hearing. An elderly clerk, meagre of person but brisk of bearing and irascible
of feature, bustled into the chapterhouse with a bundle of parchments under his
arm, and addressed the assembly with chill, reproachful dignity, in sorrow
rather than in anger. He marvelled that a cleric and scholar of the abbot’s
known uprightness and benevolence should deny the ties of blood, and refuse to
return Richard Ludel to the custody and loving care of his only surviving close
kinswoman, now left quite bereft of all her other menfolk, and anxious to help,
guide and advise her grandson in his new lordship. A great wrong was being done
to both grandmother and child, in the denial of their natural need and the
frustration of their mutual affection. And yet once more the clerk put forth
the solemn request that the wrong should be set right, and Richard Ludel sent
back with him to his manor of Eaton. Abbot Radulfus sat with a patient and
unmoved face and listened to the end of this studied speech very courteously.
“I thank you for your errand,” he said then mildly, “it was well done. I cannot
well change the answer I gave to your lady. Richard Ludel who is dead committed
the care of his son to me, by letter properly drawn and witnessed. I accepted
that charge, and I cannot renounce it now. It was the father’s wish that the
son should be educated here until he comes to manhood, and takes command of his
own life and affairs. That I promised, and that I shall fulfil. The death of
the father only makes my obligation the more sacred and binding. Tell your
mistress so.” “My lord,” said the clerk, plainly having
expected no other answer, and ready with the next step in his embassage, “in
changed circumstances such a private legal document need not be the only
argument valid in a court of law. The king’s justices would listen no less to
the plea of a matron of rank, widowed and now bereaved of her son, and fully
able to provide all her grandson’s needs, besides the natural need she has of
the comfort of his presence. My mistress desires to inform you that if you do
not give up the boy, she intends to bring suit at law to regain him.” “Then I can but approve her intention,”
said the abbot serenely. “A judicial decision in the king’s court must be
satisfying to us both, since it lifts the burden of choice from us. Tell her
so, and say that I await the hearing with due submission. But until such a
judgement is made, I must hold to my own sworn undertaking. I am glad,” he said
with a dry and private smile, “that we are thus agreed.” There was nothing left for the clerk to do
but accept this unexpectedly pliant response at its face value, and bow himself
out as gracefully as he could. A slight rustle and stir of curiosity and wonder
had rippled round the chapterhouse stalls, but Abbot Radulfus suppressed it
with a look, and it was not until the brothers emerged into the great court and
dispersed to their work that comment and speculation could break out openly.
“Was he wise to encourage her?” marvelled Brother Edmund, crossing towards the
infirmary with Cadfael at his side. “How if she does indeed take us to law? A
judge might very well take the part of a lone lady who wants her grandchild
home.” “Be easy,” said Cadfael placidly. “It’s
but an empty threat. She knows as well as any that the law is slow and costs
dear, at the best of times, and this is none of the best, with the king far
away and busy with more urgent matters, and half his kingdom cut off from any
manner of justice at all. No, she hoped to make the lord abbot think again and
yield ground for fear of long vexation. She had the wrong man. He knows she has
no intention of going to law. Far more likely to take law into her own hands
and try to steal the boy away. It would take slow law or swift action to snatch
him back again, once she had him, and force is further out of the abbot’s reach
than it is out of hers.” “It is to be hoped,” said Brother Edmund,
aghast at the suggestion, “that she has not yet used up all her persuasions, if
the last resort is to be violence.” No one could quite determine exactly how
young Richard came to know every twist and turn of the contention over his
future. He could not have overheard anything of what went on at chapter, nor
were the novices present at the daily gatherings, and there was none among the
brothers likely to gossip about the matter to the child at the centre of the
conflict. Yet it was clear that Richard did know all that went on, and took
perverse pleasure in it. Mischief made life more interesting, and here within
the enclave he felt quite safe from any real danger, while he could enjoy being
fought over. “He watches the comings and goings from Eaton,” said Brother Paul,
confiding his mild anxiety to Cadfael in the peace of the herb garden, “and is
sharp enough to be very well aware what they mean. And he understood all too
well what went on at his father’s funeral. I could wish him less acute, for his
own sake.” “As well he should have his wits about
him,” said Cadfael comfortably. “It’s the knowing innocents that avoid the
snares. And the lady’s made no move now for ten days. Maybe she’s grown
resigned, and given up the struggle.” But he was by no means convinced of that.
Dame Dionisia was not used to being thwarted. “It may be so,” agreed Paul
hopefully, “for I hear she’s taken in some reverend pilgrim, and refurbished
the old hermitage in her woodland for his use. She wants his prayers daily for
her son’s soul. Edmund was telling us about it when he brought our allowance of
venison. We saw the man, Cadfael, at the funeral. He was there with the two
brothers from Buildwas. He’d been lodged with them a week, they give him a very
saintly report.” Cadfael straightened up with a grunt from
his bed of mint, grown wiry and thin of leaf now in late October. “The fellow
who wore the scallop shell? And the medal of Saint James? Yes, I remember
noticing him. So he’s settling among us, is he? And chooses a cell and a little
square of garden in the woods rather than a grey habit at Buildwas! I never was
drawn to the solitary life myself, but I’ve known those who can think and pray
the better that way. It’s a long time since that cell was lived in.” He knew the place, though he seldom passed
that way, the abbey’s forester having excellent health, and very little need of
herbal remedies. The hermitage, disused now for many years, lay in a thickly
wooded dell, a stone-built hut with a square of ground once fenced and
cultivated, now overgrown and wild. Here the belt of forest embraced both Eaton
ground and the abbey’s woodland of Eyton, and the hermitage occupied a spot
where the Ludel border jutted into neighbour territory, close to the forester’s
cherished coppice. “He’ll be quiet enough there,” said Cadfael, “if he means to
stay. By what name are we to know him?” “They call him Cuthred. A neighbour saint
is a fine thing to have, and it seems they’re already beginning to bring their
troubles to him to sort. It may be,” ventured Brother Paul optimistically,
“that it’s he who has tamed the lady. He must have a strong influence over her,
or she’d never have entreated him to stay. And there’s been no move from her
these ten days. It may be we’re all in his debt.” And
indeed, as the soft October days slid away tranquilly one after another, in
dim, misty dawns, noondays bright but veiled, and moist green twilights
magically still, it seemed that there was to be no further combat over young
Richard, that Dame Dionisia had thought better of the threat of law, and
resigned herself to submission. She even sent, by her parish priest, a gift of
money to pay for Masses in the Lady Chapel for her son’s soul, a gesture which
could only be interpreted as a move towards reconciliation. So, at least,
Brother Francis, the new custodian of Saint Mary’s altar, considered it.
“Father Andrew tells me,” he reported after the visitor had departed, “that
since the Savigniac brothers from Buildwas brought this Cuthred into her house
she sets great store by his counsel, and rules herself by his advice and
example. The man has won a great report for holiness already. They say he’s
taken strict vows in the old way, and never leaves his cell and garden now. But
he never refuses help or prayers to any who ask. Father Andrew thinks very
highly of him. The anchorite way is not our way,” said Brother Francis with
great earnestness, “but it’s no bad thing to have such a holy man living so
close, on a neighbouring manor. It cannot but bring a blessing.” So thought all
the countryside, for the possession of so devout a hermit brought great lustre
to the manor of Eaton, and the one criticism that ever came to Cadfael’s ears
concerning Cuthred was that he was too modest, and at first deprecated, and
later forbade, the too lavish sounding of his praises abroad. No matter what
minor prodigy he brought about, averting by his prayers a threatened cattle
murrain, after one of Dionisia’s herd sickened, sending out his boy to give
warning of a coming storm, which by favour of his intercessions passed off
without damage, whatever the act of grace, he would not allow any of the merit
for it to be ascribed to him, and grew stern and awesomely angry if the attempt
was made, threatening the wrath of God on any who disobeyed his ban. Within a
month of his coming his discipline counted for more in the manor of Eaton than
did either Dionisia’s or Father Andrew’s, and his fame, banned from being
spread openly, went about by neighbourly whispers, like a prized secret to be
exulted in privately but hidden from the world. Chapter Three EILMUND, THE FORESTER OF EYTON, came now
and then to chapter at the abbey to report on work done, or on any difficulties
he might have encountered, and extra help he might need. It was not often he
had anything but placid progress to report, but in the second week of November
he came one morning with a puzzled frown fixed on his brow, and a glum face. It
seemed that a curious blight of misfortune had settled upon his woodland. Eilmund was a thickset, dark, shaggy man
past forty, very powerful of body, and sharp enough of mind. He stood squarely
in the midst at chapter, solidly braced on his sturdy legs like a wrestler
confronting his opponent, and made few words of what he had to tell. “My lord abbot, there are things happening
in my charge that I cannot fathom. A week ago, in that great rainstorm we had,
the brook that runs between our coppice and the open forest washed down some
loose bushes, and built up such a dam that it overflowed and changed its
course, and flooded my newest planting. And no sooner had I cleared the block than
I found the flood-water had undercut part of the bank of my ditch, a small way
upstream, and the fall of soil had bridged the ditch. By the time I found it
the deer had got into the coppice. They’ve eaten off all the young growth from
the plot we cropped two years ago. I doubt some of the trees may die, and all
will be held back a couple more years at least before they get their growth. It
spoils my planning,” complained Eilmund, outraged for the ruin of his cycle of
culling, “besides the present loss.” Cadfael knew the place, Eilmund’s pride,
the farmed part of Eyton forest, as neat and well-ditched a coppice as any in
the shire, where the regular cutting of six- or seven-year-old wood let in the
light at every cropping, so that the wealth of ground cover and wild flowers
was always rich and varied. Some trees, like ash, spring anew from the stool of
the original trunk, just below the cut. Some, like elm or aspen, from below the
ground all round the stump. Some of the stools in Eilmund’s care, several times
cropped afresh, had grown into groves of their own, their open centres two good
paces across. No grave natural disaster had ever before upset his pride in his
skills. No wonder he was so deeply aggrieved. And the loss to the abbey was
itself serious, for coppice wood for fuel, charcoal, hafts of tools, carpentry
and all manner of uses brought in good income. “Nor is that the end of it,” went on
Eilmund grimly, “for yesterday when I made my rounds on the other side of the
copse, where the ditch is dry but deep enough and the bank steep, what should
have happened but the sheep from Eaton had broke out of their field by a loose
pale, just where Eaton ground touches ours, and sheep, as you know, my lord,
make nothing of a bank that will keep out deer, and there’s nothing they like
better for grazing than the first tender seedlings of ash. They’ve made short
work of much of the new growth before I could get them out. And neither I nor
John of Longwood can tell how they got through so narrow a gap, but you know if
the matron ewe takes a notion into her head there’s no stopping her, and the
others will follow. It seems to me my forest is bewitched.” “Far more like,” suggested Prior Robert,
looking severely down his long nose, “that there has been plain human negligence,
either on your part or your neighbour’s.” “Father Prior,” said Eilmund, with the
bluntness of one who knows his value, and knows that it is equally well known
to the only superior he needs to satisfy here, “in all my years in the abbey’s
service there has never yet been complaint of my work. I have made my rounds
daily, yes, and often nightly, too, but I cannot command the rain not to fall,
nor can I be everywhere at once. Such a spate of misfortunes in so short a time
I’ve never before known. Nor can I blame John of Longwood, who has always been
as good a neighbour as any man needs.” “That is the truth,” said Abbot Radulfus
with authority. “We have had cause to be thankful for his good will, and do not
doubt it now. Nor do I question your skill and devotion. There has never been
need before, and I see none now. Reverses are sent to us so that we may
overcome them, and no man can presume to escape such testings for ever. The
loss can be borne. Do what you can, Master Eilmund, and if you should feel in need
of another helper, you shall have one.” Eilmund, who had always been equal to
his tasks and was proud of his self-sufficiency, said thanks for that somewhat
grudgingly, but declined the offer for the time being, and promised to send
word if anything further should happen to change his mind. And off he went as
briskly as he had come, back to his cottage in the forest, his daughter, and
his grievance against fate, since he could not honestly find a human agency to
blame. By some mysterious means young Richard got to know of the unusual
purport of Eilmund’s visit, and anything to do with his grandmother, and all
those people who had their labour and living about the manor of Eaton, was of
absorbing interest to him. However wise and watchful his guardian the abbot
might be, however competent his steward, it behoved him to keep an eye on his
estate for himself. If there was mischief afoot near Eaton, he itched to know
the reason, and he was far more likely than was the Abbot Radulfus to attribute
mischief, however incomprehensibly procured, to the perversity or malice of
humanity, having so often found himself arraigned as the half-innocent agent of
misrule. If the sheep of Eaton had made their way into the ash coppice of Eyton
not by some obscure act of God, but because someone had opened the way for them
and started them towards their welcome feast, then Richard wanted to know who,
and why. They were, after all, his sheep. Accordingly, he kept a sharp eye open for
any new comings and goings about the hour of chapter each morning, and was
curious when he observed, two days after Eilmund’s visit, the arrival at the
gatehouse of a young man he had seen but once before, who asked very civilly
for permission to appear at chapter with an embassage from his master, Cuthred.
He was early, and had to wait, which he did serenely. That suited Richard very
well, for he could not play truant from school, but by the time the chapter
ended he would be at liberty, and could ambush the visitor and satisfy his
curiosity. Every hermit worth his salt, having taken
vows of stability which enjoin him to remain thenceforth within his own cell
and closed garden, and having gifts of foresight and a sacred duty to use them
for his neighbours good, must have a resident boy to run his errands and
deliver his admonitions and reproofs. Cuthred’s boy, it seemed, had arrived
already in his service, accompanying him in his recent wanderings in search of
the place of retirement appointed for him by God. He came into the chapterhouse
of the abbey with demure assurance, and stood to be examined by all the curious
brothers, not at all discomposed by such an assault of bright, inquisitive
eyes. From the retired stall which he preferred,
Cadfael studied the messenger with interest. A more unlikely servitor for an
anchorite and popular saint, in the old Celtic sense that took no account of
canonisation, he could not well have imagined, though he could not have said on
the instant where the incongruity lay. A young fellow of about twenty years, in
a rough tunic and hose of brown cloth, patched and faded—nothing exceptional
there. He was built on the same light, wiry lines as Hugh Beringar, but stood a
hand’s breadth taller, and he was lean and brown and graceful as a fawn,
managing his long limbs with the same angular, animal beauty. Even his composed
stillness held implications of sudden, fierce movement, like a wild creature
motionless in ambush. His running would be swift and silent, his leaping long
and lofty as that of a hare. And his face had a similar slightly ominous
composure and awareness, under a thick, close-fitted cap of waving hair the
colour of copper beeches. A long oval of a face, tall-browed, with a long,
straight nose flared at the nostrils, again like a wild thing sensitive to
every scent the breeze brought him, a supple, crooked mouth that almost smiled
even in repose, as if in secret and slightly disturbing amusement, and long
amber eyes that tilted upwards at the outer corners, under oblique copper
brows. The burning glow of those eyes he shaded, but did not dim or conceal,
beneath round-arched lids and copper lashes long and rich as a woman’s. What was an antique saint doing with an
unnerving fairy thing in his employ? But the boy, having waited a long moment
to be inspected thoroughly, lifted his eyelids and showed to Abott Radulfus a
face of candid and childlike innocence, and made him a very charming and
respectful reverence. He would not speak until he was spoken to, but waited to
be questioned. “You come from the hermit of Eyton?” asked the abbot mildly,
studying the young, calm, almost smiling face attentively. “Yes, my lord. The holy Cuthred sends a
message by me.” His voice was quiet and clear, pitched a little high, so that
it rang bell-like under the vault. “What is your name?” Radulfus questioned. “Hyacinth, my lord.” “I have known a bishop of that name,” said
the abbot, and briefly smiled, for the sleek brown creature before him had
certainly nothing of the bishop about him. “Were you named for him?” “No, my lord. I have never heard of him. I
was told, once, that there was a youth of that name in an old story, and two
gods fell out over him, and the loser killed him. They say flowers grew from
his blood. It was a priest who told me,” said the boy innocently, and slanted a
sudden brief smile round the chapterhouse, well aware of the slight stir of
disquiet he had aroused in these cloistered breasts, though the abbot continued
unruffled. Into that old story, thought Cadfael, studying him with pleasure and
interest, you, my lad, fit far better than into the ambit of bishops, and well
you know it. Or hermits either, for that matter. Now where in the world did he
discover you, and how did he tame you? “May I speak my message?” asked the boy
ingenuously, golden eyes wide and clear and fixed upon the abbot. “You have learned it by heart?” enquired
Radulfus, smiling. “I must, my lord. There must be no word
out of place.” “A very faithful messenger! Yes, you may
speak.” “I must be my master’s voice, not my own,”
said the boy by way of introduction, and forthwith sank his voice several tones
below its normal ringing lightness, in a startling piece of mimicry that made
Cadfael, at least, look at him more warily and searchingly than ever. “I have
heard with much distress,” said the proxy hermit gravely, “both from the
steward of Eaton and the forester of Eyton, of the misfortunes suddenly
troubling the woodland. I have prayed and meditated, and greatly dread that
these are but the warnings of worse to come, unless some false balance or
jarring discord between right and wrong can be amended. I know of no such
offence hanging over us, unless it be the denial of right to Dame Dionisia
Ludel, in witholding her grandchild from her. The father’s wish must indeed be
regarded, but the grief of the widow for her young cannot be put away out of
mind, and she bereaved and alone. I pray you, my lord abbot, for the love of
God, consider whether what you do is well done, for I feel the shadow of evil
heavy over us all.” All this the surprising young man delivered
in the sombre and weighty voice which was not his own, and undeniably the trick
was impressive, and caused some of the more superstitious young brothers to
shift and gape and mutter in awed concern. And having ended his recital, the
messenger again raised his amber eyes and smiled, as if the purport of his
embassage concerned him not at all. Abbot Radulfus sat in silence for a long
moment, closely eyeing the young man, who gazed back at him unwinking and
serene, satisfied at having completed his errand. “Your master’s own words?” “Every one, my lord, just as he taught
them to me.” “And he did not commission you to argue
further in the matter on his behalf? You do not want to add anything?” The eyes opened still wider in
astonishment. “I, my lord? How could I? I only run his errands.” Prior Robert said superciliously into the
abbot’s ear: “It is not unknown for an anchorite to give shelter and employment
to a simpleton. It is an act of charity. This is clearly one such.” His voice
was low, but not low enough to escape ears as sharp, and almost as pointed, as
those of a fox, for the boy Hyacinth gleamed, and flashed a crooked smile.
Cadfael, who had also caught the drift of this comment, doubted very much
whether the abbot would agree with it. There seemed to him to be a very sharp
intelligence behind the brown faun’s face, even if it suited him to play the
fool with it. “Well,” said Radulfus, “you may go back to your master, Hyacinth,
and carry him my thanks for his concern and care, and for his prayers, which I
hope he will continue on behalf of us all. Say that I have considered and do
consider every side of Dame Dionisia’s complaint against me, and have done and
will continue to do what I see to be right. And for the natural misfortunes
that give him so much anxiety, mere men cannot control or command them, though
faith may overcome them. What we cannot change we must abide. That is all.”
Without another word the boy made him a deep and graceful obeisance, turned,
and walked without haste from the chapterhouse, lean and light-footed, and
moving with a cat’s almost insolent elegance. In the great court, almost empty at this
hour when all the brothers were at chapter, the visitor was in no hurry to set
out back to his master, but lingered to look about him curiously, from the
abbot’s lodging in its small rose garden to the guest halls and the infirmary,
and so round the circle of buildings to the gatehouse and the long expanse of
the south range of the cloister. Richard, who had been lying in wait for him
for some minutes, emerged confidently from the arched southern doorway, and
advanced into the stranger’s path. Since the intent was clearly to halt him,
Hyacinth obligingly halted, looking down with interest at the solemn, freckled
face that studied him just as ardently. “Good morrow, young sir!” he said
civilly. “And what might you want with me?” “I know who you are,” said Richard. “You
are the serving-man the hermit brought with him. I heard you say you came with
a message from him. Was it about me?” “That I might better answer,” said
Hyacinth reasonably, “if I knew who your lordship might be, and why my master
should be concerning himself with such small fry.” “I am not small fry,” said Richard with
dignity. “I am Richard Ludel, the lord of Eaton, and your master’s hermitage is
on my land. And you know very well who I am, for you were there among the
servants at my father’s funeral. And if you did bring some message that
concerns me, I think I have a right to know about it. That’s only fair.” And
Richard jutted his small, square chin and stood his ground with bare feet
spread apart, challenging justice with unblinking blue-green eyes. For a long moment Hyacinth returned his
gaze with a bright, speculative stare. Then he said in a brisk, matter-of-fact
tone, as man to man and quite without mockery: “That’s a true word, and I’m
with you, Richard. Now, where can we two talk at ease?” The middle of the great court was,
perhaps, a little too conspicuous for lengthy confidences, and Richard was
sufficiently taken with the unmistakably secular stranger to find him a
pleasing novelty among these monastic surroundings, and meant to get to know
all about him now that he had the opportunity. Moreover, very shortly chapter
would be ending, and it would not do to invite Prior Robert’s too close
attention in such circumstances, or court Brother Jerome’s busybody
interference. With hasty confidence he caught Hyacinth by the hand, and towed
him away up the court to the retired wicket that led through the enclave to the
mill. There on the grass above the pool they were private, with the wall at
their backs and the thick, springy turf under them, and the midday sun still
faintly warm on them through the diaphanous veil of haze. “Now!” said Richard,
getting down sternly to the matter in hand. “I need to have a friend who’ll
tell me truth, there are so many people ordering my life for me, and can’t
agree about it, and how can I take care of myself and be ready for them if
there’s no one to warn me what’s in their minds? If you’ll be on my side I
shall know how to deal. Will you?” Hyacinth leaned his back comfortably
against the abbey wall, stretched out before him shapely, sinewy legs, and
half-closed his sunlit eyes. “I tell you what, Richard, as you can best deal if
you know all that’s afoot, so can I be most helpful to you if I know the why
and wherefore of it. Now I know the end of this story thus far, and you know
the beginning. How if we put the two together, and see what’s to be made of
them?” Richard clapped his hands. “Agreed! So first
tell me what was the message you brought from Cuthred today!” Word for word as he had delivered it in
chapter, but without the mimicry, Hyacinth told him. “I knew it!” said the child, thumping a
small fist into the thick grass. “I knew it must be some way about me. So my
grandmother has cozened or persuaded even her holy man into arguing her cause
for her. I heard about these things that have been happening in the coppice,
but such things do happen now and then, who can prevent? You’ll need to warn your
master not to be over-persuaded, even if she has made herself his patroness.
Tell him the whole tale, for she won’t.” “So I will,” agreed Hyacinth heartily,
“when I know it myself.” “No one has told you why she wants me
home? Not a word from your master?” “Lad, I just run his errands, he doesn’t
confide in me.” And it seemed that the unquestioning servitor was in no hurry
about returning from this errand, for he settled his back more easily against
the mosses of the wall, and crossed his slim ankles. Richard wriggled a little
nearer, and Hyacinth shifted good-naturedly to accommodate the sharp young
bones that leaned into his side. “She wants to marry me off,” said Richard, “to
get hold of the manors either side of mine. And not even to a proper bride. Hikrude
is old . At least twenty-two.” “A venerable age,” agreed Hyacinth
gravely. “But even if she was young and pretty I
don’t want her. I don’t want any woman. I don’t like women. I don’t see any
need for them.” “You’re in the right place to escape them,
then,” suggested Hyacinth helpfully, and under his long copper lashes his amber
eyes flashed a gleam of laughter. “Become a novice, and be done with the world,
you’ll be safe enough here.” “No, that’s no sport, neither. Listen,
I’ll tell you all about it.” And the tale of his threatened marriage, and his
grandmother’s plans to enlarge her little palatine came tripping volubly from
his tongue. “So will you keep an eye open for me, and let me know what I must
be ware of? I need someone who’ll be honest with me, and not keep everything
from me, as if I were still a child.” “I will!” promised Hyacinth contentedly,
smiling. “I’ll be your lordship’s liege man in the camp at Eaton, and be eyes
and ears for you.” “And make plain my side of it to Cuthred?
I shouldn’t like him to think evil of Father Abbot; he’s only doing what my
father wanted for me. And you haven’t told me your name. I must have a name for
you.” “My name is Hyacinth. I’m told there was a
bishop so named, but I’m none. Your secrets are safer with a sinner than with a
saint, and I’m closer than the confessional, never fear me.” They had somehow become so content and
familiar with each other that only the timely reminder of Richard’s stomach,
nudging him that it was time for his dinner, finally roused them to separate.
Richard trotted beside his new friend along the path that skirted the enclave
wall as far as the Foregate, and there parted from him, and watched the light,
erect figure as it swung away along the highroad, before he turned and went
dancing gleefully back to the wicket in the enclave wall. Hyacinth covered the first miles of his
return journey at a springy, long-stepping lope, less out of any sense of haste
or duty than for pure pleasure in the ease of his own gait, and the power and
precision of his body. He crossed the river by the bridge at Attingham, waded
the watery meadows of its tributary the Tern, and turned south from Wroxeter
towards Eyton. When he came into the fringes of the forest land he slowed to a
loitering walk, reluctant to arrive when the way was so pleasant. He had to
cross abbey land to reach the hermitage which lay in the narrow, thrusting
finger of Ludel land probing into its neighbour woods. He went merrily
whistling along the track that skirted the brook, close round the northern rim
of Eilmund’s coppice. The bank that rose beyond, protecting the farmed
woodland, was high and steep, but well kept and well turfed, never before had
it subsided at any point, nor was the brook so large or rapid that it should
have undercut the seasoned slope. But so it had, the raw soil showed in a steep
dark scar well before he reached the place. He eyed it as he approached,
gnawing a thoughtful lip, and then as suddenly shrugged and laughed. “The more
mischief the more sport!” he said half-aloud, and passed on to where the bank
had been deeply undercut. He was still some yards back from the worst, when he
heard a muted cry that seemed to come from within the earth, and then an
indrawn howl of struggle and pain, and a volley of muffled curses. Startled but
quick in reaction, he broke into a leaping run, and pulled up as abruptly on
the edge of the ditch, no more than placidly filled now with the still muddied
stream, but visibly rising. On the other side of the water there had been a
fresh fall, and a solitary old willow, its roots partially stripped by the
first slip, had heeled over and fallen athwart the brook. Its branches heaved
and rustled with the struggles of someone pinned beneath, half in, half out of
the water. An arm groped for a hold through the leaves, heaving to shift the
incubus, and the effort fetched a great groan. Through the threshing leaves
Hyacinth caught a glimpse of Eilmund’s soiled and contorted face. “Hold still! he shouted. “I’m coming
down!” And down he went, thigh-deep, weaving
under the first boughs to get his back beneath their weight and try to lift
them enough for the imprisoned forester to drag himself clear. Eilmund,
groaning and gasping, doubled both fists grimly into the soil at his back and
hauled himself partially free of the bough that held him by the legs. The
effort cost him a half-swallowed scream of pain. “You’re hurt!” Hyacinth took
him under the armpits with both hands, arching his supple back strongly beneath
the thickest bough, and the tree rocked ponderously. “Now! Heave!” Eilmund braced himself yet again, Hyacinth
hauled with him, fresh slithers of soil rolled down on them both, but the
willow shifted and rolled over with a splash, and the forester lay in the raw
earth, gasping, his feet just washed by the rim of the brook. Hyacinth, muddy
and streaked with green, went on his knees beside him. “I’ll need to go for help, I can’t get you
from here alone. And you’ll not be going on your own two feet for a while. Can
you rest so, till I fetch John of Longwood’s men up from the fields? We’ll need
more than one, and a hurdle or a shutter to carry you. Is there worse than I
can see?” But what he could see was enough, and his brown face was shaken and
appalled under the mud stains. “My leg’s broke.” Eilmund let his great
shoulders sink cautiously back into the soft earth, and drew long, deep
breaths. “Main lucky for me you came this way, I was pinned fast, and the
brook’s building again. I was trying to shore up the bank. Lad,” he said, and
grinned ruefully round a groan, “there’s more strength in those shoulders of
yours than anyone would think to look at you.” “Can you bide like that for a little
while?” Hyacinth looked up anxiously at the bank above, but only small clods
shifted and slid harmlessly, and the rim of impacted turf, herbage and roots at
the top looked secure enough. I’ll run. I’ll not be long.” And run he did, fast and straight for the
Eaton fields, and hailed the first Eaton men he sighted. They came in haste,
with a hurdle borrowed from the sheep fold, and between them with care and with
some suppressed and understandable cursing from the victim, lifted Eilmund on
to it, and bore him the half-mile to his forest cottage. Mindful that the man
had a daughter at home, Hyacinth took it upon himself to run on before to give
her warning and reassurance, and time to prepare the injured man’s couch. The cottage lay in a cleared assart in the
forest, with a neat garden about it, and when Hyacinth reached it the door was
standing open, and within the house a girl was singing softly to herself as she
worked. Strangely, having run his fastest to get to her, Hyacinth seemed almost
reluctant to knock at the door, or enter without knocking, and while he was
hesitating on the doorstone her singing ceased, and she came out to see whose
fleet footsteps had stirred the small stones of the pathway. She was small but sturdy, and very trimly
made, with a straight blue gaze, the fresh colouring of a wild rose, and
smoothly-braided hair of a light brown sheen like the grain of polished oak,
and she looked him over with a candid curiosity and friendliness that for once
silenced his ready silver tongue. It was she who had to speak first, for all
the urgency of his errand. “You’re looking for my father? He’s away to the coppice,
you’ll find him where the bank slid.” And the blue eyes quickened with interest
and approval, liking what they saw. “You’re the boy who came with the old
dame’s hermit, aren’t you? I saw you working in his garden.” Hyacinth owned to it, and recalled with a
lurch of the heart what he had to tell. “I am, mistress, and my name’s
Hyacinth. Your father’s on his way back to you now, sorry I am to say it, after
a mishap that will keep him to the house for a while, I fear. I came to let you
know before they bring him. Oh, never fret, he’s live and sound, he’ll be his
own man again, give him time. But his leg’s broken. There was another slip, it
brought down a tree on him in the ditch. He’ll mend, though, no question.” The quick alarm and blanching of her face
had brought no outcry. She took in what he said, shook herself abruptly, and
went to work at once setting wide the inner and the outer doors to open the way
for the hurdle and its burden, and making ready the couch on which to lay him,
and from that to setting on a pot of water at the fire. And as she went she
talked to Hyacinth over her shoulder, very practically and calmly. “Not the first time he’s come by injuries,
but never a broken leg before. A tree came down, you say? That old willow. I
knew it leaned, but I never thought it could fall. It was you found him? And
fetched help for him?” The blue eyes looked round and smiled on him. “Some of the Eaton men were close,
clearing a drainage ditch. They’re carrying him in.” They were approaching the
door by then, coming as fast as they could. She went out to meet them, with
Hyacinth at her elbow. It seemed that he had something more, something
different to say to her, and for the moment had lost his opportunity, for he
hovered silently but purposefully on the edge of the scurry of activity, as
Eilmund was carried into the house and laid on the couch, and stripped of his
wet boots and hose, very carefully but to a muffled accompaniment of groans and
curses. His left leg was misshapen below the knee, but not so grossly that the
bone had torn through the flesh. “Above an hour lying there in the brook,” he
got out, between gritting his teeth on the pain as they handled him, “and if it
hadn’t been for this young fellow I should have been there yet, for I couldn’t
shift the weight, and there was no one within call. God’s truth, there’s more
muscle in the lad than you’d believe. You should have seen him heft that tree
off me.” Very strangely, Hyacinth’s spare, smooth cheeks flushed red beneath
their dark gold sheen. It was a face certainly not given to blushing, but it
had not lost the ability. He said with some constraint: “Is there anything more
I could be doing for you? I would, gladly! You’ll be needing a skilled hand to
set that bone. I’m no use there, but make use of me if you need an errand run.
That’s my calling, that I can do.” The girl turned for an instant from the
bed, her blue eyes wide and shining on his face. “Why, so you can, if you’ll be
so good and add to our debt. Will you send to the abbey, and ask for Brother
Cadfael to come?” “I will well!” said Hyacinth, as heartily
as if she had made him a most acceptable gift. But as she turned back from him
he hesitated, and caught her by the sleeve for an instant, and breathed into
her ear urgently: “I must talk to you—alone, later, when he’s cared for and
resting easy.” And before she could say yes or no, though her eyes certainly
were not refusing him, he was off and away through the trees, on the long run
back to Shrewsbury. Chapter Four HUGH CAME LOOKING for Brother Cadfael in
mid-afternoon, with the first glimmers of news that had found their way out of
Oxford since the siege began. “Robert of Gloucester is back in England,” he
said. “I have it from an armourer who took thought in time to get out of the
city. A few were lucky and took warning. He says Robert has landed at Wareham
in spite of the king’s garrison, brought in all his ships safely and taken the
town. Not the castle, though, not yet, but he’s settled down to siege. He got
precious little out of Geoffrey, maybe a handful of knights, no more.” “If he’s safe ashore and holds the town,”
said Cadfael reasonably, “what does he want with the castle? I should have
thought he’d be hotfoot for Oxford to hale his sister out of the trap.” “He’d rather lure Stephen to come to him,
and draw him off from his own siege. My man says the castle at Wareham’s none
too well garrisoned, and they’ve come to a truce agreement, and sent to the
king to relieve them by a fixed date, a know-all, but truly well informed,
though even he doesn’t know the day appointed—or if he fails them they’ll
surrender. That suits Robert. He knows it’s seldom any great feat to lure
Stephen off a scent, but I fancy he’ll hold fast this time. When will he get
such a chance again? Even he can’t throw it away, surely.” “There’s no end to the follies any man can
commit,” said Cadfael tolerantly. “To give him his due, most of his idiocies
are generous, which is more than can be said for the lady. But I could wish
this siege at Oxford might be the end of it. If he does take castle and empress
and all, she’ll be safe enough of life and limb with him, it’s rather he who
may be in danger. What else is new from the south?” “There’s a tale he tells of a horse found
straying not far from the city, in the woods close to the road to Wallingford.
Some time ago, this was, about the time all roads out of Oxford were closed,
and the town on fire. A horse dragging a blood-stained saddle, and saddlebags
slit open and emptied. A groom who’d slipped out of the town before the ring
closed recognised horse and harness as belonging to one Renaud Bourchier, a
knight in the empress’s service, and close in her confidence, too. My man says
it’s known she sent him out of the garrison to try and break through the king’s
lines and carry a message to Wallingford for her.” Cadfael ceased to ply the hoe he was
drawing leisurely between his herb beds, and turned his whole attention upon
his friend. “To Brian FitzCount, you mean?” The lord of Wallingford was the
empress’s most faithful adherent arid companion, next only to the earl, her
brother, and had held his castle for her, the most easterly and exposed outpost
of her territory, through campaign after campaign and through good fortune and
bad, indomitably loyal. “How comes it he’s not with her in Oxford? He hardly
ever leaves her side, or so they say.” “The king moved so much faster than anyone
thought for. And now he’s cut off from her. Moreover, she needs him in
Wallingford, for if that’s ever lost she has nothing left but an isolated
holding in the west country, and no way out towards London. She may well have
sent out to him at the last moment, in so desperate a situation as she’s in
now. And rumour down there says, it seems, that Bouchier was carrying treasure
to him, less in coin than in jewels. It may well be so, for he needs to pay his
men. Loyal for love though they may be, they still have to live and eat, and
he’s beggared himself already in her service.” “There’s been talk, this autumn,” said
Cadfael, thoughtfully frowning, “that Bishop Henry of Winchester has been busy
trying to lure away Brian to the king’s side. Bishop Henry has money enough to
buy whoever’s for sale, but I doubt if even he could bid high enough to move
FitzCount. All this time the man has shown as incorruptible. She had no need to
try and outbid her enemies for Brian.” “None. But she may well have thought, when
the king’s host closed round her, to send him an earnest of the value she sets
on him, while the way was still open, or might at least be attempted by a
single brave man. At such a pass, it may even have seemed to her the last
chance for such a word ever to pass between them.” Cadfael thought on that, and acknowledged
its truth. King Stephen would never be a threat to his cousin’s life, however
bitter their rivalry had been, but if once she was made captive he would be
forced to hold her in close ward for his crown’s sake. Nor was she likely ever
to relinquish her claim, even in prison, and agree to terms that would lightly
release her. Friends and allies thus parted might, in very truth, never see
each other again. “And a single brave man did attempt it,” reflected Cadfael
soberly. “And his horse found straying, his harness awry, his saddlebags
emptied, and blood on saddle and saddlecloth. So where is Renaud Bourchier?
Murdered for what he carried, and buried somewhere in the woods or slung into
the river?” “What else can a man think? They have not
found his body yet. Round Oxford men have other things to do this autumn
besides scour the woods for a dead man. There are dead men enough to bury after
the looting and burning of Oxford town,” said Hugh with dry bitterness, almost
resigned to the random slaughters of this capricious civil war. “I wonder how many within the castle knew
of his errand? She would hardly blazon abroad her intent, but someone surely
got wind of it.” “So it seems, and made very ill use of
what he knew.” Hugh shook himself, heaving off from his shoulders the distant
evils that were out of his writ. “Thanks be to God, I am not sheriff of
Oxfordshire! Our troubles here are mild enough, a little family bickering that
leads to blows now and then, a bit of thieving, the customary poaching in
season. Oh, and of course the bewitchment that seems to have fallen on your
woodland of Eyton.” Cadfael had told him what the abbot, perhaps, had not
thought important enough to tell, that Dionisia had somehow coaxed her hermit
into her quarrel, and that good man had surely taken very seriously her
impersonation of a grieving grandam cruelly deprived of the society of her only
grandhild. “And he fears worse to come, does he? I wonder what the next news
from Eyton will be?” As it so happened the next news from Eyton
was just hurrying towards them round the corner of the tall box hedge, borne by
a novice despatched in haste by Prior Robert from the gatehouse. He came at a
run, the skirts of his habit billowing, and pulled up with just enough breath
to get out his message without waiting to be asked. “Brother Cadfael, you’re wanted urgently.
The hermit’s boy’s come back to say you’re needed at Eilmund’s assart, and
Father Abbot says take a horse and go quickly, and bring him back word how the
forester does. There’s been another landslip, and a tree came down on him. His
leg’s broken.” They offered Hyacinth rest and a good meal for his trouble, but
he would not stay. As long as he could hold the pace he clung by Cadfael’s
stirrup leather and ran with him, and even when he was forced to slacken and
let Cadfael ride on before at his best speed, the youth trotted doggedly and
steadily behind, bent on getting back to the woodland cottage, it seemed,
rather than to his master’s cell. He had been a good friend to Eilmund, Cadfael
reflected, but he might come in for a lashing with tongue or rod when he at
last returned to his sworn duty. Though Cadfael could not, on consideration,
picture that wild, unchancy creature submitting tamely to reproof, much less to
punishment. It was about the hour for Vespers when Cadfael dismounted within
the low pale of Eilmund’s garden, and the girl flung open the door and came out
eagerly to meet him. “Brother, I hardly expected you for a
while yet. Cuthred’s boy must have run like the wind, and all that way! And
after he’d soaked himself in the brook getting my father clear! We’ve had good
cause to be glad of him and his master this day, there might have been no one
else by for hours.” “How is he?” asked Cadfael, unslinging his
scrip and making for the house. “His leg’s broken below the knee. I’ve made him
lie still, and packed it round as well as I could, but it needs your hand to
set it. And he lay half in the brook a long time before the young man found
him, I fear he’s taken a chill.” Eilmund lay well covered, and by now grimly
reconciled to his helplessness. He submitted stoically to Cadfael’s handling,
and gritted his teeth and made no other sound as his leg was straightened and
the fractured ends of bone brought into line. “You might have come off worse,” said
Cadfael, relieved. “A good clean break, and small damage to the flesh, though
it’s a pity they had to move you.” “I might have drowned else,” growled
Eilmund, “the brook was building. And you’d best tell the lord abbot to get men
out here and shift the tree, before we have a lake there again.” “I will, I will! Now, hold fast! I don’t
want to leave you with one leg shorter than the other.” By heel and instep he
drew out the broken leg steadily to match its fellow. “Now, Annet, your hands
where mine are, and hold it so.” She had not wasted her time while waiting, but
had hunted out straight spars of wood from Eilmund’s store, and had ready
sheep’s wool for padding, and rolled linen for bindings. Between them they
completed the work neatly, and Eilmund lay back on his brychan and heaved a
great breath. His face, weatherbeaten always, nonetheless had a fierce flush
over the cheekbones. Cadfael was not quite easy about it. “Now if you can rest and sleep, so much
the better. Leave the lord abbot, and the tree, and everything else that needs
to be dealt with here, to me, I’ll see it cared for. I’ll make you a draught
that will ease the pain and help you to sleep.” He mixed it and administered it
to Eilmund’s scornful denial of the need, but it went down without protest
nonetheless. “And sleep he will,” said Cadfael to the girl, as they withdrew
into the outer room. “But make sure he keeps warm and covered through the
night, for there may be a slight fever if he’s taken cold. I’ll make certain I
get leave to go back and forth for a day or two, till I see all’s well. If he
gives you a hard time, bear with him, it will mean he’s taken no great harm.”
She laughed softly, undisturbed. “Oh, he’s mild as milk for me. He growls, but
never bites. I know how to manage him.” It was already beginning to be twilight
when she opened the house door. The sky above was still faintly golden with the
moist, mysterious afterglow, dripping light between the dark branches of the
trees that surrounded the garden. And there in the turf by the gate Hyacinth
was sitting motionless, waiting with the timeless patience of the tree against
which his straight, supple back was braced. Even so his stillness had the
suggestion of a wild thing in ambush. Or perhaps, thought Cadfael, changing his
mind, of a hunted wild thing trusting to silence and stillness to be invisible
to the hunter. As soon as he saw the door open he was on his feet in a single
lissome movement, though he did not come within the pale. Twilight or no, Cadfael saw the glance
that locked and held fast between the youth and the girl. Hyacinth’s face was
still and mute as bronze, but a gleam of the fading light caught the amber
brilliance of his eyes, fierce and secret as a cat’s, and a sudden quickening
and darkening in their depths that was reflected in the flush and brightness in
Annet’s startled countenance. It was no great surprise. The girl was pretty,
and the boy undoubtedly attractive, all the more because he had been of
invaluable service to her father. And it was natural and human, that that
circumstance should endear father and daughter to him, no less than him to
them. Nothing is more pleasing and engaging than the sense of having conferred
benefits. Not even the gratification of receiving them. I’ll be on my way,
then,” said Cadfael to the unregarding air, and mounted softly, not to break
the spell that held them still. But from the shelter of the trees he looked
back, and saw them standing just as he had left them, and heard the boy’s voice
clear and solemn in the silence of the dusk, saying: “I must speak to you!” Annet did not say anything, but she closed
the house door softly behind her, and came forward to meet him at the gate. And
Cadfael rode back through the woods mildly aware that he was smiling, though he
could not be sure, on more sober reflection, that there was anything to smile
about in so unlikely an encounter. For what common ground could there be, for
those two to meet on, and hold fast for more than a moment: the abbey
forester’s daughter, a good match for any lively and promising young man this
side the shire, and a beggarly, rootless stranger dependent on charitable
patronage, with no land, no craft and no kin? He went to tend and stable his
horse before he sought out Abbot Radulfus to tell him how things stood in Eyton
forest. There was a late stir within there, of new guests arrived, and their
mounts being accommodated and cared for. Of late there had been little movement
about the county; the business of the summer, when so many merchants and
tradesmen were constantly on the move, had dwindled gently away into the autumn
quiet. Later, as the Christmas feast drew near, the guest halls would again be
full with travellers hastening home, and kinsmen visiting kinsmen, but at this
easy stage between, there was time to note those who came, and feel the human
curiosity that is felt by those who have sworn stability about those who ebb
and flow with the tides and seasons. And here just issuing from the stables and
crossing the yard in long, lunging strides, the gait of a confident and
choleric man, was someone undoubtedly of consequence in his own domain, richly
dressed, elegantly booted, and wearing sword and dagger. He surged past Cadfael
in the gateway, a big, burly, thrusting man, his face abruptly lit as he swung
past the torch fixed at the gate, and then as abruptly darkened. A massive face,
fleshy and yet hard, muscled like a wrestler’s arms, handsome in a brutal
fashion, the face of a man not in anger at this moment, but always ready to be
angry. He was shaven clean, which made the smooth power of his features even
more daunting, and the eyes that stared imperiously straight before him looked
disproportionately small, though in reality they probably were not, because of
the massy flesh in which they were but shallowly set. By the look of him, not a
man to cross. He might have been fifty years old, give or take a few years, but
time certainly had not softened what must have been granite from the start. His horse was standing in the stable yard
outside an open stall, stripped and gently steaming as if his saddlecloth had
only just been removed, and a groom was rubbing him down and hissing to him
gently as he worked. A meagre but wiry fellow, turning grey, in faded homespun
of a dull brown, and a rubbed leather coat. He slid one sidelong glance at
Cadfael and nodded a silent greeting, so inured to being wary of all men that
even a Benedictine brother was to be avoided rather than welcomed. Cadfael gave him good-evening cheerfully,
and began his own unsaddling. “You’ve ridden far? Was that your lord I met at
the gate?” “It was,” said the man without looking up,
and spared no more words. “A stranger to me. Where are you from?
Guests are thin this time of year.” “From Bosiet, it’s a manor the far side of
Northampton, some miles south-east of the town. He is Bosiet–Drogo Bosiet. He
holds that and a fair bit of the county besides.” “He’s well away from his home ground,”
said Cadfael with interest. “Where’s he bound? We see very few travellers from
Northamptonshire in these parts.” The groom straightened up to take a longer
and narrower look at this inquisitive questioner, and visibly his manner eased
a little, finding Cadfael amiable and harmless. But he did not on that account
grow less morose, nor more voluble. “He’s hunting,” he said with a grim and
private smile. “But not for deer,” hazarded Cadfael,
returning the inspection and caught by the wryness of the smile. “Nor, I dare
say, for the beasts of the warren.” “You dare say well. It’s a man he’s
after.” “A runaway?” Cadfael found it hard to
believe. “So far from home? Was a runaway villein worth so much time and
expense to him?” “This one is. He’s valuable and skilled,
but that’s not the whole of it,” confided the groom, discarding his suspicion
and reticence. “He has a score to settle with this one. One report we got of
him, setting out westwards and north, and he’s combed every village and town
along all this way, dragging me one road while his son with another groom goes
another, and he won’t stop short of the Welsh border. Me? If I did clap eyes on
the lad he’s after, I’d be blind. I wouldn’t give him back a dog that ran from
him, let alone a man.” His dry voice had gathered sap and passion as he talked,
and he turned fully for the first time, so that the torchlight fell on his
face. One cheek was marked with a blackening bruise, the corner of his mouth
torn and swollen, with the look of a festering infection about it. “His mark?” asked Cadfael, eyeing the
wound. “His seal, sure enough, and done with a
seal ring. I was not quick enough at his stirrup when he mounted, yesterday
morning.” “I can dress that for you,” said Cadfael,
“if you’ll wait while I go and make report to my abbot about another matter.
You’d best let me, it could take bad ways. By the same token,” he said quietly,
“you’re far enough out of his country, and near enough to the border, to do
some running of your own, if you’re so minded.” “Brother,” said the groom with the
briefest and harshest of laughs, “I have a wife and children in Bosiet, I’m
manacled. But Brand was young and unwed, his heels are lighter than mine. And
I’d best get this beast stalled, and be off to wait on my lord, or he’ll be
laying the other cheek open for me.” “Then come out to the guest hall steps,”
said Cadfael, recalled as sharply to his own duty, “when he’s in bed and
snoring, and I’ll clean that sore for you.” Abbot Radulfus listened with concern, but
also with relief, to Cadfael’s report, promised to send at first light enough
helpers to clear away the willow tree, clean out the brook and shore up the
bank above, and nodded gravely at the suggestion that Eilmund’s long wait in
the water might complicate his recovery, even though the fracture itself was
simple and clean. “I should like,” said Cadfael, “to visit him again tomorrow
and make sure he stays in his bed, for there may be a degree of fever, and you know
him, Father, it will take more than his daughter’s scolding to keep him tamed.
If he has your orders he may take heed. I’ll take his measure for crutches, but
not let them near him till I’m sure he’s fit to rise.” “You have my leave to go and come as you
see fit,” said Radulfus, “for as long as he needs your care. Best keep that
horse for your use until then. The journey would be too slow on foot, and we
shall need you here some part of the day, Brother Winfrid being new to the
discipline.” Cadfael smiled, remembering. “It was no
slow journey the young man Hyacinth made of it. Four times today he’s run those
miles, back and forth on his master’s errand, and back and forth again for
Eilmund. I only hope the hermit did not take it ill that his boy was gone so
long.” It was in Cadfael’s mind that the groom
from Bosiet might be too much in fear of his master to venture out by night,
even when his lord was sleeping. But come he did, slipping out furtively just
as the brothers came out from Compline. Cadfael led him out through the gardens
to the workshop in the herbarium, and there kindled a lamp to examine the
lacerated wound that marred the man’s face. The little brazier was turfed down
for the night, but not extinguished, evidently Brother Winfrid had been careful
to keep it alive in case of need. He was learning steadily, and strangely the
delicacy of touch that eluded him with pen or brush showed signs of developing
now that he came to deal with herbs and medicines. Cadfael uncovered the fire
and blew it into a glow, and put on water to heat. “He’s safe asleep, is he, your lord? Not
likely to wake? Though if he did, he should have no need of you at this hour.
But I’ll be as quick as I may.” The groom sat docile and easy under the
ministering hands, turning his face obediently to the light of the lamp. The
bruised cheek was fading at the edges from black to yellow, but the tear at the
corner of his mouth oozed blood and pus. Cadfael bathed away the encrusted
exudations and cleaned the gash with a lotion of water betony and sanicle. “He’s free with his fists, your lord,” he
said ruefully. “I see two blows here.” “He seldom stops at one,” said the groom
grimly. “He does after his kind. There are some worse than him, God help all
those who serve them. His son’s another made to the same pattern. What else
could we look for, when he’s lived so from birth? In a day or so he’s to join
us here, and if he has not got his hands on Brand by then—God forbid!—the hunt
will go on.” “Well, at least if you stay a day or so I
can get this gash healed for you. What’s your name, friend?” “Warin. Yours I know, Brother, from the
hospitaller. That feels cool and kind.” “I should have thought,” said Cadfael,
“that your lord would have gone first to the sheriff, if he had a real complaint
against this runaway of his. The guildsmen of the town would likely keep their
mouths shut, even if they knew anything, a town stands to gain by taking in a
good craftsman. But the king’s officers are bound, willing or no, to help a man
to his own property.” “We got here too late, as you saw, to do
much in that kind until the morrow. He knows, none so well, that Shrewsbury is
a charter borough, and may cheat him of his prey if the lad has got this far.
He does intend going to the sheriff. But since he’s lodged here, and reckons
the church as well as the law ought to help him to his own, he’s asked to put
his case at chapter tomorrow, and after that he’ll be off into the town to seek
out the sheriff. There’s no stone he won’t up-end to get at Brand’s hide.” Cadfael was thinking, though he did not
say it, that there might be time in between to send word to Hugh to make
himself very hard to find. “What in the world,” he asked, “has the man done, to
make your master so vindictive against him?” “Why, he was for ever on the edge of
trouble, being a lad that would stand up for himself, yes, and for others, too,
and that’s crime enough for Drogo. I don’t know the rights of what happened
that last day, but however it was, I saw Bosiet’s steward, who takes his style
from his master, carried into the manor on a shutter, and he was laid up for
days. Seemingly something had happened between them, and Brand had laid him
flat, for the next we knew, Brand was nowhere, and they were hunting him along
all the roads out of Northampton. But they never caught up with him, and here
we are still hot on his trail. If ever Drogo lays hands on him he’ll flay him,
but he won’t cripple him, he’s too valuable to waste. But he’ll have every
morsel of his grudge out of the lad’s skin, and then wring every penny of
profit out of his skills lifelong, and make good sure he never gets the chance
to run again.” “Then he had better make a good job of it
now,” agreed Cadfael wryly. “If well-wishing can help him, he has it. Now hold
still a moment there! And this ointment you can take with you and use as often
as you choose. It helps take out the sting and lower the swelling.” Warin turned the little jar curiously in
his hand, and touched a finger to his cheek. “What’s in it, to work such
healing?” “Saint John’s wort and the small daisy,
both good for wounds. And if chance offers tomorrow, let me see you again and
hear how you do. And keep out of his reach!” said Cadfael warmly, and turned to
bed down his brazier again with fresh turves, to smoulder quietly and safely
until morning. Drogo Bosiet duly appeared at chapter next
morning, large, loud and authoritative in an assembly where a wiser man would
have realised that authority lay with the abbot, and the abbot’s grip on it was
absolute, however calm and measured his voice and austere his face. So much the
better, thought Cadfael, watching narrowly and somewhat anxiously from his
retired stall, Radulfus will know how to weigh the man, and let nothing slip
too soon. “My lord abbot,” said Drogo, straddling the flags of the floor like a
bull before the charge, “I am here in search of a malefactor who attacked and
injured my steward and fled my lands. He is known to have made for Northampton,
my manor, to which he is tied, being several miles south-east of the town, and
I have it in mind that he would make for the Welsh border. We have hunted for
him all this way, and from Warwick I have taken this road from Shrewsbury,
while my son goes on to Stafford, and will join me here from that place. All I
ask here is whether any stranger of his years has lately come into these
parts.” “I take it,” said the abbot after a long
and thoughtful pause, and steadily eyeing the powerful face and arrogant stance
of his visitor, “that this man is your villein.” “He is.” “And you do know,” pursued Radulfus
mildly, “that since it would seem you have failed to reclaim him within four
days, it will be necessary to apply to the courts to regain possession of him
legally?” “My lord,” said Drogo with impatient
scorn, “so I can well do, if I can but find him. The man is mine, and I mean to
have him. He has been a cause of trouble to me, but he has skills which are
valuable, and I do not mean to be robbed of what is mine. The law will give me
my rights in the lands where the offence arose.” And so, no doubt, such a law
as survived in his own shire would certainly do, at the mere nod of his head. “If you will tell us what your fugitive is
like,” said the abbot reasonably, “Brother Denis can tell you at once whether
we have had such a one as guest in our halls.” “He goes by the name of Brand—twenty years
old, dark of hair but reddish, lean and strong, beardless—” “No,” said Brother Denis the hospitaller
without hesitation, “I have had no such young man lodged here, not for five or
six weeks back certainly. If he had found work along the way with some trader
or merchant carrying goods, such as come with three or four servants, then he
might have passed this way. But a young man alone—no, none.” “As to that,” said the abbot with
authority, forestalling reply from any other, though indeed no one but Prior
Robert would have ventured to speak before him, “you would do well to take your
question to the sheriff at the castle, for his officers are far more likely
than we here within the enclave to know of any newcomers entering the town. The
pursuit of criminals and offenders such as you describe is their business, and
they are thorough and careful about it. The guildsmen of the town are also wary
and jealous of their rights, and have good reason to keep their eyes open, and
their wits about them. I recommend you to apply to them.” “So I intend, my lord. But you will bear
in mind what I have asked, and if any here should recall anything to the
purpose, let me hear of it.” “This house will do whatever is incumbent
upon it in good conscience,” said the abbot with chilly emphasis, and watched
with an unrevealing face as Drogo Bosiet, with only the curtest of nods by way
of leavetaking, turned on his booted heel and strode out of the chapterhouse.
Nor did Radulfus see fit to make any comment or signify any conclusion when the
petitioner was gone, as if he felt no need to give any further instruction than
he had given by the tone of his replies. And by the time they emerged from
chapter, some time later, both Drogo and his groom had saddled and ridden
forth, no doubt over the bridge and into the town, to seek out Hugh Beringar at
the castle. Brother Cadfael had intended to pay a quick visit to the herbarium
and his workshop, to see all was in order there and set Brother Winfrid to work
on what was safest and most suitable for his unsupervised attentions, and then
set off at once for Eilmund’s cottage, but events prevented. For there was a
death that day among the old, retired brothers in the infirmary, and Brother
Edmund, in need of a companion to watch out the time with him after the tired
old man had whispered the few almost inaudible words of his last confession and
received the final rites, turned first and confidently to his closest friend
and associate among the sick. They had done the same service together many
times in forty years of a vocation imposed from birth in Edmund’s case, though
willingly embraced later, but chosen after half a lifetime in the outer world
by Cadfael. They stood at the opposite poles of oblatus and conversus, and they
understood each other so well that few words ever needed to pass between them.
The old man’s dying was painless and feather-light, all the substance of his
once sharp and vigorous mind gone on before; but it was slow. The fading candle
flame did not flicker, only dimmed in perfect stillness second by second, so
mysteriously that they missed the moment when the last spark withdrew, and only
knew he was gone when they began to realise that the prints of age were smoothing
themselves out gently from his face. “So pass all good men!” said Edmund
fervently. “A blessed death as ever I saw! I wonder will God deal as gently
with me, when my time comes!” They cared for the dead man together, and
together emerged into the great court to arrange for his body to be carried to
the mortuary chapel. And then there was a small matter of Brother Paul’s
youngest schoolboy, who had missed his footing in haste on the day stairs and
rolled down half the flight, bloodying his knees on the cobbles of the court,
and had to be picked up and bathed and bandaged, and despatched to his play
with an apple by way of reward for his bravery in denying stoutly that he was
hurt. Only then could Cadfael repair to the stable and saddle the horse assigned
to him, and by then it was almost time for Vespers. He was leading his horse across the court
to the gatehouse when Drogo Bosiet rode in under the archway, his finery a
little jaded and dusty from a day’s frustration and exertion, his face blackly
set, and the groom Warin a few yards behind him, warily attentive, alert to
obey the least gesture, but anxious meantime to stay out of sight and out of
mind. Clearly the hunt had drawn no quarry anywhere, and the hunters came back
with the approach of evening empty-handed. Warin would have to stand clear of
the length of that powerful arm tonight. Cadfael went forth through the gate
reassured and content, and made good speed towards his patient at Eyton. Chapter Five RICHARD HAD BEEN OUT ALL AFTERNOON with
the other boys in the main abbey gardens beside the river, where the last pears
were just being harvested. The children were allowed to help, and within reason
to sample, though the fruit had still to ripen after gathering. But these, the
last, had hung so long on the tree that they were already eatable. It had been
a good day, with sun, and freedom, and some dabbling in the river where there
were safe shallows, and he was reluctant to go indoors to Vespers at the end of
it, and then to supper and bed. He loitered at the end of the procession
winding its way along the riverside path, and up the green, bushy slope to the
Foregate. In the stillness of late afternoon there were still clouds of midges
dancing over the water, and fish rising to them lazily. Under the bridge the
flow looked almost motionless though he knew it was fast and deep. There had
been a boatmill moored there once, powered by the stream. Nine-year-old Edwin, his devoted ally,
loitered with him, but a little anxiously, casting a glance over his shoulder
to see how the distance between them and the tailend of the procession
lengthened. He had been praised for his stoicism after his fall, and was in no
mind to lose the warm sense of virtue the incident had left with him by being
late for Vespers. But neither could he lightly desert his bosom friend. He
hovered, rubbing at a bandaged knee that still smarted a little. “Richard, come on, we mustn’t dawdle.
Look, they’re nearly at the highroad.” “We can easily catch up with them,” said
Richard, dabbling his toes in the shallows. “But you go on, if you want to.” “No, not without you. But I can’t run as
fast as you, my knee’s stiff. Do come on, we shall be late.” “I shan’t, I can be there long before the
bell goes, but I forgot you couldn’t run as well as usual. You go on, I’ll
overtake you before you reach the gatehouse. I just want to see whose boat this
is, coming down towards the bridge.” Edwin hesitated, weighing his own virtuous
peace of mind against desertion, and for once decided in accordance with his
own wishes. The last black habit at the end of the procession was just climbing
to the level of the highroad, to vanish from sight. No one had looked back to
call the loiterers, or scold, they were left to their own consciences. Edwin
turned and ran after his fellows as fast as he could for his stiffening knee.
From the top of the slope he looked back, but Richard was ankle-deep in his
tiny cove, skimming stones expertly across the surface of the water in a dotted
line of silvery spray. Edwin decided on virtue, and abandoned him. It had never been in Richard’s mind to
play truant, but his game seduced him as each cast bettered the previous one,
and he began to hunt for smoother and flatter pebbles under the bank, ambitious
to reach the opposite shore. And then one of the town boys who had been
swimming under the green sweep of turf that climbed to the town wall took up
the challenge, and began to return the shower of dancing stones, splashing
naked in the shallows. So absorbed was Richard in the contest that he forgot
all about Vespers, and only the small, distant chime of the bell startled him
back to his duty. Then he did drop his stone, abandon the field to his rival,
and scramble hastily ashore to snatch up his discarded shoes and run like a
hart for the Foregate and the abbey. He had left it too late. The moment he
arrived breathless at the gatehouse, and sidled in cautiously by the wicket to
avoid notice, he heard the chanting of the first psalm from within the church. Well, it was not so great a sin to miss a
service, but for all that, he did not wish to add it to his score at this time,
when he was preoccupied with grave family matters outside the cloister. By good
fortune the children of the stewards and the lay servants were also accustomed
to attend Vespers, which so conveniently augmented the numbers of the
schoolboys that one small truant might not be missed, and if he could slip back
into their enveloping ranks as they left the church afterwards it might be
assumed that he had been among them all along. It was the best course he could
think of. Accordingly he slipped into the cloister, and installed himself in
the first carrel of the south walk, curled up in the corner, where he could see
the south door of the church, by which brothers, guests and boys would all
emerge when the service ended. Once the obedientiaries and choir monks had
passed, it should not be difficult to worm his way in among the boys without
being noticed. And here they came at last, Abbot Radulfus, Prior Robert and all
the brothers, passing decorously by, and out into the evening on their way to
supper; and then the less orderly throng of the abbey young. Richard was
sidling along the wall that concealed him, ready to slip out and mingle with
them as they passed, when a familiar and censorious voice made itself heard
just on the other side of the wall, in the very archway through which the
children must pass. “Silence, there! Let me hear no chattering so soon after
divine worship! Is this how you were taught to leave the holy place? Get into
line, two and two, and behave with due reverence.” Richard froze, his back pressed against
the chill stone of the wall, and drew back stealthily into the darkest corner
of the carrel. Now what had possessed Brother Jerome to let the procession of
the choir monks pass by without him, and wait here to hector and scold the
unoffending children? For there he stood immovable, harrying them into tidy
ranks, and Richard was forced to crouch in hiding and let his best hope of
escape dwindle away into the evening air in the great court, leaving him
trapped. For of all the brothers, Jerome was the one before whom he would least
willingly creep forth ignominiously to be arraigned and lectured. And now the
boys were gone, a few abbey guests emerging at leisure from the church, and
still Jerome stood there waiting, for Richard could see his meagre shadow on
the flags of the floor. And suddenly it appeared that he had been
waiting for one of the guests, for the shadow intercepted and melted into a
more substantial shadow. Richard had seen the substance pass, a big, muscular
striding man with a face as solid and russet as a sandstone wall, and the rich
gown of the middle nobility, short of the baronage or even their chief tenants,
but still to be reckoned with. “I have been waiting, sir,” said Brother Jerome,
self-important but respectful, “to speak a word to you. I have been thinking of
what you told us at chapter this morning. Will you sit down with me in private
for a few moments?” Richard’s young heart seemed to turn over within him, for
there was he crouched on the stone bench by one of Brother Anselm’s aumbries in
the carrel right beside them, and he was in terror that they would immediately
walk in upon him. But for his own reasons, it seemed, Brother Jerome preferred
to be a little more retired, as if he did not want anyone still within the
church, perhaps the sacristan, to observe this meeting as he left, for he drew
his companion deep into the third carrel, and there sat down with him. Richard
could easily have slid round the corner and out of the cloister now that the
way was free, but he did not do so. Pure human curiosity kept him mute and
still where he was, almost holding his breath, a little pitcher with very long
ears. “This malefactor of whom you spoke,” began Jerome, “he who assaulted your
steward and has run from you—how did you say he was called?” “His name is Brand. Why, have you any word
of him?” “No, certainly none by that name. I do
firmly believe,” said Jerome virtuously, “that it is every man’s duty to help
you to reclaim your villein if he can. Even more it is the duty of the church,
which should always uphold justice and law, and condemn the criminal and
lawbreaker. You did tell us this fellow is young, about twenty years?
Beardless, reddish dark as to his hair?” “All that, yes. You know of such a one?”
demanded Drogo sharply. “It may not be the same man, but there is
one young man who would answer to such a description, only one to my knowledge
who is lately come into these parts. It would be worth asking. He came here
with a pilgrim, a holy man who has settled down in a hermitage only a few miles
from us, on the manor of Eaton. He serves the hermit. If he is indeed your
rogue, he must have imposed on that good soul, who in the kindness of his heart
has given him work and shelter. If it is so, then it is only right that his
eyes should be opened to the kind of servitor he is harbouring. And if he
proves not to be the man, there is no harm done. But indeed I did have my
doubts about him, the one time he came here with a message. He has a sort of
civil insolence about him that sorts ill with a saint’s service.” Richard crouched motionless, hugging his
knees, his ears stretched to catch every word that passed. “Where is this hermitage to be found?”
demanded Drogo, with the hunger of the manhunt in his voice. “And what is the
fellow calling himself?” “He goes by the name of Hyacinth. The
hermit’s name is Cuthred, anyone in Wroxeter or Eaton can show you where he
dwells.” And Jerome launched willingly into exact instructions as to the road,
which occupied him so happily that even if there had been any small sounds from
the neighbouring carrel he probably would not have heard them. But Richard’s
small bare feet made no sound on the flags as he slid hastily round into the
archway, and fled down the court to the stables, still carrying his shoes. His
hard little soles patterned like pebbles on the cobbles of the stableyard,
careless of being overheard now that he was safely out of that narrow, darkening
carrel, echoing hollowly to the sound of one self-righteous voice and one
wolfish one plotting the capture and ruin of Hyacinth, who was young and lively
and ranked as a friend. But they should not have him, not if Richard could
prevent. No matter how detailed Brother Jerome’s directions, that man who
wanted his villein back, and certainly meant him no good if ever he got him,
would still have to find his way and sort out the woodland paths as he came to
them, but Richard knew every track, and could ride by the shortest way, and
fast, if only he could get his pony saddled and smuggled quietly out at the
gatehouse before the enemy sent a groom to saddle his own tall horse. For he
was hardly likely to do it for himself if he had a servant to do it for him. The
thought of the twilit woods did not daunt Richard, his heart rose excitedly to
the adventure. Luck or heaven favoured him, for it was
the hour when everyone was at supper, and even the porter at the gatehouse was
taking his meal within, and left the gate unwatched while he ate. If he did
hear hooves, and come out to see who the rider might be, he came too late to
see Richard scramble into the saddle and set off at a round trot along the
Foregate towards Saint Giles. He had even forgotten that he was hungry, and
felt no pang at going supperless. Besides, he was a favourite with Brother
Petrus, the abbot’s cook, and might be able to wheedle something out of him
later. As for what was to happen when his absence was discovered, as it surely
must be at bedtime even if it passed unremarked at supper, there was no point
in giving any thought to that. What mattered was to find Hyacinth, and warn
him, if he was indeed this Brand, that he had better get away into hiding as
fast as he could, for the hunt was out after him, and close on his heels. After
that, let what was bound to happen, happen! He turned into the forest beyond
Wroxeter, on a broad ride which Eilmund had cleared for the passage of his
coppice wood and trimmed poles. It led directly to the forester’s cottage, but
also provided the quickest way to a side-path which continued to the hermitage,
the obvious place to look first for Cuthred’s servant. The forest here was
chiefly oak, and old, the ground cover light and low, and the deep layers of
the leaves of many autumns made riding silent. Richard had slackened speed
among the old trees, and the pony stepped with delicate pleasure in the
cushioned mould. But for the hush, the boy would never have heard the voices,
for they were low and intent, and manifestly the one was a man’s, the other a
girl’s, though their words were too soft to be distinguished, meant only for
each other. Then he saw them, aside from the path, very still and very close
beside the broad bole of an oak tree. They were not touching, though they had
eyes only for each other, and whatever they had to say was earnest and of high
importance. The shout Richard launched at sight of them startled them apart
like fluttered birds. “Hyacinth! Hyacinth!” He rolled and fell from his pony, rather
than dismounted, and flew to meet them as they started towards him. “Hyacinth, you must hide—you must get away
quickly! They’re after you, if you’re Brand—are you Brand? There’s a man has
come looking for you, he says he’s hunting a runaway villein named Brand…”
Hyacinth, alert and quivering, held him by the shoulders, and dropped to his
knees to have him eye to eye. “What like of man? A servant? Or the man himself?
And when was this?” “After Vespers. I heard them talking.
Brother Jerome told him there was a young man newly come into this country, who
might be the one he’s looking for. He told him where to find you, and he’s
coming to look for you at the hermitage now, this very night. An awful man, big
and loud-mouthed. I ran to get my pony while they were still talking, I got
away before him. But you mustn’t go back to Cuthred, you must get away quickly
and hide.” Hyacinth caught the boy in his arms in a
brief, boisterous embrace. “You’re a true and gallant friend as any man could
have, and never fear for me, now I’m warned what can harm me? That’s the man
himself, no question! Drogo Bosiet thinks highly enough of me to waste time and
men and money on hunting me down, and in the end he’ll get nothing for his
pains.” “Then you are Brand? You were his
villein?” “I love you all the more,” said Hyacinth,
“for viewing my villeinage as past. Yes, the name they gave me long ago was
Brand, I chose Hyacinth for myself. You and I will keep to that name. And now
you and I, my friend, must part, for what you must do now is ride back to the
abbey quickly, before the light’s gone, and before you’re missed. Come, I’ll
see you safe to the edge of the wood.” “No!” said Richard, outraged. “I’ll go
alone, I’m not afraid. You must vanish now, at once!” The girl had laid her hand on Hyacinth’s
shoulder. Richard saw her eyes wide and bright with resolution rather than
alarm in the encroaching twilight. “He shall, Richard! I know a place where
he’ll be safe.” “You ought to try to get into Wales,” said
Richard anxiously, even somewhat jealously, for this was his friend, and he was
the rescuer, and almost he resented it that Hyacinth should owe any part of his
salvation to someone else, and a woman, at that. Hyacinth and Annet looked briefly at each
other, and smiled, and the quality of their smiles lit up the woodland. “No,
not that,” said Hyacinth gently. “If run I must, I’ll not run far. But you need
not fear for me, I shall be safe enough. Now mount, my lord, and be off with
you, back where you’ll be safe, or I won’t stir a step.” That set him in motion briskly enough.
Once he looked back to wave, and saw them standing as he had left them, gazing
after him. A second time he looked back, before the spot where they stood was
quite hidden from him among the trees, but they were gone, vanished, and the
forest was silent and still. Richard remembered his own problems ahead, and
took the road homeward at an anxious trot. Drogo Bosiet rode through the early
twilight by the ways Brother Jerome had indicated to him, asking peremptorily
of the villagers in Wroxeter for confirmation that he was on the best road to
the cell of the hermit Cuthred. It seemed that the holy man was held in the
kind of unofficial reverence common to the old Celtic eremites, for more than
one of those questioned spoke of him as Saint Cuthred. Drogo entered the forest close to where
Eaton land, as the shepherd in the field informed him, bordered Eyton land, and
a narrow ride brought him after almost a mile of forest to a small, level
clearing ringed round with thick woodland. The stone hut in the centre was
stoutly built but small and low-roofed, and showed signs of recent repair after
being neglected for years. There was a little square garden enclosure round it,
fenced in with a low pale, and part of the ground within had been cleared and
planted. Drogo dismounted at the edge of the clearing and advanced to the
fence, leading his horse by the bridle. The evening silence was profound, there
might have been no living being within a mile of the place. But the door of the hut stood open, and
from deep within a steady gleam of light showed. Drogo tethered his horse, and
strode in through the garden and up to the door, and still hearing no sound,
went in. The room into which he stepped was small and dim, and contained little
but a pallet bed against the wall, a small table and a bench. The light burned
within, in a second room, and through the open doorway, for there was no door
between, he saw that this was a chapel. The lamp burned upon a stone altar,
before a small silver cross set up on a carved wooden casket reliquary, and on
the altar before the cross lay a slender and elegant breviary in a gilded
binding. Two silver candlesticks, surely the gifts of the hermit’s patroness,
flanked the cross, one on either side. Before this altar a man was kneeling
motionless, a tall man in a rough black habit, with the cowl raised to cover
his head. Against the small, steady light the dark figure was impressive, the
long, erect back straight as a lance, the head not bowed but raised, the very image
of sanctity. Even Drogo held his tongue for a moment, but no longer. His own
needs and desires were paramount, a hermit’s prayers could and must yield to
them. Evening was rapidly deepening into night, and he had no time to waste. “You are Cuthred?” he demanded firmly.
“They told me at the abbey how to find you.” The dignified figure did not move, unless
he unfolded his unseen hands. But he said in a measured and unstartled voice:
“Yes, I am Cuthred. What do you need from me? Come in and speak freely.” “You have a boy who runs your errands.
Where is he? I want to see him. You may well have been cozened into keeping a
rogue about you unawares.” And at that the habited figure did turn, the cowled
head reared to face the stranger, and the sidelong light from the altar lamp
showed a lean, deep-eyed, bearded face, a long, straight, aristocratic nose, a
fell of dark hair within the hood, as Drogo Bosiet and the hermit of Eyton
forest looked long and steadily at each other. Brother Cadfael was sitting by Eilmund’s
couch, supping on bread and cheese and apples, since like Richard he had missed
his usual supper, and well content with a very discontented patient, when Annet
came back from feeding the hens and shutting them in, and milking the one cow
she kept for their own use. She had been an unconscionable time about it, and
so her disgruntled father told her. All trace of fever had left him, his colour
was good, and he was in no great discomfort, but he was in a glum fury with his
own helplessness, and impatient to be out and about his business again,
distrusting the abbot’s willing but untutored substitutes to take proper care
of his forest. The very shortness of his temper was testimony to his sound
health. And the offending leg was straight and gave no great pain. Cadfael was
well satisfied. Annet came in demurely, and laughed at her father’s grumbling,
no way in awe of him. “I left you in the best of company, and I knew you’d be
the better for an hour or so without me, and so would I for an hour without
you, such an old bear as you’re become! Why should I hurry back, on such a fine
evening? You know Brother Cadfael has taken good care of you, don’t grudge me a
breath of air.” But by the look of her she had enjoyed something more potent
than a mere breath of air. There was a brightness and a quivering aliveness
about her, as if after strong wine. Her brown hair, always so smoothly banded,
had shaken loose a few strands on her shoulders, Cadfael noted, as though she
had wound her way through low branches that caught at the braids, and the
colour in her cheeks was rosy and roused, to match the brilliance of her eyes.
She had brought in a few of the month’s lost leaves on her shoes. True, the
byre lay just within the trees at the edge of the clearing, but there were no
well-grown oaks there. “Well, now that you’re back, and I shan’t be leaving him
to complain without a listener,” said Cadfael, “I’d best be getting back before
it’s full dark. Keep him off his feet for a few days yet, lass, and I’ll let
him up on crutches soon if he behaves himself. At least he’s taken no harm from
lying fast in the water, that’s a mercy.” “Thanks to Cuthred’s boy Hyacinth,” Annet
reminded them. She flicked a swift glance at her father, and was pleased when
he responded heartily: “And that’s truth if ever there was! He was as good as a
son to me that day, and I don’t forget it.” And was it fancy, or did Annet’s cheeks
warm into a deeper rose? As good as a son to a man who had no son to be his
right hand, but only this bright, confident, discreet and loving daughter? “Possess your soul in patience,” advised
Cadfael, rising, “and we’ll have you as sound as before. It’s worth waiting
for. And don’t fret about the coppice, for Annet here will tell you they’ve
made a good job of clearing the brook and shaved off the overhang of the bank.
It will hold.” He made fast his scrip to his girdle, and turned to the door. “I’ll see you to the gate,” said Annet,
and came out with him into the deep twilight of the clearing, where his horse
was placidly pulling at the turf. “Girl,” said Cadfael with his foot in the
stirrup, “you blossom like a rose tonight.” She was just taking up the loose tresses
in her hands, and smoothing them back into neatness with the rest. She turned
and smiled at him. “But I seem to have been through a thorn bush,” she said. Cadfael leaned from the saddle and
delicately picked a sear oak leaf out of her hair. She looked up to see him
twirling it gently between his fingers by the stem, and wonderfully she smiled.
That was how he left her, roused and braced, and surely having made up her mind
to go, undaunted, through all the thorny thickets that might be in the path
between her and what she wanted. She was not ready yet to confide even in her
father, but it troubled her not at all that Cadfael should guess at what was in
the wind, nor had she any fear of a twisted ending. Which did not preclude the
possibility that others might have good reason to fear on her account. Cadfael rode without haste through the
darkening wood. The moon was already up, and bright where it could penetrate
the thickness of the trees. Compline must be long over by now, and the brothers
making ready for sleep. The boys would be in their beds long ago. It was cool
and fresh in the green-scented forest, pleasant to ride alone and at leisure,
and have time to think of timeless things that could not be accommodated in the
bustle of the day, sometimes not even during the holy office or the quiet times
of prayer, where by rights they belonged. There was more room for them here
under this night sky still faintly luminous round the rims of vision. Cadfael
rode in a deep content of mind through the thickest part of the woodland
growth, with a glimmer of light from the open fields ahead before him. It was the rustling movement on his left,
among the trees, that startled him out of his muse. Something vaguely pale in
the gloom moved alongside him, and he heard the slight jingling of a horse’s
bit and bridle. A riderless horse, wandering astray but saddled and bridled,
for the small metallic sounds rang clear. He had not been riderless when he set
out from his stable. In glimpses of moonlight between the branches the pale
shape shone elusively, drawing nearer to the path. Cadfael had seen that light
roan hide before, that same afternoon in the great court of the abbey. He dismounted in haste, and called,
advancing to take the slack bridle and run a hand over the dappled forehead.
The saddle was still in place, but the straps that had held a small saddle-roll
behind it had been sliced through. And where was the rider? And why, indeed,
had he set out yet again, after returning empty-handed from a day’s hunting?
Had someone provided him a clue to start him off again after his prey, even
thus late at night? Cadfael parted the bushes and turned in from the path,
where he had first glimpsed the pale form moving. Here nothing seemed
disturbed, the tangle of branches showed no disrupting passage. He worked back
a little to emerge again on the path, and there, aside under the bushes in long
grass, so hidden that he had ridden past it and seen no sign, he found what he
had feared to find. Drogo Bosiet lay sprawled on his face, sunk deep in the
ripe autumnal herbage, and even against the dark colouring of his gown, Cadfael
could just distinguish the darker blot that was his blood, welling out under
his left shoulder blade, where the dagger that had killed him had plunged and
been withdrawn. Chapter Six AT SO LATE AN HOUR there was small chance
of reaching immediate help at either abbey or castle, and none of deriving any
knowledge from the darkening scene here in the forest. All Cadfael could do,
thus alone, was to kneel beside the mute body and feel for a heartbeat or
pulse, and listen for any faint sign of breathing. But though Drogo’s flesh was
warm, and yielded pliably to handling, there was no breath in him, and the
heart in his great chest, almost certainly pierced by the thrust from behind,
was stonily still. He could not have been dead very long, but the gush of blood
that had sprung out with the blade had ceased to flow, and was beginning to dry
at its edges into a dark crust. More than an hour ago, Cadfael thought, judging
by what signs he had, perhaps as much as two hours. And his saddle-roll cut
loose and taken. Here, in our woods! When did any man ever hear of footpads so
close? Or has some cutthroat from the town heard of Eilmund being laid up at
home, and ventured to try his luck here for a chance traveller riding alone? Delay could not harm Drogo now, and
daylight might show at least some trace to lead to his murderer. Best leave him
so, and take word to the castle, where there was always a guard waking, and
leave a message for Hugh, to be delivered as soon as there was light. At
midnight the brothers would rise for Matins, and the same grim news could and
should be delivered then to Abbot Radulfus. The dead man was the abbey’s guest,
and his son expected within a few days, and to the abbey he must be taken for
proper and reverent care. No, there was nothing more to be done for Drogo Bosiet,
but at least he could get the horse back to his stable. Cadfael mounted, and
gathered the loose bridle in his left hand, and the horse came with him
docilely. There was no haste. He had until midnight. No need to save time,
since even if he reached his bed before Matins, sleep would be impossible.
Better take care of the horses and then wait for the bell. Abbot Radulfus came early to the church
for Matins, to find Cadfael waiting for him in the south porch as he crossed
from his lodging. The bell in the dortoir was only just sounding. It takes but
a few moments to say bluntly that a man is dead, and by an act of man, not of
God. Radulfus was never known to waste words in
exclamation, and did not do so now at the news that a guest of his house had
come to an unlawful end in the abbey’s own forest. The gross affront and
grosser wrong he accepted in sombre silence, and the right and duty of
retribution, as incumbent now upon the church as on the secular authority, he
took up with a deep assenting nod of his head, and a grim tightening of his
long, firm lips. In the hush while he thought, they heard the soft, sandalled
steps of the brothers descending the night stairs. “And you have left word for
Hugh Beringar?” asked the abbot. “At his house and at the castle.” “No man can do more, then, until first
light. He must be brought here, for here his son will come. But you—you will be
needed, you can lead straight to where he lies. Go now, I excuse you from the
office, go and take some rest, and at dawn ride to join the sheriff. Say to him
that I will send a party after, to bring the body home.” In the first hesitant light of a chill
morning they stood over Drogo Bosiet’s body, Hugh Beringar and Cadfael, a
sergeant of Hugh’s garrison and two men-at-arms, all silent, all with eyes
fixed on the great patch of encrusted blood that soaked the back of the rich
riding coat. The grass hung as heavy and flattened with dew as if after rain,
and the moisture had gathered in great pearls in the woollen pile of the dead
man’s clothing, and starred the bushes in a treasury of cobwebs. “Since he plucked out the dagger from the
wound,” said Hugh, “most likely he took it away with him. But we’ll look about
for it, in case he discarded it. And you say the straps of the saddle-roll were
sliced through? After the slaying—he needed the knife for that. Quicker and
easier in the dark to cut it loose than unbuckle it, and whoever he was, he
wouldn’t want to linger. Strange, though, that a mounted man should fall victim
to such an attack. At the least sound he had only to spur and draw clear,
surely.” “But I think,” said Cadfael, studying how
the body lay, “that he was on foot here, and leading the horse. He was a
stranger, and the path here is very narrow and the trees crowd close, and it was
dark or getting dark. See the leaves that have clung to his boot soles. He
never had time to turn, the one stroke was enough. Where he had been I don’t
know, but he was on his way back to his lodging in our guest hall when he was
struck down. With no struggle and little noise. The horse had taken no great
alarm, he strayed only a few yards.” “Which argues an expert footpad and
thief,” said Hugh. “But do you believe in that? In my writ and so close to the
town?” “No. But some secret rogue, perhaps even a
sneak thief out of the town, might risk one exploit, knowing Eilmund is laid up
at home. But this is guessing,” said Cadfael, shaking his head. “Now and then
even a poacher might be tempted to try murder, if he came on a man of
substance, alone and at night. But guessing is small use.” The party sent by Abbot Radulfus to carry
Drogo back to the abbey were already winding their way along the path with
their litter. Cadfael knelt in the grass, soaking his habit at the knees in the
plenteous dew, and carefully turned the stiffening body face upward. The heavy
muscling of the cheeks had fallen slack, the eyes, so disproportionately small
for the massive countenance, were half open. He looked older and less
arrogantly brutal in death, a mortal man like other men, almost piteous. The
hand that had lain hidden under his body wore a heavy silver ring. “Something the thief missed,” said Hugh,
looking down with something of startled regret in his face for so much power
now powerless. “Another sign of haste. Or he would have ransacked every
garment. And proof enough that the body was not moved. He lies as he fell,
facing towards Shrewsbury. It’s as I said, he was on his way home.” “There’s a son expected, you said? Come,”
said Hugh, “we can leave him to your men now, and my fellows will comb the
woods all round in case there’s sign or trace to be found, though I doubt it.
You and I will be off back to the abbey, and see what the abbot has brought to
light at chapter. For someone must surely have put some notion into his mind,
to send him out again so late.” The sun was above the rim of the world, but
veiled and pale, as they mounted and turned back along the narrow ride. The
spider-draped bushes caught the first gleams that pierced the mist, and flashed
in coruscations of diamonds. When they emerged into the open, low-lying fields
the horses waded through a shallow lilac-tinted sea of vapour. “What do you know of this man Bosiet,”
asked Hugh, “more than he has told me, or I have gleaned without his telling?” “Little enough, I expect. He’s lord of
several manors in Northamptonshire, and some little while since a villein of
his, as like as not for a very good reason, laid his steward flat and put him
to bed for some days, and then very wisely took to his heels before they could
lay hands on him. Bosiet and his men have been hunting for the fellow ever
since. They must have wasted a good while searching the rest of the shire, I
fancy, before they got word from someone that he’d made for Northampton and
seemed to be heading north and west. And between them they’ve followed this
far, making drives in both directions from every halt. He must have cost them
far above his value, valuable though they say he is, but it’s his blood they’re
after first and foremost, and seemingly they set a higher price on that than on
his craft, whatever that may be. There was a very vigorous hate there,” said
Cadfael feelingly. “He brought it to chapter with him. Father Abbot was not
greatly taken with the notion of helping him to the sort of revenge he’d be
likely to take.” “And shrugged him off on to me,” said
Hugh, briefly grinning. “Well, small blame to him. I took your word for it, and
stayed out of his way as long as I could. In any case I could give him no help.
What else do you know of him?” “That he has a groom named Warin, the one
that rode with him, though not, it seems, on his last ride. Maybe he’d sent his
man on some other errand, and couldn’t wait once he got the word, but set off
alone. He’s—he was—a man who liked to use his fists freely on his servants, for
any offence or none. At least he’d laid Warin’s face open for him, and
according to the groom that was no rarity. As for the son, according to Warin
he’s much like his father, and just as surely to be avoided. And he’ll be
coming from Stafford any day now—” “To find he has to coffin his father’s
body and take it home for burial,” said Hugh ruefully. “To find he’s now lord of Bosiet,” said
Cadfael. “That’s the reverse of the coin. Who knows which side up it will look
to him?” “You’re grown very cynical, old friend,”
remarked Hugh, wryly smiling. “I’m thinking,” Cadfael owned, “of reasons
why men do murder. Greed is one, and might be spawned in a son, waiting
impatiently for his inheritance. Hate is another, and a misused servant might
entertain it willingly if chance offered. But there are other and stranger
reasons, no doubt, like a simple taste for thieving, and a disposition to make
sure the victim never blabs. A pity, Hugh, a great pity there should be so much
hurrying on of death, when it’s bound to reach every man in its own good time.” By the time they emerged on to the
highroad at Wroxeter the sun was well up, and the mist clearing from its face,
though the fields still swam in pearly vapour. They made good speed from there
along the road to Shrewsbury, and rode in at the gatehouse after the end of
High Mass, when the brothers were dispersing to their work until the hour of
the midday meal. “The lord abbot’s been asking after you,”
said the porter, coming out from his lodge at sight of them. “He’s in his
parlour, and the prior with him, and asks that you’ll join him there.” They left their horses to the grooms, and
went at once to the abbot’s lodging. In the panelled parlour Radulfus looked up
from his desk, and Prior Robert, very erect and austere on a bench beside the
window, looked down his nose with a marked suggestion of disapproval and
withdrawal. The complexities of law and murder and manhunt had no business to
intrude into the monastic domain, and he deplored the necessity to recognise
their existence, and the very processes of dealing with them when they did
force a breach in the wall. Close to his elbow, unobtrusive in his shadow,
stood Brother Jerome, his narrow shoulders hunched, thin lips drawn tight, pale
hands folded in his sleeves, the image of virtue assailed and bearing the cross
with humility. There was always a strong element of complacency in Jerome’s
humility, but this time there was also a faintly defensive quality, as though
his rightness had somehow, if only by implication, been questioned. “Ah, you are back!” said Radulfus. “You
have not brought back the body of our guest so quickly?” “No, Father, not yet, they will be
following us, but on foot it will take some time. It is just as Brother Cadfael
reported it to you in the night. The man was stabbed in the back, probably as
he was leading his horse, the path there being narrow and overgrown. You will
know already that his saddle-roll was cut loose and stolen. By what Brother
Cadfael observed of the body when he found it, the thing must have been done
about the time of Compline, perhaps a little before. There’s nothing to show by
whom. By the hour, he must have been on his way back here to your guest hall.
By the way he faced as he fell, also, for the body was not moved, or his ring
would have been taken, and he still wears it. But as to where he had been in
those parts, there’s no knowing.” “I think,” said the abbot, “we have
something to show on that head. Brother Jerome here will tell you what he has
now told to Prior Robert and me.” Jerome was usually only too ready to hear his
own voice, whether in sermon, homily or reproof, but it was noticeable that
this time he was assembling his words with more than normal care. “The man was a guest and an upright
citizen,” he said, “and had told us at chapter that he was pursuing an offender
against the law, one who had committed assault against the person of his
steward and done him grievous harm, and then absconded from his master. I took
thought afterwards that there was indeed one newcomer in these parts who might
well be the man he sought, and I considered it the duty of every one of us to
help the cause of justice and law. So I spoke to the lord of Bosiet. I told him
that the young man who serves the hermit Cuthred, and who came here with him
only a few weeks ago, does answer to the description he gave of his runaway
villein Brand, though he calls himself Hyacinth. He is of the right age, his
colouring as his master described it. And no one here knows anything about him.
I thought it only right to tell him the truth. If the young man proved not to
be Brand, there was no harm to him.” “And you told him, I believe,” said the
abbot neutrally, “how to get to the hermit’s cell, where he could find this
young man?” “I did, Father, as was my duty.” “And he at once set off to ride to that
place.” “Yes, Father. He had sent his groom on an
errand into the town, he was obliged to saddle up for himself, but he did not
wish to wait, since most of the day was gone.” “I have spoken to the groom Warin, since
we learned of his master’s death,” said the abbot, looking up at Hugh. “He was
sent to enquire after any craftsman in fine leather-work in Shrewsbury, for it
seems that was the young man’s craft also, and Bosiet thought he might have tried
to get work within the borough among those who could use his skills. There is
no blame can attach to the servant, by the time he returned his master was long
gone. His errand could not wait, it seems, until morning.” His voice was
measured and considered, with no inflection of approval or disapproval. “That
solves, I think, the problem of where he had been.” “And where I must follow him,” said Hugh,
enlightened. “I’m obliged to you, Father, for pointing me the next step of the
road. If he did indeed talk to Cuthred, at least we may learn what passed, and
whether he got the answer he wanted—though plainly he was returning alone. Had
he been bringing a captive villein with him, he would hardly have left him with
free hands and a dagger about him. With your permission, Father, I’ll keep
Brother Cadfael with me as witness, rather than take men-at-arms to a
hermitage.” “Do so,” said the abbot willingly. “This
unfortunate man was a guest of our house, and we owe him every effort which may
lead to the capture of his murderer. And every proper rite and service that can
still be paid to his corpse. Robert, will you see to it that the body is
reverently received when it comes? And Brother Jerome, you may assist. Your
zeal to be of help to him should not be frustrated. You shall keep a night
vigil with him in prayers for his soul.” So there would be two lying side by side
in the mortuary chapel tonight, Cadfael thought as they went out together from
the parlour: the old man who had closed a long life as gently as a spent flower
sheds it petals, and the lord of lands taken abruptly in his malice and hatred,
with no warning, and no time to make his peace with man or God. Drogo Bosiet’s
soul would be in need of all the prayers it could get. “And has it yet entered your mind,” asked
Hugh abruptly, as they rode out along the Foregate for the second time, “that
Brother Jerome in his zeal for justice may have helped Bosiet to his death?” If it had, Cadfael was not yet minded to
entertain the thought. “He was on his way back,” he said cautiously, “and
empty-handed. It argues that he was disappointed. The boy is not his lost
villein.” “It could as well argue that he is, and
saw his doom bearing down on him in time to vanish. How then? He’s been in the
woods there now long enough to know his way about. How if he was the hand that
held the dagger?” No denying that it was a possibility. Who could have better
reason for slipping a knife into Drogo Bosiet’s back than the lad he meant to
drag back to his own manor court, flay first, and exploit afterwards lifelong? “It’s what will be said,” agreed Cadfael
sombrely. “Unless we find Cuthred and his boy sitting peacefully at home
minding their own business and meddling with no one else’s. Small use guessing
until we hear what happened there.” They approached the projecting tongue of
Eaton land by the same path Drogo had used, and saw the small clearing in thick
woodland open before them almost suddenly, as he had seen it, but in full
daylight, while he had come in early dusk. Muted sunlight filtering through the
branches turned the sombre grey of the stone hut to dull gold. The low pales of
the fence that marked out the garden were set far apart, a mere sketched
boundary, no bar to beast or man, and the door of the hut stood wide open, so that
they saw through into the inner room where the constant lamp on the stone altar
showed tiny and dim as a single spark, almost quenched by the light falling
from the tiny shutterless window above. Saint Cuthred’s cell, it seemed, stood
wide open to all who came. A part of the enclosed garden was still wild, though
the grass and herbage had been cut, and there the hermit himself was at work
with mattock and spade, heaving up the matted clods and turning the soil below
as he cleared it. They watched him at it as they approached, inexpert but
dogged and patient, plainly unused to handling such tools or stooping to such
labours as should have fallen to Hyacinth. Who, by the same token, was nowhere
to be seen. A tall man, the hermit, long-legged, long-bodied, lean and
straight, his coarse dark habit kilted to his knees, and the cowl flung back on
his shoulders. He saw them coming and straightened up from his labours with the
mattock still in his hands, and showed them a strong, fleshless face,
olive-skinned and deep-eyed, framed in a thick bush of dark hair and beard. He
looked from one to the other of them, and acknowledged Hugh’s reverence with a
deep inclination of his head, without lowering his eyes. “If your errand is to Cuthred the hermit,”
he said in a deep and resonant voice, and with assured authority, “come in and
welcome. I am he.” And to Cadfael, after studying his face for a moment: “I
think I saw you at Eaton when the lord Richard was buried. You are a brother of
Shrewsbury.” “I am,” said Cadfael. “I was there in the
boy’s escort. And this is Hugh Beringar, sheriff of this shire.” “The lord sheriff does me honour,” said
Cuthred. “Will you enter my cell?” And he loosed his frayed rope girdle and
shook down the skirt of his habit to his feet, and led the way within. The
thick tangle of his hair brushed the stone above the doorway as he entered. He
stood a good head taller than either of his visitors. In the dim living room there was one
narrow window that let in the afternoon light, and a small stir of breeze that
brought in the scent of mown herbage and moist autumn leaves. Through the
doorless opening into the chapel within they saw all that Drogo had seen, the
stone slab of the altar with its carved casket, the silver cross and
candlesticks, and the open breviary lying before the small spark of the lamp.
The hermit followed Hugh’s glance to the open book and, entering, closed it
reverently, and laid it with loving care in accurate alignment with the forward
edge of the reliquary. The fine gilt ornament and delicate tooling of the
leather binding gleamed in the small light of the lamp. “And how may I be of
service to the lord sheriff?” asked Cuthred, his face still turned towards the
altar. “I need to ask you some few questions,”
said Hugh with deliberation, “in the matter of a murdered man.” That brought the lofty head round in
haste, staring aghast and astonished. “Murdered? Here and now? I know of none.
Say plainly what you mean, my lord.” “Last night a certain Drogo Bosiet, a
guest at the abbey, set out to visit you, at the prompting of one of the
brothers. He came here in search of a runaway villein, a young man of about
twenty years, and his intent was to view your boy Hyacinth, being a stranger
and of the right age and kind, and see whether he is or is not the bondman who
ran away from Bosiet. Did he ever reach you? By the time he had ridden this far
it would already be evening.” “Why, yes, such a man did come,” said
Cuthred at once, “though I did not ask his name. But what has this to do with
murder? A murdered man, you said.” “This same Drogo Bosiet, on his way back
towards the town and the abbey, was stabbed in the back and left beside the
track, a mile or more from here. Brother Cadfael found him dead and his horse
wandering loose, last night in the full dark.” The hermit’s deep-set eyes, flaring
reddish in their gaunt sockets, flashed from one face to the other in
incredulous questioning. “Hard to believe, that there could be cutthroats and
masterless men here, in this well-farmed, well-managed country—within your
writ, my lord, and so near the town. Can this be what it seems, or is there
worse behind it? Was the man robbed?” “He was, of his saddle-roll, whatever that
may have held. But not of his ring, not of his gown. What was done was done in
haste.” “Masterless men would have stripped him
naked,” said Cuthred with certainty. “I do not believe this forest is shelter
for outlaws. This is some very different matter.” “When he came to you,” said Hugh, “what
did he have to say? And what followed?” “He came when I was saying Vespers, here
in the chapel. He entered and said that he had come to see the boy who runs my
errands, and that I might find I had been deceived into taking a villain into
my employ. For he was seeking a runaway serf, and had been told that there was
one here of the right age, newly come and a stranger to all, who might well be
his man. He told me whence he came, and in what direction he had reason to
believe his fugitive had fled. These things, and the time, fitted all too well
for my peace of mind with the time and place where first I met and pitied
Hyacinth. But it was not put to the test,” said Cuthred simply. “The boy was
not here. A good hour earlier I had sent him on an errand to Eaton. He did not
come back. He has not come back even today. Now I doubt much if he ever will.” “You do believe,” said Hugh, “that he is
this Brand.” “I cannot judge. But I saw that he well
might be. And when he failed to come back to me last night, then I felt it must
be so. It is no part of my duty to give up any man to retribution, that is
God’s business. I was glad I could not say yes or no, and glad he was not here
to be seen.” “But if he had simply got wind of the
search for him, and kept out of the way,” said Cadfael, “he would have come
back to you by now. The man who hunted him had gone away empty-handed, and if
another visit threatened, he could do as much again, provided you did not
betray him. Where else would he be so safe as with a holy hermit? But still he
has not come.” “But now you tell me,” said Cuthred
gravely, “that his master is dead—if this man was indeed his lord. Dead and
murdered! Say that my servant Hyacinth had got wind of Bosiet’s coming, and did
more than absent himself. Say that he thought it better to lie in ambush and
end the search for him once for all! No, I do not think now that I shall ever
see Hyacinth again. Wales is not far, and even an incomer without a kinship can
find service there, though upon hard terms. No, he will not come back. He will
never come back.” It was a strange moment for Cadfael’s mind
to wander, as though some corner of his consciousness had made even more of one
remembered moment than he had realised, for he found himself thinking suddenly
of Annet coming into her father’s house radiant and roused and mysterious, with
an oak leaf in her disordered hair. A little flushed and breathing as though
she had been running. And past the hour of Compline, at a time when surely
Drogo of Bosiet already lay dead more than a mile away on the track to
Shrewsbury. True, Annet had gone out dutifully to shut up the hens and the cow
for the night, but she had been a very long time about it, and come back with
the high colour and triumphant eyes of a girl returning from her lover. And had
she not made occasion to say a good word for Hyacinth, and taken pleasure in
hearing her father praise him? “How did you come upon this young man in
the first place?” Hugh was asking. “And why did you take him into your
service?” “I was on my way from St Edmundsbury, by
way of the Augustinian canons at Cambridge, and I lodged two nights over at the
Cluniac priory in Northampton. He was among the beggars at the gate. Though he
was able-bodied and young he was also shabby and unkempt as if he had been
living wild. He told me his father had been dispossessed and was dead, and he
had no kin left and no work, and out of compassion I clothed him and took him
as my servant. Otherwise he would surely have sunk into thieving and banditry
in order to live. And he has been quick and obedient to me, and I thought him
grateful, and so perhaps he truly was. But now it may all be in vain.” “And when was this that you met him
there?” “In the last days of September. I cannot
be sure of the exact day.” Time and place fitted all too well. “I see I have a manhunt on my hands,” said
Hugh wryly, “and I’d best be getting back to Shrewsbury, and setting on the
hounds at once. For whether the lad’s a murderer or no, I’ve no choice now but
to find and take him.” Chapter Seven IT HAD ALWAYS BEEN BROTHER JEROME’S CONTENTION,
frequently and vociferously expressed, that Brother Paul exercised far too
slack an authority over his young charges, both the novices and the children.
It was Paul’s way to make his supervision of their days as unobtrusive as
possible except when actually teaching, though he was prompt to appear if any
of them needed or wanted him. But such routine matters as their ablutions,
their orderly behaviour at meals, and their retiring at night and rising in the
morning were left to their good consciences and to the sound habits of
cleanliness and punctuality they had been taught. Brother Jerome was convinced
that no boy under sixteen could be trusted to keep any rule, and that even
those who had reached that mature age still had more of the devil in them than
of the angels. He would have watched and hounded and corrected their every
movement, had he been master of the boys, and made a great deal more use of
punishments than ever Paul could be brought to contemplate. It was pleasure to
him to be able to say, with truth, that he had always prophesied disaster from
such lax stewardship. Three schoolboys and nine novices, in a range of ages
from nine years up to seventeen, are quite enough active youngsters to satisfy
the casual eye at breakfast, unless someone has reason to count them, and
discover that they fall one short of the right tally. Probably Jerome would
have counted them on every occasion, certain that sooner or later there would
be defaulters. Brother Paul did not count. And as he was needed at chapter and
afterwards that day on specific business concerning his office, he had confided
the morning’s schooling to the most responsible of the novices, another policy
which Jerome deplored as ruinous to discipline. In church the small fry
occupied such insignificant places that one more or less would never be
noticed. So it was only late in the afternoon, when Paul mustered his flock
again into the schoolroom, and separated the class of novices from the younger
boys, that the absence of Richard was at last manifest. Even then Paul was not at first alarmed or
disturbed. The child was simply loitering somewhere, forgetful of time, and
would appear at a run at any moment. But time slid by and Richard did not come.
Questioned, the three boys remaining shuffled their feet uneasily, shifted a
little closer together to have the reassurance of shoulder against shoulder,
shook their heads wordlessly, and evaded looking Brother Paul in the eye. The
youngest in particular looked less than happy, but they volunteered nothing,
which merely convinced Paul that Richard was deliberately playing truant, that
they were well aware of it and disapproved but would not let out one word to
betray him. That he refrained from threatening them with dire penalties for
such refractory silence would only have confirmed Jerome in his black
disapproval of such an attitude. Jerome encouraged tale-bearers. Paul had a
sneaking sympathy with the sinful solidarity that would invite penalties to
fall on its own head rather than betray a companion. He merely stated firmly
that Richard should be called to account for his behaviour later and pay the
penalty of his foolishness, and proceeded with the lesson. But he was
increasingly aware of his pupils” inattention and uneasiness, and the guilty
glances they slid sidelong at one another over their letters. By the time they
were dismissed he felt that the youngest, at any rate, was on the verge of
blurting out whatever he knew, and his very distress argued that there was more
behind this defection than the mere capricious cutting of a class. Paul called the child back as they were
leaving, half-gratefully, half-fearfully. “Edwin, come here to me!” Understandably, the other two fled,
certain now that the sky was about to fall on them, and in haste to avoid the
first shock, whatever followed later. Edwin halted, turned, and slowly trailed
his way back across the room, his eyes lowered to the small feet he was
dragging reluctantly along the boards of the floor. He stood before Brother
Paul, and trembled. One knee was still bandaged, and the linen had slipped
awry. Without thinking, Paul unwound it and made it neat again. “Edwin, what is it you know about Richard?
Where is he?” The child gulped out with utter conviction: “I don’t know!” and
burst into tears. Paul drew him close and let him bury his nose in a
long-suffering shoulder. “Tell me! When did you last see him? When
did he go?” Edwin sobbed inarticulately into the rough woollen folds, until
Paul held him off and peered into the smudged and woeful face. “Come! Tell me
everything you know.” And it came out in a flood, between hectic
sniffs and sobs. “It was yesterday, after Vespers. I saw him, he took his pony
and rode out along the Foregate. I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t, and
we were frightened—We didn’t want him to be caught, he’d be in such terrible
trouble—We didn’t want to tell, we thought he’d come back and no one need
know…” “Do you tell me,” demanded Paul, appalled
and for once sounding formidable, “that he did not sleep here in his bed last
night? That he’s been gone since yesterday and not a word said?” A fresh burst of despairing tears
distorted Edwin’s round flushed face, and his violently nodding head admitted
the impeachment. “And all of you knew this? You three? Did you never think that
he might be hurt somewhere, or in danger? Would he stay out all night
willingly? Oh, child, why did you not tell me? All this time we’ve lost!” But
the boy was frightened enough already, there was nothing to be done with him
but hush and reassure and comfort him, where reassurance and comfort were very
hard to find. “Now, tell me—you saw him go, mounted. After Vespers? Did he not
say what he intended?” Edwin, very drearily, gathered what sense he had left
and fumbled out the rest of it. “He came too late for Vespers. We were down on
the Gaye, by the river, he didn’t want to come in, and when he did run after us
it was too late. I think he waited to try and slip in with us when we came out
of church, but Brother Jerome was standing talking to—to that man, the one
who…” He began to whimper again, recalling what he should not have seen, but of
course had, the bearers of the litter coming in at the gatehouse, the bulky
body motionless, the powerful face covered. “I waited at the school door,”
whispered the tearful voice, “and I saw Richard come running out and down to
the stables, and then he came back with his pony, and led it out at the gate in
a great hurry, and rode away. And that’s all I know. I thought he would soon
come back,” he wailed hopelessly. “We didn’t want to get him into trouble…” If
they had recoiled from doing that, they had certainly given him ample time and
scope to get himself into trouble, deeper than any disloyalty of theirs might
have plunged him. Brother Paul resignedly shook and patted his penitent into
relative calm. “You have been very wrong and foolish, and
if you’re in disgrace it’s no more than you deserve. But answer everything
truthfully now, and we’ll find Richard safe and sound. Go now, at once, and
find the other two, and the three of you wait here until you are sent for.” And Paul was off at a shaken run to take
the bad news first to Prior Robert and then to the abbot, and then to confirm
that the pony Dame Dionisia had sent as bait to her grandson was indeed gone
from his stall. And there was great clamour and running about and turning
grange court and barns and guest halls inside out, in case the culprit had not,
after all deserted the enclave, or for sounder reasons had returned to it
furtively, to try and conceal the fact that he had ever left it. The wretched
schoolboys, tongue-lashed by Prior Robert and threatened with worse when anyone
had time to perform it, cowered shivering and reduced to tears by the enormity
of what had seemed to them good intentions, and having survived the first storm
of recriminations, settled down stoically to endure the rest supperless and
outcast. Not even Brother Paul had time to offer them any further reassuring
words, he was too busy searching through the complex recesses of the mill and
nearer alleys of the Foregate. Into this frenzy of alarm and activity Cadfael
came riding in the early evening, after parting from Hugh at the gate. This
very night there would be sergeants out dragging the woods from Eyton westward
for the fugitive who might or might not be Brand, but must at all costs be
captured. Hugh was no fonder of manhunts than was Cadfael, and many a misused
serf had been driven at last to flight and outlawry, but murder was murder, and
the law could not stomach it. Guilty or innocent, the youth Hyacinth would have
to be found. Cadfael dismounted at the gatehouse with his mind full of one
vanished youngster, to be met by the spectacle of agitated brothers running
hither and thither among all the monastic buildings in search of a second one.
While he was gaping in amazement at the sight, Brother Paul came bearing down
upon him breathless and hopeful. “Cadfael, you’ve been in the forest. You
haven’t seen hide or hair of young Richard, have you? I’m beginning to think he
must have run home…” “The last place he’d be likely to go,”
said Cadfael reasonably, “while he’s wary of his grandmother’s intentions. Why?
Do you tell me you’ve mislaid the imp?” “He’s gone—gone since last night, and we
never knew it until an hour ago.” Paul poured out the dismal story in a cascade
of guilt and remorse and anxiety. “I am to blame! I have failed in my duty,
been too complacent, trusted them too far… But why should he run away? He was
happy enough. He never showed signs…” “Doubtless he had his reasons,” said Cadfael,
scrubbing thoughtfully at his blunt brown nose. “But back to the lady? I doubt
it! No, if he went off in such haste it was something new and urgent that sent
him running. Last night after Vespers, you said?” “Edwin tells me Richard dawdled too long by
the river, and came too late for Vespers, and must have been lurking in the
cloister to slip in among the rest of the boys when they came out. But he could
not do it because Jerome stood there in the archway, waiting to speak to
Bosiet, who had attended among the guests. But when Edwin looked back he saw
Richard come running out down to the stables, and then out at the gate in a
hurry.” “Did he so!” said Cadfael, enlightened.
“And where was Jerome, then, and Bosiet, that the boy was able to make off undetected?”
But he did not wait for an answer. “No, never trouble to guess. We already know
what they had to talk about, between the two of them—a small matter, and
private. Jerome wanted no other audience, but it seems he had one of whom he
knew nothing. Paul, I must leave you to your hunt a little while longer, and
ride after Hugh Beringar. He’s already committed to a search for one vanished
lad, he may as well make it for two, and drag the coverts but once.” Hugh, overtaken under the arch of the town
gate, reined in abruptly at the news, and turned to stare meditatively at
Cadfael. “So you think that’s the way of it!” he said and whistled. “Why should
he care about a young fellow he’s barely seen and never spoken to? Or have you
reason to think the two of them have had their heads together?” “No, none that I know of. Nothing but the
timing of it, but that links the pair closely enough. Not much doubt what
Richard overheard, and none that it sent him hotfoot on some urgent errand. And
before Bosiet can get to the hermitage, Hyacinth vanishes.” “And so does Richard!” Hugh’s black brows
drew together, frowning over the implications. “Do you tell me if I find the
one I shall have found both?” “No, that I gravely doubt. The boy surely
meant to be back in the fold before bedtime, and all innocence. He’s no fool,
and he has no reason to want to leave us. But all the more reason we should be
anxious about him now. He would be back with us, surely, if something had not
prevented. Whether his pony’s thrown him somewhere, and he’s hurt, or lost—or
whether… They’re wondering if he’s run home to Eaton, but that’s rankly
impossible. He never would.” Hugh had grasped the unspoken suggestion
which Cadfael himself had hardly had time to contemplate. “No, but he might be
taken there! And by God, so he might! If some of Dionisia’s people happened on
him alone in the woods, they’d know how to please their lady. Oh, I know the
household there are Richard’s people, not hers, but there must be one or two
among them would take the chance of present favours if it offered. Cadfael, old
friend,” said Hugh heartily, “you go back to your workshop and leave Eaton to
me. As soon as I’ve set my men on the hunt, yes, for both, I’ll go myself to
Eaton and see what the lady has to say for herself. If she baulks at letting me
turn her manor inside out for the one lad, I shall know she has the other
hidden away somewhere about the place, and I can force her hand. If Richard’s
there, I’ll have him out for you by tomorrow, and back in Brother Paul’s arms,”
promised Hugh buoyantly. “Even if it costs the poor imp a whipping,” he
reflected with a sympathetic grin, “he may find that preferable to being
married off on his grandmother’s terms. At least the sting doesn’t last so
long.” Which was a very perverse blasphemy
against marriage, Cadfael thought and said, coming from one who had such
excellent reason to consider himself blessed in his wife and proud of his son.
Hugh had wheeled his horse towards the steep slope of the Wyle, but he slanted
a smiling glance back over his shoulder. “Come up to the house with me now, and
complain of me to Aline. Keep her company while I’m off to the castle to start
the hunt.” And the prospect of sitting for an hour or
so in Aline’s company, and playing with his godson Giles, now approaching three
years old, was tempting, but Cadfael shook his head, reluctantly but
resignedly. “No, I’d best be going back. We’ll all be busy hunting our own
coverts and asking along the Foregate until dark. There’s no certainty where
he’ll be, we dare miss no corner. But God speed your search, Hugh, for it’s
more likely than ours.” He walked his horse back over the bridge towards the
abbey with a slack rein, suddenly aware he had ridden far enough for one day,
and looked forward with positive need to the stillness and soul’s quiet of the
holy office, and the vast enclosing sanctuary of the church. The thorough
search of the forest must be left to Hugh and his officers. No point even in
spending time and grief now wondering where the boy would spend the coming
night, though an extra prayer for him would not come amiss. And tomorrow,
thought Cadfael, I’ll go and visit Eilmund, and take him his crutches, and keep
my eyes open on the way. Two missing lads to search for. Find one, find both?
No, that was too much to hope for. But if he found one, he might also be a long
step forward towards finding the other. There was a newly-arrived guest standing
at the foot of the steps that led up to the door of the guest hall, watching
with contained interest the continuing bustle of a search which had now lost
its frenetic aspect and settled down grimly into the thorough inspection of
every corner of the enclave, besides the parties that were out enquiring along
the Foregate. The obsessed activity around him only made his composed stillness
the more striking, though his appearance otherwise was ordinary enough. His
figure was compact and trim, his bearing modest, and his elderly but
well-cared-for boots, dark chausses and good plain cotte cut short below the
knee, were the common riding gear of all but the highest and the lowest who
travelled the roads. He could as well have been a baron’s sub-tenant on his
lord’s business as a prosperous merchant or a minor nobleman on his own.
Cadfael noticed him as soon as he dismounted at the gate. The porter came out
from his lodge to plump himself down on the stone bench outside with a gusty
sigh, blowing out his russet cheeks in mild exasperation. “No sign of the boy,
then?” said Cadfael, though plainly expecting none. “No, nor likely to be, not
within here, seeing he went off pony and all. But make sure first here at home,
they say. They’re even talking of dragging the mill-pond. Folly! What would he
be doing by the pool, when he went off at a trot along the Foregate—that we do
know. Besides, he’ll never drown, he swims like a fish. No, he’s well away out
of our reach, whatever trouble he’s got himself into. But they must needs turn
out all the straw in the lofts and prod through the stable litter. You’d best
hurry and keep a sharp eye on your workshop, or they’ll be turning that inside
out.” Cadfael was watching the quiet dark figure
by the guest hall. “Who’s the newcomer?” “One Rafe of Coventry. A falconer to the
earl of Warwick. He has dealings with Gwynedd for young birds to train, so
Brother Denis tells me. He came not a quarter of an hour since.” “I took him at first to be Bosiet’s son,”
said Cadfael, “but I see he’s too old—more the father’s own generation.” “So did I take him for the son. I’ve been
keeping a sharp watch for him, for someone has to tell him what’s waiting for
him here, and I’d rather it was Prior Robert than take it on myself.” “I like to see a man,” said Cadfael
appreciatively, his eyes still on the stranger, “who can stand stock still in
the middle of other people’s turmoil, and ask no questions. Ah, well, I’d
better get this fellow unsaddled and into his stall, he’s had a good day’s
exercise with all this coming and going. And so have I.” And tomorrow, he thought, leading the
horse at a leisurely walk down the length of the great court towards the stable
yard, I must be off again. I may be astray, but at least let’s put it to the
test. He passed close to where Rafe of Coventry
stood, passively interested in the bustle for which he asked no explanation,
and thinking his own thoughts. At the sound of hooves pacing slowly on the
cobbles he turned his head, and meeting Cadfael’s eyes by chance, gave him the
brief thaw of a smile and a nod by way of greeting. A strong but
uncommunicative face he showed, broad across brow and cheekbones, with a
close-trimmed brown beard and wide-set, steady brown eyes, wrinkled at the
corners as if he lived chiefly in the open, and was accustomed to peering
across distances. “You’re bound for the stables, Brother? Be
my guide there. No reflection on your grooms, but I like to see my own beast
cared for.” “So do I,” said Cadfael warmly, checking
to let the stranger fall into step beside him. “It’s a lifetime’s habit. If you
learn it young you never lose it.” They matched strides neatly, being of the
same modest stature. In the stable yard an abbey groom was rubbing down a tall
chestnut horse with a white blaze down his forehead, and hissing gently and
contentedly to him as he worked. “Yours?” said Cadfael, eyeing the beast
appreciatively. “Mine,” said Rafe of Coventry briefly, and
himself took the cloth from the groom’s hand. “My thanks, friend! I’ll take him
myself now. Where may I stable him?” And he inspected the stall the groom
indicated, with a long, comprehensive glance round and a nod of satisfaction.
“You keep a good stable here, Brother, I see. No offence that I prefer to do my
own grooming. Travellers are not always so well provided, and as you said, it’s
habit.” “You travel alone?” said Cadfael, busy
unsaddling but with a sharp eye on his companion all the same. The belt that
circled Rafe’s hips was made to carry sword and dagger. No doubt he had shed
both in the guest hall with his cloak and gear. A falconer is not easily fitted
into a category where travel is concerned. A merchant would have had at least
one able-bodied servant with him for protection, probably more. A soldier would
be self-sufficient, as this man chose to be, and carry the means of protecting
himself. “I travel fast,” said Rafe simply.
“Numbers drag. If a man depends only on himself, there’s no one can let him
fall.” “You’ve ridden far?” “From Warwick.” A man of few words and no
curiosity, this falconer of the earl’s. Or did that quite hold good? Concerning
the search for the lost boy he showed no disposition to ask questions, but he
was taking a measured interest in the stables and the horses they held. Even
after he had satisfied himself of his own beast’s welfare, he still stood
looking round him at the rest with a keen professional eye. The mules and the
working horses he passed by, but halted at the pale roan that had belonged to
Drogo Bosiet. That was understandable enough in a lover of good horseflesh, for
the roan was a handsome animal and clearly from stock of excellent quality. “Can your house afford such bloodstock?”
He passed a hand approvingly over the glossy shoulder and stroked between the
pricked ears. “Or does this fellow belong to a guest?” “He did,” said Cadfael, himself sparing of
words. “He did? How is that?” Rafe had turned
alertly to stare, and in the unrevealing face the eyes were sharp and intent. “The man who owned him is dead. He’s lying
in our mortuary chapel this moment.” The old brother had gone to his rest in
the cemetery that same morning, Drogo had the chapel to himself now. “What kind of man was that? And how did he
die?” On this head he had questions enough to ask, startled out of his
detachment and indifference. “We found him dead in the forest, a few
miles from here, with a knife wound in his back. And robbed.” Cadfael was never
quite sure why he himself had become so reticent at this point, and why, for
instance, he did not simply name the dead man. And had his companion persisted,
as would surely have been natural enough, he would have answered freely. But
there the questioning stopped. Rafe shrugged off the implied perils of
riding alone in the forests of the border shires, and closed the low door of
the stall on his contented horse. “I’ll bear it in mind. Go well armed, I say,
or keep to the highroads.” He dusted his hands and turned towards the gateway
of the yard. “Well, I’ll go and make ready for supper.” And he was off at a
purposeful walk, but not immediately towards the guest hall. Instead, he
crossed to the archway of the cloister, and entered there. Cadfael found something
so significant in that arrow-straight progress towards the church that he
followed, candidly curious and officiously helpful, and finding Rafe of
Coventry standing hesitant by the parish altar, looking round him at the
multiplicity of chapels contained in transepts and chevet, directed him with
blunt simplicity to the one he was looking for. “Through here. The arch is low, but you’re
my build, no need to stoop your head.” Rafe made no effort to disguise or
disclaim his purpose, or to reject Cadfael’s company. He gave him one calm,
considering look, nodded his acknowledgements, and followed. And in the stony
chill and dimming light of the chapel he crossed at once to the bier where
Drogo Bosiet’s body lay reverently covered, with candles burning at head and
feet, and lifted the cloth from the dead face. Very briefly he studied the
fixed and pallid features, and again covered them, and the movements of his
hands as they replaced the cloth had lost their urgency and tension. He had
time even for simple human awe at the presence of death. “You don’t, by any chance, know him?”
asked Cadfael. “No, I never saw him before. God rest his
soul!” And Rafe straightened up from stooping over the bier, and drew a
liberating breath. Whatever his interest in the body had been, it was over. “A man of property, by the name of Drogo
Bosiet, from Northamptonshire. His son is expected here any day now.” “Do you tell me so? A bleak coming that
will be for him.” But the words he used now were coming from the surface of his
mind only, and answers concerned him scarcely at all. “Have you many guests at
this season? Of my own years and condition, perhaps? I should enjoy a game of
chess in the evening, if I can find a partner.” If he had lost interest in Drogo Bosiet,
it seemed he was still concerned to know of any others who might have come here
as travellers. Any of his own years and condition! “Brother Denis could give you a match,”
said Cadfael, deliberately obtuse. “No, it’s a quiet time with us. You’ll find
the hall half-empty.” They were approaching the steps of the guest hall, side
by side and easy together, and the late afternoon light, overcast and still,
was beginning to dim into the dove grey of evening. “This man who was struck down in the
forest,” said Rafe of Coventry. “Your sheriff will surely have the hounds out
after an outlaw so near the town. Is there suspicion of any man for the deed?” “There is,” said Cadfael, “though there’s
no certainty. A newcomer in these parts, who’s missing from his master’s
service since the attack.” And he added, innocently probing without seeming to
probe: “A young fellow he is, maybe twenty years old…” Not of Rafe’s years or
condition, no! And of no interest to him, for he merely nodded his acceptance
of the information, and by the indifference of his face as promptly discarded
it. “Well, God speed their hunting!” he said,
dismissing Hyacinth’s guilt or innocence as irrelevant to whatever he had on
that closed and armoured mind of his. At the foot of the guest hall steps he
turned in, surely to examine, thought Cadfael, every man of middle years who
would come to supper in hall. Looking for one in particular? Whose name, since
he did not ask for names, would be unhelpful, because false? One, at any rate,
who was not Drogo Bosiet of Northamptonshire! Chapter Eight HUGH CAME TO THE MANOR OF EATON early in
the morning, with six mounted men at his back, and a dozen more deployed behind
him between the river and the highroad, to sweep the expanse of field and
forest from Wroxeter to Eyton and beyond. For a fugitive murderer they might
have to turn the hunt westward, but Richard must surely be somewhere here in
this region, if he had indeed set out to warn Hyacinth of the vengeance bearing
down on him. Hugh’s party had followed the direct road from the Abbey Foregate
to Wroxeter, an open, fast track, and thence by the most direct path into the
forest, to Cuthred’s cell, where Richard would have expected to find Hyacinth.
By young Edwin’s account he had been only a few minutes ahead of Bosiet, he
would have made all haste and taken the shortest and fastest way. But he had
never reached the hermitage. “The boy Richard?” said the hermit, astonished.
“You did not ask me of him yesterday, only of the man. No, Richard did not
come. I remember the young lord well, God grant no harm has come to him! I did
not know he was lost.” “And you’ve seen nothing of him since?
It’s two nights now he’s been gone.” “No, I have not seen him. My doors are
always open, even by night,” said Cuthred, “and I am always here if any man
needs me. Had the child been in any peril or distress within reach of me, he
would surely have come running here. But I have not seen him.” It was simple truth that both doors stood
wide, and the sparse furnishings of both living room and chapel were clear to
view. “If you should get any word of him,” said Hugh, “send to me, or to the
abbey, or if you should see my men drawing these coverts round you—as you will
give them the message.” “I will do so,” said Cuthred gravely, and
stood at the open gateway of his little garden to watch them ride away towards
Eaton. John of Longwood came striding out from
one of the long barns lining the stockade, as soon as he heard the dull
drumming of many hooves on the beaten earth of the yard. His bare arms and
balding crown were the glossy brown of oak timber, for he spent most of his
time out and active in all weathers, and there was no task about the holding to
which he could not turn his hand. He stared at sight of Hugh’s men riding in
purposefully at the gate, but in wonder and curiosity rather than
consternation, and came readily to meet them. “Well, my lord, what’s afoot with
you so early?” He had already taken in the significance of their array. No
hounds, no hawks, but steel by their sides, and two of them archers shouldering
bows. This was another kind of hunt. “We’ve had no trouble hereabouts. What’s
the word from Shrewsbury?” “We’re looking for two defaulters,” said
Hugh briskly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard we have a man murdered between
here and the town, two nights ago. And the hermit’s boy is fled, and suspect of
being the man’s runaway villein, with good reason to make away with him and run
for the second time. That’s the one quarry we’re after.” “Oh, ay, we’d heard about him,” said John
readily, “but I doubt he’s a good few miles from here by this time. We’ve not
seen hide or hair of him since late that afternoon, when he was here to fetch
some honey cakes our dame had for Cuthred. She was not best pleased with him,
neither, I heard her scolding. And for sure he was an impudent rogue. But the
start he’s had, I fancy you won’t see him again. I never saw him carry steel,
though,” said John by way of a fair-minded afterthought, and frowned over the
resultant doubt. “There’s a chance at least that some other put an end to his
master. The threat to haul him back to villeinage would be enough to make the
lad take to his heels, the faster the better. In unknown country his lord would
be hard put to it to track him down. No need, surely, to kill him. Small
inducement to stay and take the risk.” “The fellow’s neither convicted nor
charged yet,” said Hugh, “nor can be until he’s taken. But neither can he be
cleared until then. And either way I want him. But we’re after another runaway,
too, John. Your lady’s grandson, Richard, rode out of the abbey precinct that
same evening, and hasn’t come back.” “The young lord!” echoed John, stricken
open-mouthed with astonishment and consternation. “Two nights gone, and only
now we get to hear of it? God help us, she’ll run mad! What happened? Who
fetched the lad away?” “No one fetched him. He up and saddled his
pony and off he went, alone, of his own will. And what’s befallen him since
nobody knows. And since one of the pair I’m seeking may be a murderer, I’m
leaving no barn un-ransacked and no house unvisited, and with orders to every
man to keep a sharp lookout for Richard, too. Granted you’re a good steward,
John, not even you can know what mouse has crept into every byre and sheep fold
and storehouse on the manor of Eaton. And that’s what I mean to know, here and
everywhere between here and Shrewsbury. Go in and tell Dame Dionisia I’m asking
to speak with her.” John shook his head helplessly, and went. Hugh dismounted,
and advanced to the foot of the stairs that led up to the hall door, above the
low undercroft, waiting to see how Dionisia would bear herself when she emerged
from the broad doorway above. If she really had not heard of the boy’s
disappearance until this moment, when her steward would certainly tell her, he
could expect a fury, fuelled all the more by genuine dismay and grief. If she
had, then she had had time to prepare herself to present a fury, but even so
she might let slip something that would betray her. As for John, his honesty
was patent. If she had the boy hidden away, John had had no part in it. He was
not an instrument she would have used for such a purpose, for he was stubbornly
determined to be Richard’s steward rather than hers. She came surging out from the shadow of
the doorway, blue skirts billowing, imperious eyes smouldering. “What’s this I
hear, my lord? It surely cannot be true! Richard missing?” “It is true, madam,” said Hugh watching
her intently, and undisturbed by the fact of having to look up to do it, as
indeed he would have had to do even if she had come darting down the steps to
his level, for she was taller than he. “Since the night before last he’s been
gone from the abbey school.” She flung up her clenched hands with an
indignant cry. “And only now am I told of it! Two nights gone! Is that the care
they take of their children? And these are the people who deny me the charge of
my own flesh and blood! I hold the abbot responsible for whatever distress or
harm has come to my grandson. The guilt is on his head. And what are you doing,
my lord, to recover the child? Two days you tell me he’s been lost, and late
and laggard you come to let me know of it…” The momentary hush fell only
because she had to stop to draw breath, standing with flashing eyes at the head
of the steps, tall and greying fair and formidable, her long patrician face
suffused with angry blood. Hugh took ruthless advantage of the lull,
while it lasted, for it would not last long. “Has Richard been here?” he
demanded bluntly, challenging her show of furious deprivation and loss. She caught her breath, standing
open-mouthed. “Here! No, he did not come here. Should I be thus distraught if
he had?” “You would have sent word to the abbot, no
doubt,” said Hugh guilelessly, “if he had come running home? They are no less
anxious about him at the abbey. And he rode away alone, of his own will. Where
should we first look for him but here? But you tell me he is not here, has not
been here. And his pony has not come wandering home to his old stable?” “He has not, or I should have been told at
once. If he’d come home riderless,” she said, her nostrils flaring, “I would
have had every man who is mine scouring the woods for Richard.” “My men are busy this minute doing that
very thing,” said Hugh. “But by all means turn out Richard’s people to add to
the number, and welcome. The more the better. Since it seems we’ve drawn
blank,” he said, still thoughtfully studying her face, “and after all, he is
not here.” “No,” she blazed, “he is not here! No, he
has not been here! Though if he left of his own will, as you claim, perhaps he
meant to come home to me. And for whatever has befallen him on the way I hold
Radulfus to blame. He is not fit to have charge of a noble child, if he cannot
take better care of him.” “I will tell him so,” said Hugh
obligingly, and went on with aggravating mildness: “My present duty is to
continue the search, then, both for Richard and for the thief who killed an
abbey guest in Eyton forest. You need not fear, madam, that my search will not
be thorough. Since I cannot expect you to make daily rounds of every corner of
your grandson’s manor, no doubt you’ll be glad to allow me free access
everywhere, to do that service for you. You’ll wish to set the example to your
tenants and neighbours.” She gave him a long, long, hostile look, and as
suddenly whirled on John of Longwood, who stood impassive and neutral at her
elbow. In the gale of her movements her long skirt lashed like the tail of an
angry cat. “Open my doors to these officers. All my doors! Let them satisfy themselves
I’m neither harbouring a murderer nor hiding my own flesh and blood here. Let
all our tenants know it’s my will they should submit to search as freely as I
do. My lord sheriff,” she said, looking down with immense dignity upon Hugh,
“enter and search wherever you wish.” He thanked her with unabashed civility,
and if she saw the glint in his eye, that just fell short of becoming an open
smile, she scorned to acknowledge it, but turned her straight back and withdrew
with a rapid and angry gait into the hall, leaving him to a search he already
felt must prove fruitless. But there was no certainty, and if she had
calculated that such a rash and sweeping invitation would be taken as proof,
and send them away satisfied, even shamefaced, she was much deceived. Hugh set
to work to probe every corner of Dionisia’s hall and solar, kitchens and
stores, examined every cask and handcart and barrel in the undercroft, every
byre and barn and stable that lined the stockade, the smith’s workshop, every
loft and larder, and moved outward into the fields and sheep folds, and thence
to the huts of every tenant and cotter and villein on Richard’s land. But they
did not find Richard. Brother Cadfael rode for Eilmund’s assart
in the middle of the afternoon, with the new crutches Brother Simon had cut to
the forester’s measure slung alongside, good, sturdy props to bear a solid
weight. The fracture appeared to be knitting well, the leg was straight and not
shortened. Eilmund was not accustomed to lying by inactive, and was jealous of
any other hands tending his woodlands. Once he got hold of these aids Annet
would have trouble keeping him in. It was in Cadfael’s mind that her father’s
helplessness had afforded her an unusual measure of freedom to pursue her own
feminine ploys, no doubt innocent enough, but what Eilmund would make of them
when he found out was another matter. Approaching the village of Wroxeter,
Cadfael met with Hugh riding back towards the town, after a long day in the
saddle. Beyond, in fields and woodlands, his officers were still methodically
combing every grove and every headland, but Hugh was bound back to the castle
alone, to collect together whatever reports had been brought in, and consider
how best to cover the remaining ground, and how far the search must be extended
if it had not yet borne fruit. “No,” said Hugh, answering the unasked question
almost as soon as they were within hail of each other, “she has not got him. By
all the signs she did not even know you’d lost him until I brought the word, though
it’s no great trick, I know, for any woman to put on such an exclaiming show.
But we’ve parted every stalk of straw in her barns, and what we’ve missed must
be too small ever to be found. No black pony in the stables. Not a soul but
tells the same story, from John of Longwood down to the smith’s boy. Richard is
not there. Not in any cottage or byre in this village. The priest turned out
his house for us, and went with us round the manor, and he’s an honest man.” Cadfael nodded sombre confirmation of his
own doubts. “I had a feeling there might be more to it than that. It would be
worth trying yonder at Wroxeter, I suppose. Not that I see Fulke Astley as a
likely villain, he’s too fat and too cautious.” “I’m just come from there,” said Hugh.
“Three of my men are still prodding into the last corners, but I’m satisfied
he’s not there, either. We’ll miss no one manor, cottage, assart, all. Of what
falls alike on them all none of them can well complain. Though Astley did
bristle at letting us in. A matter of his seigneurial dignity, for there was
nothing there to find.” “The pony,” said Cadfael, gnawing a
considering lip, “must be shut away somewhere.” “Unless,” said Hugh sombrely, “the other
fugitive has ridden him hard out of the shire, and left the boy in such case
that he cannot bear witness even when we find him.” They stared steadily upon each other,
mutely admitting that it was a black and bitter possibility, but one that could
not be altogether banished. “The child ran off to him, if that is
indeed what he did,” Hugh pursued doggedly, “without saying a word to any
other. How if it was indeed to a rogue and murderer he went, in all innocence?
The cob is a sturdy little beast, big for Richard, the hermit’s boy a light
weight, and Richard the only witness. I don’t say it is so. I do say such
things have happened, and could happen again.” “True, I would not dispute it,” admitted
Cadfael. There was that in his tone that caused
Hugh to say with certainty: “But you do not believe it.” It was something of
which Cadfael himself had been less certain until that moment. “Do you feel
your thumbs pricking? I know better than to ignore the omen if you do,” said
Hugh with a half-reluctant smile. “No, Hugh.” Cadfael shook his head. “I
know nothing that isn’t known to you, I am nobody’s advocate in this
matter—except Richard’s—I’ve barely exchanged a word with this boy Hyacinth,
never seen him but twice, when he brought Cuthred’s message to chapter and when
he came to fetch me to the forester. All I can do is keep my eyes open between
here and Eilmund’s house, and that you may be sure I shall do—perhaps even do a
little beating of the bushes myself along the way. If I have anything to tell,
be sure you’ll hear it before any other. Be it good or ill, but God and Saint Winifred
grant us good news!” On that promise they parted, Hugh riding
on to the castle to receive whatever news the watch might have for him thus
late in the afternoon, Cadfael moving on through the village towards the edge
of the woodland. He was in no hurry. He had much to think about. Strange how
the very act of admitting that the worst was possible had so instantly
strengthened his conviction that it had not happened and would not happen.
Stranger still that as soon as he had stated truthfully that he knew nothing of
Hyacinth, and had barely spoken a word to him, he should find himself so
strongly persuaded that very soon that lack might be supplied, and he would
learn, if not everything, all that he needed to know. Eilmund had regained his healthy colour,
welcomed company eagerly, and could not be restrained from trying out his
crutches at once. Four or five days cooped up indoors was a sore test of his
temper, but the relief of being able to hurple vigorously out into the garden,
and finding himself a fast learner in the art of using his new legs, brought
immediate sunny weather with him. When he had satisfied himself of his
competence, he sat down willingly, at Annet’s orders, to share a supper with
Cadfael. “Though by rights I ought to be getting
back,” said Cadfael, “now I know how well you’re doing. The bone seems to be
knitting straight and true as a lance, and you’ll not need me here harrying you
every day. And speaking of inconvenient visitors, have you had Hugh Beringar or
his men here today searching the woods around? You’ll have heard before now
they’re hunting Cuthred’s boy Hyacinth for suspicion of killing his master? And
there’s young Richard missing, too.” “We heard of the both only last night,”
said Eilmund. “Yes, they were here this morning, a long line of the garrison
men working their way along every yard of the forest between road and river.
They even looked in my byre and henhouse. Will Warden grumbled himself it was
needless folly, but he had his orders. Why waste time, he says, aggravating a
good fellow we all know to be honest, but it’s as much as my skin’s worth to
leave out a single hut or let my beaters pass by a solitary bush, with his
lordship’s sharp eye on us all. Do you know, have they found the child?” “No, not yet. He’s not at Eaton, that’s
certain. If it’s any comfort, Eilmund, Dame Dionisia had to open her doors to
the search, too. Noble and simple, they’ll all fare alike.” Annet waited upon them in silence,
bringing cheese and bread to the table. Her step was as light as always, her
face as calm, only at the mention of Richard did her face cloud over in anxious
sympathy. There was no knowing what went on behind her composed face, but
Cadfael hazarded his own guesses. He took his leave in good time, against
Eilmund’s hospitable urgings. “I’ve been missing too many services, these last
days, I’d best get back to my duty, and at least put in an appearance for
Compline tonight. I’ll come in and see you the day after tomorrow. You take
care how you go. And, Annet, don’t let him stay on his feet too long. If he
gives you trouble, take his props away from him.” She laughed and said that she would, but
her mind, Cadfael thought, was only half on what she said, and she had not made
any move to second her father’s protest at such an early departure. Nor did she
come out to the gate with him this time, but only as far as the door, and there
stood to watch him mount, and waved when he looked back before beginning to
thread the narrow path between the trees. Only when he had vanished did she
turn and go back into the cottage. Cadfael did not go far. A few hundred yards
into the woods there was a hollow of green surrounded by a deep thicket, and
there he dismounted and tethered his horse, and made his way back very quietly
and circumspectly to a place from which he could see the house door without
himself being seen. The light was dimming gently into the soft green of dusk,
and the hush was profound, only the last birdsong broke the forest silence. In a few minutes Annet came out to the
door again, and stood for a little while braced and still, her head alertly
reared, looking all round the clearing and listening intently. Then, satisfied,
she set off briskly out of the fenced garden and round to the rear of the
cottage. Cadfael circled with her in the cover of the trees. Her hens were
already securely shut in for the night, the cow was in the byre; from these
customary evening tasks Annet had come back a good hour ago, while her father
was trying out his crutches in the grassy levels of the clearing. It seemed
there was one more errand she had to do before the full night came down and the
door was closed and barred. And she went to it at a light and joyous run, her
hands spread to part the bushes on either side as she reached the edge of the clearing,
her light brown hair shaking loose from its coil and dancing on her shoulders,
her head tilted back as though she looked up into the trees, darkening now over
her head and dropping, silently and moistly, the occasional withered leaf, the
tears of the aging year. She was not going far. No more than a hundred paces
into the woods she halted, poised still in the same joyous attitude of flight,
under the branches of the first of the ancient oaks, still in full but
tarnished leafage. Cadfael, not far behind her in the shelter of the trees, saw
her throw back her head and send a high, melodious whistle up into the crown of
the tree. From somewhere high above a soft shimmering of leaves answered,
dropping through the branches as an acorn might fall, and in a moment the
descending shiver of movement reached the ground in the shape of a young man
sudden and silent as a cat, who swung by his hands from the lowest bough and
dropped lightly on his feet at Annet’s side. As soon as he touched ground they
were in each other’s arms. So he had not been mistaken. The two of them had
barely set eyes on each other when they fell to liking, blessed as they were
with the good ground of his services to her father. With Eilmund laid up
helpless in the house she could go freely about her own secret business of
hiding and feeding a fugitive, but what would they do now that the forester was
likely to be up and about, however limited his range must remain? Was it fair
to present her father with such a problem in loyalties, and he an official
involved with law, if only forest law? But there they stood linked, as candidly
as children, with such a suggestion of permanence about their embrace that it
surely would take more than father or lord or law or king to disentangle them.
With her long mane of hair loosed, and her feet bare, and Hyacinth’s classic
elegance of shape and movement, and fierce, disquieting beauty, they might have
been two creatures bred out of the ancient forest, faun and nymph out of a
profane but lovely fable. Not even the gathering twilight could dim their
brightness. Well, thought Cadfael, surrendering to the
vision, if this is what we have to deal with, from this we must go on, for
there’s no going back. And he stepped rustling out of the bushes, and walked
towards them without conceal. They heard him and sprang round instantly with
heads reared, cheek to cheek, like deer scenting danger. They saw him, and
Annet flung out her arms and shut Hyacinth behind her against the bole of the
tree, her face blanched and sharp as a sword, and as decisively Hyacinth
laughed, lifted her bodily aside, and stepped before her. “As if I needed the proof!” said Cadfael,
to afford them whatever reassurance his voice might convey, and he halted
without coming too close, though they knew already there was no point in
running. “I’m not the law. If you’ve done no wrong you’ve nothing to fear from
me.” “It takes a bolder man than I am,” said
Hyacinth’s clear voice softly, “to claim he’s done no wrong.” Even in the
dimming light his sudden, unnerving smile shone perceptibly for a moment. “But
I’ve done no murder, if that’s what you mean. Brother Cadfael, is it?” “It is.” He looked from one roused and
wary face to the other, and saw that they were breathing a little more easily
and every moment less tensed for flight or attack. “Lucky for you they brought
no hounds with them this morning. Hugh never likes to hunt a man with hounds.
I’m sorry, lad, if my visit tonight kept you fretting longer than you need have
done in your nest up there. I hope you spend your nights in better comfort.” At that they both smiled, still somewhat
cautiously and with eyes alert and wild, but they said nothing. “And where did you hide through the
sergeant’s search, that they never got wind of you at all?” Annet made up her mind, with the same
thorough practical resolution with which she did everything. She stirred and
shook herself, the glossy cloak of her hair billowing into a pale cloud about
her head. She drew breath deeply, and laughed. “If you must know, he was under
the brychans of Father’s bed, while Will Warden sat on the bench opposite
drinking ale with us, and his men peered in among my hens and forked through
the hay in the loft, outside. You thought, I believe,” she said, coming close
to Cadfael and drawing Hyacinth after her by the hand, “that Father was in
ignorance of what I was doing. Did you hold that against me, even a little? No
need, he knows all, has known it from the beginning, or at least from the
moment this manhunt began. And now that you’ve found us out, had we not better
all go into the house, and see what our four heads can come up with for the
future, to get us all out of this tangle?” “They’ll not come here again,” said
Eilmund comfortably, presiding over this meeting in his house from the throne
of his bed, the same bed under which Hyacinth had couched secure in the
presence of the hunters. “But if they do, we’ll know of it in time. Never twice
the same hiding place.” “And never once any qualms that you might
be hiding a murderer?” asked Cadfael, hopeful of being convinced. “No need for any! From the start of it I
knew I was not. And you shall know it, too. I’m talking of proof positive,
Cadfael, not a mere matter of faith, though faith’s no mere matter, come to
that. You were here last night, it was on your way back you found the man dead,
and dead no more than an hour when you found him. Do you say aye to that?” “More than willingly, if it helps your
proof along.” “And you left me when Annet here came back
from doing the work that keeps her busy in the evening. You’ll call to mind I
said she’d been long enough about it, and so she had, well above an hour. For
good reason, she’d been meeting with this youngster here, and whatever they
were about, they were in no hurry about it, which won’t surprise you greatly, I
daresay. In short, these two were together in the woods a mile or so from here
from the time she left you and me together, until she came back nigh on two
hours later. And there young Richard found them, and this lad she brought back
with her here, and ten minutes after you were gone she brought him in to me. No
murderer, for all that while he was with her, or me, or the both of us, and in
this house he slept that night. He never was near the man who was killed, and
we can swear to it.” “Then why have you not…” Cadfael began,
and as hastily caught himself back from the needless question, and held up a
hand to ward off the obvious answer. “No, say no word! I see very well why. My
wits are grown dull tonight. If you came forward to tell Hugh Beringar he’s
after a man proven innocent, true enough you could put that danger away from
him. But if one Bosiet is dead, there’s another expected at the abbey any day
now he may be there this minute, for all I know. As bad as his sire, so says
the groom, and he has good reason to know, he bears the marks of it. No, I see
how you’re bound.” Hyacinth sat in the rushes on the floor at
Annet’s feet, hugging his drawn up knees. He said without passion or emphasis,
but with the calm finality of absolute resolution: “I am not going back there.” “No, no more you shall!” said Eilmund
heartily. “You’ll understand, Cadfael, that when I took the lad in, there was
no question of murder at all. It was a runaway villein I chose to shelter, one
with good reason to run, and one that had done me the best of turns any man
could do for another. I liked him well, I would not for any cause have sent him
back to be misused. And then, when the cry of murder did arise, I had no call
to feel any differently, for I knew he had no part in it. It went against the
grain not to be able to go out and say so to sheriff and abbot and all, but you
see it was impossible. And the upshot of it is, here we are with the lad on our
hands, and how are we best to make sure of his safety?” Chapter Nine IT WAS ALREADY TAKEN FOR GRANTED by all of
them, it seemed, that Cadfael was on their side, and wholeheartedly a party to
their conspiracy. How could it be otherwise? Here was absolute proof that the
boy was no murderer, proof that could be laid in Hugh Beringar’s hands with
confidence in his justice, no question of that. But it could not be done
without exposing Hyacinth to the very danger from which he had escaped once,
and could hardly hope to escape a second time. Hugh was bound by law as fast as
any man, even his gift for turning a blind eye and a deaf ear would not help
Hyacinth if once Bosiet got wind of where he was and who was sheltering him. “Between us,” said Cadfael, though
somewhat dubiously, “we might be able to get you away out of the county and
into Wales, clean away from pursuit…” “No,” said Hyacinth firmly, “I won’t run.
I’ll hide for as long as I must, but I won’t run any further. It’s what I meant
to do, when I set off this way, but I’ve changed my mind.” “Why?” demanded Cadfael simply. “For two good reasons. One, because
Richard’s lost, and Richard saved my skin for me by bringing warning, and I’m
his debtor until I know he’s safe, and back where he should be. And two,
because I want my freedom here in England, here in Shrewsbury, and I mean to
get work in the town when I can with safety, and earn my living, and take a
wife.” He looked up with a bright, challenging flash of his amber eyes at
Eilmund, and smiled. “If Annet will have me!” “You’d best ask my leave about that,” said
Eilmund, but with such good humour that it was plain the idea was not entirely
new to him, nor necessarily unwelcome. “So I will, when the time comes, but I
would not offer you or her what I am and have now. So let that wait, but don’t
forget it,” warned the faun, gleaming. “But Richard I must find, I will find!
That’s first!” “What can you do,” said Eilmund
practically, “more than Hugh Beringar and all his men are doing? And you a
hunted man yourself, with the hounds close on your tail! You stay quiet like a
sensible lad, and hide your head until Bosiet’s hunt for you starts costing him
more even than his hatred’s worth. As it will, in the end. He has manors at
home now to think about.” But whether Hyacinth was, by ordinary standards, a
sensible lad was a matter for conjecture. He sat very still, in that taut,
suggestive way he had, that promised imminent action, the soft glow of Annet’s
fire glowing in the subtle planes of his cheeks and brow, turning his bronze to
gold. And Annet, beside him on the cushioned bench by the wall, had something
of the same quality. Her face was still, but her eyes were sapphire bright. She
let them talk about her in her presence, and felt no need to add a word on her
own account, nor did she so much as touch Hyacinth’s slender shoulder to
confirm her secure tenure. Whoever had doubts about Annet’s claims on the
future, Annet had none. “Richard left you as soon as he’d
delivered his warning?” asked Cadfael. “He did. Hyacinth wanted to go with him to
the edge of the wood,” said Annet, “but he wouldn’t have it. He wouldn’t stir
unless Hyacinth went into hiding at once, so we promised. And he set off back
along the track. And we came back here to Father, as he’s told you, and saw no
one else along the way. Richard would not have gone anywhere near Eaton, or I’d
have thought his grandmother might have taken him. But he was bent on getting
back to his bed.” “It was what we all thought,” owned
Cadfael, “not least Hugh Beringar. But he was there early and turned the place
wrong side out, and the boy is not there. I think John of Longwood and half the
household beside would have told if he’d been seen there. Dame Dionisia is a
formidable lady, but Richard is the lord of Eaton, it’s his bidding they’ll
have to do in the future, not hers. If they dared not speak out before her
face, they’d have done it softly behind her back. No, he is not there.” It was long past time for Vespers. Even if
he started back now he would be too late for Compline, but still he sat
stubbornly going over this whole new situation in his mind, looking for the
best way forward, where there seemed to be nothing to be done but wait, and
continue to evade the hunt. He was grateful that Hyacinth was no murderer, that
at least was a gain. But how to keep him out of the hands of Bosiet was another
matter. “For God’s sake, boy,” he said, sighing,
“what was it you did to your overlord, there in Northamptonshire, to get
yourself so bitterly hated? Did you indeed assault his steward?” “I did,” acknowledged Hyacinth with
satisfaction, and a red reminiscent spark kindled in his eyes. “It was after
the last of the harvest, and there was a girl gleaning in the poor leavings in
one of the demesne fields. There never was a girl safe from him if he came on
her alone. It was only by chance I was near. He had a staff, and dropped her to
swing at my head with it when I came at him. I got a few bruises, but I laid
him flat against the stones under the headland, clean out of his wits. So there
was nothing I could do but run for it. I’d nothing to leave, no land. Drogo
distrained on my father two years before, when he was in his last illness and I
had all to do, our fields and Bosiet’s harvest labour, and we ended in debt.
He’d been after us a long while, he said I was for ever rousing his villeins
against him… Well, if I was it was for their rights. There are laws to defend
life and limb even for villeins, but they meant precious little in Bosiet’s
manors. He’d have had me half-killed for attacking the steward. He’d have had
me hanged if I hadn’t been profitable to him. It was the chance he’d been
waiting for.” “How were you profitable to him?” asked
Cadfael. “I had a turn for fine leather-work belts,
harness, pouches, and the like. When he’d made me landless he offered to leave
me the toft if I’d bind myself to turn over all my work to him for my keep. I’d
no choice, I was still his villein. But I began to do finer tooling and
gilding. He wanted to get some favour out of the earl once, and he had me make
a book cover to give him as a present. And then the prior of the Augustinian
canons at Huntingdon saw it, and ordered a special binding for their great
codex, and the sub-prior of Cluny at Northampton wanted his best missal
rebound, and so it grew. And they paid well, but I got nothing out of it. Drogo’s
done well out of me. That’s the other reason he wanted me back alive. And so
will his son Aymer want me.” “If you have a trade the like of that at
your finger-ends,” said Eilmund approvingly, “you can make your way anywhere,
once you’re free of these Bosiets. Our abbot might very well put some work your
way, and some town merchant would be glad to have you in his employ.” “Where and how did you meet with Cuthred?”
asked Cadfael, curiously. “That was at the Cluniac priory in
Northampton. I lay up for the night there, but I dared not go into the enclave,
there were one or two there who knew me. I got food by sitting with the beggars
at the gate, and when I was making off before dawn, Cuthred was for starting
too, having spent the night in the guest hall.” An abrupt dark smile plucked at
the corners of Hyacinth’s eloquent lips. He kept his startling eyes veiled
under their high-arched golden lids. “He proposed we should travel together.
Out of charity, surely. Or so that I should not have to thieve for my food, and
sink into a worse condition even than before.” As abruptly he looked up,
unveiling the full brilliance of wide eyes fixed full and solemnly on Eilmund’s
face. The smile had vanished. “It’s time you knew the worst of me, I want no
lies among this company. I came this way owing the world nothing, and ripe for
any mischief, and a rogue and a vagabond I could be, and a thief I have been at
need. Before you shelter me another hour, you should know what cause you have
to think better of it. Annet,” he said, his voice soft and assuaged on her
name, “already knows what you must know too. You have that right. I told her
the truth the night Brother Cadfael was here to set your bone.” Cadfael remembered the motionless figure
sitting patiently outside the cottage, the urgent whisper: “I must speak to
you!” And Annet coming out into the dark, and closing the door after her. “It was I,” said Hyacinth with steely
deliberation, “who dammed the brook with bushes so that your seedlings were
flooded. It was I who undercut the bank and bridged the ditch so that the deer
got into the coppice. It was I who shifted a pale of the Eaton fence to let out
the sheep to the ash saplings. I had my orders from Dame Dionisia to be a thorn
in the flesh to the abbey until they gave her her grandson back. That was why
she set up Cuthred in his hermitage, to put me there as his servant. And I knew
nothing then of any of you, and cared less, and I was not going to quarrel with
what provided me a comfortable living and a safe refuge until I could do
better. It’s my doing, more’s the pity, that the worse thing happened, and the
tree came down on you and pinned you in the brook, my doing that you’re lamed
and housebound here though that slip came of itself, I didn’t touch it again.
So now you know,” said Hyacinth, “and if you see fit to take the skin off my
back for it, I won’t lift a hand to prevent, and if you throw me out
afterwards, I’ll go.” He reached up a hand to Annet’s hand and added flatly:
“But not far!” There was a long pause while two of them
sat staring at him, intently and silently, and Annet watched them no less
warily, all of them withholding judgement. No one had exclaimed against him, no
one had interrupted this half-defiant confession. Hyacinth’s truth was used
like a dagger, and his humility came very close to arrogance. If he was
ashamed, it did not show in his face. Yet it could not have been easy to strip
himself thus of the consideration and kindness father and daughter had shown
him. If he had not spoken, clearly Annet would have said no word. And he had
not pleaded, nor attempted any extenuation. He was ready to take what was due
without complaint. Doubtful if anyone, however eloquent or terrible a
confessor, would ever get this elusive creature nearer to penitence than this. Eilmund stirred, settling his broad
shoulders more easily against the wall, and blew out a great, gusty breath.
“Well, if you brought the tree down on me, you also hoisted it off me. And if
you think I’d give up a runaway villein to slavery again because he’d played a
few foul tricks on me, you’re not well acquainted with my simple sort. I fancy
the fright I gave you that day was all the thrashing you needed. And since then
you’ve done me no more injury, for from all I hear there’s been quiet in the
woods from that day. I doubt if the lady’s satisfied with her bargain. You show
sense, and stay where you are.” “I told him,” said Annet, confidently
smiling, “you would not pay back injury for injury. I never said a word, I knew
he would out with it himself. And Brother Cadfael knows now Hyacinth’s no
murderer, and has owned to the worst he knows about himself. There’s not one of
us here will betray him.” No, not one! But Cadfael sat somewhat
anxiously pondering what could best be done now. Betrayal was impossible,
certainly, but the hunt would go on, and might well drag all these woods over
again, and in the meantime Hugh, in his natural concentration on this most
likely quarry, might be losing all likelihood of finding the real murderer.
Even Drogo Bosiet was entitled to justice, however he infringed the rights of
others. Withholding from Hugh the certainty and proof of Hyacinth’s innocence
might be delaying the reassessment that would set in motion the pursuit of the
guilty. “Will you trust me, and let me tell Hugh
Beringar what you have told me? Give me leave,” urged Cadfael hastily, seeing
their faces stiffen in consternation, “to deal with him privately—” “No!” Annet laid her hand possessively on
Hyacinth’s shoulder, burning up like a stirred fire. “No, you can’t give him
up! We have trusted you, you can’t fail us.” “No, no, no, not that! I know Hugh well,
he would not willingly give up a villein to mistreatment, he is for justice
even before law. Let me tell him only that Hyacinth is innocent, and show him
the proof. I need say nothing as to how I know or where he is, Hugh will take
my word. Then he can hold off this search and leave you alone until it’s safe
for you to come forth and speak openly.” “No!” cried Hyacinth, on his feet in one
wild, smooth movement, his eyes two yellow flames of alarm and rejection. “Not
a word to him, never a word! If we’d thought you’d go to him we’d never have
let you in to us. He’s the sheriff, he must take Bosiet’s part—he has manors,
he has villeins of his own, do you think he’d ever side with me against my
legal lord? I should be dragged back at Aymer’s heels, and buried alive in his
prison.” Cadfael turned to Eilmund for help. “I
swear to you I can lift this suspicion from the lad by speaking with Hugh.
He’ll take my word and hold off from the hunt—withdraw his men, or send them
elsewhere. He has still Richard to find. Eilmund, you know Hugh Beringar better
than to doubt his fairness.” But no, Eilmund did not know him, not as
Cadfael knew him. The forester was shaking his head doubtfully. A sheriff is a
sheriff, pledged to law, and law is rigid and weighted, all in all, against the
peasant and the serf and the landless man. “He’s a decent, fair-minded man,
sure enough,” said Eilmund, “but I dare not stake this boy’s life on any king’s
officer. No, leave us keep as we are, Cadfael. Say nothing to any man, not
until Bosiet’s come and gone.” They were all linked against him. He did
his best, arguing quietly what ease it would be to know that the hunt would not
be pressed home against Hyacinth, that his innocence, once communicated privily
to Hugh, would set free the forces of law to look elsewhere for Drogo’s
murderer, and also allow them to press their search for Richard more
thoroughly, and with more resources, through these forests where the child had
vanished. But they had their arguments, too, and there was matter in them. “If you told the sheriff, even secretly,”
urged Annet, “and if he did believe you, he would still have Bosiet to deal
with. His father’s man will tell him it’s as good as certain his runaway is
somewhere here in hiding, murderer or no. He’ll go the length of using hounds,
if the sheriff draws his men off. No, say nothing to anyone, not yet. Wait
until they give up and go home. Then we’ll come forth. Promise! Promise us
silence until then!” There was nothing to be done about it. He promised. They
had trusted him, and against their absolute prohibition he could not hold out.
He sighed and promised. It was very late when he rose at last, his
word given, to begin the night ride back to the abbey. He had given a promise
also to Hugh, never thinking how hard it might be to keep. He had said that if
he had anything to tell, Hugh should hear it before any other. A subtle, if
guileless, arrangement of words, through which a devious mind could find
several loopholes, but what he meant had been as clear to Hugh as it was to
Cadfael. And now he could not make it good. Not yet, not until Aymer Bosiet
should grow restive, count the costs of his vengeance, and think it better to
go home and enjoy his new inheritance instead. In the doorway he turned back to
ask of Hyacinth one last question, a sudden afterthought. “What of Cuthred?
With you two living so close—did he have any part in all this mischief of yours
in Eilmund’s forest?” Hyacinth stared at him gravely, in mild
surprise, his amber eyes wide and candid. “How could he?” he said simply. “He
never leaves his own pale.” Aymer Bosiet rode into the great court of
the abbey about noon of the next day, with a young groom at his back. Brother
Denis the hospitaller had orders to bring him to Abbot Radulfus as soon as he
arrived, for the abbot was unwilling to delegate to anyone else the task of
breaking to him the news of his father’s death. It was achieved with a delicacy
for which, it seemed, there was little need. The bereaved son sat silently
revolving the news and all its implications at length, and having apparently
digested and come to terms with it, expressed his filial grief very suitably,
but with his mind still engaged on side issues, a shrewdly calculating mind
behind a face less powerful and brutal than his father’s, but showing little
evidence of sorrow. He did frown over the event, for it involved troublesome
duties, such as commissioning coffin and cart and extra help for the journey
home, and making the best possible use of such time as he could afford here.
Radulfus had already had Martin Bellecote, the master carpenter in the town,
make a plain inner coffin for the body, which was not yet covered, since
doubtless Aymer would want to look upon his father’s face for a last time and
take his farewells. The bereaved son revolved the matter in
his mind, and asked point-blank and with sharp intent: “He had not found our
runaway villein?” “No,” said Radulfus, and if he was shaken
he contrived to contain the shock. “There was a suggestion that the young man
was in the neighbourhood, but no certainty that the youth in question was
really the one sought. And I believe now no one knows where he is gone.” “My father’s murderer is being sought?” “Very assiduously, with all the sheriffs
men.” “My villein also, I trust. Whether or
not,” said Aymer grimly, “the two turn out to be the same. The law is bound to
do all it can to recover my property for me. The rogue is a nuisance, but
valuable. For no price would I be willing to let him go free.” He bit off the
words with a vicious snap of large, strong teeth. He was as tall and long-boned
as his father, but carried less flesh, and was leaner in the face; but he had
the same shallowly-set eyes of an indeterminate, opaque colour, that seemed all
surface and no depth. Thirty years old, perhaps, and pleasurably aware of his
new status. Proprietorial satisfaction had begun to vibrate beneath the hard
level of his voice. Already he spoke of “my property’. That was one aspect of
his bereavement which certainly had not escaped him. “I shall want to see the
sheriff concerning this fellow who calls himself Hyacinth. If he has run, does
not that make it more likely he is indeed Brand? And that he had a hand in my
father’s death? There’s a heavy score against him already. I don’t intend to
let such a debt go unpaid.” “That is a matter for the secular law, not
for me,” said Radulfus with chill civility. “There is no proof of who killed the
lord Drogo, the thing is quite open. But the man is being sought. If you will
come with me, I’ll take you to the chapel where your father lies.” Aymer stood beside the open coffin on its
draped bier, and the light of the tall candles burning at Drogo’s head and feet
showed no great change in his son’s face. He gazed down with drawn brows, but
it was the frown of busy thought rather than grief or anger at such a death. “I feel it bitterly,” said the abbot,
“that a guest in our house should come to so evil an end. We have said Masses
for his soul, but other amends are out of my scope. I trust we may yet see
justice done.” “Indeed!” agreed Aymer, but so absently
that it was plain his mind was on other things. “I have no choice but to take
him home for burial. But I cannot go yet. This search cannot be so soon
abandoned. I must ride into the town this afternoon and see this master
carpenter of yours, and have him make an outer coffin and line it with lead,
and seal it. A pity, he could have lain just as properly here, but the men of
our house are all buried at Bosiet. My mother would not be content else.” He said it with a note of vexation in his
musings. But for the necessity of taking home a corpse he could have lingered
here for days to pursue his hunt for the escaped villein. Even as things stood
he meant to make the fullest use of his time, and Radulfus could not help
feeling that it was the villein he wanted most vindictively, not his father’s
murderer. By chance Cadfael happened to be crossing
the court when the newcomer took horse again, early in the afternoon. It was
his first glimpse of Drogo’s son, and he stopped and drew aside to study him
with interest. His identity was never in doubt, for the likeness was there,
though somewhat tempered in this younger man. The curiously shallow eyes, so
meanly diminished by their lack of the shadow and form deep sockets provide,
had the same flat malevolence, and his handling of horseflesh as he mounted was
more considerate by far than his manner towards his groom. The hand that held
his stirrup was clouted aside by the butt of his whip as soon as he was in the
saddle, and when Warin started back from the blow so sharply that the horse
took fright and clattered backwards on the cobbles, tossing up his head and snorting,
the rider swung the whip at the groom’s shoulders so readily and with so little
apparent anger or exasperation that it was plain this was the common currency
of his dealings with his underlings. He took only the younger groom with him
into the town, himself riding his father’s horse, which was fresh and spoiling
for exercise. No doubt Warin was only too glad to be left behind here in peace
for a few hours. Cadfael overtook the groom and fell into step beside him as he
turned back towards the stables. Warin looked round to show him a bruise
rapidly fading, but still yellow as old parchment, and a mouth still elongated
by the healing scar at one corner. “I’ve not seen you these two days,” said
Cadfael, eyeing the traces of old violence and alert for new. “Come round with
me into the herb garden, and let me dress that gash again for you. He’s safely
away for an hour or two, I take it, you can breathe easily. And it would do
with another treatment, though I see it’s clean now.” Warin hesitated only for a moment.
“They’ve taken the two fresh horses, and left me the others to groom. But they
can wait a while.” And he went willingly at Cadfael’s side, his lean person, a
little withered before its time, seeming to expand in his lord’s absence. In
the pleasant aromatic coolness of the workshop, under the faintly stirring
herbs that rustled overhead, he sat eased and content to let his injury be
bathed and anointed, and was in no hurry to get back to his horses even when
Cadfael had done with him. “He’s hotter even than the old one was on
Brand’s heels,” he said, shaking a helpless but sympathetic head over his
former neighbour’s fortunes. “Torn two ways, between wanting to hang him and
wanting to work him to death for greed, and it isn’t whether or not Brand killed
the old lord that will determine which way the cat jumps, for there was no
great love lost there, neither. Not much love in all that household to be
gained or lost. But good haters, every one.” “There are more of them?” Cadfael asked
with interest, “Drogo has left a widow?” “A poor pale lady, all the juice crushed
out of her,” answered Warin, “but better born than the Bosiets, and has
powerful kin, so they have to use her better than they use anyone else. And
Aymer has a younger brother. Not so loud nor so violent, but sharper witted and
better able to twist and turn. That’s all of them, but it’s enough.” “Neither one of them married?” “Aymer’s had one wife, but she was a
sickly thing and died young. There’s an heiress not far from Bosiet they both
fancy now—though by rights it’s her lands they fancy. And if Aymer is the heir,
Roger’s far the better at making himself agreeable. Not that it lasts beyond
when he gets his way.” It sounded a poor outlook for the girl, whichever of the
two got the better of the contest, but it also sounded one possible reason why
Aymer should not loiter here too long, or he might lose his advantages at home.
Cadfael felt encouraged. Absence from a newly-inherited honour might even be
dangerous, if there was a clever and treacherous younger brother left behind
there to make calculated use of his opportunities. Aymer would be bearing that
in mind, even while he grudged giving up his vindictive pursuit of Hyacinth.
Cadfael still could not think of the boy as Brand, the name he had chosen for
himself fitted him so much better. “I wonder,” said Warin, unexpectedly harking
back to the same elusive person, “where Brand really got to? Lucky for him we
did give him some grace—not that my lord intended it so!—for at first they
thought that a man with the skill he had at his finger-ends would surely make
for London, and we wasted a week or more searching all the roads south. We got
beyond Thame before one of his men came riding after us, saying Brand had been
seen in Northampton. If he’d started off northwards, Drogo reckoned he’d
continue so, and likely to bear west as he went, and make for Wales. I wonder
has he reached it. Even Aymer won’t follow him over the border.” “And you picked up no more sightings of
him along the way?” asked Cadfael. “No, never a trace. But we’re far out of
the country where anyone would know him, and not everybody wants to get tangled
into such a business. And he’ll have taken another name, for sure.” Warin rose,
refreshed but reluctant, to go back to his duties. “I hope it may stand him in
good stead. No matter what the Bosiets say, he was a decent lad.” Brother Winfrid was busy sweeping up
leaves under the orchard trees, for the moist autumn had caused them to fall
before they took their bright seasonal colouring, in a soft green rain that
rotted gently into the turf. Cadfael found himself alone and without occupation
after Warin had left him. The more reason to sit down quietly and think, and a
prayer or two wouldn’t come amiss, either, for the boy who had gone rushing off
on his black pony, on his self-appointed, mad and generous mission, for the
rash young man he had set out to save, even for the hard, malignant lordling
cut off without time for penitence or absolution, and bitterly in need of
grace. The bell for Vespers called him out of his
musings, and he went gladly to answer it, out through the gardens and across
the court to the cloister and the south door of the church, to be early in his
place. In the past few days he had missed all too many services, he was in need
of the reassurance of brotherhood. There were always a few of the people of the
Foregate at Vespers, the devout old women who inhabited some of the abbey’s
grace houses, elderly couples retired and happy to fill up their leisure and
meet their friends at church, and often guests of the house coming back from
the activities of the day. Cadfael heard them stirring beyond the parish altar,
in the vast spaces of the nave. Rafe of Coventry, he noted, had come in from
the cloister and chosen a place from which he could see within, past the parish
altar and into the choir. Kneeling at prayer, he had still that quiet composure
about him, a man secure and at peace with his own body, and wearing his
inscrutable face rather as a shield than as a mask. So he had not yet moved on
to contact those suppliers of his in Wales. He was the only worshipper from the
guest hall. Aymer Bosiet must be still about his funereal business in the town,
or else beating the coverts in field and forest somewhere after his runaway. The brothers came in and took their
places, the novices and schoolboys followed. There was a bitter reminder there,
for their numbers were still one short. There was no forgetting about Richard.
Until he was recovered there would be no peace of mind, no lightness of heart,
for any of those children. At the end of Vespers Cadfael lingered in his stall,
letting the procession of brothers and novices file out into the cloister
without him. The office had its beauty and consolation, but the solitude
afterwards was also salutary in its silence, after the echoes of the music had
all died away, and to be here alone in this evening hour had a special
beneficence, whether because of the soft, dove-coloured light or the sense of
enlargement that seemed to swell the soul to inhabit and fill the last arches
of the vault, as a single drop of water becomes the ocean into which it falls.
There was no better time for profound prayer, and Cadfael felt the need of it.
For the boy in particular, equally solitary somewhere, perhaps afraid. It was
to Saint Winifred Cadfael addressed his plea, a Welshman invoking a Welsh
saint, and one to whom he felt very close, and for whom he had an almost family
affection. Herself hardly more than a child at her martyrdom, she would not let
harm come to another threatened child. Brother Rhun, whom she had healed, was
carefully trimming the scented candles he made for her shrine when Cadfael
approached, but he turned his fair young head towards the petitioner, gave him
one glance of his aquamarine eyes, that seemed to have their own innate light,
and smiled and went away. Not to linger and complete his work when the prayers
ended, not to hide in the shadows and watch, but clean away out of knowledge,
on swift, agile, silent feet that had once gone lamely and in pain, to leave
the whole listening vault ready to receive the appeal in its folded hands, and
channel it aloft. Cadfael arose from his knees comforted, without knowing or
asking why. Outside, the light was fading rapidly, and here within, the altar
lamp and Saint Winifred’s perfumed candles made small islands of pure radiance
in a great enfolding gloom, like a warm cloak against the frost of the outside
world. The grace that had just touched Cadfael had a long enough reach to find
Richard, wherever he was, deliver him if he was a prisoner, console him if he
was frightened, heal him if he was hurt. Cadfael went out from the choir, round
the parish altar and into the nave, sensible of having done what was most
needful, and content to wait patiently and passively until grace should be
manifested. It seemed that Rafe of Coventry had also had solemn and personal
prayers to offer, for he was just rising from his knees in the empty and silent
nave as Cadfael came through. He recognised his acquaintance of the stable yard
with a shadowed but friendly smile, that came and went briefly on his lips but
lingered amiably in his eyes. “Good even, Brother!” Matched in height
and pace, they fell naturally into step together as they turned towards the
south porch. “I hope to be held excused,” said Rafe, “for coming to church
booted and spurred and dusty from riding, but I came late, and had no time to
make myself seemly.” “Most welcome, however you come,” said
Cadfael. “Not everyone who lodges with us shows his face in the church. I’ve
had small chance to see you these two days, I’ve been out and about myself.
Have you had successful dealing in these parts?” “Better, at least, than one of your
guests,” said Rafe, casting a side glance at the narrow door that led towards
the mortuary chapel. “But no, I would not say I’ve found quite what I needed.
Not yet!” “His son is here now,” said Cadfael,
following the glance. “This morning he came.” “I have seen him,” said Rafe. “He came
back from the town just before Vespers. By the look and the sound of him he’s
done none too well, either, with whatever he’s about. I suppose it’s a man he’s
after?” “It is. The young man I told you of,” said
Cadfael drily, and studied his companion sidelong as they crossed the lighted
parish altar. “Yes, I remember. Then he’s come back empty-handed, no poor
wretch tethered to his stirrup leather.” But Rafe remained tolerantly
indifferent to young men, and indeed to the Bosiet clan. His thoughts were
somewhere else. At the alms box beside the altar he stopped, on impulse, and
dug a hand into the pouch slung at his waist, to draw out a handful of coins.
One of them slipped through his fingers, but he did not immediately stoop to
pick it up, but dropped three of its fellows into the box before he turned to
look for the stray. By which time Cadfael had lifted it from the tiled floor,
and had it in his open palm. If they had not been standing where the altar
candles gave a clear light he would have noticed nothing strange about it. A
silver penny like other silver pennies, the universal coin. Yet not quite like
any he had seen before in the alms boxes. It was bright and untarnished, but
indifferently struck, and it felt light in the hand. Clumsily arrayed round the
short cross on the reverse, the moneyer’s name appeared to be Sigebert, a
minter Cadfael never remembered to have heard of in the midlands. And when he
turned it, the crude head was not Stephen’s familiar profile, nor dead King
Henry’s, but unmistakably a woman’s, coifed and coroneted. It hardly needed the
name sprawled round the rim: “Matilda Dom. Ang.” The empress’s formal name and
title. It seemed her mintage was short-weight. He looked up to find Rafe watching him
steadily, and with a small private smile that held more irony than simple amusement.
There was a moment of silence while they eyed each other. Then: “Yes,” said
Rafe, “you are right. It would have been noted after I was gone. But it has a
value, even here. Your beggars will not reject it because it was struck in
Oxford.” “And no long time ago,” said Cadfael. “No long time ago.” “My besetting sin,” said Cadfael ruefully,
“is curiosity.” He held out the coin, and Rafe took it as gravely, and with
deliberation dropped it after its fellows into the alms box. “But I am not
loose-mouthed. Nor do I hold any honest man’s allegiance against him. A pity
there should have to be factions, and decent men fighting one another, and all
of them convinced they have the right of it. Come and go freely for me.” “And does your curiosity not extend,” wondered
Rafe softly, the wry smile perceptible in his voice, “to wondering what such a
man is doing here, so far from the battle? Come, I am sure you have guessed at
what I am. Perhaps you think I felt it the wiser part to get out of Oxford
before it was too late?” “No,” said Cadfael positively, “that never
did and never would enter my mind. Not of you! And why should so discreet a man
as that venture north into king’s country?” “No, granted that argues very little
wisdom,” agreed Rafe. “What would you guess then?” “I can think of one possibility,” said
Cadfael gravely and quietly. “We heard here of one man who did not take flight
of his own will out of Oxford, while there was time, but was sent. On his
lady’s business, and with that about him well worth stealing. And that he did
not get far, for his horse was found straying and blood-stained, all that he
had carried gone, and the man himself vanished from the face of the earth.”
Rafe was watching him attentively, his face unreadable as ever, the lingering smile
sombre but untroubled. “Such a man as you seem to me,” said Cadfael, “might
well have come so far north from Oxford looking for Renaud Bourchier’s
murderer.” Their eyes held, mutually accepting, even
approving, what they saw. Slowly and with absolute finality Rafe of Coventry
said: “No.” He stirred and sighed, breaking the spell of the brief but profound
silence that followed. “I am sorry, Brother, but no, you have not read me
right. I am not looking for Bourchier’s murderer. It was a good thought, almost
I wish it had been true. But it is not.” And with that he moved on towards the
south door, and out into the early twilight in the cloister, and Brother
Cadfael followed in silence, asking and offering nothing more. He knew truth
when he heard it. Chapter Ten IT WAS ABOUT THE SAME HOUR that Cadfael
and Rafe of Coventry emerged from the church after Vespers, when Hyacinth stole
out from Eilmund’s cottage, and made his way through the deepest cover towards
the river. He had been all that day pinned close within doors, for there had
again been men of the garrison sweeping through the forest, and though their
passage was rapid and cursory, for the aim was to carry the search further
afield, and though they knew Eilmund, and felt no compulsion to investigate his
holding a second time, they were still liable to look in on him in neighbourly
fashion as they passed, and ask him casually if anything of note had come to
his attention. Hyacinth did not take kindly to being shut within doors, nor,
indeed, to hiding. By the evening he was chafing at his confinement, but by
then the hunters were on their way back, abandoning the chase until the morrow,
and he was free to do a little hunting of his own. For all the wariness and
fear he felt on his own account, and admitted with his infallible and fiery
honesty, he could not rest for thinking of Richard, who had come running to
warn him, so gallantly and thoughtlessly. But for that the boy would never have
placed himself in danger. But why should there be danger to him in his own
woods, among his own people? In a troubled England there were lawless men
living wild, no doubt of that, but this shire had gone almost untouched by the
war for more than four years now, and seemed to enjoy a degree of peace and
order unmatched further south, and the town was barely seven miles distant, and
the sheriff active and young, and even, so far as a sheriff can be, popular
with his people. And the more Hyacinth thought about it, the more clear did it
seem to him that the only threat to Richard that he had ever heard of was Dame
Dionisia’s threat to marry him off to the two manors she coveted. For that she
had persisted in every device she could think of. Hyacinth had been her
instrument once, and could not forget it. She must be the force behind the
boy’s disappearance. True, the sheriff had descended on Eaton,
searched every corner, and found no trace, and no one, in a household devoted
to the boy, able to cast the least suspicion on Dionisia’s indignant innocence.
She had no other property where she could hide either boy or pony. And though
Fulke Astley might be willing to connive, feeling that he had as good a chance
of securing Eaton as she had of getting her hands on his daughter’s
inheritance, yet Wroxeter also had been searched thoroughly, and without
success. Today the hunt had moved on, and according
to all that Annet had gathered from the returning sergeants it would continue
as doggedly on the morrow, but it had not yet reached Leighton, two miles
down-river. And though Astley and his household preferred to live at Wroxeter,
the more remote manor of Leighton was also in his hold. It was the only starting point Hyacinth
could find, and it was worth a venture. If Richard had been caught in the woods
by some of Astley’s men, or those from Eaton who were willing to serve
Dionisia’s turn, it might well have been thought wisest to remove him as far as
Leighton, rather than try to hide him nearer home. Moreover, if she still
intended to force this marriage on the boy—there were ways of getting the right
answers out of even the most stubborn children, more by guile than by
terror—she needed a priest, and Hyacinth had been about the village of Eaton
long enough to know that Father Andrew was an honest man, by no means a good
tool for such a purpose. The priest at Leighton, less well acquainted with the
ins and outs of the affair, might be more amenable. At least it was one thing
which could be tested. It was no use Eilmund counselling him sensibly and
good-naturedly to stay where he was and not risk capture; even Eilmund
understood and approved what he called folly. Annet had not tried to dissuade
Hyacinth, only sensibly provided him a black, much worn coat of Eilmund’s too
wide for him but excellent for moving invisibly by night, and a dark capuchon
to shadow his face. Between the forest and the meanderings of
the river, downstream from the mill and the fisheries and the few cottages that
served them, the open water meadows extended, and there the light still hung,
and a faint ground mist lay veiling the green, and twined like a silver serpent
along the river. But along the northern rim the forest continued, halfway to
Leighton, and beyond that point the ground rose towards the last low foothills
of the Wrekin, and he would have to make use of what scattered cover remained.
But here where trees and grassland met he could move fast, keeping within the
edge of the woods but benefiting by the light of the open fields, and the
stillness and silence and the careful stealth of his own movements would ensure
that he should get due warning of any other creature stirring in the night. He had covered more than a mile when the
first small sounds reached him, and he froze, and stood with pricked ears,
listening intently. A single metallic note, somewhere behind him, harness
briefly shaken. Then a soft brushing of bushes as something passed, and then,
unmistakable though quiet, and still some distance away, a subdued voice
ventured briefly what sounded like a question, and as meekly subsided. Not one
person abroad in the dusk, but two, or why speak at all? And mounted, and
keeping to the rim of the woodland like himself, when it would have been
simpler by far to take to the meadows. Riders by night, no more anxious to be
observed than he was, and going in the same direction. Hyacinth strained his
ears to pick up the muted, leaf-cushioned tread of hooves, and try to determine
the line they were taking through the trees. Close to the rim, for the sake of
what light remained, but more concerned with secrecy than with haste. Cautiously Hyacinth withdrew further into
the forest, and stood motionless in cover to let them pass by. There was still
enough light left to make them a little more than shadowy outlines as they came
and passed in single file, first a tall horse that showed as a moving pallor,
probably a light grey, with a big, gross man on his back, bearded, bare-headed,
the folds of his capuchon draped on his shoulders. Hyacinth knew the shape and
the bearing, had seen this very man mount and ride, thus sack-like but solid in
the saddle, from Richard Ludel’s funeral. What was Fulke Astley doing here in
the night, making his way thus furtively, not by the roads but through the
forest, from one to the other of his own manors? For where else could he be
bound? And the figure that followed him, on a
thickset cob, was certainly a woman, and could be nobody else but his daughter,
surely, that unknown Hiltrude who seemed so old and unpleasing to young
Richard. So their errand, after all, was not so
mysterious. Of course they would want the marriage achieved as soon as
possible, if they had Richard in their hands. They had waited these few days
until both Eaton and Wroxeter had been searched, but with the hunt being spread
more widely they would wait no longer. Whatever risk they might be taking, once
the match was a reality they could weather whatever storms followed. They could
even afford to set Richard free to return to the abbey, for nothing and no one
but the authority of the church could set him free from a wife. And that being so, what could be done to
prevent? There was no time to run back either to Eilmund’s house, and have
Annet carry words to castle or abbey, or direct to the town, and Hyacinth still
found himself humanly reluctant to throw his own chance of liberty to the
winds. But it did not arise, there was no time left at all. If he went back, by
the time rescue could arrive for Richard he would be married. Perhaps there
might yet be time to find where they had hidden him, and whisk him away from
under their noses. These two were in no hurry, and Dame Dionisia had still to
make the short journey from Eaton without detection. And the priest—where would
they have found a willing priest? Nothing could be done until a priest was
there. Hyacinth forsook the thick cover, and made
his way deeper into the belt of forest, no longer intent on secrecy, only on
speed. At the pace the riders were making he could outrun them on a path, and
in this extremity he would venture even the highroad, if need be, and risk
meeting others still out on their own lawful occasions. But there was a path,
too near the open road for the Astleys to favour it, and merging into the road
itself once it had crossed the upland ridge. Hyacinth reached it and ran, fleet
and silent on the thick carpet of leaves too moist and limp to rustle under his
feet. Once out on to the open track and plunging downhill towards the village,
still almost a mile distant, he drew off again into the fields dipping to the
river, and ran from one scattered covert to another, assured now that he was
ahead of Astley. He waded the little stream that came down from the foot of the
Wrekin to reach the Severn here, and went on along the river bank. One isolated
tongue of woodland came down almost to the water, and from its shelter he could
see for the first time the low stockade of the manor, and the long level of the
roof within, sharp and clear against the glimmer of the water and the pallor of
the sky. It was good fortune that the trees
approached so closely to the stockade on the side nearest to the river bank.
From tree to tree Hyacinth darted, and reaching an oak that spread branches
across the barrier, climbed nimbly up into the crotch to peer cautiously within
the enclosure. He was looking at the long rear face of the house, across the
roofs of barn and byre and stable lining the containing fence. The same pattern
of a low undercroft, with hall and chamber and kitchen above on the living
floor, and the steps to the only door must be on the opposite side. Here there
was no entrance except to the undercroft, and only one small window, and that
was shuttered. Under it a small wing had been built out, extending the
undercroft. The shingled roof was steep, the eaves dipped fairly low. Hyacinth
eyed it speculatively, and debated how securely fastened those shutters might
be. To reach them would be easily possible, to find a way in by that road might
be more of a problem. But this rear face of the house was the only one
sheltered from observation. All this nefarious activity of Astleys and Ludels
would be centred round the single great doorway into the hall, on the other
side. He swung himself down to hang by his hands
within the pale, and dropped into a shadowy corner between barn and stable. At
least stumbling on this nocturnal journey eased him of one fear. Richard was
surely here, was alive and well and presentable as they wanted him, well fed,
well cared for, probably even indulged beyond normal in the hope of cajoling
him into willing consent. Indulged, in fact, with everything he could desire
and they furnish, except his freedom. And that was the first profound relief.
Now to get him out! Here in the darkening yard there was no one stirring.
Hyacinth slid softly out of his shelter and moved round the pale from shadow to
shadow, until he slipped round the corner to the eastern end of the house.
There were unshuttered windows above him here, subdued light shining through.
He refuged in the deep doorway to the undercroft, and stretched his ears for
voices from above, and thought that he caught wordless murmurings, as though
the aim was to keep everything of this night’s activities secret. Round the
next corner, where the steep stairway to the hall door ascended, there was a
torch fixed, he knew it by the flickering light spilled on the beaten earth
before him by fitful glimpses. There were servants moving there, too,
soft-stepping and low-voiced. And the dull sound of hooves, coming at a walk
into the court. The bride and her father arriving, thought Hyacinth, and
wondered for a fleeting moment how the girl felt about the match, and whether
she was not as wronged and slighted as Richard, and even more helpless. He drew back in some haste, for the grooms
would be leading the horses to the stables, which were in the near corner of
the yard, for he had heard the beasts stirring in their stalls as he hung
listening in the tree. The jutting wing of the undercroft provided cover from
that corner. He rounded it and flattened himself into the dark angle of the
walls behind the obstruction, and heard a single groom come leading both
mounts. He could not move until the man had gone,
and time was snapping at his heels like a herdsman’s dog. But the groom was
brisk, and wasted no time on his charges, perhaps wanting his bed, for it must
be getting late. Hyacinth heard the stable door slammed to, and the rapid
footsteps scurrying away round the corner of the house. Only then, when he was
able to draw off and take another look at this almost blind face of the manor,
did Hyacinth observe what he had missed before. Through the join in the massive
shutters on this, the only shuttered window in the house in these mild nights,
a hair-line of light showed. More noticeable still, in one of the boards, close
to the join, there was a small round eye of light, where a slanting knot in the
wood had fallen out and left a hole. Why should this rear room be shuttered and
lighted, unless it had a guest, and one who must be kept safe and secret?
Hyacinth doubted if the space between the stone mullions would be large enough to
let a man through, but it might be wide enough for a ten-year-old boy, and one
rather small for his years. With that low roof beneath the window, they would
not want him to make his escape, nor would they want any inquisitive person to
see him there within. It could at least be tried. Hyacinth leaped to get a hold
of the overhanging eaves, and hauled himself up on to the shingles, to lie flat
there against the stone wall, listening, though he had made little noise about
it, and no one stirred to take note or investigate. He drew himself cautiously
up the slope of the roof to the shuttered window. The timbers were heavy and
solid, and secured somehow within the room, for when he laid a hand under the
centre, where they joined, and essayed to pull them apart, they held fast as
iron, and he had no tools to try and force them apart, and doubted if he could
have done it even if he had had a whole armoury of implements. The hinges were
strong and immovable. Neither top nor bottom of the shutters yielded to force
even by a hair. There must be iron bolts that could be shot from within, and
securely locked. And time was running out. Richard was strong-willed, obstinate
and ingenious. If it had been possible for him to break out from his prison, he
would have done it long ago. Hyacinth laid his ear to the hair-line
crack, but could hear nothing moving within. He must now make sure whether he
was wasting the time which was so precious and running out so fast. At the risk
of being detected, he rapped with his knuckles against the shutter, and setting
his lips to the tiny eye of light, sent a shrill whistle through the hole. This time there was an audible gasp
somewhere in the room, then a rapid scrambling, as if someone had uncurled from
being coiled defensively into a corner, set foot to floor, and taken a couple
of startled steps across the room, only to halt again in doubt and alarm.
Hyacinth rapped again, and called softly through the hole: “Richard, is that
you?” Light footsteps came in a rush, a small
body crowded against the inner side of the shutters. “Who is it?” whispered
Richard’s voice urgently, close to the crack of light. “Who’s there?” “Hyacinth! Richard, are you alone? I can’t
get in to you. Is all well with you?” “No!” breathed the voice in indignant
complaint, and proving by its spirit and anger that in fact he was in very good
heart and excellent condition. “They won’t let me out, they keep hammering and
hammering at me to do what they want, and agree to be married. They’re bringing
her tonight, they’re going to make me…” “I know,” groaned Hyacinth, “but I can’t
get you out. And there’s no time to get word to the sheriff. Tomorrow I could,
but I saw them coming here tonight.” “They won’t let me out until I do what
they want,” Richard hissed grievously into the crack. “I almost said I would.
They go on and on at me, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m frightened
they’ll only take me and hide me somewhere else if I refuse, because they know
every house is being searched.” His voice was losing its bold, belligerent tone
and faltering into distress. It’s hard for a boy of ten to stand off for long
the implacable adults who hold the upper hand. “My grandmother promised I
should have whatever I liked, whatever I wanted, if I’d say the words she wants
me to say. But I don’t want a wife…” “Richard… Richard…” Hyacinth was repeating
persistently into this lament, and for a while unheard. “Listen, Richard!
They’ll have to bring a priest to marry you—not Father Andrew, surely, he’d
have scruples—but someone. Speak to him, tell him it’s against your will, tell
him—Richard, have you heard who it’s to be?” A new and arresting thought had
entered his mind. “Who is to marry you?” “I heard them,” whispered Richard, grown
calm again, “saying they couldn’t trust Father Andrew. My grandmother is
bringing the hermit with her to do it.” “Cuthred? You’re sure?” Hyacinth had
almost forgotten to keep his voice down in his astonishment. “Yes, Cuthred. Yes, I’m sure, I heard her
say so.” “Richard, listen, then!” Hyacinth leaned
close, his lips to the crack. “If you refuse, they’ll only visit it on you, and
take you away somewhere else. Better for you to do what they want. No, trust
me, do what I say, it’s the only way we can foil them. Believe me, you won’t
have anything to fear, you won’t be burdened with a wife, you’re safe as in
sanctuary. Just do as I say, be meek and obedient, and let them think you
tamed, and they may even let you take your pony and ride back to the abbey, for
they’ll have what they wanted, and think it can’t be undone. But it can! Oh,
never fret, they won’t want anything more of you, not for years yet! Trust me,
and do it! Will you? Quickly, before they come! Will you do it?” Bemused and doubtful, Richard faltered:
“Yes!” but could not help protesting the next moment: “But how can that be? Why
do you say it’s safe?” Hyacinth pressed close and whispered the answer. He knew
by the sudden shaken spurt of laughter, exuberant and brief, that Richard had
caught it and understood. And just in time, for he heard from across the room
the sharp clash of a door being unbolted and flung open, and the voice of Dame
Dionisia, honey and gall, half cajoling and half menacing, saying firmly and
loudly: “Your bride is come, Richard. Here is Hiltrude. And you will be
gracious and courteous to her, will you not, and please us all?” Richard must have darted away from the
window at the first touch of a hand on the bolt, for his small, cautious voice
said just audibly, and from some yards distant: “Yes, grandmother!” Unwillingly
dutiful, reluctantly obedient, a will only half-broken, but half would do! Her gratified but still wary: “That’s my
good child!” was the last thing Hyacinth heard as he edged his way carefully
down the slope of the roof and dropped to the ground. He went on his homeward
way without haste, content with his night’s work. There was now no urgency, he
could afford to go slowly, mindful that he himself was still hunted. For the
boy was alive, well fed, well cared for, and in good spirits. No actual harm
had come to him, none would come, however he chafed at being a prisoner. And in
the end he would have the laugh of his captors. Hyacinth made his way blithely
through the soft, chilly night scented with the rising mist of the water
meadows, and the deep, dank leaf mould of the woods. The moon rose, but so
veiled that it gave only a dim grey light. By midnight he would be safely back
in his sanctuary in Eyton forest. And in the morning, by some means Annet would
contrive for the purpose, Hugh Beringar should learn exactly where to look for
Brother Paul’s lost schoolboy. When it was all over, and he had done what
they wanted, however grudgingly, Richard had expected to be made much of by way
of gratitude, perhaps even let out from this small room which was his prison,
however comfortable it might be. He was not so foolish as to suppose that they
would set him free to do as he pleased. He would have to keep up this meek
front for a while, and suppress the inward glee he felt at having the laugh of
them in secret, before they would dare to produce him before the world, with
what manner of story to account for his loss and recovery he could not guess,
but they would have it all off by heart. Certainly they would say he had
consented of his own will to the ceremony just completed, and to the best of
their knowledge it would then be far too late for him to say anything to the
contrary, since what was done could not be undone. Only Richard knew that in
fact nothing had been done to need undoing. He had absolute faith in Hyacinth.
Whatever Hyacinth said was sooth. But he had considered that they would owe him
thanks and indulgence for his compliance. He had preserved his sullen but
subdued face, because it would have been too betraying to let even a gleam of
laughter show through, but he had repeated all the words they dictated to him,
had even brought himself to take Hiltrude’s hand when he was told to do so,
though he had never once looked at her until the sound of her soft, dull voice,
repeating the vows as resignedly as his own, had jolted him into wondering for
a moment if she was being forced as he was. That possibility had never occurred
to him until then, and he did lift a furtive glance to her face. She was not so
very old, after all, and not very tall, and did not look like a threat so much
as a victim. She might not even be really plain if only she did not look so
subdued and glum. His startled impulse of sympathy for her was complicated by a
grain of equally surprised resentment that she should seem as depressed at
marrying him as he had good cause to be at marrying her. But after all his compliance, not a word
of thanks, rather his grandmother studied him ominously and at length, and he
was afraid with some lingering suspicion in her eye, and then admonished him
grimly: “You have done well to come to your duty at last, and behave yourself
fittingly towards those who know best for you. See that you keep to that mind,
sir! Now say your goodnight to your wife. Tomorrow you shall get to know her
better.” And he had done as he was told, and they
had all left him there, still bolted in alone, though they had sent a servant
with food from the supper they were no doubt enjoying in the hall. He sat
brooding on his bed, thinking over all that had happened in one late evening,
and all that might follow next day. Hiltrude he forgot as soon as she was out
of sight. He knew about these affairs. If you were only ten years old they
didn’t, for some reason, make you live with your wife, not until you were grown
up. While she remained under the same roof with you, you would be expected to
be civil to her, perhaps even attentive, but then she would go back with her
father to her own home until you were thought to be old enough to share your
bed and household with her. Now that he began to think seriously about it, it
seemed to Richard that there were no privileges at all attached to being
married, his grandmother would go on treating him just as before, as a child of
no account, ordering him about, scolding him, cuffing him if he annoyed her,
even beating him if he defied her. In short, it behoved the lord of Eaton to
regain his liberty by whatever means offered, and escape out of her hold. He
could not be very important to her now, he had served his purpose, what
mattered was the land settlement. If she felt she had secured that, she might
soon be willing to let go of the instrument. Richard rolled himself warmly in
his brychans and went to sleep. If they were discussing him in hall, and
debating what to do about him, that did not trouble his dreams. He was too
young and too innocently hopeful to take his problems to bed with him. His door was still bolted next morning,
and the servant who brought his breakfast gave him no chance to slip past,
though indeed he had no intention of trying it, since he knew he would not get
far, and his role now was to continue to be docile and disarm suspicion. When
his grandmother drew the bolt and came in to him it was old familiar habit,
rather than guile, that caused him to rise at her entrance, as he had been
taught, and lift up his face for her kiss. And the kiss was no chillier than it
had always been, and for a moment he felt the inescapable kindness of the blood
warm them both, something he had never questioned, though she had very seldom
expressed it. The contact caused him to shake, and brought the sudden
astonished sting of tears into his eyes just as inevitably as the surge of
obstinate recoil into his mind. It did him no harm with her. She looked down at
him from her erect and formidable height with a somewhat softened gaze. “Well, sir, and how do you find yourself
this morning? Are you minded to be a good, obedient boy, and do all you can to
please me? If so, you shall find you and I will get on very well together. You
have made a beginning, now go on as you began. And think shame that you defied
and denied me so long.” Richard drooped his long lashes and looked down at his
feet. “Yes, grandmother.” And then, in meek assay: “May I go out today? I don’t
like being shut in here, as if it was night all the time.” “We’ll see,” she said, but to Richard the
tone clearly meant: “No!” She would not reason nor bargain, only lay down the
law to him. “But not yet, you have not deserved it. First prove that you’ve
learned where your duty lies, and then you shall have your freedom again. You
are not ill done to, you have everything you need here, be content until you
have earned more and better.” “But I have!” he flashed. “I did what you
wanted, you ought to do what I want. It’s unfair to shut me up here, unfair and
unkind. I don’t even know what you’ve done with my pony.” “Your pony is safe in the stable,” said
Dionisia sharply, “and well cared for, as you are. And you had best mind your
manners with me, sir, or you’ll have cause to regret it. They’ve taught you at
that abbey school to be saucy to your elders, but it’s a lesson you had better
unlearn as quickly as you can, for your own sake.” “I’m not being saucy,” he pleaded,
relapsing into sullenness. “I only want to be in daylight, I want to go out,
not sit here without even being able to see the trees and the grass. It’s
wretched in here, without any company…” “You shall have company,” she promised,
seizing on one complaint to which she could provide a complaisant answer. “I’ll
send your bride to keep you company. I want you to get to know her better now,
for after today she’ll return to Wroxeter with her father, and you, Richard,”
she said warningly and with a sharpening eye on him, “will return with me to
your own manor, to take your proper place. And I shall expect you to conduct
yourself properly there, and not go hankering after that school, now that
you’re married and a man of substance. Eaton is yours, and that is where you
should be, and I expect you to maintain that, if anyone—anyone—should call it
in question. Do you understand me, sir?” He understood her very well. He was to
be cajoled, intimidated, bullied into declaring, even to Brother Paul and
Father Abbot if need be, that he had run home to his grandmother of his own
will, and of his own will submitted to the marriage they had planned for him.
He hugged his secret knowledge gleefully to his heart as he said submissively:
“Yes, madam!” “Good! And now I’ll send in Hiltrude to
you, and see that you behave well to her. You will have to get used to her, and
she to you, so you may as well begin now.” And she relented so far as to kiss
him again on leaving him, though it resembled a slap as much as a kiss. She
went out in a dusty swirl of long green skirts, and he heard the bolt shot
again after her. And what had he got out of all that, except the fact that his
pony was in the stable here, and if only he could get to it he might make his
escape even now. But presently in came Hiltrude, as his grandmother had
threatened, and all his resentment and dislike of the girl, undeserved though
it was, boiled up within him into childish anger. She still seemed to him to belong at least
to the generation of the mother he could hardly remember, but she was not
really utterly plain, she had a clear, pale skin and large, guarded brown eyes,
and if her hair was straight and of a mousey brown colour, she had a great mass
of it, plaited in a thick braid that hung to her waist. She did not look
ill-natured, but she did look bitterly resigned and wretched. She stood for a
moment with her back to the door, staring thoughtfully at the boy curled up
glumly on his bed. “So they’ve sent you to be my guard dog,” said Richard
unpleasantly. Hiltrude crossed the room and sat down on the sill of the
shuttered window, and looked at him without favour. “I know you don’t like me,”
she said, not sadly but with quite unexpected vigour. “Small reason why you
should, and for that matter, I don’t like you. But it seems we’re both bound,
no help for it now. Why, why did you ever give way? I only said I would, at last,
because I was so sure you were safe enough there at the abbey, and they’d never
let it come to this. And then you have to fall into their hands like a fool,
and let them break you down. And here we both are, and may God help us!” She
relented of the note of exasperation in her own voice, and ended with weary
kindness: “It’s not your fault, you’re only a child, what could you do? And it
isn’t that I dislike you, I don’t even know you, it’s just that I didn’t want
you, I don’t want you, any more than you want me.” Richard was staring at her, by this time,
with mouth and eyes wide open, struck dumb with astonishment at finding her, as
it were, not a token embarrassment, a millstone round his neck, but a real
person with a great deal to say for herself, and by no means a fool. Slowly he
uncoiled his slim legs and set his feet to the floor, to feel solid substance
under him. Slowly he repeated, in a small, shocked voice: “You never wanted to
marry me?” “A baby like you?” she said, careless of
offence. “No, I never did.” “Then why did you ever agree to do it?” He
was too indignant over her capitulation to resent the reflection on his years.
“If you’d said no, and kept saying it, we should both have been saved.” “Because my father is a man very hard to
say no to, and had begun to tell me that I was getting too old to have another
suitor, and if I didn’t take you I should be forced to enter a sisterhood and
stay a maid until I died. And that I wanted even less. And I thought the abbot
would keep fast hold of you, and nothing would ever be allowed to come of it.
And now here we are, and what are we to do about it?” Himself surprised at feeling an almost
sympathetic curiosity about this woman who had sloughed a skin before his eyes,
and emerged as vivid and real as himself, Richard asked almost shyly: “What do
you want? If you could have your way, what would you like to have?” “I would like,” said Hiltrude, her brown
eyes suddenly burning with anger and loss, “a young man named Evrard, who keeps
my father’s manor roll and is his steward at Wroxeter, and who likes me, too,
whether you think that likely or not. But he’s a younger son and has no land,
and where there’s no land to marry to his own my father has no interest.
There’s an uncle who may well leave his manor to Evrard, being fond of him and
childless, but land now is what my father wants, not someday and maybe land.”
The fire burned down. She turned her head aside. “Why do I tell you this? You
can’t understand, and it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you can do to better
it.” Richard was beginning to think that there
might be something very pertinent he could do for her, if she in her turn would
do something for him. Cautiously he asked: “What are they doing now, your
father and my grandmother? She said you’d be going back to Wroxeter after
today. What are they planning? And has Father Abbot been looking for me all
this time since I left?” “You didn’t know? Not only the abbot, but
the sheriff and all his men are looking for you. They’ve searched Eaton and
Wroxeter, and are beating every bush in the forest. My father was afraid they
might reach here by today, but she thought not. They were wondering whether to
move you back to Eaton in the night, since it’s been searched already, but Dame
Dionisia felt sure the officers had several days” work left before they’d reach
Leighton, and in any case, she said, if a proper watch was set there’d be ample
time to put you over the river with an escort and send you down to shelter at
Buildwas. Better, she said, than moving you back towards Shrewsbury yet.” “Where are they now?” asked Richard
intently. “My grandmother?” “She’s ridden back to Eaton to have
everything there looking just as it should. Her hermit went back to his cell in
the night. It wouldn’t do if anyone knew he’d been away.” “And your father?” “He’s out and about among his tenants
here, but he’ll not be far away. He took his clerk with him. There’ll be dues
unpaid that he wants collected, I daresay.” She was indifferent to her father’s
movements, but she did feel some curiosity as to what was going on in this
child’s head, to sharpen his voice into such hopeful purpose, and brighten his
disconsolate eye. “Why? What is there in that for you? Or for me!” she added
bitterly. “There might,” said Richard, beginning to
glitter, “be something I can do for you, something good, if you’ll do something
for me in return. If they’re both out of the house, help me to get away while
they’re gone. My pony’s there in the stable, she told me as much. If I could
get to him and slip away, you could bolt the door again, and no one would know
I was gone until evening.” She shook her head decisively. “And who would get
the blame? I wouldn’t put it off on to one of the servants, and I’ve no great
appetite for it myself. The troubles I already have are enough for me, I thank
you!” But she added warily, seeing that his hopeful fire was by no means
quenched: “But I would be willing to think out the best means, if I thought it
would solve anything for me. But how can it? For a fair deliverance I’d venture
anything Father could say or do. But what’s the use, when we’re tied together
as we are, and no way out?” Richard bounded up from his bed and darted across
the room to settle confidingly beside her on the broad sill. Close to her ear
he said breathlessly: “If I tell you a secret, will you swear to keep it until
I’m safely away, and help me to get out of here? I promise you, I promise you
it will be worth your while.” “You are dreaming,” she said tolerantly,
turning to look at him thus closely, and seeing his secret brightness undimmed
by her disbelief. “There’s no way out of marriage unless you’re a prince and
have the Pope’s ear, and who cares about lesser folk like us? True, we’re not
bedded, nor will be for years yet, but if you think your old dame and my father
would ever let it come to an annulment, you waste your hopes. They’ve got their
way, they’ll never let go of their gains.” “No, it’s nothing like that,” he
persisted, “we need nothing from Pope or law. You must believe me. At least
promise not to tell, and when you hear what it is, you’ll be willing to help
me, too.” “Very well,” she said, humouring him, even
half convinced now that he knew something she did not know, but still doubting
if it would or could deliver them. “Very well, I promise. What is this precious
secret?” Gleefully he advanced his lips to her ear, his cheek teased by the
touch of a lock of her hair that curled loose there, and breathed his secret as
though the very boards at their backs had ears. And after one incredulous instant
of stillness and silence she began to laugh very softly, to shake with her
laughter, and throwing her arms about Richard, hugged him briefly to her heart.
“For that you shall go free, whatever it cost me! You deserve it!” Chapter Eleven ONCE CONVINCED, it was she who made the
plans. She knew the house and the servants, and as long as there was no
suspicion of her subservience she had the entry everywhere, and could give
orders to grooms and maids as she pleased. “Best wait until after they’ve brought
your dinner and taken away the dish again. It will be a longer time then before
anyone comes in to you again. There’s a back gate through the pale, from the
stable out into the paddock. I could tell Jehan to turn your pony out to grass,
he’s been shut in too long to be liking it. There are some bushes in the field
there, round behind the stable, close to the wicket. I’ll make shift to hide
your saddle and harness there before noon. I can get you out of here through
the undercroft, while they’re all busy in hall and kitchens.” “But your father will be home then,”
protested Richard doubtfully. “After his dinner my father will be
snoring. If he does look in on you at all, it will be before he sits down to
table, to make sure you’re safe in your cage. Better for me, too, I shall have
sat out my morning with you gallantly, who’s to think I’ll change my tune after
that? It might even be good sport,” said Hiltrude, growing animated in
contemplating her benevolent mischief, “when they go to take you your supper, and
find the window still shuttered and barred, and the bird flown.” “But then everyone will be harried and
cursed and blamed,” said Richard, “because somebody must have drawn the bolt.” “So then we all deny it, and whoever looks
likeliest to be suspected I’ll bring off safely, saying he’s never been out of
my sight and never touched the door since your dinner went in. If it comes to
the worst,” said Hiltrude, with uncustomary resolution, “I’ll say I must have
forgotten to shoot the bolt after leaving you the last time. What can he do?
He’ll still be thinking he has you trapped in marriage with me, wherever you
run to. Better still,” she cried, clapping her hands, “I’ll be the one who
brings you your dinner, and waits with you, and brings out the dish again—then
no one else can be blamed for leaving the door unbolted. A wife should begin at
once to wait on her husband, it will look well.” “You’re not afraid of your father?”
ventured Richard, open-eyed with startled respect, even admiration, but
reluctant to leave her to sustain so perilous a part. “I am—I was! Now, whatever happens, it
will be worth the pains. I must go, Richard, while there’s no one in the
stable. You wait and trust me, and keep up your heart. You’ve lifted mine!” She was at the door when Richard, still
thoughtfully following her light and buoyant passage, so changed from the
subdued, embittered creature whose cold hand he had held in the night, said
impulsively after her: “Hiltrude—I think I might do worse than marry you, after
all.” And added, with barely decent haste:
“But not yet!” Everything that she had promised she
performed. She brought his dinner, and sat with him and made desultory, awkward
talk while he ate it, such talk as might be expected to a stranger, and a child
at that, and one forced upon her and reluctantly accepted, so that however much
he might be resented, there was no longer any point in being at odds with him.
Less from guile than because he was hungry and busy eating, Richard responded
with grunts rather than words. Had anyone been listening, they would certainly
have found the exchanges depressingly appropriate. Hiltrude carried the dish back to the
kitchen, and returned to him as soon as she had made certain that everyone else
about the house was occupied. The narrow wooden stair down into the undercroft
was conveniently screened from the passage that led to the kitchen, they had no
trouble in skipping hastily down it, and emerging from below ground by the deep
doorway where Hyacinth had sheltered, and from there it was just one dangerous
dart across open ground to the wicket in the fence, half hidden by the bulk of
the stable. Saddle and bridle and all, she had left his harness concealed
behind the bushes, and the sable pony came to him gladly. Close under the rear wall
of the stable he saddled up in trembling haste, and led the pony out of the
paddock and down towards the river, where the belt of trees offered cover,
before he dared to tighten the girth and mount. Now, if all went well, he had
until early evening before he would be missed. Hiltrude went back up the stairs
from the undercroft, and took care to spend her afternoon blamelessly among the
women of the household, within sight every moment, and occupied with the proper
affairs of the lady of the manor. She had bolted Richard’s door, since clearly
if it had been inadvertently left unfastened, and the prisoner taken advantage
of the fact, even a ten-year-old boy would have the sense to shoot the bolt
again and preserve the appearances. When the flight was discovered she could
very well protest that she had no recollection of forgetting to fasten it,
though admitting at last that she must have done so. But by then, if all went
well, Richard would be back in the abbey enclave, and taking belated thought
how to present himself as the blameless victim, and bury all recollection of
the guilty truant who had run off without permission and caused all this
turmoil and anxiety. Well, that was Richard’s affair. She had done her part. It was a pity that the groom who had turned
Richard’s pony into the paddock should have occasion to fetch in one of the
other beasts out to graze, about the middle of the afternoon, since he had
noticed that it was slightly lame. He could hardly fail to observe that the
pony was gone. Seizing on the first and obvious, if none too likely,
possibility, he was halfway across the court crying that there had been thieves
in the paddock before it occurred to him to go back and look in the stable for
the saddle and harness. That put a somewhat different complexion on the loss.
And besides, why take the least valuable beast in sight? And why risk theft in
daylight? Good dark nights were more favourable. So he arrived in hall
announcing loudly and breathlessly that the young bridegroom’s pony was gone, saddle
and all, and my lord had better look to see if he still had the boy safe under
lock and key. Fulke went himself, in haste, hardly believing the news, and
found the door securely bolted as before, but the room within empty. He let out
a bellow of rage that made Hiltrude flinch over her embroidery frame, but she
kept her eyes lowered to her work, and went on demurely stitching until the
storm erupted in the doorway and swelled to fill the hall. “Which of you was it? Who waited on him
last? Which fool among you, fools every one as you are, left the door unbarred?
Or has one of you loosed him deliberately, in my despite? I’ll have the hide of
the traitorous wretch, whoever he may be. Speak up! Who took the slippery imp
his dinner?” The menservants held off out of his immediate reach, every one
babbling out his own innocence. The maids fluttered and looked sidelong at one
another, but hesitated to say a word against their mistress. But Hiltrude, her
courage fast in both hands and bulking encouragingly solid now that it came to
the test, laid her work aside and said boldly, not yet sounding defensive:
“But, Father, you know I did that myself. You saw me bring out the dish
afterwards. Certainly I bolted the door again I feel sure I did. No one else
has been in to him since, unless you have visited him yourself, sir. Who else
would, unless he was sent? And I’ve sent nobody.” “Are you so certain, madam?” roared Fulke.
“You’ll tell me next the lad’s not gone at all, but sitting there where he
should be. If you were the last to go in there, then you’re to blame for
letting him slip out and take to his heels. You must have left the door
unbolted, how else could he get out? How could you be such a fool?” “I did not leave it unbolted,” she
repeated, but with less certainty this time. “Or even if I may have forgotten,”
she conceded defensively, “though I don’t believe I did—but if I did, does it
matter so much now? He can’t alter what’s done, nor can anyone else. I don’t
see why it should cause such a flurry.” “You don’t see, you don’t see—you don’t
see beyond the end of your nose, madam! And he to go running back to his abbot,
with the tales he can tell?” “But he has to come back into the light
sooner or later,” she said meekly. “You couldn’t keep him shut up for ever.” “So he has, we all know it, but not yet,
not until we’ve got his mark—no, for he can sign his name, which is better!—on
the marriage settlements, and made him see he may as well fit his story to
ours, and accept what’s done. A few days and it could all have been done our
way, the proper way. But I’ll not let him get away without a race for it,”
swore Fulke vengefully, and turned to roar at his petrified grooms: “Saddle my
horse, and make haste about it! I’m going after him. He’ll make straight for
the abbey, and keep well clear of Eaton, surely. I’ll have him back by the ear
yet!” In the full light of afternoon Richard did
not dare take to the road, even by skirting the village widely. There he could
have made better speed, but might all too easily attract the attention of
tenants or retainers who would serve Astley’s ends for their own sakes, and
drag him back to his captivity. Moreover, the road would take him far too close
to Eaton. He kept to the belt of woodland that stretched westward for half a
mile or so above the river, thinning as it went until it was no more than a
belt of single oaks spaced out beside the water. Beyond that, emerald water
meadows filled a great bend in the Severn, open and treeless. There he kept
inland far enough to have some cover from the few bushes that grew along the
headlands of the Leighton fields. Upstream, where he must go, the valley
widened into a great green level of flood meadows, with only a few isolated
trees on the higher spots, but the northern bank where he rode rose within
another mile into the low ridge of Eyton forest, where he could go in thick
cover for more than half the distance to Wroxeter. It would mean going more
slowly, but it was not pursuit he feared then, it was being recognised and
intercepted on the way. Wroxeter he must avoid at all costs, and the only way
he knew was by fording the Severn there, short of the village and out of sight
of the manor, to reach the road on the southern side, and then ride full tilt
for the town. He made a little too much haste in the
forest, where his familiarity with the land had led him to take a short cut
between paths, and paid for it with a fall when his pony stepped in the soft
edge of a badger’s sett. But he dropped lightly enough into the thick
cushioning of leaves, and escaped with a few bruises, and the pony, startled
and skittish but docile, came back to him readily once the first fright was
over. After that he bore in mind that haste was not necessarily another word
for speed, and took more care until he came to the more open ways. He had not
reasoned about his flight, but set off bent on getting back to the abbey and
making his peace there, whatever scoldings and punishments might be waiting for
him, once all anxiety on his behalf was banished. He knew enough about grown-up
people, however various they might seem in all other ways, to understand that
they all shared the same instinct when a child in their charge was recovered
out of danger, to hug him first, and clout him immediately afterwards. If,
indeed, the clout did not come first! He would not mind that. Now that he had
been dragged forcibly away from the schoolroom, and Brother Paul, and his
fellow pupils, and even the awesome face of Father Abbot, all he wanted was to
get back to them, to have the safe walls and the even safer horarium of the
monastic day wrapped round him like a warm cloak. He could, had he even thought
of it, have ridden to the mill by the river at Eyton, or the forester’s
cottage, any dwelling on this soil held by the abbey, and been received into
safe shelter, but that possibility never entered his head. He made for the
abbey like a bird to its nest. At this moment he had no other home, lord of
Eaton though he might be. Once out of the forest there was a good
and open track almost to the ford, which lay on the southern side of Wroxeter
village. Over these two miles he went briskly, but not so fast as to call
attention to himself, for here there were other people to be met with
occasionally, about their daily business in the fields or travelling the path
between villages. He saw none that he knew, and answered such casual greetings
as they gave him as briefly as they were given, and did not loiter. The belt of trees on the near side of the
ford came into view, the few willows dipping to the water, and the top of the
tower of the collegiate church just showed among the branches, with one corner
of a roof. The rest of the village and the demesne lay beyond. Richard
approached the shelter of the trees cautiously, and dismounted in cover to peer
through at the shallow spread of the water round a small island, and the path
that came down from the village to the ford. He heard the voices before he
reached a clear view, and halted to listen acutely, hoping the speakers would
pass towards the village and leave his path clear. Two women, chattering and
laughing, and an accompanying light splashing in the edge of the water, and
then a man’s voice, equally idle and easy, teasing and chaffing the girls.
Richard ventured closer, until he could see the speakers clearly, and halted
with an indrawn breath of exasperation and dismay. The women had been washing
linen, and had it spread on the low bushes to dry, and since the day was not
cold, and since they had been joined by a young and not unattractive companion,
they were in no hurry to leave the shore. Richard did not know the women, but
the man he knew only too well, though not his name. This big, red-haired,
strutting young gamecock was Astley’s foreman on the demesne farm, and one of
the two who had encountered and recognised Richard in the woods, trotting home
to the abbey in haste, and taken advantage of the hour and the solitude to do
their lord a favour. Those same muscular arms which were now making free with
one of the giggling laundresses had hoisted Richard ignominiously out of the
saddle, and held him kicking and raging over a thick shoulder that might have
been made of oak for all the effect his belabouring fists had on it, until the
other miscreant had stopped the boy’s mouth with his own capuchon, and pinioned
his arms with his own reins. That same night, when it was fully dark, past
midnight and all honest folk in their beds, the same trusted pair had bundled
him away to the more distant manor for safekeeping. Richard remembered these
indignities bitterly. And now here was this very fellow getting in his way once
again, for he could not ride out of cover and make for the ford without passing
close and being recognised, and almost certainly recaptured. There was nothing to be done but draw back
into deeper cover and wait for them all to go away, back to the village and the
manor. No hope of circling Wroxeter by a wider way and continuing on this north
bank of the river, he was already too close to the edge of the village and all
the approaches were open to view. And he was losing time, and without reasoning
why, he felt that time was vital. He lost an hour there, gnawing his knuckles
in desperate frustration and watching for the first move. Even when the women
did decide to take up their washing and make for home they were in no hurry
about it, but dawdled away up the path still bantering and laughing with the
young man who strode between them. Only when their voices had faded into
silence, and no other soul stirred about the ford, did Richard venture out from
cover and spur his pony splashing down into the shallows. The ford was smooth going in the first
stretch, sandy and shallow, then the path trod dry-shod over the tip of the
island, and again plunged into the long passage beyond, a wide archipelago of
small, sandy shoals, dimpling and gleaming with the soft, circuitous motion of
the water. In mid-passage Richard drew rein for a moment to look back, for the
broad, innocent expanse of green meadows oppressed him with a feeling of
nakedness and apprehension. Here he could be seen from a mile or more away, a
small dark figure on horseback, defenceless and vulnerable, against a landscape
all moist, pearly light and pale colours. And there, riding at a gallop towards
the ford, on the same path by which he had come, distant and small still but
all too purposefully riding after him, came a single horseman on a big,
light-grey horse, Fulke Astley in determined pursuit of his truant son-in-law. Richard shot through the shallows in a
flurry of spray, and was off in a desperate hurry through the wet meadows,
heading west for the track that would bring him in somewhat over four miles to
Saint Giles, and the last straight run to the abbey gatehouse. Over a mile to
go before he could find cover in the undulating ground and the scattered groves
of trees, but even then he could not hope to shake off the pursuit now that he
had been sighted, as surely he must have been. And his pony was no match for
that raking dappled beast behind him. But speed was the only hope he had. He
still had a fair start, even if he had lost the best of it waiting to cross the
ford. He dug in his heels and set his teeth and made for Shrewsbury as if
wolves were at his heels. The ground rose, folded in low hills, dotted with
trees and slopes of bushes, hiding hunted and hunter from each other, but the
distance between them must be shortening, and where the track ran level and
unsheltered for a while Richard stole an uneasy glance over his shoulder,
glimpsed his enemy again, nearer than before, and paid for his momentary
inattention with another fall, though this time he clung to the reins and saved
himself both the worst of the shock and the effort of catching his pony again.
Muddied and bruised and furious with himself, he scrambled headlong back into
the saddle and rode wildly on, feeling Astley’s fixed stare as a dagger in his
back. It was fortunate that the pony was Welsh-bred and sturdy, and had been
some days spoiling for exercise, and that the weight he carried was so light,
but even so the pace was unkind, and Richard knew it and fretted over it, but
could not slacken it. By the time the fence of Saint Giles came in sight, and
the track broadened into a road, he could hear the hooves pounding somewhere
behind him. But for that he might have turned in there for refuge, since the
leper hospice was manned and served by the abbey, and Brother Oswin would not
have surrendered him to anyone unless on the abbot’s orders. But by then there
was no time to halt or turn aside. Richard crouched low and galloped on along
the Foregate, every moment expecting to see Fulke Astley’s massive shadow cast
across his quarter, and a big hand stretching out to grasp his bridle. Round
the corner of the abbey wall now, and pounding along the straight stretch to
the gatehouse, scattering the craftsmen and cottagers just ending their day’s
work and turning homeward, and the children and dogs playing in the highway. There was barely five yards between them
when Richard swung recklessly in at the gatehouse. At Vespers that evening there were several
worshippers from the guest hall, as Cadfael noted from his place in the choir.
Rafe of Coventry was present, taciturn and unobtrusive as ever, and even Aymer
Bosiet, after his day’s activities in pursuit of his elusive property, had put
in a morose and grim appearance, possibly to pray for a reliable lead from
heaven. By the look of him he had weighty matters on his mind, since he was
frowning over them all through Vespers, like a man trying to make up his mind.
Perhaps the necessity to remain on good terms with his mother’s powerful kin
was urging him to hasten home at once with Drogo’s body, and show some signs of
family piety. Perhaps the thought of a subtle younger brother, there on the
spot and fully capable of mischief for his own advancement, might also be
arguing for the abandonment of a wild-goose chase in favour of a certain
inheritance. Whatever his preoccupations, he provided
one more witness to the scene that confronted brothers and guests when the
office was over, and they emerged by the south door and passed along the west
range of the cloister into the great court, to disperse there to their various
preparations for supper. Abbot Radulfus was just stepping out into the court,
with Prior Robert and the whole procession of the brothers following, when the
evening quiet was broken by the headlong thud of hooves along the beaten earth
of the roadway outside the gatehouse, turning abruptly to a steely clatter on
the cobbles within, as a stout black pony hurtled in past the gatehouse without
stopping, slithering and stamping on the stones, closely followed by a tall
grey horse. The rider on the grey was a big, fleshy, bearded man, crimson-faced
with anger or haste, or both together, leaning forward to snatch at the bridle
of the boy who rode the pony. The two of them had shot a matter of twenty yards
or so into the centre of the court when his outstretched hand reached the rein,
and hauled both mounts to a sliding, snorting halt, lathered and trembling. He
had secured the pony, but not the boy, who let out a yell of alarm, and
abandoning his reins, rather fell than dismounted on the other side, and fled
like a homing bird to the abbot’s feet, where he stumbled and fell flat on his
face, and winding his arms desperately round the abbot’s ankles, wailed out an
indistinguishable appeal into the skirts of the black habit and hung on
tightly, half expecting to be plucked away by force, and certain no one could
prevent it, if the attempt was made, except for this erect and stable rock to
which he clung. The quiet which had been so roughly
shattered had settled again with startling suddenness on the great court.
Radulfus raised his intent and austere stare from the small figure hugging his
ankles to the stout and confident man who had left the quivering horses
sweating side by side, and advanced some paces to meet him, by no means abashed
before the monastic authority. “My lord, this is somewhat unceremonious. We are
not accustomed to such abrupt visitations,” said Radulfus. “My lord abbot, I regret being forced to
disturb you. If our entry was unmannerly, I ask your pardon. For Richard rather
than for myself,” said Fulke with conscious and confident challenge. “His
foolishness is the cause. I hoped to spare you this silly upheaval by overtaking
him earlier and seeing him safely back home. Where I will take him now, and see that he
does not trouble you so again.” It seemed that he was quite sure of himself,
though he did not advance another step or reach out a hand to grasp the boy by
the collar. He met the abbot’s gaze eye to eye, unblinking. Behind Prior
Robert’s back the brothers broke ranks to come forth into the open and gather
round in a discreet half-circle, to peer in awe at the crouching boy, who had
begun to gasp out muffled protests and pleas, still incoherent, since he would
not raise his head or relax the frantic grasp of his arms. After the brothers
came the guests, no less interested in so unusual a spectacle. Cadfael, moving
methodically round to a position from which he had a clear view, caught the
detached but attentive eye of Rafe of Coventry, and saw the fleeting passage of
a smile brush the falconer’s bearded lips. Instead of answering Astley, the
abbot looked down again with a frowning face at the boy at his feet, and said
crisply: “Stop your noise, child, and leave go of me. You are in no danger. Get
up!” Richard slackened his hold reluctantly,
and raised a face smudged with mud and the green of leaves from his falls, the
sweat of his haste and fear, and a few frantic tears of relief from a terror
seen now to be none too reasonable. “Father, don’t let him take me! I don’t
want to go back, I want to be here, I want to stay with Brother Paul, I want to
learn. Don’t send me away! I never meant to stay away, never! I was on my way
back when they stopped me. I was on my way home, truly I was!” “It would seem,” said the abbot drily,
“that there is some dispute here as to where your home is, since the lord Fulke
is offering you safe-conduct there, whereas you are of the opinion that you are
already arrived. What account you have to give of yourself can wait another
occasion. Where you belong, it seems, cannot. Get up, Richard, at once, and
stand erect as you should.” And he reached down a lean and muscular hand to
take Richard by the forearm and hoist him briskly to his feet. For the first time Richard looked about
him, uncomfortably aware of many eyes upon him, and a little galled at having
to cut so dishevelled and soiled a figure before all the assembled brothers,
let alone the indignant shame he felt at the stiffening snail-trails of tears
on his cheeks. He straightened his back, and scrubbed hurriedly with a sleeve
at his dirty face. He looked briefly for Brother Paul among the habited circle,
and found him, and was a little comforted. And Brother Paul, who had been hard
put to it not to run to his strayed lamb, put his trust in Abbot Radulfus, and
kept his mouth shut. “You have heard, sir,” said the abbot, “what Richard’s
preference is. No doubt you know that his father placed him here in my care,
and wished him to remain here and study until he came of age. I have a claim to
the custody of this boy by charter, duly witnessed, and it was from my care he
disappeared some days ago. I have not so far heard what substance there may be
in your claim on him.” “Richard changes his mind daily,” said
Fulke, confidently loud, “for only last night he went willingly in quite
another direction. Nor do I hold that such a child should be left to choose by
his own liking, when his elders are better judges of what’s good for him. And
as for my claim on the charge of him, you shall know it. Richard is my son by
law, with his grandmother’s full knowledge and consent. Last night he was
married to my daughter.” The shiver of consternation that went round the circle
of awestricken watchers subsided into absolute stillness. Abbot Radulfus was
not shaken outwardly, but Cadfael saw the lines of his gaunt face tighten, and
knew that the shaft had gone home. Such a consummation had been plotted long
since by Dionisia, this self-important neighbour was little more than her
instrument in the affair. What he announced could very well be true, if they
had had the boy in their hands all this time that he had been missing. And
Richard, who had stiffened and jerked up his head, open-mouthed to cry that it
was false, met the abbot’s stern eyes fixed steadily upon him, and was utterly
confounded. He was afraid to lie to that judicial countenance, indeed he
admired as much as he feared, and he did not wish to lie, and confronted with
this flat declaration he found himself at a loss to know what was truth. For
they had married him to Hiltrude, and simple denial was not enough. A last bolt
of fright went through him and took his breath away, for how if Hyacinth was
himself deceived, and the vows he had tamely repeated had bound him for life? “Is this true, Richard?” asked Radulfus. His voice was level and quiet, but in the
circumstances seemed to Richard terrible. He gulped down words that would not
do, and Fulke, impatient, answered for him: “It is true, and he cannot deny it.
Do you doubt my word, my lord?” “Silence!” said the abbot peremptorily,
but still quietly. “I require Richard’s answer. Speak up, boy! Did this
marriage indeed take place?” “Yes, Father,” faltered Richard, “but it
is not—” “Where? With what other witnesses?” “At Leighton, Father, last night, that is
true, but still I am not—” He was cut off again, and submitted with a sob,
frustrated and growing indignant. “And you spoke the words of the sacrament
freely, of your own will? You were not forced? Beaten? Threatened?” “No, Father, not beaten, but I was afraid.
They did so hammer at me—” “He has been reasoned with, and he was
persuaded,” said Fulke shortly. “Now he takes back what he granted yesterday.
He spoke his part without hand being laid on him. Of his own will!” “And your priest undertook this marriage
willingly? Assured that the consent of both was freely given? A good man, of
honest repute?” “A man of known holiness, my lord abbot,”
said Fulke triumphantly. “The country folk call him a saint. The holy hermit
Cuthred!” “But, Father,” Richard cried with the
courage of desperation, determined to get out at last the plain, untangled
truth of it, “I did what I did so that they’d let me go free, and I could get
back to you. I did say the vows, but only because I knew they could not be
binding. I am not married! It was not a marriage, because—” Both the abbot and
Fulke broke into speech, sternly overriding his outburst and ordering his
silence, but Richard’s blood was up. If it must out here before everyone, then
it must. He clenched his fists, and shouted loudly enough to fetch a stony echo
from the walls of the cloister: “—because Cuthred is not a priest!” Chapter Twelve IN THE GENERAL RIPPLE AND STIR OF ASTONISHMENT,
doubt and outrage that passed like a sudden gust of wind through the entire
assembly, from Prior Robert’s indignant snort to the inquisitive and
half-gleeful whisperings and shiftings among the novices, the thing that was
clearest of all to Cadfael was that Fulke Astley stood utterly confounded.
Never had he had the least notion what was coming, it had taken his breath
away. He stood dangling his arms in curious helplessness, as though something
of his own being had slipped from his grasp and left him lame and mute. When he
had recovered breath enough to speak at all he said what would have been
expected of him, but without the confidence of conviction, rather forcibly
thrusting the very suggestion away from him in panic. “My lord abbot, this is madness! The boy
is lying. He’ll say anything to serve his turn. Of course Father Cuthred is a
priest! The brothers of Savigny from Buildwas brought him to us, ask them, they
have no doubts. There has never been any question. This is wickedness, so to slander
a holy man.” “Such slander would indeed be wickedness,”
agreed Radulfus, fixing his deep-set eyes and lowered brows formidably upon
Richard. “Think well, sir, before you repeat it. If this is a device to get
your way and remain here with us, think better of it now and confess it. You
shall not be punished for it. Whatever else, it would seem that you have been
misused, abducted and intimidated, and that shall excuse you. I would remind
Sir Fulke of these circumstances. But if you do not tell truth now, Richard,
then you do incur punishment.” “I have told truth,” said Richard stoutly,
jutting his very respectable chin and meeting the awesome eyes without
blinking. “I am telling truth. I swear it! I did what they demanded of me
because I knew then that the hermit is not a priest, and a marriage made by him
would be no marriage.” “How did you know?” cried Fulke furiously,
stirring out of his confusion. “Who told you so? My lord, this is all a
childish ruse, and a spiteful one. He is lying!” “Well? You may answer those questions,”
said Radulfus, never taking his eyes from Richard’s. “How did you know? Who
told you?” But these were the very questions Richard could not answer without
betraying Hyacinth, and bringing the hunt on to his trail with renewed vigour.
He said with wincing gallantry: “Father, I will tell you, but not here, only to
you. Please believe me, I am not lying.” “I do believe you,” said the abbot,
abruptly releasing him from the scrutiny which had made him tremble. “I believe
you are saying what you have been told, and what you believe to be true. But
this is a more serious matter than you can understand, and it must be cleared
up. A man against whom such an accusation has been made has the right to speak
up for himself, and prove his good faith. I shall go myself, tomorrow early,
and ask the hermit whether he is or is not a priest, and who ordained him, and
where, and when. These things can be proven, and should be. You will surely
have an equal interest, my lord, in finding out, once for all, whether this was
indeed a marriage. Though I must warn you,” he added firmly, “that even if it
is it can be annulled, seeing it cannot have been consummated.” “Make the attempt,” retorted Astley,
somewhat recovering his composure, “and it will be contested to the limit. But
I acknowledge that truth must come out. We cannot have such doubts lingering.” “Then will you not meet with me at the
hermitage, as early as may be after Prime? It is fair we should both hear what
Cuthred has to say. I am well sure,” he said with truth, having seen the effect
of Richard’s outburst, “that you believed implicitly the man was a priest, with
full rights to marry and bury. That is not in dispute. Richard has cause to
hold to the contrary. Let us put it to the test.” There was nothing Astley could object to
in that, nor, thought Cadfael, had he any wish to avoid the issue. He had
certainly been profoundly shocked by the suggestion of deceit, and wanted the
damaging doubt removed. But he did make one more attempt to regain his hold
meantime on the boy. He advanced a hand to Richard’s shoulder. “I will come to
that meeting,” he said, “and see this deluded child proved wrong. But for this
night I still hold he stands as my son, and should go with me.” The hand closed on Richard’s arm, and the
boy started and tore himself away. Brother Paul could no longer restrain
himself, he hurried forward out of the staring ranks and drew the truant close
to his side. “Richard stays here,” said Radulfus firmly. “His father entrusted
him to me, and I set no limit on his stay with us. But whose son by law and
whose husband the child is we must and will examine.” Fulke was growing purple in the face again
with suppressed anger. He had come so near to capturing the imp, and now to be
thwarted, and the whole structure of his and Dionisia’s territorial plans put
in jeopardy. He would not give up so easily. “You take much upon yourself, my lord
abbot,” he began, “in denying rights to his kin, you who have no blood claim
upon him. And I think you are not without designs upon his lands and goods in
keeping him here. You want no marriage for the boy, but rather to school him
here until he knows no other world, and will enter tamely into his novitiate,
and your house into his inheritance…” He was so intent on his accusations, and
all those about him so stricken into wonder at his daring, that no one had yet
observed the new arrival at the gatehouse. All eyes were on Astley, and all
mouths agape in amazement, and Hugh had tethered his horse at the gate and
entered on foot, making no noise. He had taken but ten paces into the court
when his eye fell first on the grey horse and the black pony, crusted with the
drying lather of their hasty ride, and held now by a groom, who stood gaping at
the group framed in the archway of the cloister. Hugh followed the man’s
fascinated stare, and took in at a glance the same arresting spectacle, the
abbot and Fulke Astley face to face in obvious confrontation, and Brother Paul
with an arm protectively about the shoulders of a small, wiry, grubby and
dishevelled boy, who lifted to the evening light the wide-eyed face,
half-frightened, half-defiant, of Richard Ludel. Radulfus, standing
disdainfully silent under abuse, was the first to notice the new arrival on the
scene. Looking clean over his adversary’s head, as with his height he could
very well do, he said distinctly: “No doubt the lord sheriff will pay the
attention due to your charges. As he may also be interested in how Richard came
to be in your care at Leighton as late as last night. You should address your
complaints to him.” Fulke span upon one heel so precipitately that he all but
lost his balance; and there was Hugh coming briskly down the court to join
them, one quirky eyebrow tilted into his black hair, and the eye beneath it
bright and sharply knowing, and levelled upon Fulke. “Well, well, my lord!”
said Hugh amiably. “I see you have made shift to discover and restore the
truant I have just failed to find in your manor of Leighton. Here am I newly
come from there to report failure to the lord abbot as Richard’s guardian, and
here I find you have been doing my work for me while I was wild-goose chasing.
I take that very kindly of you. I’ll bear it in mind when it comes to
considering the little matter of abduction and forcible imprisonment. It seems
the woodland bird that whispered in my ear Richard was at Leighton told simple
truth, for all I found no trace of him when I put it to the proof, and no one
to admit he’d ever been there. You can have been out of the house barely half
an hour by some other path when I reached it by the road.” His observant eye
roved over Richard’s taut figure and wary face, and came to rest on the abbot.
“Do you find him in good heart, and none the worse for being caged, my lord?
He’s come to no harm?” “None to his body, certainly,” said
Radulfus. “But there is another matter unresolved. It seems a form of marriage
took place last night at Leighton between Richard and Sir Fulke’s daughter. To
that Richard agrees, but he says that it was no real marriage, since the hermit
Cuthred, who conducted it, is not a priest.” “Do you tell me so?” Hugh pursed his lips
in a soundless whistle, and swung round upon Fulke, who stood mute but
watchful, all too aware of the need to step warily, and think now before he
spoke. “And what do you say to that, my lord?” “I say it is an absurd charge that will
never stand. He came to us with the good will of the brothers of Buildwas. I
never heard word against him, and do not believe it now. We have dealt with him
in good faith.” “That, I am sure, is true,” said the abbot
fairly. “If there is anything in this charge, those who desired this marriage
did not know of it.” “But Richard, I think, did not desire it,”
said Hugh, with a somewhat grim smile. “This cannot rest so, we must have out
the truth.” “So we are all agreed,” said Radulfus,
“and Sir Fulke has contracted to meet with me tomorrow after Prime at the
hermitage, and hear what the man himself has to say. I was about to send to
you, my lord sheriff, and tell you how this thing stands, and ask you to ride
with me tomorrow. This scene,” he said, casting an authoritative glance round
at his all too attentive flock, “need not be prolonged, I think. If you will
sup with me, Hugh, you shall hear all that has happened. Robert, have the
brothers proceed. I am sorry our evening should have been so rudely disrupted.
And, Paul…” He looked down at Richard, who had one fist tightly clenched on a
fold of Paul’s habit, ready to hold fast had his tenure been threatened. “Take
him away, Paul, clean him up, feed him, and bring him to me after supper. He
has a great deal to tell us that has not been told yet. There, you may
disperse, all, there is no more here to see.” The brothers edged aside
obediently, and moved away somewhat raggedly to resume the interrupted order of
the evening, though there would be furtive whispering even in the frater, and a
great deal of excited talk afterwards in the leisured hour before Collations.
Brother Paul marched his restored lamb away to be washed and made presentable
before abbot and sheriff after supper. Aymer Bosiet, who had looked on with a
certain malevolent satisfaction at someone else’s crisis and confusion as a
relief from his own, detached himself moodily and went across the court to the
guest hall. But Cadfael, suddenly moved to look back, missed the one figure he
was seeking. Rafe of Coventry was no where to be seen, and now that Cadfael
came to think of it, he must have taken himself off quietly some time before
the intriguing scene ended. Because he had no interest in it, and was quite
capable of detaching himself from a spectacle which held most men spellbound?
Or because he had found something in it that interested him deeply and
urgently? Fulke Astley was left hesitant, eye to eye
with Hugh, and unsure whether it would serve him better to attempt explanations
and justification, or to withdraw—if he was allowed to withdraw—in dignified
silence, or at least with as few words as possible, and no concessions. “Tomorrow, then, my lord,” he said, settling
upon brevity, “I shall be at Cuthred’s hermitage as I have promised.” “Good! And you might do well,” said Hugh,
“to acquaint the hermit’s patroness with what’s mooted against him. She may
wish to be present herself. As at this time, my lord, I have no more immediate
need of you. And should I have need in the future, I know where to find you.
You may have good reason to be glad that Richard slipped his collar. Mischief
undone is best forgotten. Provided, of course, there’s no further mischief in
contemplation.” Of that Fulke made the best he could. With a curt reverence to
the abbot he turned to reclaim his horse, mounted, and rode out at the
gatehouse at a deliberate and stately walking pace. Brother Cadfael, summoned to join the
colloquy in the abbot’s lodging after supper, turned aside on his way, on a
sudden impulse, and went into the stable yard. Richard’s black pony was
contented and easy in his stall after his strenuous ride, groomed and watered
and placidly feeding. But the big chestnut with the white blaze down his
forehead was gone from his place, saddle and harness and all. Whatever the
occasion for his silent departure, Rafe of Coventry had ridden forth on some
local errand of his own. Richard sat on a low stool at the abbot’s knee, washed
and brushed and meekly grateful to be home, and told his story, or as much of
it as he felt justified in telling. He had an interested audience. There were
present, besides the abbot, Hugh Beringar, Brother Cadfael at Hugh’s accepted
request, and Brother Paul, still reluctant to let the returned prodigal out of
his sight. Richard had tolerated, even enjoyed, being shaken, slapped, scrubbed
and made much of, the whole chaotic process which had produced this neat,
shining schoolboy for the abbot’s inspection. There were gaps in his story, and
he knew they would be questioned, but Radulfus was of noble family, and would
understand that a nobleman cannot betray those who have helped him, or even
certain underlings who at the instance of their masters have injured him.
“Would you know them again, the two who captured you and took you into
Wroxeter?” asked Hugh. Richard considered the tempting prospect
of revenge on the strapping young fellow who had laughed at his struggles and
hindered him at the ford, but rejected it reluctantly as unworthy of his
nobility. “I couldn’t be sure of them. It was getting dark.” They did not press
him. Instead, the abbot asked: “Had you help in escaping from Leighton? You
could hardly have broken out on your own, or you would have done it earlier.” Answering that presented something of a
problem. If he told the truth it would certainly do Hiltrude no harm here among
his friends, but if ever it reached her father it could do her harm enough.
Better stick to the story as she must have told it, that the door had been
mistakenly left unbolted, and he had made his own way out. Cadfael observed the
slight flush that mantled in the boy’s well-scrubbed cheeks as he recounted
that part of his adventures, with notable brevity and modesty. If it had been
true he would have been exulting in it. “He should have known what a slippery
fish he had caught,” said Hugh, smiling. “But you still have not told us why
you rode out from the abbey in the first place, nor who told you that the
hermit is not the priest he purports to be.” This was the crux, and Richard had
been thinking about it with unaccustomed labour and pain while he submitted to
Brother Paul’s affectionate homily on obedience and order, and the evil
consequences to be expected from transgressing their rules. He looked up warily
into the abbot’s face, shot an uneasy glance at Hugh, whose reactions as the
secular authority were less calculable, and said earnestly: “Father, I said I
would tell you, but I did not say I would tell any other. There is someone who
might be harmed if I told what I know of him, and I know he has not deserved
it. I can’t bring him into danger.” “I would not wish to make you break faith
with any man,” said Radulfus gravely. “Tomorrow I’ll hear your confession
myself, and you shall tell me then, and rest happy that you’ve done right, and
your confidence is sacred. Now you’d best get to your bed, for I fancy you need
it. Take him away, Paul!” Richard made his ceremonial reverences, glad to have
got off so lightly; but as he passed where Hugh sat he hesitated and stopped,
plainly with something still on his mind. “My lord, you said everyone at Leighton
said I had never been there, of course they’d be afraid to say anything else.
But did Hiltrude say so?” Hugh could make connections perhaps faster than most
men, but if he instantly made this one he gave no sign of it. With respectful
gravity and a blank countenance he said: “That’s Astley’s daughter? I never
spoke with her, she was not in the house.” Not there! So she did not have to lie. She
must have slipped out discreetly as soon as her father was gone. Richard said a
relieved and grateful goodnight, and went away to his bed with a lightened
heart. “She let him out, of course,” said Hugh as
soon as the door had closed after the boy. “She was a victim no less than he.
Now I begin to see a pattern. Richard is seized as he rides back through Eyton
forest, and what is there in Eyton forest and along that path but Eilmund’s
cottage and the hermitage? And to the hermitage we know he did not go. And who
should walk into Shrewsbury about noon this day and send me off hotfoot to
Leighton, which otherwise I should not have reached before tomorrow, but
Eilmund’s girl? And where she got the news she never clearly said, but some
passing villager had said he’d seen a boy there who might well be Richard. And
Richard, more forthrightly, will not say why he went off there alone, nor who
told him the hermit is no true priest. Father, it seems to me that
someone—let’s not go so far as to name him!—has very good friends among our
acquaintance. I hope they are as good judges! Well, tomorrow, at any rate,
there’ll be no hunting. Richard is safely home with you. And to tell truth, I
doubt the other quarry will ever be flushed out of cover. Tomorrow our morning
business is laid down for us. Let’s first see that resolved.” As soon as Prime was over they mounted and
rode, Abbot Radulfus, Hugh Beringar and Brother Cadfael, who in any case was
bound for Eilmund’s cottage that day, to see how the forester was progressing.
It was by no means the first time he had adjusted his legitimate visits to
accommodate his reasoned curiosity. That he could count on Hugh to abet his
plans was an added advantage, and an additional witness with a sharp eye for
the infinitesimal changes by which the human countenance betrays itself might
be invaluable in this encounter. The morning was clearer of mist than in recent
days, there had arisen a steady, drying wind that was crisping the fallen
leaves in the forest rides, and colouring in muted gold those that still hung
on the trees. The first frost would set the crowns of the forest blazing in
russets and browns and flame. Another week or two, thought Cadfael, and there’d
be no shelter for Hyacinth in the trees when inconvenient visitors came to the
cottage, even the oaks would be half-naked. But in a few more days, God
willing, Aymer would have abandoned his revenge, cut his losses, and made off
in haste to secure his gains at home. His father’s body was safely coffined,
and though he had only two grooms with him, there was also Drogo’s good horse
as a remount for a new master in a hurry, and he would find no difficulty in
hiring litter bearers at every way-stage on his journey. He had already scoured
the whole region without success, and showed distinct signs of fretting between
two desired ends, of which surely the more profitable would win in the end.
Hyacinth’s freedom might be nearer than he knew. And he had already served and
deserved well, for who else could have got word to Richard that the hermit was
not all he claimed to be? Hyacinth had travelled with him, known him well
before he ever set foot in Buildwas. Hyacinth might well know things about his
reverend master that were known to no one else. The thick woodland hid the hermitage from
them until they were very near. The sudden parting of the trees before them
came always as a mild surprise, unveiling in an instant the small green
clearing, the low pales that made a mere token fence about the garden, and the
squat cell of grey stone, patched with the newer and paler grey of its recent
repairs. The door of the house was open, as Cuthred had said it always was, to
all who came. There was no one at work in the half-cleared garden, no sound
from the interior of the cell, as they dismounted at the gateless gateway and
tethered their horses. Cuthred must be within, by the silence perhaps at his
prayers. “Go first, Father,” said Hugh. “This is
more within your writ than mine.” The abbot had to stoop his head to pass
through the stone doorway, and stood motionless for a moment within, until his
eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The single narrow window let in a subdued
light at this hour by reason of the overhanging trees, and the shapes within
the bare room took on substance only gradually, the narrow pallet against the
wall, the small table and bench, the few vessels, plate and cup and pottery
bowl. The doorless opening into the chapel revealed the stone block of the
altar by the tiny glow of the lamp on it, but left all below in obscurity. The
lamp had burned very low, was no more than a spark. “Cuthred!” called Radulfus into the
silence. “Are you within? The abbot of Shrewsbury greets you in the name and
grace of God!” There was no answer but the small, stony echo. Hugh stepped past
and advanced into the chapel doorway, and there halted abruptly, drawing in
hissing breath. Cuthred was indeed within, but not at his prayers. He lay
sprawled on his back beneath the altar, head and shoulders propped against the
stone, as though he had fallen or been hurled backwards while facing the
doorway. His habit billowed in dark folds round him, exposing sinewy feet and
ankles, and the breast of the gown was matted and blackened by a long stain,
where he had bled from the stab that killed him. His face, between the tangled
dark fell of hair and beard, was contorted in a grimace which might have been
of agony or of rage, the lips drawn back from strong teeth, the eyes glaring
half-open. His arms were flung wide, and beside his right hand, as though released
in the moment of falling, a long dagger lay spilled on the stone floor. Priest or no, Cuthred was never going to
testify in his own defence. There was no need to question or touch to see that
he was some hours dead, and dead by violence. “Christ aid!” said the abbot in a harsh
whisper, and stood like stone over the body. “God have mercy on a murdered man!
Who can have done this thing?” Hugh was on his knees beside the dead man,
touching flesh already grown chill and waxen in texture. There was nothing to
be demanded now of the hermit Cuthred, and nothing to be done for him in this
world, short of the final balance of justice. “Dead some hours at least. A second man
struck down within my shire, and no requital yet for the first! For God’s sake,
what is it let loose in these woods to such devilish effect?” “Can this possibly have any bearing,”
wondered the abbot heavily, “on what the boy has told us? Has someone struck
first to prevent him ever answering in his own defence? To bury the proof with
the man? There has been such resolute plotting over this marriage, all for
greed of land, but surely it could not be carried so far as murder?” “If this is murder,” said Brother Cadfael,
rather to himself than to any other, but aloud. He had remained still and silent
in the doorway all this time, looking round him intently at the room he
remembered well from a single visit, a room so sparsely furnished that every
detail was memorable. The chapel was larger than the living room of the cell,
there was room here for free movement, even for a struggle. Only the eastern
wall was built up beneath its tiny square window with the great fashioned stone
of the altar, and atop that the small carved reliquary on which stood the
silver cross, and on either side a silver candlestick holding a tall candle,
unlighted. On the stone before the reliquary, the lamp, and laid neatly in
front of it—But there was nothing laid in front of it. Strange to have the man
thrown down in disordered and disregarded death, but the altar so trim and
undisturbed. And only one thing missing from the picture Cadfael carried in his
mind’s eye. The breviary in the leather binding fit for a prince, tooled in
intricate scrolls and leaves and gilded ornament, was gone. Hugh rose from his knees and stood back to
view the room as Cadfael was viewing it. They had seen it together, by rights
their memories should match. He shot a sharp glance at Cadfael. “You see cause
to doubt it?” “I see that he was armed.” Hugh was already looking down at the long
dagger that lay so close to Cuthred’s half-open hand. He had not touched it. He
stood back and touched nothing, now that he knew the discarded flesh before him
was cold. “He loosed his hold as he fell. That dagger is his. It was used.
There is blood on it—not his blood. Whatever happened here, it was no furtive
stabbing in the back.” That was certain. The wound was over his
heart, the stiffening patch of blood from it had reached his middle. The dagger
that killed this man had been withdrawn and let out his lifeblood. Its fellow
here on the floor was stained for only a thumb’s length from its tip, and had
barely shed one drop upon the stone where it lay. “You are saying,” said the abbot, stirring
out of his horrified stillness, “that this was a fight? But how should a holy
hermit keep sword or dagger about him? Even for his own defence against thieves
and vagabonds such a man should not resort to arms, but put his trust in God.” “And if this was a thief,” said Cadfael,
“he was a most strange one. Here are cross and candlesticks of silver, and they
are not taken, not even shaken from their places in the struggle. Or else they
were set right afterwards.” “That is truth,” said the abbot, and shook
his head over so inexplicable a mystery. “This was not done for robbery. But
what, then? Why should any man attack a solitary religious, one without
possessions by choice, one whose only valuables are the furnishings of his
altar? He has lived unmolested and serviceable among us, by all accounts open
and accessible to all who came with their needs and troubles. Why should anyone
wish to harm him? Can this be the same hand that killed the lord of Bosiet,
Hugh? Or must we fear we have two murderers loose among us?” “There is still this lad of his,” said
Hugh, frowning over the thought but unable quite to discard it. “We have not
found him, and I had begun to think that he had made off westward and got clean
away into Wales. But it’s still possible that he has remained close here. There
may well be those who are sheltering him and believe in him. We have grounds
for thinking so. If he is indeed the villein who ran from Bosiet, he had some
cause to rid himself of his master. And say that Cuthred, who disowned him on
hearing he had been deceived in him, found out his hiding place now—yes, then
he might also have cause to kill Cuthred. All of which is mere matter for
conjecture. And yet cannot be quite rejected.” No, thought Cadfael, not until Aymer
Bosiet has gone his way back to Northamptonshire, and Hyacinth can come out of
hiding and speak for himself, and Eilmund and Annet, yes, and Richard, can
speak for him. For between the three of them I’m sure it can be proved exactly
where Hyacinth has been at all times, and he has not been here. No, we need not
trouble about Hyacinth. But I wish, he thought regretfully, I wish they had let
me confide in Hugh long ago. The sun was higher in the sky by now, and
found a better angle through the leafage of the trees, to shed more light upon
the distorted and lamentable body. The skirts of the rusty black habit were
gathered together at one side, as if a large fist had drawn them into its
grasp, and there the woollen cloth was clotted with a sticky dark stain.
Cadfael kneeled and drew the folds apart, and they separated with a faint,
rustling reluctance. “Here he wiped his dagger,” said Cadfael, “before
sheathing it again.” “Twice,” said Hugh, peering, for there was
a second such smear, barely perceptible. Coolly and efficiently, a methodical
man cleaning his tools after finishing his work! “And see here, this casket on
the altar.” He had stepped carefully round the body to look closely at the
carved wooden box, and draw a finger along the edge of the lid, above the lock.
The flaw was no longer than a thumbnail, but showed where the point of a dagger
had been thrust in to prise the box open. He lifted down the cross and raised
the lid, which gave readily. The lock was sprung and broken, and the casket was
empty. Only the faint aromatic scent of the wood stirred upon the air. There
was not even a filming of dust within; the box had been well made. “So something was taken, after all,” said
Cadfael. He did not mention the breviary, though he could not doubt that Hugh
had noticed its absence as readily as he. “But not the silver. What could a hermit
have about him of greater value than Dame Dionisia’s silver? He came to
Buildwas on foot, carrying only a scrip like any other pilgrim, though to be
sure his boy Hyacinth also carried a pack for him. Now I wonder,” said Hugh,
“whether this casket was also the lady’s gift, or whether he brought it with
him?” They had been so intent on what they were
observing within that they had failed to pay attention to what was happening
without, and there had been no sound to warn them. And in the shock of what
they had discovered they had almost forgotten that at least one more witness
was expected at this meeting. But it was a woman’s voice, not Fulke’s, that
suddenly spoke in the doorway behind them, high and confidently, and with
arrogant disapproval in its tone. “No need to wonder, my lord. It would be
simple and civil to ask me.” All three of them swung round in dismayed alarm to
stare at Dame Dionisia, tall and erect and defiant between them and the
brightening daylight from which she had come, and which left her half-blind at
stepping into this relative obscurity. They were between her and the body, and
there was nothing else to startle or alarm her but the very fact that Hugh
stood with his hand on the open casket, and the cross had been lifted down.
This she saw clearly, while the dying lamp lit nothing else so well. And she
was outraged. “My lord, what is this? What are you doing with these sacred
things? And where is Cuthred? Have you dared to meddle in his absence?” The
abbot moved to place himself more solidly between her and the dead man, and
advanced to persuade her out of the chapel. “Madam, you shall know all, but I beg you,
come out into the other room and be seated, and wait but a moment until we set
all in order here. Here is no irreverence, I promise you.” The light from without was still further
darkened by the bulk of Astley looming at her shoulder, blocking the retreat
the abbot was urging. She stood her ground, imperious and indignant. “Where is Cuthred? Does he know you are
here? How is it he has left his cell? He never does so—” The lie ended on her
lips in a sharp indrawn breath. Beyond the abbot’s robe she had seen one small
pallor jutting from the huddle of dark skirts, a foot that had shaken loose its
sandal. Her vision was clearer now. She evaded the abbot’s restraining hand and
thrust strongly past him. All her questions were answered in one shattering
glance. Cuthred was indeed there, and on this occasion at least had not left
his cell. The long, patrician composure of her face turned waxen grey and seemed
to disintegrate, its sharp lines fallen slack. She uttered a great wail, rather
of terror than of grief, and half-sprang, half-fell backwards into the arms of
Fulke Astley. Chapter Thirteen SHE NEITHER SWOONED NOR WEPT. She was a
woman who did not lightly do either. But she sat for a long while bolt upright
on Cuthred’s bed in the living room, rigid and pale and staring straight before
her, clean through the stone wall before her face, and a long way beyond. It
was doubtful if she heard any of the abbot’s carefully measured words, or the
uneasy blusterings of Astley, alternately offering her gallantries of comfort
she did not value or need, and recalling feverishly that this crime left all
questions unanswered, and in some none too logical way went to prove that the
hermit had indeed been a priest, and the marriage he had solemnized still a
marriage. At least she paid no attention to either. She had gone far beyond any
such considerations. All her old plans had become irrelevant. She had looked
closely on sudden death, unconfessed, unshriven, and she wanted no part of it.
Cadfael saw it in her eyes as he came out from the chapel, having done what he
could to lay Cuthred’s body straight and seemly, now that he had read all it
had to tell him. Through that death she was confronting her own, and she had no
intention of meeting it with all her sins upon her. Or for many years yet, but
she had had warning that if she was willing to wait, death might not be. At last she asked, in a perfectly ordinary
voice, perhaps milder than any she normally used to her household or tenants,
but without moving, or withdrawing her eyes from her ultimate enemy: “Where is
the lord sheriff?” “He’s gone to get hold of a party to carry
the hermit away from here,” said the abbot. “To Eaton, if you so wish, to be
cared for there, since you were his patroness. Or, if it will spare you painful
reminders, to the abbey. He shall be properly received there.” “It would be a kindness,” she said slowly,
“if you would take him. I no longer know what to think. Fulke has told me what
my grandson says. The hermit cannot answer for himself now, nor can I for him.
I believed without question that he was a priest.” “That, madam,” said Radulfus, “I never
doubted.” The focus of her stare had shortened, a little colour had come back
into her waxen face. She was on her way back, soon she would stir and brace
herself, and turn to look at the real world about her, instead of the bleak
distances of judgement day. And she would face whatever she had to face with
the same ferocious courage and obstinacy with which she had formerly conducted
her battles. “Father,” she said, turning towards him
with abrupt resolution, “if I come to the abbey tonight, will you yourself hear
my confession? I shall sleep the better when I have shed my sins.” “I will,” said the abbot. She was ready then to be taken home, and
Fulke was all too anxious to escort her. No doubt he, who had very little to
say here in company, would be voluble enough in private with her. He had not
her intelligence, nor nearly so acute an imagination. If Cuthred’s death had
cast any shadow on him, it was merely the vexation of not being able to claim
proof of his daughter’s marriage, not at all a bony hand on his shoulder. So at
any rate thought Brother Cadfael, watching him arm Dionisia to where her jennet
was tethered, in haste to have her away and be free of the abbot’s daunting
presence. At the last moment, with the reins
gathered in her hand, she suddenly turned back. Her face had regained all its
proud tension and force, she was herself again. “I have only now remembered,”
she said, “that the lord sheriff was wondering about the casket in there on the
altar. That was Cuthred’s. He brought it with him.” When the abbot and the litter-bearers and
Hugh were all on their slow and sombre way back to the abbey, Cadfael took a
last look round the deserted chapel, the more attentively because he was alone
and without distractions. There was not a single stain of blood on the flags of
the floor where the body had lain, only the drop or two left by the point of
Cuthred’s own dagger. He had certainly wounded his adversary, though the wound
could not be deep. Cadfael sighted a course from the altar to the doorway, and
followed it with a newly lighted candle in his hand. In the chapel he found
nothing more, and in the outer room the floor was of beaten earth, and such
faint traces would be hard to find after the passage of hours. But on the
doorstone he found three drops shaken, dried now but plain to be seen, and on the
new and unstained timber with which the left jamb of the doorway had been
repaired there was a blurred smear of blood at the level of his own shoulder,
where a gashed and bloodied sleeve had brushed past. A man no taller than himself, then, and
Cuthred’s dagger had taken him in the shoulder or upper arm on the left side,
as a stroke aimed at his heart might well do. Cadfael had intended to ride on to
Eilmund’s cottage, but on impulse he changed his mind, for it seemed to him
that after all he could not afford to miss whatever might follow when Cuthred’s
body was brought into the court at the abbey, to the consternation of most, the
relief, perhaps, of some, and the possible peril of one in particular. Instead
of cutting through the forest rides, he mounted and rode back in haste towards
Shrewsbury, to overtake the funeral procession. They had a curious audience as soon as
they entered the Foregate, and the camp-following of inquisitive boys and
attendant dogs followed at their heels all along the highroad, and even the
respectable citizens came after them at a more discreet distance, wary of abbot
and sheriff but avid for information, and breeding rumours as fast as flies
breed on summer middens. Even when the cortege turned in at the gatehouse the
good folk from market and smithy and tavern gathered outside to peer
expectantly within, and continued their speculations with relish. And there in the great court, as they
carried one bier in from the world, was another funeral party busy assembling
to leave. Drogo Bosiet’s sealed coffin was mounted on a low, light cart, hired
in the town with its driver for this first day’s travelling, which would be on
a good road. Warin stood holding two of the saddled horses, while the younger
groom was busy adjusting a full saddle-roll to get the weight properly balanced
before loading it. At sight of all this activity Cadfael drew a deep breath of
gratitude, sensible that one danger, at least, was being lifted away even
earlier than he had dared to hope. Aymer had finally made up his mind. He was
bound for home, to make sure of his inheritance. The attendants on one death could not
forbear from stopping what they were doing to stare at the attendants on the
other. And Aymer, coming out from the guest hall with Brother Denis beside him
to wish the departing train godspeed, halted at the top of the steps to take in
the scene with surprise and sharp speculation, his eyes dwelling longest on the
covered form and face. He came striding down to cross purposefully to where
Hugh was just dismounting. “What’s this, my lord? Another death? Has your hunt
brought down my quarry at last? But dead?” He hardly knew whether to be glad or
sorry if the corpse was that of his lost villein. The money and favour
Hyacinth’s skills brought in were valuable, but revenge would also be a
satisfying gain, and just when he had despaired of winning either, and made up
his mind to go home. Abbot Radulfus, too, had dismounted, and
stood looking on with an uncommunicative face, for the two groups carried a
curious and disturbing suggestion of a mirror image, gathered about the
arriving and departing dead. The abbey grooms who had come to take the bridles
of abbot and sheriff hung upon the fringes of the assembly, reluctant to move
away. “No,” said Hugh, “this is no man of yours. If the boy we’ve been hunting
is yours. Of him we’ve seen no sign, whether he is or no. You’re bound for
home, then?” “I’ve wasted time and effort enough, I’ll
waste no more, though I grudge letting him go free. Yes, we’re away now. I’m needed
at home, there’s work waiting for me. Who is this one you’ve brought back?” “The hermit who was set up no long time
ago in Eyton forest. Your father went to visit him,” said Hugh, “thinking the
servant he kept might be the fellow you were looking for, but the youngster had
already taken to his heels, so it’s never been put to the test.” “I remember, soothe lord abbot told me. So
this is the man! I never went to him again, what use if the lad he kept was
gone?” He looked curiously down at the shrouded figure. The bearers had laid
down their burden, awaiting orders where to take the dead. Aymer stooped and
turned back the brychan from Cuthred’s face. They had drawn back the wild fell
of hair from his temples, and brushed down his bushy beard into order, and the
full light of noon shone over the lean countenance, the deep-set eyes, the
lofty lids a little bruised and bluish now, the long, straight, patrician nose
and full lips within the dark beard. The glare of the half-open eyes was now
veiled, the snarl on the drawn-back lips carefully smoothed out to restore his
harsh comeliness. Aymer leaned closer, startled and disbelieving. “But I know this man! No, that’s to say
too much, he never said his name. But I’ve seen him and talked with him. A
hermit—he? I never saw sign of it then! He wore his hair trimmed Norman
fashion, and had a short, clipped beard, not this untended bush, and he was
well clothed in good riding gear, boots and all, not this drab habit and
sandals. And he wore sword and dagger into the bargain,” said Aymer positively,
“and as if he was well accustomed to the use of them, too.” Until he looked up again he was not fully
aware of the significance of what he had said, but Hugh’s intent face and
instant question made it plain he had touched on something more vital than he
knew. “You are sure?” said Hugh. “Certain, my lord. It was only one night’s
lodging, but I diced with him for the dinner, and watched my father play a game
of chess with him. I’m certain!” “Where was this? And when?” “At Thame, when we were looking towards
London for Brand. We lodged overnight with the white monks at their new abbey
there. This man was there before us, we came well into the evening, and went on
south next day. I can’t say the exact day, but it was towards the end of
September.” “Then if you know him again,” said Hugh,
“changed as his condition is, would your father also have recognised him at
sight?” “Surely he would, my lord. His eyes were
sharper than mine. He’d sat over a chessboard with the man, eye to eye. He’d
know him again.” And so he had, thought Cadfael, when he went man-hunting to
the cell in the forest, and came face to face with the hermit Cuthred who had
been no hermit a month or so earlier. And he had not lived to return to the
abbey and let out to any man what he knew. And what if he knew no great evil of
this transformed being? He might still let fall to other ears the casual word
that would mean more to them than ever it had to him, and bring to the cell in
Eyton forest someone in search of more than a runaway villein, and worse,
surely, than a spurious priest. But he had not lived to get further on his
return journey than a close forest thicket, sufficiently far from the hermitage
to remove suspicion from a local saint reputed never to leave his cell. The
evidence of circumstances is not positive proof, yet Cadfael had no doubts
left. There before them the coffined body and the new corpse rested for a few
moments side by side, before Prior Robert directed the bearers to the mortuary
chapel, and Aymer Bosiet covered Cuthred’s face again, and turned afresh to his
own preparations for departure. His mind was on other things, why distract and
detain him now? But Cadfael did suddenly take thought to ask one curious
question. “What manner of horse was he riding when
he halted overnight at Thame?” Aymer turned from fastening the straps of his
saddlebags in detached surprise, opened his mouth to answer, and found himself
at a loss, frowning thoughtfully over his recollections of that night. “He was there before us. There were two
horses in the priory stables when we came. And he’d left before us next
morning. But now you come to ask, when we got to horse, the same two beasts we
saw there the night before were still in their stalls. That’s strange! What
would such a well-found man, knightly by the look of him and his arms—what
would he be doing without a horse?” “Ah, well, he may have stabled it
somewhere else,” said Cadfael, abandoning the puzzle as trivial. But it was not trivial, it was the key to
open a very strange door in the mind. There before so many eyes lay the slayer
and the slain, side by side, justice already done. But who, then, had slain the
slayer? They were gone, all of them, Aymer on his father’s handsome light roan
horse, Warin with the horse Aymer had ridden on the outward journey now on a
leading rein, the young groom with the carter and the cart. After the first
day-stages Aymer would probably be off at speed, leaving the grooms to bring
the coffin after at their slower pace, and most likely sending other retainers
back along the way to relieve them, once he reached home. In the mortuary chapel Cadfael had seen
Cuthred’s body laid out in seemly fashion, hair and beard trimmed, not,
perhaps, so closely as the knight at Thame had worn them, but enough to
display, in the fixed and austere tranquillity of death, a face appropriate
enough to a dignified religious. Unfair that a murderer should look as noble in
death as any of the empress’s paladins. Hugh was closeted with the abbot, and as
yet had said no word to Cadfael of what he made of Aymer’s witness, but by the
very questions he had asked it was clear he had made the same connections
Cadfael had made, and could not have failed to arrive at the same conclusion.
He would speak of it first with Radulfus. My part now, thought Cadfael, is to
bring Hyacinth out of hiding, and let him shake himself loose from all
suspicion of wrongdoing. Barring, of course, the occasional theft to fill his
belly while he lived wild, and a lie or two by way of preserving himself alive
at all. And Hugh won’t grudge him those. And that should settle the matter of
Cuthred’s ordination once for all, if there’s still any lingering question
about it. A sudden conversion can turn a soldier into a hermit, yes, but it
takes much longer than that to make a priest. He waited for Hugh in his
workshop in the herb garden, where Hugh would certainly come looking for him as
soon as he left the abbot. It was quiet and aromatic and homely within there,
and Cadfael had been too much away from it of late. He would have to be
thinking of replenishing his stocks of the regular winter needs very soon,
before the coughs and colds began, and the elder joints started to creak and
groan. Brother Winfrid could be trusted to take excellent care of all the work
in the garden, the digging and weeding and planting, but here within he had
much to learn. One more ride, thought Cadfael, to see how Eilmund does, and let
Hyacinth know he can and should come forward and speak up for himself, and then
I shall be glad to settle down to work here at home. Hugh came in through the gardens and sat
down beside his friend with a brief, preoccupied smile, and was silent for some
moments. “What I do not understand,” he said then, “is why? Whatever he was,
whatever he has done, aforetime, here he seems to have lived blameless. What
can there have been, perilous enough to make him want to stop Bosiet’s mouth?
It may be a suspect thing to change one’s dress and appearance and way of life,
but it is not a crime. What was there, more than that, to justify murder? What
is there of that enormity, except murder itself?” “Ah!” said Cadfael with a relieved sigh.
“Yes, I thought you had seen it all as I saw it. But no, I do not think it was
murder he had to hide in the obscurity of a hermit’s gown and a forest cell.
That was my first thought. But it is not so simple.” “As so often,” said Hugh with his sudden,
crooked smile, “I think you know something that I do not. And what was that
about his horse, down there in Thame? What has his horse to do with it?” “Not his horse, but the fact that he had
none. What’s a soldier or a knight doing travelling on foot? But a pilgrim may,
and never be noticed. But as to knowing something I would have told you long
ago if I had been let—yes, Hugh, I do. I know where Hyacinth is. Against my
will I promised to say nothing until Aymer Bosiet had given up the pursuit and
taken himself off home. As now he has, and now the boy can come forward and
speak for himself, as, trust me, he’s well able to do.” “So that’s it,” said Hugh, eyeing his
friend without any great surprise. “Well, who can blame him for being wary,
what does he know of me? And for all that I knew, he could well have been
Bosiet’s murderer, we knew of no other with as good a cause. Now he need say no
word on that score, the debt is known and paid. And as for his freedom, he need
fear nothing from me on that head. I have enough to do without playing the
errand boy for Northamptonshire. Bring him forth whenever you like, he may yet
shed light on some things we do not know.” So Cadfael thought, too, reflecting how
little Hyacinth had had to say about his relations with his sometime master.
Candid enough, among friends, about his own vagabondage and the mischief done
in Eilmund’s coppice, he had scrupulously refrained from casting any aspersions
against Cuthred. But now that Cuthred was dead and known for a murderer
Hyacinth might be willing to extend his candour, though surely he had known no
great harm of his fellow traveller, and certainly nothing of murder. “Where is he?” asked Hugh. “Not far, I
fancy, if it was he who got word to young Richard that he could safely go
through that marriage service. Who would be more likely to know Cuthred for an
impostor?” “No further,” said Cadfael, “than Eilmund’s
cottage, and welcome there to father and daughter alike. And I’m bound there
now to see how Eilmund’s faring. Shall I bring the boy back with me?” “Better than that,” said Hugh heartily,
“I’ll ride with you. Better not hale him out of cover until I’ve called off the
hunt by official order, and made it known he has nothing to answer, and is free
to walk the town and look for work like any other man.” In the stable yard, when he went to saddle
up, Cadfael found the bright chestnut horse with the white brow standing like a
glossy statue under his master’s affectionate hands, content and trusting after
easy exercise, and being polished to a rippling copper sheen. Rafe of Coventry
turned to see who came, and smiled the guarded, calm smile with which Cadfael
was becoming familiar. “Bound out again, Brother? This must be a wearing day
you’ve had.” “For all of us,” said Cadfael, hoisting
down his saddle, “but we may hope the worst is over. And you? Have you
prospered in your errand?” “Well, I thank you! Very well! Tomorrow
morning, after Prime,” he said, turning to face Cadfael fully, and his voice as
always measured and composed, “I shall be leaving. I have already told Brother
Denis so.” Cadfael went on with his preparations for a minute or two in
silence. Converse with Rafe of Coventry found silences acceptable. “If you’ll be riding far the first day,”
he said then simply, “I think you may need my services before you set out. He
drew blood,” he said briefly, by way of adequate explanation. And when Rafe was
slow to answer: “A part of my function is to tend illness and injury. There is
no seal of confession in my art, but there is a decent reticence.” “I have bled before,” said Rafe, but he
smiled, a degree beyond his common smile. “As you choose. But I am here. If you need
me, come to me. It is not wise to neglect a wound, nor to try it too far in the
saddle.” He tested the girth, and gathered the reins to mount. The horse sidled
and shifted playfully, eager for action. “I’ll bear it in mind,” said Rafe, “and I
thank you. You will not stop me leaving,” he said in amiable but solemn
warning. “Have I tried?” said Cadfael, and swung
himself up into the saddle and rode out into the court. “I never told all the truth,” said
Hyacinth, seated beside the hearth in Eilmund’s cottage, with the firelight
like a copper gloss on cheekbones and jaw and brow, “not even here to Annet. As
to myself I did, she knows the worst I could tell. But not of Cuthred. I knew
he was a rogue and a vagabond, but so was I, and I knew nothing worse of him
than that, so I kept my mouth shut. One rogue in hiding doesn’t betray another.
But now you tell me he’s a murderer. And dead!” “And out of further harm,” said Hugh
reasonably, “at least in this world. I need to know all you can tell. Where did
you join fortunes with him?” “At Northampton, at the Cluniac priory, as
I told Annet and Eilmund, though not quite as I told it. He was no habited
pilgrim then, he was in good dark clothes, with cloak and capuchon, and armed,
though he kept his sword out of sight. It was almost by chance we got into
talk, or I thought so. But I fancy he guessed I was running from something, and
he made no secret he was, too, and suggested we might be safer and pass
unnoticed together. We were both heading north and west. The pilgrim was his
notion, he had the face and bearing for it. Well, you’ve seen him, you know. I
stole the habit for him from the priory store. The scallop shell came easy. The
medal of Saint James he had—it may even have been his by right, who knows? By
the time we got to Buildwas he had his part by rote, and his hair and beard
were well grown. And he came very apt to the dame at Eaton, for her own ends.
Oh, she knew no worse of him than that he was willing to earn his keep with
her. He said he was a priest, and she believed it. I knew he was none, he owned
as much when we were alone. He laughed about it. But he had the gift of
tongues, he could carry it off. She gave him the hermitage, so close and handy
to the abbey’s woods, to do all the mischief he could in the abbot’s despite. I
said that was my part, and he knew nothing of it, but I lied for him. He’d
never blabbed on me, no more would I on him.” “He abandoned you,” said Hugh flatly, “as
soon as he knew the hunt was up for you. You need not scruple to speak out on
his account.” “Well—I live, and he’s dead,” said
Hyacinth. “No call now for me to bear him any grudge. You know about Richard?
I’d talked with him only once, but he took me so for a true man he’d hear no
wrong of me, nor have me run to earth and dragged back into villeinage. That
set me up again in my own respect. I never knew till afterwards that he’d been
seized like that on his way back, but I was forced to run or hide, and chose to
hide till I could make shift to find him. If it hadn’t been for Eilmund’s
goodness to me, and after I’d been a thorn in his flesh, too, your men might
have had me a dozen times over. But now you know I never laid hand on Bosiet.
And Eilmund and Annet can tell you I’ve not been a step away from here since I
came back from Leighton. What can have happened to Cuthred I know no more than
you.” “Less, I daresay,” said Hugh mildly, and
looked across the fire at Cadfael, smiling. “Well, after all you may call
yourself a lucky lad. From tomorrow you’ll be in no peril at the hands of any
of my people, you can be off into the town and find yourself a master. And
which of your names do you choose to keep for a new life? Best have but one,
that we may all know with whom we have to deal.” “Whichever is pleasing to Annet,” said
Hyacinth. “It’s she will be calling me by it from this on lifelong.” “I might have something to say to that,”
grunted Eilmund from his corner on the other side of the hearth. “You mind your
impudence, or I’ll make you sweat for my good will.” But he sounded remarkably
complacent about it, as though they had already arrived at an understanding to
which this admonitory growl was merely a gruff counterpoint. “It was Hyacinth first pleased me,” said
Annet. She had kept herself out of the circle until now, like a dutiful
daughter, attentive with cup and pitcher, but wanting and needing no voice in
the men’s affairs. Not from modesty or submission Cadfael judged, but because
she already had what she wanted, and was assured no one, sheriff nor father nor
overlord, had either the power or the will to wrest it from her. “You stay
Hyacinth,” she said serenely, “and let Brand go.” She was wise, there was no sense in going
back, none even in looking back. Brand had been a villein and landless in
Northamptonshire, Hyacinth would be a craftsman and free in Shrewsbury. “In a year and a day,” said Hyacinth,
“from the day I find a master to take me, I’ll come and ask for your good will,
Master Eilmund. Not before!” “And if I think you’ve earned it,” said
Eilmund, “you shall have it.” They rode home together in the deepening
dusk, as they had so often ridden together since first they encountered in wary
contention, wit against wit, and came to a gratifying stand at the end of the
match, fast friends. The night was still and mild, the morning would be misty
again, the lush valley fields a translucent blue sea. The forest smelled of
autumn, ripe, moist earth, bursting fungus, the sweet, rich rot of leaves. “I have transgressed against my vocation,”
said Cadfael, at once solaced and saddened by the season and the hour. “I know
it. I undertook the monastic life, but now I am not sure I could support it
without you, without these stolen excursions outside the walls. For so they
are. True, I am often sent upon legitimate labours here without, but also I
steal, I take more than is my due by right. Worse, Hugh, I do not repent me! Do
you suppose there is room within the bounds of grace for one who has set his
hand to the plough, and every little while abandons his furrow to turn back among
the sheep and lambs?” “I think the sheep and lambs might think
so,” said Hugh, gravely smiling. “He would have their prayers. Even the black
sheep and the grey, like some you’ve argued for against God and me in your
time.” “There are very few all black,” said
Cadfael. “Dappled, perhaps, like this great rangy beast you choose to ride.
Most of us have a few mottles about us. As well, maybe, it makes for a more
tolerant judgement of the rest of God’s creatures. But I have sinned, and most
of all in relishing my sin. I shall do penance by biding dutifully within the
walls through the winter, unless I’m sent forth, and then I’ll make haste with
my task and hurry back.” “Until the next waif stumbles across your
path. And when is this penance to begin?” “As soon as this matter is fittingly
ended.” “Why, these are oracular utterances!” said
Hugh, laughing. “And when will that be?” “Tomorrow,” said Cadfael. “If God wills,
tomorrow.” Chapter Fourteen ON HIS WAY DOWN THE COURT TO THE STABLES,
leading his horse, and with the better part of an hour left before Compline,
Cadfael saw Dame Dionisia coming from the abbot’s lodging, and walking with
sober step and decorously covered head towards the guest hall. Her back was as
erect as ever, her gait as firm and proud, but somewhat slower than was her
wont, and the draped head was lowered, with eyes on the ground rather than
fixed challengingly into the distance before her. Not a word would ever be said
concerning her confession, but Cadfael doubted if she had left anything out.
She was not one to do things by halves. There would be no more attempts to
extract Richard from the abbot’s care. Dionisia had suffered too profound a
reverse to take any such risks again until time had dimmed the recollection of
sudden unshriven death coming to meet her. It seemed she meant to stay
overnight, perhaps to make her peace tomorrow, in her own arbitrary fashion,
with a grandson by this time fast asleep in his bed, blessedly unmarried still,
and back where he preferred to be. The boys would sleep well tonight, absolved
of their sins and with their lost member restored. Matter for devout
thanksgiving. And as for the dead man in the mortuary chapel, bearing a name
which it seemed could hardly be his name, he cast no shadow on the world of the
children. Cadfael led his horse into the stable
yard, lighted by two torches at the gate, unsaddled him and rubbed him down.
There was no sound within there but a small sighing of the breeze that had
sprung up with evening, and the occasional easy shift and stir of hooves in the
stalls. He stabled his beast and hung up his harness, and turned to depart. There was someone standing in the gateway,
compact and still. “Good even, Brother!” said Rafe of Coventry. “Is it you?” said Cadfael. “And were you
looking for me? I’m sorry to have kept you up late, and you with a journey to
make in the morning.” “I saw you come down the court. You made
an offer,” said the quiet voice. “If it is still open I should like to take
advantage of it. I find it is not so easy to dress a wound neatly with one
hand.” “Come!” said Cadfael. “Let’s go to my hut
in the garden, we can be private there.” It was deep dusk, but not yet dark. The
late roses in the garden loomed spikily on overgrown stems, half their leaves
shed, ghostly floating pallors in the dimness. Within the walls of the herb
garden, high and sheltering, warmth lingered. “Wait,” said Cadfael, “till I
make light.” It took him a few minutes to get a spark he could blow gently into
flame, and set to the wick of his lamp. Rafe waited without murmur or movement
until the light burned up steadily, and then came into the hut and looked about
him with interest at the array of jars and flasks, the scales and mortars, and
the rustling bunches of herbs overhead, stirring headily in the draught from
the doorway. Silently he stripped off his coat, and drew down his shirt from
the shoulder until he could withdraw his arm from the sleeve. Cadfael brought
the lamp, and set it where the light would best illuminate the stained and
crumpled bandage that covered the wound. Rafe sat patient and attentive on the
bench against the wall, steadily eyeing the weathered face that stooped over
him. “Brother,” he said deliberately, “I think I owe you a name.” “I have a name for you,” said Cadfael.
“Rafe is enough.” “For you, perhaps. Not for me. Where I
take help, generously given, there I repay with truth. My name is Rafe de
Genville…” “Hold still now,” said Cadfael. “This is
stuck fast, and will hurt.” The soiled dressing came away with a wrench, but if
it did indeed hurt, de Genville suffered it as indifferently as he did the
foregoing pain. The gash was long, running down from the shoulder into the
upper arm, but not deep; but the flesh was so sliced that the lips gaped, and a
single hand had not been able to clamp them together. “Keep still! We can
better this, you’ll have an ugly scar else. But you’ll need help when it’s
dressed again.” “Once away from here I can get help, and
who’s to know how I got the gash? But you do know, Brother. He drew blood, you
said. There is not very much you do not know, but perhaps a little I can still
tell you. My name is Rafe de Genville, I am a vassal, and God knows a friend to
Brian FitzCount, and a liege man to my overlord’s lady, the empress. I will not
suffer gross wrong to be done to either, while I have my life. Well, he’ll draw
no more blood, neither from any of the king’s party nor oversea, in the service
of Geoffrey of Anjou—which I think was his final intent, when the time seemed
right.” Cadfael folded a new dressing closely about the long gash. “Lend your right hand here, and hold this
firmly, it shuts the wound fast. You’ll get no more bleeding, or very little,
and it should heal closed. But rest it as best you can on the road.” “I will so.” The bandage rolled firmly
over the shoulder and round the arm, flat and neat. “You have a skilled hand,
Brother. If I could I would take you with me as a prize of war.” “They’ll have need of all the surgeons and
physicians they can get in Oxford, I fear,” Cadfael acknowledged ruefully. “Ah, not there, not this tide. There’ll be
no breaking into Oxford until the earl brings up his army. I doubt it even
then. No, I go back to Brian at Wallingford first, to restore him what is his.”
Cadfael secured the bandage above the elbow, and held the sleeve of the shirt
carefully as Rafe thrust his arm back into it. It was done. Cadfael sat down
beside him, face to face, eye to eye. The silence that came down upon them was
like the night, mild, tranquil, gently melancholy. “It was a fair fight,” said
Rafe after a long pause, looking into and through Cadfael’s eyes to see again
the bare stony chapel in the forest. “I laid by my sword, seeing he had none.
His dagger he’d kept.” “And used,” said Cadfael, “on the man who
had seen him in his own shape at Thame, and might have called his vocation in
question. As the son did, after Cuthred was dead, and never knew he was looking
at his father’s murderer.” “Ah, so that was it! I wondered.” “And did you find what you came for?” “I came for him,” said Rafe grimly. “But,
yes, I understand you. Yes, I found it, in the reliquary on the altar. Not all
in coin. Gems go into a small compass, and are easily carried. Her own jewels,
that she valued. And valued even more the man to whom she sent them.” “They said that there was also a letter.” “There is a letter. I have it. You saw the
breviary?” “I saw it. A prince’s book.” “An empress’s. There is a secret fold in
the binding, where a fine, small leaf can be hidden. When they were apart, the
breviary went back and forth between them by trusted messenger. God he knows
what she may not have written to him now, at the lowest ebb of fortune,
separated from him by a few miles that might as well be the width of the world,
and with the king’s army gripping her and her few to strangulation. In the
extreme of despair, who regards wisdom, who puts a guard on tongue or pen? I
have not sought to know. He shall have it and read it for whose heart’s
consolation it was meant. One other has read it, and might have made use of
it,” said Rafe harshly, “but he is of no account now.” His voice had gathered a
great tide of passion that yet could not disrupt its steely control, though it
caused his disciplined body to quiver like an arrow in flight, vibrating to the
force of his devoted love and implacable hate. The letter he carried, with its
broken seal as testimony to a cold and loathsome treachery, he would never
unfold, the matter within was sacred as the confessional, between the woman who
had written and the man to whom it was written. Cuthred had trespassed even
into this holy ground, but Cuthred was dead. It did not seem to Cadfael that
the penalty was too great for the wrong committed. “Tell me, Brother,” said Rafe de Genville,
the wave of passion subsiding into his customary calm, “was this sin?” “What do you need from me?” said Cadfael.
“Ask your confessor when you come safely to Wallingford. All I know is, time
has been when I would have done as you have done.” Whether de Genville’s secret would be
preserved inviolate was a question never asked, the answer being already
clearly understood between them. “This is better than by morning,” said Rafe,
rising. “Your order of hours tomorrow need not be broken, and I can be away
early, and leave my place cleansed and furbished and ready for another guest,
and travel the lighter because I do not go without a fair witness. I’ll say my
farewell here. God be with you, Brother!” “And go with you,” said Cadfael. He was gone, out into the gathering
darkness, his step firm and even on the gravel path, silent when he reached the
grass beyond. And sharp upon the last slight sound of his going, the bell rang
distantly for Compline. Cadfael went down into the stables before
Prime, in a morning dry and sunny but chill, a good day for riding. The bright
chestnut with the white brow was gone from his stall. It seemed empty and quiet
there, but for the cheerful chirpings of chatter and laughter from the last
stall, where Richard had come down early to pet and make much of his pony for
carrying him so bravely, with Edwin, happily restored to grace and to the
company of his playmate, in loyal attendance. They were making a merry noise
like a brood of young swallows, until they heard Cadfael come, and then they
fell to a very prim and seemly quietness until they peeped out and saw that he
was neither Brother Jerome nor Prior Robert. By way of apology they favoured
him with broad and bountiful smiles, and went back to the pony’s stall to
caress and admire him. Cadfael could not but wonder if Dame Dionisia had
already visited her grandson, and gone as far as such a matriarch could be
expected to go to reestablish her standing with him. There would certainly be
no self-abasement. Something of a self-justifying homily, rather: “Richard, I
have been considering your future with the abbot, and I have consented to leave
you in his care for the present. I was grossly deceived in Cuthred, he was not
a priest, as he pretended. That episode is over, we had all better forget it.”
And she would surely end with something like: “If I let you remain here, sir,
take care that I get good reports of you. Be obedient to your masters and
attend to your books…” And on leaving him, a kiss perhaps a little kinder than
usual, or at least a little more warily respectful, seeing all he could relate
against her if he cared to. But Richard triumphant, released from all anxieties
for himself and others who mattered to him, bore no grudge against anyone in
the world. By this hour Rafe de Genville, vassal and friend of Brian FitzCount
and loyal servitor of the Empress Maud, must be well away from Shrewsbury on
his long ride south. So quiet, unobtrusive and unremarkable a man, he had
hardly been noticed even while he remained here, his stay would soon be
forgotten. “He is gone,” said Cadfael. “I would not
slough off the burden of choice on to you, though I think I know what you would
have done. But I have done it for you. He is gone, and I let him go.” They were sitting together, as so often
they had sat at the last ebb of a crisis, weary but eased, on the seat against
the north wall of the herbarium, where the warmth of noonday lingered and the
light wind was shut out. In another week or two it would be too cold and bleak
for comfort here. This prolonged mild autumn could not last much longer, the
weather-wise were beginning to sniff the air and foretell the first hard frost,
and plentiful snow to come in December. “I have not forgotten,” said Hugh,
“that this is the tomorrow when you promised me a fitting ending. So he is
gone! And you let him go! Another he, not Bosiet. You were aching for him to
tire of his vengeance and depart, more likely to urge him away than try to
prevent. Say on, I’m listening.” He was always a good listener, not given to
exclamation or needless questions, he could sit gazing meditatively across the
dishevelled garden in receptive silence, and never trouble his companion with a
glance, and never miss a word, nor need many of them for understanding. “I am in need of the confessional, if you
will be my priest,” said Cadfael. “And keep your confidences as tightly
sealed—I know! My answer is yes. I never yet found you in need of absolution
from me. Who is this he who is gone?” “His name,” said Cadfael, “is Rafe de
Genville, though here he called himself Rafe of Coventry, a falconer to the
earl of Warwick.” “The quiet elder with the chestnut horse?
I never saw him but the once, I think,” said Hugh. “He was one guest here who
had nothing to ask of me, and I was grateful for it, having my hands full of
Bosiets. And what had Rafe of Coventry done, that either you or I should
hesitate to let him go?” “He had killed Cuthred. In fair fight. He
laid his sword by, because Cuthred had none. Dagger against dagger he fought
and killed him.” Hugh had said no word, only turned his head towards his friend
for a moment, studied with penetrating attention the set of Cadfael’s face, and
waited. “For good reason,” said Cadfael. “You’ll not have forgotten the tale we
heard of the empress’s messenger sent out of Oxford, just as King Stephen shut his
iron ring round the castle. Sent forth with money and jewels and a letter for
Brian FitzCount, cut off from her in Wallingford. And how they found his horse
straying in the woods along the road, with blood-stained harness and empty
saddlebags. The body they never found. The Thames runs close. There’s room in
the woods for a grave. So the lord of Wallingford was robbed of the empress’s
treasure. He has beggared himself for her long ago, ungrudging, and his
garrison must eat. And the letter meant for him was stolen along with all the
rest. And Rafe de Genville is vassal and devoted friend to Brian FitzCount, and
loyal liegeman to the empress, and was not minded to let that crime go
unavenged. “What traces he found along the way to
bring him into these parts I never asked, and he never told me, but bring him
they did. The day he came I met with him in the stables, and by chance it came
out that we had Drogo Bosiet lying dead in the mortuary chapel. I recall that I
had not mentioned the name, but perhaps if I had he would still have done what
he did, since names can be changed. He went straightway to look at this dead
man, but at a glance he lost all interest in him. He was looking for someone, a
guest here, a stranger, a traveller, but it was not Bosiet. In a young fellow
of twenty, like Hyacinth, he had no interest at all. It was a man of his own
years and estate he was seeking. Dame Dionisia’s holy man he must surely have
heard about, but dismissed him as priest and pilgrim, vouched for and above
suspicion. Until he heard, as we all did, young Richard bellow that the hermit
was no priest but a cheat. I looked for Rafe afterwards, and he and his horse
were gone. It was an impostor and cheat he was looking for. And he found him,
Hugh, that night at the hermitage. Found him, fought him, killed him. And took
back all that he had stolen, jewels and coin from the casket on the altar, and
the breviary that belonged to the empress, and was used to carry letters
between her and FitzCount when they were apart. You’ll recall that Cuthred’s
dagger was bloodied. I have dressed Rafe de Genville’s wound, I have received
his confidence as I have now delivered you mine, and I have wished him godspeed
back to Wallingford.” Cadfael sat back with a deep and grateful
sigh, and leaned his head against the rough stones of the wall, and there was a
long but tranquil silence between them. Hugh stirred at last, and asked: “How
did you come to know what he was about? There must have been more than that
first encounter, to draw you into his secrets. He said little, he hunted alone.
What more happened, to bring you so close to him?” “I was with him when he dropped some coins
into our alms box. One of them fell to the flags, and I picked it up. A silver
penny of the empress, minted recently in Oxford. He made no secret of it. Did I
not wonder, he said, what the empress’s liegeman was doing so far from the
battle? And I drew a bow at a very long venture, and said he might well be
looking for the murderer who robbed and slew Renaud Bourchier on the road to
Wallingford.” “And he owned it?” said Hugh. “No. He said no, it was not so. It was a
good thought, he said, almost he wished it had been true, but it was not so.
And he told truth. Every word he ever said to me was truth, and I knew it. No,
Cuthred was not a murderer, not then, never until Drogo Bosiet walked into his
cell to enquire after a runaway villein, and came face to face with a man he
had seen, talked with, played chess with, at Thame some weeks before, in a very
different guise. A man who bore arms and showed knightly, but went the roads on
foot, for there was no horse belonging to him in the stable at Thame, none that
came with him, none that departed with him. And this was early in October. All
this Aymer told us, after his father had been silenced.” “I begin,” said Hugh slowly, “to read your
riddle.” He narrowed his eyes upon distance, through the half-naked branches of
the trees that showed above the southern wall of the garden. “When did you ever
question so far astray without a purpose? I should have known when you asked
about the horse. A rider without a horse at Thame and a horse without a rider
wandering the woods by the Wallingford road make sense when put together. No!”
he said in shocked and outraged protest, staring aghast at the image he had
raised. “Where have you brought me? Is this truth, or have I shot wild?
Bourchier himself?” The first tremor of the evening chill shook the harvested
and sleepy herbs with a colder wind, and Hugh shook with them in a convulsion
of incredulous distaste. “What could be worth so monstrous a treason? This was
fouler than murder.” “So thought Rafe de Genville. And he has
taken vengeance for it in measure accordingly. And he is gone, and I wished him
godspeed in his going.” “So would I have done. So I do!” said
Hugh, and stared across the garden with lips curled in fastidious disdain,
contemplating the enormity of the chosen and deliberate dishonour. “There is
nothing, there can be nothing, worth purchasing at such a price.” “Renaud Bourchier thought otherwise,
having other values. He gained his life and liberty first,” said Cadfael,
checking off the score on his fingers, and shaking his head over every item.
“By sending him out of Oxford before the ring of steel shut fast, she released
him to make off into safer pastures. Not that I believe he had even the excuse
of being a simple coward. Quite coldly, I fancy, he preferred to remove himself
from the risk of death or capture, which have come closer to her armies there
in Oxford than ever they came before. Coldly and practically he severed all his
ties of fealty, and retired into obscurity to look round for the next
opportunity. Second, with the theft of the treasure she entrusted to him he had
ample means to live, wherever he might go. And third, and worst of all, he had
a powerful weapon, one which could be used to secure him new soldier service,
and lands, and favour, a new and profitable career to replace the one he had
discarded. The letter the empress had written to Brian FitzCount.” “In the breviary that vanished,” said
Hugh. “I knew no way of accounting for that, though the book had a value even
for itself.” “It had a greater value for what was in
it. Rafe told me. A fine leaf of vellum can be folded into the binding. Only
consider, Hugh, her situation when she wrote. The town lost, only the castle
left, and the king’s armies closing round her. And Brian who had been her right
hand, her shield and sword, second only to her brother, separated from her by
those few miles that could as well have been an ocean. God knows if those
gossips are right,” said Cadfael, “who declare that those two are lovers, but
surely it is truth that they love! And now at this extreme, in peril of
starvation, failure, imprisonment, loss, even death, perhaps never to meet
again, may she not have cried out to him the last truth, without conceal,
things that should not be set down, things no other on earth should ever see?
Such a letter might be of immense value to a man without scruples, who had a
new career to make, and needed the favour of princes. She has a husband years
younger than herself, who has no great love for her, nor she for him, one who
would not spare a man to come to her aid this summer. Suppose that some day it
should be convenient to Geoffrey to repudiate his older wife, and make a second
profitable marriage? In the hands of such as Bourchier her letter, her own
hand, might provide him the pretext, and for princes the means can always be
found. The informer might stand to gain place, command, even lands in Normandy.
Geoffrey has castles newly conquered there to bestow on those who prove useful
to him. I don’t say the count of Anjou is such a man, but I do say so
calculating a traitor as Bourchier would reckon it a possibility, and keep the
letter to be used as chance offered. What knowledge, what suspicion, brought
Rafe de Genville to doubt that death by the Wallingford road I do not know, I
never asked. Certain it is that once the spark was lit, nothing would have
prevented him from pursuing and exacting the penalty due, not from some
supposed murderer—he told me truth there—but from the thief and traitor, Renaud
Bourchier himself.” The wind was rising now, the sky clearing,
the broken fragments of cloud that remained scudding away before the wind. For
the first time the prolonged autumn hinted at winter. “I would have done as Rafe did,” said Hugh
with finality, and rose abruptly to shake off the residue of loathing. “When I bore arms, so would I. It grows
chilly,” said Cadfael, rising after him. “Shall we go in?” Late November would soon be tearing away
with frost and gales the rest of the quivering leaves. The deserted hermitage
in the woods of Eyton would provide winter cover for the small beasts of the
forest, and the garden, running wild again, would shelter the slumbering
urchins in their nests through the winter sleep. Doubtful if Dame Dionisia
would ever set up another hermit in that cell. The wild things would occupy it
in innocence. “Well,” said Cadfael, leading the way into
his workshop, “that’s over. Late but at last, whatever she may have written to
him, her letter is on the way to the man for whose heart’s comfort it was
intended. And I am glad! Whatever the rights or wrongs of their affection, in
the teeth of danger and despair love is entitled to speak its mind, and all
others should be blind and deaf. Except God, who can read both the lines and
between the lines, and who in the end, in matters of passion as in matters of
justice, will have the last word.” 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 Hermit of Eyton Forest The year is 1142, and all England is in the iron grip of a civil
war. And within the sheltered cloisters of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Peter
and St. Paul, there begins a chain of events no less momentous than the
political upheavals of the outside world. First, there is the sad demise of
Richard Ludel, Lord of Eaton, whose ten-year-old son and heir, also named
Richard, is a pupil at the Abbey. Supported by Abbot Radulfus, the boy refuses
to surrender his new powers to Dionysia, his furious, formidable grandmother. A
stranger to the region is the hermit Cuthred, who enjoys the protection of Lady
Dionysia, and whose young companion, Hyacinth, befriends Richard. Despite his
reputation for holiness, Cuthred’s arrival heralds a series of mishaps for the
monks. When Richard disappears and a corpse is found in Eyton forest, Brother
Cadfael is once more forced to leave the tranquillity of his herb garden and
devote his knowledge of human nature to tracking down a ruthless murderer. The
Fourteenth Chronicle of Brother Cadfael, of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint
Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury By Ellis PetersChapter One IT WAS ON THE EIGHTEENTH DAY of October of
that year 1142 that Richard Ludel, hereditary tenant of the manor of Eaton,
died of a debilitating weakness, left after wounds received at the battle of
Lincoln, in the service of King Stephen. The news was duly brought to Hugh
Beringar in Shrewsbury castle, since Eaton was one of the many manors in the
shire which had been expropriated from William Fitz Alan, after that powerful
nobleman took arms on the wrong side in the struggle for the throne, held
Shrewsbury for the Empress Maud, and took to flight when Stephen besieged and
captured the town. His wide lands, forfeited to the crown, had been placed in
the sheriff’s care as overlord, but their tenants of long standing had been
left undisturbed, once it was clear that they had wisely accepted the judgement
of battle, and pledged their allegiance to the king. Ludel, indeed, had done
more than declare his loyalty, he had proved it in arms at Lincoln, and now, it
seemed, paid a high price for his fealty, for he was no more than thirty-five
years old at his death. Hugh received the news with the mild regret natural to
one who had barely known the man, and whose duties were unlikely to be
complicated by any closer contact with the death. There was an heir, and no
second son to cloud the issue of inheritance, certainly no need to interfere
with the smooth succession. The Ludels were Stephen’s men, and loyal, even if
the new incumbent was hardly likely to take arms for his king for many years to
come, being, Hugh recalled, about ten years old. The boy was in school at the
abbey, placed there by his father when the mother died, most likely, so rumour
said, to get him out of the hands of a domineering grandmother, rather than
simply to ensure that he learned his letters. It seemed, therefore, that the abbey, if
not the castle, had some unenviable responsibility in the matter, for someone
would have to tell young Richard that his father was dead. The funeral rites
would not fall to the abbey, Eaton having its own church and parish priest, but
the custody of the heir was a matter of importance. And as for me, thought
Hugh, I had better make certain how competent a steward Ludel has left to
manage the boy’s estate, while he’s not yet of age to manage it himself. “You have not taken this word to the lord
abbot yet?” he asked the groom who had brought the message. “No, my lord, I came first to you.” “And have you orders from the lady to
speak with the heir himself?” “No, my lord, and would as soon leave that
to those who have the daily care of him.” “You may well be right there,” Hugh
agreed. “I’ll go myself and speak with Abbot Radulfus. He’ll know best how to
deal. As to the succession, Dame Dionisia need have no concern, the boy’s title
is secure enough.” In times full of trouble, with cousins contending bitterly
for the throne, and opportunist lords changing their coats according to the
pendulum fortunes of this desultory war, Hugh was only too glad to be guardian
of a shire which had changed hands but once, and settled down doggedly
thereafter to keep King Stephen’s title unchallenged and the tide of unrest at
bay from its borders, whether the threat came from the empress’s forces, the
unpredictable cantrips of the wild Welshmen of Powys to the west, or the
calculating ambition of the earl of Chester in the north. Hugh had balanced his
relationships with all these perilous neighbours for some years now with fair
success, it would have been folly to consider handing over Eaton to another
tenant, whatever the possible drawbacks of allowing the succession to pass
unbroken to a child. Why upset a family which had remained submissive and
loyal, and dug in its heels sturdily to await events when its overlord fled to
France? Recent rumour had it that William Fitz Alan was back in England, and
had joined the empress in Oxford, and the sense of his presence, even at that
distance, might stir older loyalties among his former tenants, but that was a
risk to be met when it showed signs of arising. To give Eaton to another tenant
might well be to rouse the old allegiance needlessly from its prudent slumber.
No, Ludel’s son should have his rights. But it would be well to have a look at
the steward, and make sure he could be trusted, both to keep to his late lord’s
policies and to take good care of his new lord’s interests and lands. Hugh rode out unhurriedly through the
town, in the fine mid-morning—after the early mist had lifted, gently uphill to
the High Cross, steeply downhill again by the winding Wyle to the eastward
gate, and across the stone bridge towards the Foregate, where the crossing
tower of the abbey church loomed solidly against a pale blue sky. The Severn
ran rapid but tranquil under the arches of the bridge, still at its mild summer
level, its two small, grassy islands rimmed with a narrow edging of bleached
brown which would be covered again when the first heavy rain brought
storm-water down from Wales. To the left, where the highroad opened before him,
the clustering bushes and trees rising from the riverside just touched the
dusty rim of the road, before the small houses and yards and gardens of the
Foregate began. To the right the mill-pool stretched away between its grassy
banks, a faint bloom of lingering mist blurring its silver surface, and beyond,
the wall of the abbey enclave arose, and the arch of the gatehouse. Hugh dismounted as the porter came out to
take his bridle. He was as well known here as any who wore the Benedictine
habit and belonged within the walls. “If you’re wanting Brother Cadfael, my
lord,” offered the porter helpfully, “he’s away to Saint Giles to replenish
their medicine cupboard. But he’s been gone an hour or so now, he left after
chapter. He’ll be back soon, surely, if you’re minded to wait for him.” “My business is with the lord abbot
first,” said Hugh, acknowledging without protest the assumption that his every
visit here must inevitably be in search of one close crony. “Though no doubt
Cadfael will hear the same word afterwards, if he hasn’t heard it in advance!
The winds always seem to blow news his way before they trouble about the rest
of us.” “His duties take him forth, more than most
of us ever get the chance,” said the porter good-humouredly. “Come to that, how
do the poor afflicted souls at Saint Giles ever come to hear so much of what
goes on in the wide world? For he seldom comes back without some piece of
gossip that’s amazement to everybody this end of the Foregate. Father Abbot’s
down in his own garden. He’s been closeted over accounts with the sacristan for
an hour or more, but I saw Brother Benedict leave him a little while ago.” He
reached a veined brown hand to caress the horse’s neck, very respectfully, for
Hugh’s big, raw-boned grey, as cross-grained as he was strong, had little but
contempt for all things human except his master, and even he was regarded
rather as an equal, to be respected but kept in his place. “There’s no news
from Oxford yet?” Even within the cloister they could not choose but keep one
ear cocked for news of the siege. Success there now might well see the empress
a prisoner, and force an end at last to this dissension that tore the land
apart. “Not since the king got his armies through the ford and into the town.
We may hear something soon, if some who had time to get out of the city drift
up this way. But the garrison will have made sure the castle larders were well
filled. I doubt it will drag on for many weeks yet.” Siege is slow strangulation, and King
Stephen had never been noted for patience and tenacity, and might yet find it
tedious to sit waiting for his enemies to reach starvation, and take himself
off to find brisker action elsewhere. It had happened before, and could happen
again. Hugh shrugged off his liege lord’s
shortcomings, and set off down the great court to the abbot’s lodging, to
distract Father Radulfus from his cherished if slightly jaded roses. Brother Cadfael was back from the hospital
of Saint Giles and busy in his workshop, sorting beans for next year’s seed,
when Hugh came back from the abbot’s lodging and made his way to the herbarium.
Recognising the swift, light tread on the gravel, Cadfael greeted him without
turning his head. “Brother Porter told me you’d be here. Business with Father
Abbot, he says. What’s in the wind? Nothing new from
Oxford?” “No,” said Hugh, seating himself
comfortably on the bench against the timber wall, “nearer home. This is from no
farther off than Eaton. Richard Ludel is dead. The dowager sent a groom with
the news this morning. You’ve got the boy here at school.” Cadfael turned then, with one of the clay
saucers, full of seed dried on the vine, in his hand. “So we have. Well, so his
sire’s gone, is he? We heard he was dwindling. The youngster was no more than
five when he was sent here, and they fetch him home very seldom. I think his
father thought the child was better here with a few fellows near his own age
than kept around a sick man’s bed.” “And under the rule of a strong-willed
grandmother, from all I hear. I don’t know the lady,” said Hugh thoughtfully,
“except by reputation. I did know the man, though I’ve seen nothing of him
since we got our wounded back from Lincoln. A good fighter and a decent soul,
but dour, no talker. What’s the boy like?” “Sharp venturesome… A very fetching imp,
truth to tell, but as often in trouble as out of it. Bright at his letters, but
he’d rather be out at play. Paul will have the task of telling him his father’s
dead, and himself master of a manor. It may trouble Paul more than it does the
boy. He hardly knows his sire. I suppose there’s no question about his tenure?” “None in the world! I’m all for letting
well alone, and Ludel earned his immunity. It’s a good property, too, fat land,
and much of it under the plough. Good grazing, water-meadows and woodland, and
it’s been well tended, seemingly, for it’s valued higher now than ten years
since. But I must get to know the steward, and make sure he’ll do the boy
right.” “John of Longwood,” said Cadfael promptly.
“He’s a good man and a good husbandman. We know him well, we’ve had dealings
with him, and always found him reasonable and fair. That land falls between the
abbey holdings of Eyton-by-Severn on the one side, and Aston-under-Wrekin on
the other, and John has always given our forester free access between the two
woodlands whenever needed, to save him time and labour. We bring wood out from
our part of the Wrekin forest that way. It suits us both very well. Ludel’s part
of Eyton forest bites into ours there, it would be folly to fall out. Ludel had
left everything to John these last two years, you’ll have no trouble there.” “The abbot tells me,” said Hugh, nodding
satisfaction with this good-neighbourliness, “that Ludel gave the boy as ward
into his hands, four years ago, should he himself not live to see his son grown
to manhood. It seems he made all possible provision for the future, as if he
saw his own death coming towards him.” And he added, somewhat grimly: “As well
most of us have no such clear sight, or there’d be some hundreds in Oxford now
hurrying to buy Masses for their souls. By this time the king must hold the
town. It would fall into his hands of itself once he was over the ford. But the
castle could hold out to the year’s end, at a pinch, and there’s no cheap way
in there, it’s a matter of starving them out. And if Robert of Gloucester in
Normandy has not had word of all this by now, then his intelligencers are less
able than I gave them credit for. If he knows how his sister’s pressed, he’ll
be on his way home in haste. I’ve known the besiegers become the besieged
before now, it could as well happen again.” “It will take him some time to get back,”
Cadfael pointed out comfortably. “And by all accounts no better provided than
when he went.” The empress’s half-brother and best soldier had been sent
overseas, much against his inclination, to ask help for the lady from her less
than loving husband, but Count Geoffrey of Anjou was credibly reported to be
much more interested in his own ambitions in Normandy than in his wife’s in
England, and had been astute enough to inveigle Earl Robert into helping him
pick off castle after castle in the duchy, instead of rushing to his wife’s
side to assist her to the crown of England. As early as June Robert had sailed
from Wareham, against his own best judgement but at his sister’s urgent
entreaty, and Geoffrey’s insistence, if he was to entertain any ambassador from
her at all. And here was September ended, Wareham back in King Stephen’s hands,
and Robert still detained in Geoffrey’s thankless service in Normandy. No, it
would not be any quick or easy matter for him to come to his sister’s rescue.
The iron grip of siege tightened steadily round Oxford castle, and for once Stephen
showed no sign of abandoning his purpose. Never yet had he come so close to
making his cousin and rival his prisoner, and forcing her acceptance of his
sovereignty. “Does he realise,” wondered Cadfael, closing the lid of a stone
jar on his selected seed, “how near he’s come to getting her into his power at
last? How would you feel, Hugh, if you were in his shoes, and truly got your
hands on her?” “Heaven forefend!” said Hugh fervently,
and grinned at the very thought. “For I shouldn’t know what to do with her! And
the devil of it is, neither will Stephen, if ever it comes to that. He could
have kept her tight shut into Arundel the day she landed, if he’d had the
sense. And what did he do? Gave her an escort, and sent her off to Bristol to
join her brother! But if the queen ever gets the lady into her power, that will
be another story. If he’s a grand fighter, she’s the better general, and knows
how to hold on to her advantages.” Hugh rose and stretched, and a rising breeze
from the open door ruffled his smooth black hair, and rustled the dangling
bunches of dried herbs hanging from the roof beams. “Well, there’s no hurrying
the siege to an end, we must wait and see. I hear they’ve finally given you a
lad to help you in the herb garden, is it true? I noticed your hedge has had a
second clipping, was that his work?” “It was.” Cadfael went out with him along
the gravel path between the patterned beds of herbs, grown a little wiry at
this end of the growing season. The box hedge at one side had indeed been neatly
trimmed of the straggling shoots that come late in the summer. “Brother
Winfrid—you’ll see him busy in the patch where we’ve cleared the bean vines,
digging in the holms. A big, gangling lad all elbows and knees. Not long out of
his novitiate. Willing, but slow. But he’ll do. They sent him to me, I fancy,
because he turned out fumble-fisted with either pen or brush, but give him a
spade, and that’s more his measure. He’ll do!” Outside the walled herb garden the
vegetable plots extended, and beyond the slight rise on their right the
harvested pease fields ran down to the Meole Brook, which was the rear border
of the abby enclave. And there was Brother Winfrid in full vigorous action, a
big, loose-jointed youth with a shock-head of wiry hair hedging in his shaven
crown, his habit kilted to brawny knees, and a broad foot shod in a wooden clog
driving the steel-edged spade through the fibrous tangle of bean holms as
through blades of grass. He gave them one beaming glance as they passed, and
returned to his work without breaking the rhythm. Hugh had one glimpse of a
weather-browned country face and round, guileless blue eyes. “Yes, I should think he might do very
well,” he said, impressed and amused, “whether with a spade or a battle-axe. I
could do with a dozen such at the castle whenever they care to offer their
services.” “He’d be no use to you,” said Cadfael with
certainty. “Like most big men, the gentlest soul breathing. He’d throw his
sword away to pick up the man he’d flattened. It’s the little, shrill terriers
that bare their teeth.” They emerged into the band of flowerbeds beyond the
kitchen garden, where the rose bushes had grown leggy and begun to shed their
leaves. Rounding the corner of the box hedge, they came out into the great
court, at this working hour of the morning almost deserted but for one or two
travellers coming and going about the guest hall, and a stir of movement down
in the stables. Just as they rounded the tall hedge to step into the court, a
small figure shot out of the gate of the grange court, where the barns and
storage lofts lined three sides of a compact yard, and made off at a run across
the narrows of the court into the cloister, to emerge a minute later at the
other end at a decorous walk, with eyes lowered in seemly fashion, and plump,
childish hands devoutly linked at his belt, the image of innocence. Cadfael
halted considerately, with a hand on Hugh’s arm, to avoid confronting the boy
too obviously. The child reached the corner of the infirmary, rounded it, and
vanished. There was a distinct impression that as he quit the sight of any
watchers in the great court he broke into a run again, for a bare heel flashed
suddenly and was gone. Hugh was grinning. Cadfael caught his friend’s eye, and
said nothing. “Let me hazard!” said Hugh, twinkling. “You picked your apples
yesterday, and they’re not yet laid up in the trays in the loft. Lucky it was
not Prior Robert who saw him at it, and he with the breast of his cotte bulging
like a portly dame!” “Oh, there are some of us have a sort of
silent understanding. He’ll have taken the biggest, but only four. He thieves
in moderation. Partly from decent obligation, partly because half the sport is
to tempt providence again and again.” Hugh’s agile black eyebrow signalled
amused enquiry. “Why four?” “Because we have but four boys still in
school, and if he thieves at all, he thieves for all. There are several novices
not very much older, but to them he has no obligation. They must do their own
thieving, or go without. And do you know,” asked Cadfael complacently, “who
that young limb is?” “I do not, but you are about to astonish
me.” “I doubt if I am. That is Master Richard
Ludel, the new lord of Eaton. Though plainly,” said Cadfael, wryly
contemplating shadowed innocence, “he does not yet know it.” Richard was sitting cross-legged on the
grassy bank above the mill-pond, thoughtfully nibbling out the last shreds of
white flesh from round his apple core, when one of the novices came looking for
him. “Brother Paul wants you,” announced the messenger, with the austerely
complacent face of one aware of his own virtue, and delivering a probably
ominous summons to another. “He’s in the parlour. You’d best hurry.” “Me?” said Richard, round-eyed, looking up
from his enjoyment of the stolen apple. No one had any great cause to be afraid
of Brother Paul, the master of the novices and the children, who was the
gentlest and most patient of men, but even a reproof from him was to be evaded
if possible. “What does he want me for?” “You should best know that,” said the
novice, with mildly malicious intent. “It was not likely he’d tell me. Go and
find out for yourself, if you truly have no notion.” Richard committed his denuded core to the
pond, and rose slowly from the grass. “In the parlour, you say?” The use of so
private and ceremonial a place argued something grave, and though he was
unaware of any but the most venial of misdeeds that could be laid to his
account during the past weeks, it behoved him to be wary. He went off slowly
and thoughtfully, trailing his bare feet in the coolness of the grass,
deliberately scuffing hard little soles along the cobbles of the court, and
duly presented himself in the small, dim parlour, where visitors from the
outside world might occasionally talk in private with their cloistered sons. Brother Paul was standing with his back to
the single window, rendering the small room even dimmer than it need have been.
The straight, close-shorn ring of hair round his polished crown was still black
and thick at fifty, and he habitually stood, as indeed he also sat, stooped a
little forward, from so many years of dealing with creatures half his size, and
desiring to reassure them rather than awe them with his stature and bearing. A
kindly, scholarly, indulgent man, but a good teacher for all that, and one who
could keep his chicks in order without having to keep them in terror. The
oldest remaining oblatus, given to God when he was five years old, and now
approaching fifteen and his novitiate, told awful stories of Brother Paul’s
predecessor, who had ruled with the rod, and been possessed of an eye that
could freeze the blood. Richard made his small obligatory obeisance, and stood
squarely before his master, lifting to the light an impenetrable countenance,
lit by two blue-green eyes of radiant innocence. A thin, active child, small
for his years but agile and supple as a cat, with a thick, curly crest of light
brown hair, and a band of golden freckles over both cheekbones and the bridge
of his neat, straight nose. He stood with feet braced sturdily apart, toes
gripping the floorboards, and stared up into Brother Paul’s face, dutiful and
guileless. Paul was well acquainted with that unblinking gaze. “Richard,” he said gently, “come, sit down
with me. I have something I must tell you.” That in itself was enough to discount one
slight childish unease, only to replace it with another and graver, for the
tone was so considerate and indulgent as to prophesy the need for comfort. But
what Richard’s sudden flickering frown expressed was simple bewilderment. He
allowed himself to be drawn to the bench and seated there within the circle of
Brother Paul’s arm, bare toes just touching the floor, and braced there hard.
He could be prepared for scolding, but here was surely something for which he
was not prepared, and had no idea how to confront. “You know that your father fought at
Lincoln for the king, and was wounded? And that he has since been in poor
health.” Secure in robust, well-fed and well-tended youth, Richard hardly knew
what poor health might be, except that it was something that happened to the
old. But he said: “Yes, Brother Paul!” in a
small, accommodating voice, since it was expected of him. “Your grandmother sent a groom to the lord
sheriff this morning. He has brought a sad message, Richard. Your father has
made his last confession and received his Saviour. He is dead, my child. You
are his heir, and you must be worthy of him. In life and in death,” said
Brother Paul, “he is in the hand of God. So are we all.” The look of thoughtful bewilderment had
not changed. Richard’s toes shoved hard against the floor, and his hands
gripped the edge of the bench on which he was perched. “My father is dead?” he repeated
carefully. “Yes, Richard. Soon or late, it touches us
all. Every son must one day step into his father’s place and take up his
father’s duties.” “Then I shall be the lord of Eaton now?” Brother Paul did not make the mistake of
taking this for a simple expression of self-congratulation on a personal gain,
rather as an intelligent acceptance of what he himself had just said. The heir
must take up the burden and the privilege his sire had laid down. “Yes, you are the lord of Eaton, or you
will be as soon as you are of fit age. You must study to get wisdom, and manage
your lands and people well. Your father would expect that of you.” Still struggling with the practicalities
of his new situation, Richard probed back into his memory for a clear vision of
this father who was now challenging him to be worthy. In his rare recent visits
home at Christmas and Easter he had been admitted on arrival and departure to a
sick-room that smelled of herbs and premature aging, and allowed to kiss a
grey, austere face and listen to a deep voice, indifferent with weakness,
calling him son and exhorting him to study and be virtuous. But there was
little more, and even the face had grown dim in his memory. Of what he did
remember he went in awe. They had never been close enough for anything more
intimate. “You loved your father, and did your best
to please him, did you not, Richard?” Brother Paul prompted gently. “You must
still do what is pleasing to him. And you may say prayers for his soul, which
will be a comfort also to you.” “Shall I have to go home now?” asked
Richard, whose mind was on the need for information rather than comfort. “To your father’s burial, certainly. But
not to remain there, not yet. It was your father’s wish that you should learn
to read and write, and be properly instructed in figures. And you’re young yet,
your steward will take good care of your manor until you come to manhood.” “My grandmother,” said Richard by way of
explanation, “sees no sense in my learning my letters. She was angry when my
father sent me here. She says a lettered clerk is all any manor needs, and
books are no fit employment for a nobleman.” “Surely she will comply with your father’s
wishes. All the more is that a sacred trust, now that he is dead.” Richard jutted a doubtful lip. “But my
grandmother has other plans for me. She wants to marry me to our neighbour’s
daughter, because Hiltrude has no brother, and will be the heiress to both
Leighton and Wroxeter. Grandmother will want that more than ever now,” said
Richard simply, and looked up ingenuously into Brother Paul’s slightly startled
face. It took a few moments to assimilate this
news, and relate it to the boy’s entry into the abbey school when he was barely
five years old. The manors of Leighton and Wroxeter lay one on either side of
Eaton, and might well be a tempting prospect, but plainly Richard Ludel had not
concurred in his mother’s ambitious plans for her grandson, since he had taken
steps to place the boy out of the lady’s reach, and a year later had made Abbot
Radulfus Richard’s guardian, should he himself have to relinquish the charge
too soon. Father Abbot had better know what’s in the wind, thought Brother
Paul. For of such a misuse of his ward, thus almost in infancy, he would
certainly not approve. Very warily he said, fronting the boy’s
unwavering stare with a grave face:
“Your father said nothing of what his plans for you might be, some day
when you are fully grown. Such matters must wait their proper time, and that is
not yet. You need not trouble your head about any such match for years yet. You
are in Father Abbot’s charge, and he will do what is best for you.” And he
added cautiously, giving way to natural human curiosity: “Do you know this
child—this neighbour’s daughter?” “She isn’t a child,” Richard stated
scornfully. “She’s quite old. She was betrothed once, but her bridegroom died.
My grandmother was pleased, because after waiting some years for him, Hiltrude
wouldn’t have many suitors, not being even pretty, so she would be left for
me.” Brother Paul’s blood chilled at the
implications. “Quite old” probably meant no more than a few years past twenty,
but even that was an unacceptable difference. Such marriages, of course, were a
commonplace, where there was property and land to be won, but they were
certainly not to be encouraged. Abbot Radulfus had long had qualms of
conscience about accepting infants committed by their fathers to the cloister,
and had resolved to admit no more boys until they were of an age to make the
choice for themselves. He would certainly look no more favourably on committing
a child to the equally grave and binding discipline of matrimony. “Well, you
may put all such matters out of your mind,” he said very firmly. “Your only
concern now and for some years to come must be with your lessons and the
pastimes proper to your years. Now you may go back to your fellows, if you wish,
or stay here quietly for a while, as you prefer.” Richard slid out of the
supporting arm readily and stood up sturdily from the bench, willing to face
the world and his curious fellow pupils at once, and seeing no reason why he
should shun the meeting even for a moment. He had yet to comprehend the thing
that had happened to him. The fact he could grasp, the implications were slow
to reach beyond his intelligence into his heart. “If there is anything more you
wish to ask,” said Brother Paul, eyeing him anxiously, “or if you feel the need
for comfort or counsel, come back to me, and we’ll go to Father Abbot. He is
wiser than I, and abler to help you through this time.” So he might be, but a boy in school was
hardly likely to submit himself voluntarily to an interview with so awesome a
personage. Richard’s solemn face had settled into the brooding frown of one
making his way through unfamiliar and thorny paths. He made his parting
reverence and went out briskly enough, and Brother Paul, having watched him out
of sight from the window, and seen no signs of imminent distress, went to
report to the abbot what Dame Dionisia Ludel was said to be planning for her
grandson. Radulfus heard him out with alert
attention and a thoughtful frown. To unite Eaton with both its neighbouring
manors was an understandable ambition. The resulting property would be a power
in the shire, and no doubt the formidable lady considered herself more than
capable of ruling it, over the heads of bride, bride’s father and infant
bridegroom. Land greed was a strong driving force, and children were
possessions expendable for so desirable a profit. “But we trouble needlessly,”
said Radulfus, shaking the matter resolutely from his shoulders. “The boy is in
my care, and here he stays. Whatever she may intend, she will not be able to
touch him. We can forget the matter. She is no threat to Richard or to us.” Wise as he might be, this was one occasion
when Abbot Radulfus was to find his predictions going far astray. Chapter Two THEY WERE ALL AT CHAPTER, on the twentieth
morning of October, when the steward of the manor of Eaton presented himself,
requesting a hearing with a message from his mistress. John of Longwood was a burly, bearded man
of fifty, with a balding crown and neat, deliberate movements. He made a
respectful obeisance to the abbot, and delivered his errand bluntly and
practically, as one performing a duty but without committing himself to
approval or disapproval. “My lord, Dame Dionisia Ludel sends me to you with her
devout greetings, and asks that you will send back to her, in my charge, her
grandson Richard, to take up his rightful place as lord of the manor of Eaton
in his father’s room.” Abbot Radulfus leaned back in his stall and regarded the
messenger with an impassive face. “Certainly Richard shall attend his father’s
funeral. When is that to be?” “Tomorrow, my lord, before High Mass. But
that is not my mistress’s meaning. She wants the young lord to leave his
studies here and come to take his proper place as lord of Eaton. I’m to say
that Dame Dionisia feels herself to be the proper person to have charge of him,
now that he’s come into his inheritance, as she’s assured he shall do, without
delay or hindrance. I have orders to bring him back with me.” “I fear, master steward,” said the abbot
with deliberation, “that you may not be able to carry out your orders. Richard
Ludel committed the care of his son to me, should he himself die before the boy
came to manhood. It was his wish that his son should be properly educated, the
better to manage his estate when he came to inherit. I intend to fulfil what I
undertook. Richard remains in my care until he comes of age and takes control
of his own affairs. Until which time, I am sure, you will serve him as well as
you have served his father, and keep his lands in good heart.” “Very surely I will, my lord,” said John
of Longwood, with more warmth than he had shown in delivering his mistress’s
message. “My lord Richard has left all to me since Lincoln, and he never had
cause to find fault, and neither shall his son ever be the loser by me. On that
you may rely.” “So I do. And therefore we may continue
here with easy minds, and take as good care of Richard’s schooling and
wellbeing as you do of his estates.” “And what reply am I to take back to Dame
Dionisia?” asked John, without any apparent disappointment or reluctance. “Say to your lady that I greet her
reverently in Christ, and that Richard shall come tomorrow, as is due, properly
escorted,” said the abbot with a slightly admonitory emphasis, “but that I have
his father’s sacred charge to hold him in wardship myself until he is a man,
and by his father’s wishes I shall abide.” “I will say so, my lord,” said John with a
straight, wide stare and a deep reverence, and walked jauntily out of the chapterhouse.
Brother Cadfael and Brother Edmund the infirmarer emerged into the great court
just in time to see the messenger from Eaton mount his stocky Welsh cob at the
gatehouse and ride unhurriedly out into the Foregate. “There goes a man, unless
I’m much mistaken,” remarked Brother Cadfael sagely, “no way seriously
displeased at taking back a flat refusal. Nor at all afraid of delivering it. A
man might almost think he’ll savour the moment.” “He is not dependent on the dame’s good
will,” said Brother Edmund. “Only the sheriff as overlord can threaten his
tenure, until the boy is his own master, and John knows his worth. And so does
she, for that matter, having a shrewd head and proper appreciation of good
management. For the sake of peace he’ll do her bidding, he does not have to
relish the task, only to keep his mouth shut.” And John of Longwood was a man
of few words at the best of times, it would probably be no hardship to him to
contain his dissent and keep a wooden face. “But this will not be the end of
it,” Cadfael warned. “If she has a greedy eye on Wroxeter and Leighton she’ll
not give up so easily, and the boy’s her only means of getting her hands on
them. We shall yet hear more from Dame Dionisia Ludel.” Abbot Radulfus had taken the warning seriously.
Young Richard was accompanied to Eaton by Brother Paul, Brother Anselm and
Brother Cadfael, a bodyguard stout enough to fend off even an attempt at
abduction by force, which was unlikely in the extreme. Far more probable that
the lady would try using the fond persuasions of affection and the ties of
blood to work upon the boy with tears and blandishments, and turn him into a
homesick ally in the enemy camp. If she had any such ideas, Cadfael reflected,
studying Richard’s face along the way, she was under-estimating the innocent
shrewdness of children. The boy was quite capable of weighing up his own
interests and making the most of what advantages he had. He was happy enough at
school, he had companions of his own age, he would not lightly abandon a known
and pleasant life for one as yet strange, devoid of brothers, and threatened
with a bride already old in his eyes. No doubt he valued and longed for his
inheritance, but his it was, and safe, and whether he stayed at school or came
home, he would not yet be allowed to rule it as he wished. No, it would take
more than grandmotherly tears and embraces to secure Richard’s alliance,
especially tears and embraces from a source never before known to be
demonstratively fond. It was a matter of seven miles or more
from the abbey to the manor of Eaton, and for the honour and dignity of the
monastery of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, in attendance on so solemn an
occasion, they were sent forth mounted. Dame Dionisia had sent a groom with a
stout Welsh pony for her grandson, perhaps as a first move in a campaign to
enlist him as her ally, and the gift had been received with greedy pleasure,
but it would not therefore necessarily produce a return in kind. A gift is a
gift, and children are shrewd enough, and have a sharp enough perception of the
motives of their elders, to take what is offered unsolicited, without the least
intention of paying for it in the fashion expected of them. Richard sat his new
pony proudly and happily, and in the fine, dewy autumn morning and the pleasure
of being loosed from school for the day, almost forgot the sombre reason for
the ride. The groom, a long-legged boy of sixteen, loped cheerfully beside him,
and led the pony as they splashed through the ford at Wroxeter, where centuries
back the Romans had crossed the Severn before them. Nothing remained of their
sojourn now but a gaunt, broken wall standing russet against the green fields,
and a scattering of stones long ago plundered by the villagers for their own
building purposes. In the place of what some said had been a city and a
fortress there was now a flourishing manor blessed with fat, productive land,
and a prosperous church that maintained four canons. Cadfael viewed it with
some interest as they passed, for this was one of the two manors which Dame
Dionisia hoped to secure to the Ludel estate by marrying off Richard to the
girl Hiltrude Astley. So fine a property was certainly tempting. All this
stretch of country on the northern side of the river extended before them in
rich water meadows and undulating fields, rising here and there into a gentle
hill, and starred with clusters of trees just melting into the first gold of
their autumn foliage. The land rose on the skyline into the forested ridge of
the Wrekin, a great heaving fleece of woodland that spread downhill to the
Severn, and cast a great tress of its dark mane across Ludel land and into the
abbey’s woods of Eyton-by-Severn. There was barely a mile between the grange of
Eyton, close beside the river, and Richard Ludel’s manor house at Eaton. The
very names sprang from the same root, though time had prised them apart, and
the Norman passion for order and formulation had fixed and ratified the
differences. As they rode nearer, their view of the long hog-back of forest
changed and foreshortened. By the time they reached the manor they were viewing
it from its end, and the hill had grown into an abrupt mountain, with a few
sheer faces of rock just breaking the dark fell of the trees near the summit.
The village sat serenely in the meadows, just short of the foothills, the manor
within its long stockade raised over an undercroft, and the small church close
beside it. Originally it had been a dependent chapel of the church at its
neighbour Leighton, downriver by a couple of miles. They dismounted within the stockade, and
Brother Paul took Richard firmly by the hand as soon as the boy’s foot touched
ground, as Dame Dionisia came sweeping down the steps from the hall to meet
them, advanced with authority upon her grandson, and stooped to kiss him.
Richard lifted his face somewhat warily, and submitted to the salute, but he
kept fast hold of Paul’s hand. With one power bidding for his custody he knew
where he stood, with the other he could not be sure of his standing. Cadfael eyed the lady with interest, for
though her reputation was known to him, he had never before been in her
presence. Dionisia was tall and erect, certainly no more than fifty-five years
old, and in vigorous health. She was, moreover, a handsome woman, if in a
somewhat daunting fashion, with sharp, clear features and cool grey eyes. But
their coolness showed one warning flash of fire as they swept over Richard’s
escort, recording the strength of the enemy. The household had come out at her
back, the parish priest was at her side. There would be no engagement here.
Later, perhaps, when Richard Ludel was safely entombed, and she could open the
house in funeral hospitality, she might make a first move. The heir could
hardly be kept from his grandmother’s society on this day of all days. The solemn rites for Richard Ludel took
their appointed course. Brother Cadfael made good use of the time to survey the
dead man’s household, from John of Longwood to the youngest villein herdsman.
There was every indication that the place had thrived well under John’s
stewardship, and his men were well content with their lot. Hugh would have good
reason to let well alone. There were neighbours present, too, Fulke Astley
among them, keeping a weather eye on what he himself might have to gain if the
proposed match ever took place. Cadfael had seen him once or twice in
Shrewsbury, a gross, self-important man in his late forties, running to fat,
ponderous of movement, and surely no match for that restless, active,
high-tempered woman standing grim-faced over her son’s hier. She had Richard
beside her, a hand possessively rather than protectively on his shoulder. The
boy’s eyes had dilated to engulf half his face, solemn as the grave that had
been opened for his father, and was now about to be sealed. Distant death is
one thing, its actual presence quite another. Not until this minute had Richard
fully realised the finality of this deprivation and severance. The grandmotherly hand did not leave his
shoulder as the cortege of mourners wound its way back to the manor, and the
funeral meats spread for them in the hall. The long, lean, aging fingers had a
firm grip on the cloth of the boy’s best coat, and she guided him with her
among guests and neighbours, properly but with notable emphasis making him the man
of the house, and presiding figure at his father’s obsequies. That did no harm
at all. Richard was fully aware of his position, and well able to resent any
infringement of his privilege. Brother Paul watched with some anxiety, and
whispered to Cadfael that they had best get the boy away before all the guests
departed, or they might fail to get him away at all, for want of witnesses.
While the priest was still present, and those few others not of the household,
he could hardly be retained by force. Cadfael had been observing those of the
company not well known to him. There were two grey-habited monks from the
Savigniac house of Buildwas, a few miles away down-river, to which Ludel had
been a generous patron on occasion, and with them, though withdrawn modestly
throughout into the background, was a personage less easily identifiable. He
wore a monastic gown, rusty black and well worn at the hems, but a head of
unshorn dark hair showed within his cowl, and a gleam of reflected light picked
out two or three metallic gleams from his shoulder that looked like the medals
of more than one pilgrimage. Perhaps a wandering religious about to settle for
the cloister. Savigny had been at Buildwas now for some forty years, a
foundation of Roger de Clinton, bishop of Lichfield. Good, detached observers
surely, these three. Before such reverend guests no violence could be
attempted. Brother Paul approached Dionisia
courteously to take a discreet leave and reclaim his charge, but the lady took
the wind from his sails with a brief, steely flash of her eyes and a voice
deceptively sweet: “Brother, let me plead with you to let me keep Richard
overnight. He has had a tiring day and begins to be weary now. He should not
leave until tomorrow.” But she did not say that she would send him back on the
morrow, and her hand retained its grip on his shoulder. She had spoken loudly
enough to be heard by all, a solicitous matron anxious for her young. “Madam,” said Brother Paul, making the
best of a disadvantaged position, “I was about to tell you, sadly, that we must
be going. I have no authority to let Richard stay here with you, we are
expected back for Vespers. I pray you pardon us.” The lady’s smile was honey, but her eyes
were sharp and cold as knives. She made one more assay, perhaps to establish
her own case with those who overheard, rather than with any hope of achieving
anything immediately, for she knew the occasion rendered her helpless. “Surely Abbot Radulfus would understand my
desire to have the child to myself one more day. My own flesh and blood, the
only one left to me, and I have seen so little of him these last years. You
leave me uncomforted if you take him from me so soon.” “Madam,” said Brother Paul, firm but
uneasy, “I grieve to withstand your wish, but I have no choice. I am bound in
obedience to my abbot to bring Richard back with me before evening. Come,
Richard, we must be going.” There was an instant while she kept and tightened
her hold, tempted to act even thus publicly, but she thought better of it. This
was no time to put herself in the wrong, rather to recruit sympathy. She opened
her hand, and Richard crept doubtfully away from her to Paul’s side. “Tell the lord abbot,” said Dionisia, her
eyes daggers, but her voice still mellow and sweet, “that I shall seek a
meeting with him very soon.” “Madam, I will tell him so,” said Brother
Paul. She was as good as her word. She rode into the abbey enclave the next
day, well attended, bravely mounted, and in her impressive best, to ask
audience of the abbot. She was closeted with him for almost an hour, but came
forth in a cold blaze of resentment and rage, stormed across the great court
like a sudden gale, scattering unoffending novices like blown leaves, and rode
away again for home at a pace her staid jennet did not relish, with her grooms
trailing mute and awed well in the rear. “There goes a lady who is used to getting
her own way,” remarked Brother Anselm, “but for once, I fancy, she’s met her
match.” “We have not heard the last of it,
however,” said Brother Cadfael drily, watching the dust settle after her going. “I don’t doubt her will,” agreed Anselm,
“but what can she do?” “That,” said Cadfael, not without
quickening interest, “no doubt we shall see, all in good time.” They had but two days to wait. Dame
Dionisia’s man of law announced himself ceremoniously at chapter, requesting a
hearing. An elderly clerk, meagre of person but brisk of bearing and irascible
of feature, bustled into the chapterhouse with a bundle of parchments under his
arm, and addressed the assembly with chill, reproachful dignity, in sorrow
rather than in anger. He marvelled that a cleric and scholar of the abbot’s
known uprightness and benevolence should deny the ties of blood, and refuse to
return Richard Ludel to the custody and loving care of his only surviving close
kinswoman, now left quite bereft of all her other menfolk, and anxious to help,
guide and advise her grandson in his new lordship. A great wrong was being done
to both grandmother and child, in the denial of their natural need and the
frustration of their mutual affection. And yet once more the clerk put forth
the solemn request that the wrong should be set right, and Richard Ludel sent
back with him to his manor of Eaton. Abbot Radulfus sat with a patient and
unmoved face and listened to the end of this studied speech very courteously.
“I thank you for your errand,” he said then mildly, “it was well done. I cannot
well change the answer I gave to your lady. Richard Ludel who is dead committed
the care of his son to me, by letter properly drawn and witnessed. I accepted
that charge, and I cannot renounce it now. It was the father’s wish that the
son should be educated here until he comes to manhood, and takes command of his
own life and affairs. That I promised, and that I shall fulfil. The death of
the father only makes my obligation the more sacred and binding. Tell your
mistress so.” “My lord,” said the clerk, plainly having
expected no other answer, and ready with the next step in his embassage, “in
changed circumstances such a private legal document need not be the only
argument valid in a court of law. The king’s justices would listen no less to
the plea of a matron of rank, widowed and now bereaved of her son, and fully
able to provide all her grandson’s needs, besides the natural need she has of
the comfort of his presence. My mistress desires to inform you that if you do
not give up the boy, she intends to bring suit at law to regain him.” “Then I can but approve her intention,”
said the abbot serenely. “A judicial decision in the king’s court must be
satisfying to us both, since it lifts the burden of choice from us. Tell her
so, and say that I await the hearing with due submission. But until such a
judgement is made, I must hold to my own sworn undertaking. I am glad,” he said
with a dry and private smile, “that we are thus agreed.” There was nothing left for the clerk to do
but accept this unexpectedly pliant response at its face value, and bow himself
out as gracefully as he could. A slight rustle and stir of curiosity and wonder
had rippled round the chapterhouse stalls, but Abbot Radulfus suppressed it
with a look, and it was not until the brothers emerged into the great court and
dispersed to their work that comment and speculation could break out openly.
“Was he wise to encourage her?” marvelled Brother Edmund, crossing towards the
infirmary with Cadfael at his side. “How if she does indeed take us to law? A
judge might very well take the part of a lone lady who wants her grandchild
home.” “Be easy,” said Cadfael placidly. “It’s
but an empty threat. She knows as well as any that the law is slow and costs
dear, at the best of times, and this is none of the best, with the king far
away and busy with more urgent matters, and half his kingdom cut off from any
manner of justice at all. No, she hoped to make the lord abbot think again and
yield ground for fear of long vexation. She had the wrong man. He knows she has
no intention of going to law. Far more likely to take law into her own hands
and try to steal the boy away. It would take slow law or swift action to snatch
him back again, once she had him, and force is further out of the abbot’s reach
than it is out of hers.” “It is to be hoped,” said Brother Edmund,
aghast at the suggestion, “that she has not yet used up all her persuasions, if
the last resort is to be violence.” No one could quite determine exactly how
young Richard came to know every twist and turn of the contention over his
future. He could not have overheard anything of what went on at chapter, nor
were the novices present at the daily gatherings, and there was none among the
brothers likely to gossip about the matter to the child at the centre of the
conflict. Yet it was clear that Richard did know all that went on, and took
perverse pleasure in it. Mischief made life more interesting, and here within
the enclave he felt quite safe from any real danger, while he could enjoy being
fought over. “He watches the comings and goings from Eaton,” said Brother Paul,
confiding his mild anxiety to Cadfael in the peace of the herb garden, “and is
sharp enough to be very well aware what they mean. And he understood all too
well what went on at his father’s funeral. I could wish him less acute, for his
own sake.” “As well he should have his wits about
him,” said Cadfael comfortably. “It’s the knowing innocents that avoid the
snares. And the lady’s made no move now for ten days. Maybe she’s grown
resigned, and given up the struggle.” But he was by no means convinced of that.
Dame Dionisia was not used to being thwarted. “It may be so,” agreed Paul
hopefully, “for I hear she’s taken in some reverend pilgrim, and refurbished
the old hermitage in her woodland for his use. She wants his prayers daily for
her son’s soul. Edmund was telling us about it when he brought our allowance of
venison. We saw the man, Cadfael, at the funeral. He was there with the two
brothers from Buildwas. He’d been lodged with them a week, they give him a very
saintly report.” Cadfael straightened up with a grunt from
his bed of mint, grown wiry and thin of leaf now in late October. “The fellow
who wore the scallop shell? And the medal of Saint James? Yes, I remember
noticing him. So he’s settling among us, is he? And chooses a cell and a little
square of garden in the woods rather than a grey habit at Buildwas! I never was
drawn to the solitary life myself, but I’ve known those who can think and pray
the better that way. It’s a long time since that cell was lived in.” He knew the place, though he seldom passed
that way, the abbey’s forester having excellent health, and very little need of
herbal remedies. The hermitage, disused now for many years, lay in a thickly
wooded dell, a stone-built hut with a square of ground once fenced and
cultivated, now overgrown and wild. Here the belt of forest embraced both Eaton
ground and the abbey’s woodland of Eyton, and the hermitage occupied a spot
where the Ludel border jutted into neighbour territory, close to the forester’s
cherished coppice. “He’ll be quiet enough there,” said Cadfael, “if he means to
stay. By what name are we to know him?” “They call him Cuthred. A neighbour saint
is a fine thing to have, and it seems they’re already beginning to bring their
troubles to him to sort. It may be,” ventured Brother Paul optimistically,
“that it’s he who has tamed the lady. He must have a strong influence over her,
or she’d never have entreated him to stay. And there’s been no move from her
these ten days. It may be we’re all in his debt.” And
indeed, as the soft October days slid away tranquilly one after another, in
dim, misty dawns, noondays bright but veiled, and moist green twilights
magically still, it seemed that there was to be no further combat over young
Richard, that Dame Dionisia had thought better of the threat of law, and
resigned herself to submission. She even sent, by her parish priest, a gift of
money to pay for Masses in the Lady Chapel for her son’s soul, a gesture which
could only be interpreted as a move towards reconciliation. So, at least,
Brother Francis, the new custodian of Saint Mary’s altar, considered it.
“Father Andrew tells me,” he reported after the visitor had departed, “that
since the Savigniac brothers from Buildwas brought this Cuthred into her house
she sets great store by his counsel, and rules herself by his advice and
example. The man has won a great report for holiness already. They say he’s
taken strict vows in the old way, and never leaves his cell and garden now. But
he never refuses help or prayers to any who ask. Father Andrew thinks very
highly of him. The anchorite way is not our way,” said Brother Francis with
great earnestness, “but it’s no bad thing to have such a holy man living so
close, on a neighbouring manor. It cannot but bring a blessing.” So thought all
the countryside, for the possession of so devout a hermit brought great lustre
to the manor of Eaton, and the one criticism that ever came to Cadfael’s ears
concerning Cuthred was that he was too modest, and at first deprecated, and
later forbade, the too lavish sounding of his praises abroad. No matter what
minor prodigy he brought about, averting by his prayers a threatened cattle
murrain, after one of Dionisia’s herd sickened, sending out his boy to give
warning of a coming storm, which by favour of his intercessions passed off
without damage, whatever the act of grace, he would not allow any of the merit
for it to be ascribed to him, and grew stern and awesomely angry if the attempt
was made, threatening the wrath of God on any who disobeyed his ban. Within a
month of his coming his discipline counted for more in the manor of Eaton than
did either Dionisia’s or Father Andrew’s, and his fame, banned from being
spread openly, went about by neighbourly whispers, like a prized secret to be
exulted in privately but hidden from the world. Chapter Three EILMUND, THE FORESTER OF EYTON, came now
and then to chapter at the abbey to report on work done, or on any difficulties
he might have encountered, and extra help he might need. It was not often he
had anything but placid progress to report, but in the second week of November
he came one morning with a puzzled frown fixed on his brow, and a glum face. It
seemed that a curious blight of misfortune had settled upon his woodland. Eilmund was a thickset, dark, shaggy man
past forty, very powerful of body, and sharp enough of mind. He stood squarely
in the midst at chapter, solidly braced on his sturdy legs like a wrestler
confronting his opponent, and made few words of what he had to tell. “My lord abbot, there are things happening
in my charge that I cannot fathom. A week ago, in that great rainstorm we had,
the brook that runs between our coppice and the open forest washed down some
loose bushes, and built up such a dam that it overflowed and changed its
course, and flooded my newest planting. And no sooner had I cleared the block than
I found the flood-water had undercut part of the bank of my ditch, a small way
upstream, and the fall of soil had bridged the ditch. By the time I found it
the deer had got into the coppice. They’ve eaten off all the young growth from
the plot we cropped two years ago. I doubt some of the trees may die, and all
will be held back a couple more years at least before they get their growth. It
spoils my planning,” complained Eilmund, outraged for the ruin of his cycle of
culling, “besides the present loss.” Cadfael knew the place, Eilmund’s pride,
the farmed part of Eyton forest, as neat and well-ditched a coppice as any in
the shire, where the regular cutting of six- or seven-year-old wood let in the
light at every cropping, so that the wealth of ground cover and wild flowers
was always rich and varied. Some trees, like ash, spring anew from the stool of
the original trunk, just below the cut. Some, like elm or aspen, from below the
ground all round the stump. Some of the stools in Eilmund’s care, several times
cropped afresh, had grown into groves of their own, their open centres two good
paces across. No grave natural disaster had ever before upset his pride in his
skills. No wonder he was so deeply aggrieved. And the loss to the abbey was
itself serious, for coppice wood for fuel, charcoal, hafts of tools, carpentry
and all manner of uses brought in good income. “Nor is that the end of it,” went on
Eilmund grimly, “for yesterday when I made my rounds on the other side of the
copse, where the ditch is dry but deep enough and the bank steep, what should
have happened but the sheep from Eaton had broke out of their field by a loose
pale, just where Eaton ground touches ours, and sheep, as you know, my lord,
make nothing of a bank that will keep out deer, and there’s nothing they like
better for grazing than the first tender seedlings of ash. They’ve made short
work of much of the new growth before I could get them out. And neither I nor
John of Longwood can tell how they got through so narrow a gap, but you know if
the matron ewe takes a notion into her head there’s no stopping her, and the
others will follow. It seems to me my forest is bewitched.” “Far more like,” suggested Prior Robert,
looking severely down his long nose, “that there has been plain human negligence,
either on your part or your neighbour’s.” “Father Prior,” said Eilmund, with the
bluntness of one who knows his value, and knows that it is equally well known
to the only superior he needs to satisfy here, “in all my years in the abbey’s
service there has never yet been complaint of my work. I have made my rounds
daily, yes, and often nightly, too, but I cannot command the rain not to fall,
nor can I be everywhere at once. Such a spate of misfortunes in so short a time
I’ve never before known. Nor can I blame John of Longwood, who has always been
as good a neighbour as any man needs.” “That is the truth,” said Abbot Radulfus
with authority. “We have had cause to be thankful for his good will, and do not
doubt it now. Nor do I question your skill and devotion. There has never been
need before, and I see none now. Reverses are sent to us so that we may
overcome them, and no man can presume to escape such testings for ever. The
loss can be borne. Do what you can, Master Eilmund, and if you should feel in need
of another helper, you shall have one.” Eilmund, who had always been equal to
his tasks and was proud of his self-sufficiency, said thanks for that somewhat
grudgingly, but declined the offer for the time being, and promised to send
word if anything further should happen to change his mind. And off he went as
briskly as he had come, back to his cottage in the forest, his daughter, and
his grievance against fate, since he could not honestly find a human agency to
blame. By some mysterious means young Richard got to know of the unusual
purport of Eilmund’s visit, and anything to do with his grandmother, and all
those people who had their labour and living about the manor of Eaton, was of
absorbing interest to him. However wise and watchful his guardian the abbot
might be, however competent his steward, it behoved him to keep an eye on his
estate for himself. If there was mischief afoot near Eaton, he itched to know
the reason, and he was far more likely than was the Abbot Radulfus to attribute
mischief, however incomprehensibly procured, to the perversity or malice of
humanity, having so often found himself arraigned as the half-innocent agent of
misrule. If the sheep of Eaton had made their way into the ash coppice of Eyton
not by some obscure act of God, but because someone had opened the way for them
and started them towards their welcome feast, then Richard wanted to know who,
and why. They were, after all, his sheep. Accordingly, he kept a sharp eye open for
any new comings and goings about the hour of chapter each morning, and was
curious when he observed, two days after Eilmund’s visit, the arrival at the
gatehouse of a young man he had seen but once before, who asked very civilly
for permission to appear at chapter with an embassage from his master, Cuthred.
He was early, and had to wait, which he did serenely. That suited Richard very
well, for he could not play truant from school, but by the time the chapter
ended he would be at liberty, and could ambush the visitor and satisfy his
curiosity. Every hermit worth his salt, having taken
vows of stability which enjoin him to remain thenceforth within his own cell
and closed garden, and having gifts of foresight and a sacred duty to use them
for his neighbours good, must have a resident boy to run his errands and
deliver his admonitions and reproofs. Cuthred’s boy, it seemed, had arrived
already in his service, accompanying him in his recent wanderings in search of
the place of retirement appointed for him by God. He came into the chapterhouse
of the abbey with demure assurance, and stood to be examined by all the curious
brothers, not at all discomposed by such an assault of bright, inquisitive
eyes. From the retired stall which he preferred,
Cadfael studied the messenger with interest. A more unlikely servitor for an
anchorite and popular saint, in the old Celtic sense that took no account of
canonisation, he could not well have imagined, though he could not have said on
the instant where the incongruity lay. A young fellow of about twenty years, in
a rough tunic and hose of brown cloth, patched and faded—nothing exceptional
there. He was built on the same light, wiry lines as Hugh Beringar, but stood a
hand’s breadth taller, and he was lean and brown and graceful as a fawn,
managing his long limbs with the same angular, animal beauty. Even his composed
stillness held implications of sudden, fierce movement, like a wild creature
motionless in ambush. His running would be swift and silent, his leaping long
and lofty as that of a hare. And his face had a similar slightly ominous
composure and awareness, under a thick, close-fitted cap of waving hair the
colour of copper beeches. A long oval of a face, tall-browed, with a long,
straight nose flared at the nostrils, again like a wild thing sensitive to
every scent the breeze brought him, a supple, crooked mouth that almost smiled
even in repose, as if in secret and slightly disturbing amusement, and long
amber eyes that tilted upwards at the outer corners, under oblique copper
brows. The burning glow of those eyes he shaded, but did not dim or conceal,
beneath round-arched lids and copper lashes long and rich as a woman’s. What was an antique saint doing with an
unnerving fairy thing in his employ? But the boy, having waited a long moment
to be inspected thoroughly, lifted his eyelids and showed to Abott Radulfus a
face of candid and childlike innocence, and made him a very charming and
respectful reverence. He would not speak until he was spoken to, but waited to
be questioned. “You come from the hermit of Eyton?” asked the abbot mildly,
studying the young, calm, almost smiling face attentively. “Yes, my lord. The holy Cuthred sends a
message by me.” His voice was quiet and clear, pitched a little high, so that
it rang bell-like under the vault. “What is your name?” Radulfus questioned. “Hyacinth, my lord.” “I have known a bishop of that name,” said
the abbot, and briefly smiled, for the sleek brown creature before him had
certainly nothing of the bishop about him. “Were you named for him?” “No, my lord. I have never heard of him. I
was told, once, that there was a youth of that name in an old story, and two
gods fell out over him, and the loser killed him. They say flowers grew from
his blood. It was a priest who told me,” said the boy innocently, and slanted a
sudden brief smile round the chapterhouse, well aware of the slight stir of
disquiet he had aroused in these cloistered breasts, though the abbot continued
unruffled. Into that old story, thought Cadfael, studying him with pleasure and
interest, you, my lad, fit far better than into the ambit of bishops, and well
you know it. Or hermits either, for that matter. Now where in the world did he
discover you, and how did he tame you? “May I speak my message?” asked the boy
ingenuously, golden eyes wide and clear and fixed upon the abbot. “You have learned it by heart?” enquired
Radulfus, smiling. “I must, my lord. There must be no word
out of place.” “A very faithful messenger! Yes, you may
speak.” “I must be my master’s voice, not my own,”
said the boy by way of introduction, and forthwith sank his voice several tones
below its normal ringing lightness, in a startling piece of mimicry that made
Cadfael, at least, look at him more warily and searchingly than ever. “I have
heard with much distress,” said the proxy hermit gravely, “both from the
steward of Eaton and the forester of Eyton, of the misfortunes suddenly
troubling the woodland. I have prayed and meditated, and greatly dread that
these are but the warnings of worse to come, unless some false balance or
jarring discord between right and wrong can be amended. I know of no such
offence hanging over us, unless it be the denial of right to Dame Dionisia
Ludel, in witholding her grandchild from her. The father’s wish must indeed be
regarded, but the grief of the widow for her young cannot be put away out of
mind, and she bereaved and alone. I pray you, my lord abbot, for the love of
God, consider whether what you do is well done, for I feel the shadow of evil
heavy over us all.” All this the surprising young man delivered
in the sombre and weighty voice which was not his own, and undeniably the trick
was impressive, and caused some of the more superstitious young brothers to
shift and gape and mutter in awed concern. And having ended his recital, the
messenger again raised his amber eyes and smiled, as if the purport of his
embassage concerned him not at all. Abbot Radulfus sat in silence for a long
moment, closely eyeing the young man, who gazed back at him unwinking and
serene, satisfied at having completed his errand. “Your master’s own words?” “Every one, my lord, just as he taught
them to me.” “And he did not commission you to argue
further in the matter on his behalf? You do not want to add anything?” The eyes opened still wider in
astonishment. “I, my lord? How could I? I only run his errands.” Prior Robert said superciliously into the
abbot’s ear: “It is not unknown for an anchorite to give shelter and employment
to a simpleton. It is an act of charity. This is clearly one such.” His voice
was low, but not low enough to escape ears as sharp, and almost as pointed, as
those of a fox, for the boy Hyacinth gleamed, and flashed a crooked smile.
Cadfael, who had also caught the drift of this comment, doubted very much
whether the abbot would agree with it. There seemed to him to be a very sharp
intelligence behind the brown faun’s face, even if it suited him to play the
fool with it. “Well,” said Radulfus, “you may go back to your master, Hyacinth,
and carry him my thanks for his concern and care, and for his prayers, which I
hope he will continue on behalf of us all. Say that I have considered and do
consider every side of Dame Dionisia’s complaint against me, and have done and
will continue to do what I see to be right. And for the natural misfortunes
that give him so much anxiety, mere men cannot control or command them, though
faith may overcome them. What we cannot change we must abide. That is all.”
Without another word the boy made him a deep and graceful obeisance, turned,
and walked without haste from the chapterhouse, lean and light-footed, and
moving with a cat’s almost insolent elegance. In the great court, almost empty at this
hour when all the brothers were at chapter, the visitor was in no hurry to set
out back to his master, but lingered to look about him curiously, from the
abbot’s lodging in its small rose garden to the guest halls and the infirmary,
and so round the circle of buildings to the gatehouse and the long expanse of
the south range of the cloister. Richard, who had been lying in wait for him
for some minutes, emerged confidently from the arched southern doorway, and
advanced into the stranger’s path. Since the intent was clearly to halt him,
Hyacinth obligingly halted, looking down with interest at the solemn, freckled
face that studied him just as ardently. “Good morrow, young sir!” he said
civilly. “And what might you want with me?” “I know who you are,” said Richard. “You
are the serving-man the hermit brought with him. I heard you say you came with
a message from him. Was it about me?” “That I might better answer,” said
Hyacinth reasonably, “if I knew who your lordship might be, and why my master
should be concerning himself with such small fry.” “I am not small fry,” said Richard with
dignity. “I am Richard Ludel, the lord of Eaton, and your master’s hermitage is
on my land. And you know very well who I am, for you were there among the
servants at my father’s funeral. And if you did bring some message that
concerns me, I think I have a right to know about it. That’s only fair.” And
Richard jutted his small, square chin and stood his ground with bare feet
spread apart, challenging justice with unblinking blue-green eyes. For a long moment Hyacinth returned his
gaze with a bright, speculative stare. Then he said in a brisk, matter-of-fact
tone, as man to man and quite without mockery: “That’s a true word, and I’m
with you, Richard. Now, where can we two talk at ease?” The middle of the great court was,
perhaps, a little too conspicuous for lengthy confidences, and Richard was
sufficiently taken with the unmistakably secular stranger to find him a
pleasing novelty among these monastic surroundings, and meant to get to know
all about him now that he had the opportunity. Moreover, very shortly chapter
would be ending, and it would not do to invite Prior Robert’s too close
attention in such circumstances, or court Brother Jerome’s busybody
interference. With hasty confidence he caught Hyacinth by the hand, and towed
him away up the court to the retired wicket that led through the enclave to the
mill. There on the grass above the pool they were private, with the wall at
their backs and the thick, springy turf under them, and the midday sun still
faintly warm on them through the diaphanous veil of haze. “Now!” said Richard,
getting down sternly to the matter in hand. “I need to have a friend who’ll
tell me truth, there are so many people ordering my life for me, and can’t
agree about it, and how can I take care of myself and be ready for them if
there’s no one to warn me what’s in their minds? If you’ll be on my side I
shall know how to deal. Will you?” Hyacinth leaned his back comfortably
against the abbey wall, stretched out before him shapely, sinewy legs, and
half-closed his sunlit eyes. “I tell you what, Richard, as you can best deal if
you know all that’s afoot, so can I be most helpful to you if I know the why
and wherefore of it. Now I know the end of this story thus far, and you know
the beginning. How if we put the two together, and see what’s to be made of
them?” Richard clapped his hands. “Agreed! So first
tell me what was the message you brought from Cuthred today!” Word for word as he had delivered it in
chapter, but without the mimicry, Hyacinth told him. “I knew it!” said the child, thumping a
small fist into the thick grass. “I knew it must be some way about me. So my
grandmother has cozened or persuaded even her holy man into arguing her cause
for her. I heard about these things that have been happening in the coppice,
but such things do happen now and then, who can prevent? You’ll need to warn your
master not to be over-persuaded, even if she has made herself his patroness.
Tell him the whole tale, for she won’t.” “So I will,” agreed Hyacinth heartily,
“when I know it myself.” “No one has told you why she wants me
home? Not a word from your master?” “Lad, I just run his errands, he doesn’t
confide in me.” And it seemed that the unquestioning servitor was in no hurry
about returning from this errand, for he settled his back more easily against
the mosses of the wall, and crossed his slim ankles. Richard wriggled a little
nearer, and Hyacinth shifted good-naturedly to accommodate the sharp young
bones that leaned into his side. “She wants to marry me off,” said Richard, “to
get hold of the manors either side of mine. And not even to a proper bride. Hikrude
is old . At least twenty-two.” “A venerable age,” agreed Hyacinth
gravely. “But even if she was young and pretty I
don’t want her. I don’t want any woman. I don’t like women. I don’t see any
need for them.” “You’re in the right place to escape them,
then,” suggested Hyacinth helpfully, and under his long copper lashes his amber
eyes flashed a gleam of laughter. “Become a novice, and be done with the world,
you’ll be safe enough here.” “No, that’s no sport, neither. Listen,
I’ll tell you all about it.” And the tale of his threatened marriage, and his
grandmother’s plans to enlarge her little palatine came tripping volubly from
his tongue. “So will you keep an eye open for me, and let me know what I must
be ware of? I need someone who’ll be honest with me, and not keep everything
from me, as if I were still a child.” “I will!” promised Hyacinth contentedly,
smiling. “I’ll be your lordship’s liege man in the camp at Eaton, and be eyes
and ears for you.” “And make plain my side of it to Cuthred?
I shouldn’t like him to think evil of Father Abbot; he’s only doing what my
father wanted for me. And you haven’t told me your name. I must have a name for
you.” “My name is Hyacinth. I’m told there was a
bishop so named, but I’m none. Your secrets are safer with a sinner than with a
saint, and I’m closer than the confessional, never fear me.” They had somehow become so content and
familiar with each other that only the timely reminder of Richard’s stomach,
nudging him that it was time for his dinner, finally roused them to separate.
Richard trotted beside his new friend along the path that skirted the enclave
wall as far as the Foregate, and there parted from him, and watched the light,
erect figure as it swung away along the highroad, before he turned and went
dancing gleefully back to the wicket in the enclave wall. Hyacinth covered the first miles of his
return journey at a springy, long-stepping lope, less out of any sense of haste
or duty than for pure pleasure in the ease of his own gait, and the power and
precision of his body. He crossed the river by the bridge at Attingham, waded
the watery meadows of its tributary the Tern, and turned south from Wroxeter
towards Eyton. When he came into the fringes of the forest land he slowed to a
loitering walk, reluctant to arrive when the way was so pleasant. He had to
cross abbey land to reach the hermitage which lay in the narrow, thrusting
finger of Ludel land probing into its neighbour woods. He went merrily
whistling along the track that skirted the brook, close round the northern rim
of Eilmund’s coppice. The bank that rose beyond, protecting the farmed
woodland, was high and steep, but well kept and well turfed, never before had
it subsided at any point, nor was the brook so large or rapid that it should
have undercut the seasoned slope. But so it had, the raw soil showed in a steep
dark scar well before he reached the place. He eyed it as he approached,
gnawing a thoughtful lip, and then as suddenly shrugged and laughed. “The more
mischief the more sport!” he said half-aloud, and passed on to where the bank
had been deeply undercut. He was still some yards back from the worst, when he
heard a muted cry that seemed to come from within the earth, and then an
indrawn howl of struggle and pain, and a volley of muffled curses. Startled but
quick in reaction, he broke into a leaping run, and pulled up as abruptly on
the edge of the ditch, no more than placidly filled now with the still muddied
stream, but visibly rising. On the other side of the water there had been a
fresh fall, and a solitary old willow, its roots partially stripped by the
first slip, had heeled over and fallen athwart the brook. Its branches heaved
and rustled with the struggles of someone pinned beneath, half in, half out of
the water. An arm groped for a hold through the leaves, heaving to shift the
incubus, and the effort fetched a great groan. Through the threshing leaves
Hyacinth caught a glimpse of Eilmund’s soiled and contorted face. “Hold still! he shouted. “I’m coming
down!” And down he went, thigh-deep, weaving
under the first boughs to get his back beneath their weight and try to lift
them enough for the imprisoned forester to drag himself clear. Eilmund,
groaning and gasping, doubled both fists grimly into the soil at his back and
hauled himself partially free of the bough that held him by the legs. The
effort cost him a half-swallowed scream of pain. “You’re hurt!” Hyacinth took
him under the armpits with both hands, arching his supple back strongly beneath
the thickest bough, and the tree rocked ponderously. “Now! Heave!” Eilmund braced himself yet again, Hyacinth
hauled with him, fresh slithers of soil rolled down on them both, but the
willow shifted and rolled over with a splash, and the forester lay in the raw
earth, gasping, his feet just washed by the rim of the brook. Hyacinth, muddy
and streaked with green, went on his knees beside him. “I’ll need to go for help, I can’t get you
from here alone. And you’ll not be going on your own two feet for a while. Can
you rest so, till I fetch John of Longwood’s men up from the fields? We’ll need
more than one, and a hurdle or a shutter to carry you. Is there worse than I
can see?” But what he could see was enough, and his brown face was shaken and
appalled under the mud stains. “My leg’s broke.” Eilmund let his great
shoulders sink cautiously back into the soft earth, and drew long, deep
breaths. “Main lucky for me you came this way, I was pinned fast, and the
brook’s building again. I was trying to shore up the bank. Lad,” he said, and
grinned ruefully round a groan, “there’s more strength in those shoulders of
yours than anyone would think to look at you.” “Can you bide like that for a little
while?” Hyacinth looked up anxiously at the bank above, but only small clods
shifted and slid harmlessly, and the rim of impacted turf, herbage and roots at
the top looked secure enough. I’ll run. I’ll not be long.” And run he did, fast and straight for the
Eaton fields, and hailed the first Eaton men he sighted. They came in haste,
with a hurdle borrowed from the sheep fold, and between them with care and with
some suppressed and understandable cursing from the victim, lifted Eilmund on
to it, and bore him the half-mile to his forest cottage. Mindful that the man
had a daughter at home, Hyacinth took it upon himself to run on before to give
her warning and reassurance, and time to prepare the injured man’s couch. The cottage lay in a cleared assart in the
forest, with a neat garden about it, and when Hyacinth reached it the door was
standing open, and within the house a girl was singing softly to herself as she
worked. Strangely, having run his fastest to get to her, Hyacinth seemed almost
reluctant to knock at the door, or enter without knocking, and while he was
hesitating on the doorstone her singing ceased, and she came out to see whose
fleet footsteps had stirred the small stones of the pathway. She was small but sturdy, and very trimly
made, with a straight blue gaze, the fresh colouring of a wild rose, and
smoothly-braided hair of a light brown sheen like the grain of polished oak,
and she looked him over with a candid curiosity and friendliness that for once
silenced his ready silver tongue. It was she who had to speak first, for all
the urgency of his errand. “You’re looking for my father? He’s away to the coppice,
you’ll find him where the bank slid.” And the blue eyes quickened with interest
and approval, liking what they saw. “You’re the boy who came with the old
dame’s hermit, aren’t you? I saw you working in his garden.” Hyacinth owned to it, and recalled with a
lurch of the heart what he had to tell. “I am, mistress, and my name’s
Hyacinth. Your father’s on his way back to you now, sorry I am to say it, after
a mishap that will keep him to the house for a while, I fear. I came to let you
know before they bring him. Oh, never fret, he’s live and sound, he’ll be his
own man again, give him time. But his leg’s broken. There was another slip, it
brought down a tree on him in the ditch. He’ll mend, though, no question.” The quick alarm and blanching of her face
had brought no outcry. She took in what he said, shook herself abruptly, and
went to work at once setting wide the inner and the outer doors to open the way
for the hurdle and its burden, and making ready the couch on which to lay him,
and from that to setting on a pot of water at the fire. And as she went she
talked to Hyacinth over her shoulder, very practically and calmly. “Not the first time he’s come by injuries,
but never a broken leg before. A tree came down, you say? That old willow. I
knew it leaned, but I never thought it could fall. It was you found him? And
fetched help for him?” The blue eyes looked round and smiled on him. “Some of the Eaton men were close,
clearing a drainage ditch. They’re carrying him in.” They were approaching the
door by then, coming as fast as they could. She went out to meet them, with
Hyacinth at her elbow. It seemed that he had something more, something
different to say to her, and for the moment had lost his opportunity, for he
hovered silently but purposefully on the edge of the scurry of activity, as
Eilmund was carried into the house and laid on the couch, and stripped of his
wet boots and hose, very carefully but to a muffled accompaniment of groans and
curses. His left leg was misshapen below the knee, but not so grossly that the
bone had torn through the flesh. “Above an hour lying there in the brook,” he
got out, between gritting his teeth on the pain as they handled him, “and if it
hadn’t been for this young fellow I should have been there yet, for I couldn’t
shift the weight, and there was no one within call. God’s truth, there’s more
muscle in the lad than you’d believe. You should have seen him heft that tree
off me.” Very strangely, Hyacinth’s spare, smooth cheeks flushed red beneath
their dark gold sheen. It was a face certainly not given to blushing, but it
had not lost the ability. He said with some constraint: “Is there anything more
I could be doing for you? I would, gladly! You’ll be needing a skilled hand to
set that bone. I’m no use there, but make use of me if you need an errand run.
That’s my calling, that I can do.” The girl turned for an instant from the
bed, her blue eyes wide and shining on his face. “Why, so you can, if you’ll be
so good and add to our debt. Will you send to the abbey, and ask for Brother
Cadfael to come?” “I will well!” said Hyacinth, as heartily
as if she had made him a most acceptable gift. But as she turned back from him
he hesitated, and caught her by the sleeve for an instant, and breathed into
her ear urgently: “I must talk to you—alone, later, when he’s cared for and
resting easy.” And before she could say yes or no, though her eyes certainly
were not refusing him, he was off and away through the trees, on the long run
back to Shrewsbury. Chapter Four HUGH CAME LOOKING for Brother Cadfael in
mid-afternoon, with the first glimmers of news that had found their way out of
Oxford since the siege began. “Robert of Gloucester is back in England,” he
said. “I have it from an armourer who took thought in time to get out of the
city. A few were lucky and took warning. He says Robert has landed at Wareham
in spite of the king’s garrison, brought in all his ships safely and taken the
town. Not the castle, though, not yet, but he’s settled down to siege. He got
precious little out of Geoffrey, maybe a handful of knights, no more.” “If he’s safe ashore and holds the town,”
said Cadfael reasonably, “what does he want with the castle? I should have
thought he’d be hotfoot for Oxford to hale his sister out of the trap.” “He’d rather lure Stephen to come to him,
and draw him off from his own siege. My man says the castle at Wareham’s none
too well garrisoned, and they’ve come to a truce agreement, and sent to the
king to relieve them by a fixed date, a know-all, but truly well informed,
though even he doesn’t know the day appointed—or if he fails them they’ll
surrender. That suits Robert. He knows it’s seldom any great feat to lure
Stephen off a scent, but I fancy he’ll hold fast this time. When will he get
such a chance again? Even he can’t throw it away, surely.” “There’s no end to the follies any man can
commit,” said Cadfael tolerantly. “To give him his due, most of his idiocies
are generous, which is more than can be said for the lady. But I could wish
this siege at Oxford might be the end of it. If he does take castle and empress
and all, she’ll be safe enough of life and limb with him, it’s rather he who
may be in danger. What else is new from the south?” “There’s a tale he tells of a horse found
straying not far from the city, in the woods close to the road to Wallingford.
Some time ago, this was, about the time all roads out of Oxford were closed,
and the town on fire. A horse dragging a blood-stained saddle, and saddlebags
slit open and emptied. A groom who’d slipped out of the town before the ring
closed recognised horse and harness as belonging to one Renaud Bourchier, a
knight in the empress’s service, and close in her confidence, too. My man says
it’s known she sent him out of the garrison to try and break through the king’s
lines and carry a message to Wallingford for her.” Cadfael ceased to ply the hoe he was
drawing leisurely between his herb beds, and turned his whole attention upon
his friend. “To Brian FitzCount, you mean?” The lord of Wallingford was the
empress’s most faithful adherent arid companion, next only to the earl, her
brother, and had held his castle for her, the most easterly and exposed outpost
of her territory, through campaign after campaign and through good fortune and
bad, indomitably loyal. “How comes it he’s not with her in Oxford? He hardly
ever leaves her side, or so they say.” “The king moved so much faster than anyone
thought for. And now he’s cut off from her. Moreover, she needs him in
Wallingford, for if that’s ever lost she has nothing left but an isolated
holding in the west country, and no way out towards London. She may well have
sent out to him at the last moment, in so desperate a situation as she’s in
now. And rumour down there says, it seems, that Bouchier was carrying treasure
to him, less in coin than in jewels. It may well be so, for he needs to pay his
men. Loyal for love though they may be, they still have to live and eat, and
he’s beggared himself already in her service.” “There’s been talk, this autumn,” said
Cadfael, thoughtfully frowning, “that Bishop Henry of Winchester has been busy
trying to lure away Brian to the king’s side. Bishop Henry has money enough to
buy whoever’s for sale, but I doubt if even he could bid high enough to move
FitzCount. All this time the man has shown as incorruptible. She had no need to
try and outbid her enemies for Brian.” “None. But she may well have thought, when
the king’s host closed round her, to send him an earnest of the value she sets
on him, while the way was still open, or might at least be attempted by a
single brave man. At such a pass, it may even have seemed to her the last
chance for such a word ever to pass between them.” Cadfael thought on that, and acknowledged
its truth. King Stephen would never be a threat to his cousin’s life, however
bitter their rivalry had been, but if once she was made captive he would be
forced to hold her in close ward for his crown’s sake. Nor was she likely ever
to relinquish her claim, even in prison, and agree to terms that would lightly
release her. Friends and allies thus parted might, in very truth, never see
each other again. “And a single brave man did attempt it,” reflected Cadfael
soberly. “And his horse found straying, his harness awry, his saddlebags
emptied, and blood on saddle and saddlecloth. So where is Renaud Bourchier?
Murdered for what he carried, and buried somewhere in the woods or slung into
the river?” “What else can a man think? They have not
found his body yet. Round Oxford men have other things to do this autumn
besides scour the woods for a dead man. There are dead men enough to bury after
the looting and burning of Oxford town,” said Hugh with dry bitterness, almost
resigned to the random slaughters of this capricious civil war. “I wonder how many within the castle knew
of his errand? She would hardly blazon abroad her intent, but someone surely
got wind of it.” “So it seems, and made very ill use of
what he knew.” Hugh shook himself, heaving off from his shoulders the distant
evils that were out of his writ. “Thanks be to God, I am not sheriff of
Oxfordshire! Our troubles here are mild enough, a little family bickering that
leads to blows now and then, a bit of thieving, the customary poaching in
season. Oh, and of course the bewitchment that seems to have fallen on your
woodland of Eyton.” Cadfael had told him what the abbot, perhaps, had not
thought important enough to tell, that Dionisia had somehow coaxed her hermit
into her quarrel, and that good man had surely taken very seriously her
impersonation of a grieving grandam cruelly deprived of the society of her only
grandhild. “And he fears worse to come, does he? I wonder what the next news
from Eyton will be?” As it so happened the next news from Eyton
was just hurrying towards them round the corner of the tall box hedge, borne by
a novice despatched in haste by Prior Robert from the gatehouse. He came at a
run, the skirts of his habit billowing, and pulled up with just enough breath
to get out his message without waiting to be asked. “Brother Cadfael, you’re wanted urgently.
The hermit’s boy’s come back to say you’re needed at Eilmund’s assart, and
Father Abbot says take a horse and go quickly, and bring him back word how the
forester does. There’s been another landslip, and a tree came down on him. His
leg’s broken.” They offered Hyacinth rest and a good meal for his trouble, but
he would not stay. As long as he could hold the pace he clung by Cadfael’s
stirrup leather and ran with him, and even when he was forced to slacken and
let Cadfael ride on before at his best speed, the youth trotted doggedly and
steadily behind, bent on getting back to the woodland cottage, it seemed,
rather than to his master’s cell. He had been a good friend to Eilmund, Cadfael
reflected, but he might come in for a lashing with tongue or rod when he at
last returned to his sworn duty. Though Cadfael could not, on consideration,
picture that wild, unchancy creature submitting tamely to reproof, much less to
punishment. It was about the hour for Vespers when Cadfael dismounted within
the low pale of Eilmund’s garden, and the girl flung open the door and came out
eagerly to meet him. “Brother, I hardly expected you for a
while yet. Cuthred’s boy must have run like the wind, and all that way! And
after he’d soaked himself in the brook getting my father clear! We’ve had good
cause to be glad of him and his master this day, there might have been no one
else by for hours.” “How is he?” asked Cadfael, unslinging his
scrip and making for the house. “His leg’s broken below the knee. I’ve made him
lie still, and packed it round as well as I could, but it needs your hand to
set it. And he lay half in the brook a long time before the young man found
him, I fear he’s taken a chill.” Eilmund lay well covered, and by now grimly
reconciled to his helplessness. He submitted stoically to Cadfael’s handling,
and gritted his teeth and made no other sound as his leg was straightened and
the fractured ends of bone brought into line. “You might have come off worse,” said
Cadfael, relieved. “A good clean break, and small damage to the flesh, though
it’s a pity they had to move you.” “I might have drowned else,” growled
Eilmund, “the brook was building. And you’d best tell the lord abbot to get men
out here and shift the tree, before we have a lake there again.” “I will, I will! Now, hold fast! I don’t
want to leave you with one leg shorter than the other.” By heel and instep he
drew out the broken leg steadily to match its fellow. “Now, Annet, your hands
where mine are, and hold it so.” She had not wasted her time while waiting, but
had hunted out straight spars of wood from Eilmund’s store, and had ready
sheep’s wool for padding, and rolled linen for bindings. Between them they
completed the work neatly, and Eilmund lay back on his brychan and heaved a
great breath. His face, weatherbeaten always, nonetheless had a fierce flush
over the cheekbones. Cadfael was not quite easy about it. “Now if you can rest and sleep, so much
the better. Leave the lord abbot, and the tree, and everything else that needs
to be dealt with here, to me, I’ll see it cared for. I’ll make you a draught
that will ease the pain and help you to sleep.” He mixed it and administered it
to Eilmund’s scornful denial of the need, but it went down without protest
nonetheless. “And sleep he will,” said Cadfael to the girl, as they withdrew
into the outer room. “But make sure he keeps warm and covered through the
night, for there may be a slight fever if he’s taken cold. I’ll make certain I
get leave to go back and forth for a day or two, till I see all’s well. If he
gives you a hard time, bear with him, it will mean he’s taken no great harm.”
She laughed softly, undisturbed. “Oh, he’s mild as milk for me. He growls, but
never bites. I know how to manage him.” It was already beginning to be twilight
when she opened the house door. The sky above was still faintly golden with the
moist, mysterious afterglow, dripping light between the dark branches of the
trees that surrounded the garden. And there in the turf by the gate Hyacinth
was sitting motionless, waiting with the timeless patience of the tree against
which his straight, supple back was braced. Even so his stillness had the
suggestion of a wild thing in ambush. Or perhaps, thought Cadfael, changing his
mind, of a hunted wild thing trusting to silence and stillness to be invisible
to the hunter. As soon as he saw the door open he was on his feet in a single
lissome movement, though he did not come within the pale. Twilight or no, Cadfael saw the glance
that locked and held fast between the youth and the girl. Hyacinth’s face was
still and mute as bronze, but a gleam of the fading light caught the amber
brilliance of his eyes, fierce and secret as a cat’s, and a sudden quickening
and darkening in their depths that was reflected in the flush and brightness in
Annet’s startled countenance. It was no great surprise. The girl was pretty,
and the boy undoubtedly attractive, all the more because he had been of
invaluable service to her father. And it was natural and human, that that
circumstance should endear father and daughter to him, no less than him to
them. Nothing is more pleasing and engaging than the sense of having conferred
benefits. Not even the gratification of receiving them. I’ll be on my way,
then,” said Cadfael to the unregarding air, and mounted softly, not to break
the spell that held them still. But from the shelter of the trees he looked
back, and saw them standing just as he had left them, and heard the boy’s voice
clear and solemn in the silence of the dusk, saying: “I must speak to you!” Annet did not say anything, but she closed
the house door softly behind her, and came forward to meet him at the gate. And
Cadfael rode back through the woods mildly aware that he was smiling, though he
could not be sure, on more sober reflection, that there was anything to smile
about in so unlikely an encounter. For what common ground could there be, for
those two to meet on, and hold fast for more than a moment: the abbey
forester’s daughter, a good match for any lively and promising young man this
side the shire, and a beggarly, rootless stranger dependent on charitable
patronage, with no land, no craft and no kin? He went to tend and stable his
horse before he sought out Abbot Radulfus to tell him how things stood in Eyton
forest. There was a late stir within there, of new guests arrived, and their
mounts being accommodated and cared for. Of late there had been little movement
about the county; the business of the summer, when so many merchants and
tradesmen were constantly on the move, had dwindled gently away into the autumn
quiet. Later, as the Christmas feast drew near, the guest halls would again be
full with travellers hastening home, and kinsmen visiting kinsmen, but at this
easy stage between, there was time to note those who came, and feel the human
curiosity that is felt by those who have sworn stability about those who ebb
and flow with the tides and seasons. And here just issuing from the stables and
crossing the yard in long, lunging strides, the gait of a confident and
choleric man, was someone undoubtedly of consequence in his own domain, richly
dressed, elegantly booted, and wearing sword and dagger. He surged past Cadfael
in the gateway, a big, burly, thrusting man, his face abruptly lit as he swung
past the torch fixed at the gate, and then as abruptly darkened. A massive face,
fleshy and yet hard, muscled like a wrestler’s arms, handsome in a brutal
fashion, the face of a man not in anger at this moment, but always ready to be
angry. He was shaven clean, which made the smooth power of his features even
more daunting, and the eyes that stared imperiously straight before him looked
disproportionately small, though in reality they probably were not, because of
the massy flesh in which they were but shallowly set. By the look of him, not a
man to cross. He might have been fifty years old, give or take a few years, but
time certainly had not softened what must have been granite from the start. His horse was standing in the stable yard
outside an open stall, stripped and gently steaming as if his saddlecloth had
only just been removed, and a groom was rubbing him down and hissing to him
gently as he worked. A meagre but wiry fellow, turning grey, in faded homespun
of a dull brown, and a rubbed leather coat. He slid one sidelong glance at
Cadfael and nodded a silent greeting, so inured to being wary of all men that
even a Benedictine brother was to be avoided rather than welcomed. Cadfael gave him good-evening cheerfully,
and began his own unsaddling. “You’ve ridden far? Was that your lord I met at
the gate?” “It was,” said the man without looking up,
and spared no more words. “A stranger to me. Where are you from?
Guests are thin this time of year.” “From Bosiet, it’s a manor the far side of
Northampton, some miles south-east of the town. He is Bosiet–Drogo Bosiet. He
holds that and a fair bit of the county besides.” “He’s well away from his home ground,”
said Cadfael with interest. “Where’s he bound? We see very few travellers from
Northamptonshire in these parts.” The groom straightened up to take a longer
and narrower look at this inquisitive questioner, and visibly his manner eased
a little, finding Cadfael amiable and harmless. But he did not on that account
grow less morose, nor more voluble. “He’s hunting,” he said with a grim and
private smile. “But not for deer,” hazarded Cadfael,
returning the inspection and caught by the wryness of the smile. “Nor, I dare
say, for the beasts of the warren.” “You dare say well. It’s a man he’s
after.” “A runaway?” Cadfael found it hard to
believe. “So far from home? Was a runaway villein worth so much time and
expense to him?” “This one is. He’s valuable and skilled,
but that’s not the whole of it,” confided the groom, discarding his suspicion
and reticence. “He has a score to settle with this one. One report we got of
him, setting out westwards and north, and he’s combed every village and town
along all this way, dragging me one road while his son with another groom goes
another, and he won’t stop short of the Welsh border. Me? If I did clap eyes on
the lad he’s after, I’d be blind. I wouldn’t give him back a dog that ran from
him, let alone a man.” His dry voice had gathered sap and passion as he talked,
and he turned fully for the first time, so that the torchlight fell on his
face. One cheek was marked with a blackening bruise, the corner of his mouth
torn and swollen, with the look of a festering infection about it. “His mark?” asked Cadfael, eyeing the
wound. “His seal, sure enough, and done with a
seal ring. I was not quick enough at his stirrup when he mounted, yesterday
morning.” “I can dress that for you,” said Cadfael,
“if you’ll wait while I go and make report to my abbot about another matter.
You’d best let me, it could take bad ways. By the same token,” he said quietly,
“you’re far enough out of his country, and near enough to the border, to do
some running of your own, if you’re so minded.” “Brother,” said the groom with the
briefest and harshest of laughs, “I have a wife and children in Bosiet, I’m
manacled. But Brand was young and unwed, his heels are lighter than mine. And
I’d best get this beast stalled, and be off to wait on my lord, or he’ll be
laying the other cheek open for me.” “Then come out to the guest hall steps,”
said Cadfael, recalled as sharply to his own duty, “when he’s in bed and
snoring, and I’ll clean that sore for you.” Abbot Radulfus listened with concern, but
also with relief, to Cadfael’s report, promised to send at first light enough
helpers to clear away the willow tree, clean out the brook and shore up the
bank above, and nodded gravely at the suggestion that Eilmund’s long wait in
the water might complicate his recovery, even though the fracture itself was
simple and clean. “I should like,” said Cadfael, “to visit him again tomorrow
and make sure he stays in his bed, for there may be a degree of fever, and you know
him, Father, it will take more than his daughter’s scolding to keep him tamed.
If he has your orders he may take heed. I’ll take his measure for crutches, but
not let them near him till I’m sure he’s fit to rise.” “You have my leave to go and come as you
see fit,” said Radulfus, “for as long as he needs your care. Best keep that
horse for your use until then. The journey would be too slow on foot, and we
shall need you here some part of the day, Brother Winfrid being new to the
discipline.” Cadfael smiled, remembering. “It was no
slow journey the young man Hyacinth made of it. Four times today he’s run those
miles, back and forth on his master’s errand, and back and forth again for
Eilmund. I only hope the hermit did not take it ill that his boy was gone so
long.” It was in Cadfael’s mind that the groom
from Bosiet might be too much in fear of his master to venture out by night,
even when his lord was sleeping. But come he did, slipping out furtively just
as the brothers came out from Compline. Cadfael led him out through the gardens
to the workshop in the herbarium, and there kindled a lamp to examine the
lacerated wound that marred the man’s face. The little brazier was turfed down
for the night, but not extinguished, evidently Brother Winfrid had been careful
to keep it alive in case of need. He was learning steadily, and strangely the
delicacy of touch that eluded him with pen or brush showed signs of developing
now that he came to deal with herbs and medicines. Cadfael uncovered the fire
and blew it into a glow, and put on water to heat. “He’s safe asleep, is he, your lord? Not
likely to wake? Though if he did, he should have no need of you at this hour.
But I’ll be as quick as I may.” The groom sat docile and easy under the
ministering hands, turning his face obediently to the light of the lamp. The
bruised cheek was fading at the edges from black to yellow, but the tear at the
corner of his mouth oozed blood and pus. Cadfael bathed away the encrusted
exudations and cleaned the gash with a lotion of water betony and sanicle. “He’s free with his fists, your lord,” he
said ruefully. “I see two blows here.” “He seldom stops at one,” said the groom
grimly. “He does after his kind. There are some worse than him, God help all
those who serve them. His son’s another made to the same pattern. What else
could we look for, when he’s lived so from birth? In a day or so he’s to join
us here, and if he has not got his hands on Brand by then—God forbid!—the hunt
will go on.” “Well, at least if you stay a day or so I
can get this gash healed for you. What’s your name, friend?” “Warin. Yours I know, Brother, from the
hospitaller. That feels cool and kind.” “I should have thought,” said Cadfael,
“that your lord would have gone first to the sheriff, if he had a real complaint
against this runaway of his. The guildsmen of the town would likely keep their
mouths shut, even if they knew anything, a town stands to gain by taking in a
good craftsman. But the king’s officers are bound, willing or no, to help a man
to his own property.” “We got here too late, as you saw, to do
much in that kind until the morrow. He knows, none so well, that Shrewsbury is
a charter borough, and may cheat him of his prey if the lad has got this far.
He does intend going to the sheriff. But since he’s lodged here, and reckons
the church as well as the law ought to help him to his own, he’s asked to put
his case at chapter tomorrow, and after that he’ll be off into the town to seek
out the sheriff. There’s no stone he won’t up-end to get at Brand’s hide.” Cadfael was thinking, though he did not
say it, that there might be time in between to send word to Hugh to make
himself very hard to find. “What in the world,” he asked, “has the man done, to
make your master so vindictive against him?” “Why, he was for ever on the edge of
trouble, being a lad that would stand up for himself, yes, and for others, too,
and that’s crime enough for Drogo. I don’t know the rights of what happened
that last day, but however it was, I saw Bosiet’s steward, who takes his style
from his master, carried into the manor on a shutter, and he was laid up for
days. Seemingly something had happened between them, and Brand had laid him
flat, for the next we knew, Brand was nowhere, and they were hunting him along
all the roads out of Northampton. But they never caught up with him, and here
we are still hot on his trail. If ever Drogo lays hands on him he’ll flay him,
but he won’t cripple him, he’s too valuable to waste. But he’ll have every
morsel of his grudge out of the lad’s skin, and then wring every penny of
profit out of his skills lifelong, and make good sure he never gets the chance
to run again.” “Then he had better make a good job of it
now,” agreed Cadfael wryly. “If well-wishing can help him, he has it. Now hold
still a moment there! And this ointment you can take with you and use as often
as you choose. It helps take out the sting and lower the swelling.” Warin turned the little jar curiously in
his hand, and touched a finger to his cheek. “What’s in it, to work such
healing?” “Saint John’s wort and the small daisy,
both good for wounds. And if chance offers tomorrow, let me see you again and
hear how you do. And keep out of his reach!” said Cadfael warmly, and turned to
bed down his brazier again with fresh turves, to smoulder quietly and safely
until morning. Drogo Bosiet duly appeared at chapter next
morning, large, loud and authoritative in an assembly where a wiser man would
have realised that authority lay with the abbot, and the abbot’s grip on it was
absolute, however calm and measured his voice and austere his face. So much the
better, thought Cadfael, watching narrowly and somewhat anxiously from his
retired stall, Radulfus will know how to weigh the man, and let nothing slip
too soon. “My lord abbot,” said Drogo, straddling the flags of the floor like a
bull before the charge, “I am here in search of a malefactor who attacked and
injured my steward and fled my lands. He is known to have made for Northampton,
my manor, to which he is tied, being several miles south-east of the town, and
I have it in mind that he would make for the Welsh border. We have hunted for
him all this way, and from Warwick I have taken this road from Shrewsbury,
while my son goes on to Stafford, and will join me here from that place. All I
ask here is whether any stranger of his years has lately come into these
parts.” “I take it,” said the abbot after a long
and thoughtful pause, and steadily eyeing the powerful face and arrogant stance
of his visitor, “that this man is your villein.” “He is.” “And you do know,” pursued Radulfus
mildly, “that since it would seem you have failed to reclaim him within four
days, it will be necessary to apply to the courts to regain possession of him
legally?” “My lord,” said Drogo with impatient
scorn, “so I can well do, if I can but find him. The man is mine, and I mean to
have him. He has been a cause of trouble to me, but he has skills which are
valuable, and I do not mean to be robbed of what is mine. The law will give me
my rights in the lands where the offence arose.” And so, no doubt, such a law
as survived in his own shire would certainly do, at the mere nod of his head. “If you will tell us what your fugitive is
like,” said the abbot reasonably, “Brother Denis can tell you at once whether
we have had such a one as guest in our halls.” “He goes by the name of Brand—twenty years
old, dark of hair but reddish, lean and strong, beardless—” “No,” said Brother Denis the hospitaller
without hesitation, “I have had no such young man lodged here, not for five or
six weeks back certainly. If he had found work along the way with some trader
or merchant carrying goods, such as come with three or four servants, then he
might have passed this way. But a young man alone—no, none.” “As to that,” said the abbot with
authority, forestalling reply from any other, though indeed no one but Prior
Robert would have ventured to speak before him, “you would do well to take your
question to the sheriff at the castle, for his officers are far more likely
than we here within the enclave to know of any newcomers entering the town. The
pursuit of criminals and offenders such as you describe is their business, and
they are thorough and careful about it. The guildsmen of the town are also wary
and jealous of their rights, and have good reason to keep their eyes open, and
their wits about them. I recommend you to apply to them.” “So I intend, my lord. But you will bear
in mind what I have asked, and if any here should recall anything to the
purpose, let me hear of it.” “This house will do whatever is incumbent
upon it in good conscience,” said the abbot with chilly emphasis, and watched
with an unrevealing face as Drogo Bosiet, with only the curtest of nods by way
of leavetaking, turned on his booted heel and strode out of the chapterhouse.
Nor did Radulfus see fit to make any comment or signify any conclusion when the
petitioner was gone, as if he felt no need to give any further instruction than
he had given by the tone of his replies. And by the time they emerged from
chapter, some time later, both Drogo and his groom had saddled and ridden
forth, no doubt over the bridge and into the town, to seek out Hugh Beringar at
the castle. Brother Cadfael had intended to pay a quick visit to the herbarium
and his workshop, to see all was in order there and set Brother Winfrid to work
on what was safest and most suitable for his unsupervised attentions, and then
set off at once for Eilmund’s cottage, but events prevented. For there was a
death that day among the old, retired brothers in the infirmary, and Brother
Edmund, in need of a companion to watch out the time with him after the tired
old man had whispered the few almost inaudible words of his last confession and
received the final rites, turned first and confidently to his closest friend
and associate among the sick. They had done the same service together many
times in forty years of a vocation imposed from birth in Edmund’s case, though
willingly embraced later, but chosen after half a lifetime in the outer world
by Cadfael. They stood at the opposite poles of oblatus and conversus, and they
understood each other so well that few words ever needed to pass between them.
The old man’s dying was painless and feather-light, all the substance of his
once sharp and vigorous mind gone on before; but it was slow. The fading candle
flame did not flicker, only dimmed in perfect stillness second by second, so
mysteriously that they missed the moment when the last spark withdrew, and only
knew he was gone when they began to realise that the prints of age were smoothing
themselves out gently from his face. “So pass all good men!” said Edmund
fervently. “A blessed death as ever I saw! I wonder will God deal as gently
with me, when my time comes!” They cared for the dead man together, and
together emerged into the great court to arrange for his body to be carried to
the mortuary chapel. And then there was a small matter of Brother Paul’s
youngest schoolboy, who had missed his footing in haste on the day stairs and
rolled down half the flight, bloodying his knees on the cobbles of the court,
and had to be picked up and bathed and bandaged, and despatched to his play
with an apple by way of reward for his bravery in denying stoutly that he was
hurt. Only then could Cadfael repair to the stable and saddle the horse assigned
to him, and by then it was almost time for Vespers. He was leading his horse across the court
to the gatehouse when Drogo Bosiet rode in under the archway, his finery a
little jaded and dusty from a day’s frustration and exertion, his face blackly
set, and the groom Warin a few yards behind him, warily attentive, alert to
obey the least gesture, but anxious meantime to stay out of sight and out of
mind. Clearly the hunt had drawn no quarry anywhere, and the hunters came back
with the approach of evening empty-handed. Warin would have to stand clear of
the length of that powerful arm tonight. Cadfael went forth through the gate
reassured and content, and made good speed towards his patient at Eyton. Chapter Five RICHARD HAD BEEN OUT ALL AFTERNOON with
the other boys in the main abbey gardens beside the river, where the last pears
were just being harvested. The children were allowed to help, and within reason
to sample, though the fruit had still to ripen after gathering. But these, the
last, had hung so long on the tree that they were already eatable. It had been
a good day, with sun, and freedom, and some dabbling in the river where there
were safe shallows, and he was reluctant to go indoors to Vespers at the end of
it, and then to supper and bed. He loitered at the end of the procession
winding its way along the riverside path, and up the green, bushy slope to the
Foregate. In the stillness of late afternoon there were still clouds of midges
dancing over the water, and fish rising to them lazily. Under the bridge the
flow looked almost motionless though he knew it was fast and deep. There had
been a boatmill moored there once, powered by the stream. Nine-year-old Edwin, his devoted ally,
loitered with him, but a little anxiously, casting a glance over his shoulder
to see how the distance between them and the tailend of the procession
lengthened. He had been praised for his stoicism after his fall, and was in no
mind to lose the warm sense of virtue the incident had left with him by being
late for Vespers. But neither could he lightly desert his bosom friend. He
hovered, rubbing at a bandaged knee that still smarted a little. “Richard, come on, we mustn’t dawdle.
Look, they’re nearly at the highroad.” “We can easily catch up with them,” said
Richard, dabbling his toes in the shallows. “But you go on, if you want to.” “No, not without you. But I can’t run as
fast as you, my knee’s stiff. Do come on, we shall be late.” “I shan’t, I can be there long before the
bell goes, but I forgot you couldn’t run as well as usual. You go on, I’ll
overtake you before you reach the gatehouse. I just want to see whose boat this
is, coming down towards the bridge.” Edwin hesitated, weighing his own virtuous
peace of mind against desertion, and for once decided in accordance with his
own wishes. The last black habit at the end of the procession was just climbing
to the level of the highroad, to vanish from sight. No one had looked back to
call the loiterers, or scold, they were left to their own consciences. Edwin
turned and ran after his fellows as fast as he could for his stiffening knee.
From the top of the slope he looked back, but Richard was ankle-deep in his
tiny cove, skimming stones expertly across the surface of the water in a dotted
line of silvery spray. Edwin decided on virtue, and abandoned him. It had never been in Richard’s mind to
play truant, but his game seduced him as each cast bettered the previous one,
and he began to hunt for smoother and flatter pebbles under the bank, ambitious
to reach the opposite shore. And then one of the town boys who had been
swimming under the green sweep of turf that climbed to the town wall took up
the challenge, and began to return the shower of dancing stones, splashing
naked in the shallows. So absorbed was Richard in the contest that he forgot
all about Vespers, and only the small, distant chime of the bell startled him
back to his duty. Then he did drop his stone, abandon the field to his rival,
and scramble hastily ashore to snatch up his discarded shoes and run like a
hart for the Foregate and the abbey. He had left it too late. The moment he
arrived breathless at the gatehouse, and sidled in cautiously by the wicket to
avoid notice, he heard the chanting of the first psalm from within the church. Well, it was not so great a sin to miss a
service, but for all that, he did not wish to add it to his score at this time,
when he was preoccupied with grave family matters outside the cloister. By good
fortune the children of the stewards and the lay servants were also accustomed
to attend Vespers, which so conveniently augmented the numbers of the
schoolboys that one small truant might not be missed, and if he could slip back
into their enveloping ranks as they left the church afterwards it might be
assumed that he had been among them all along. It was the best course he could
think of. Accordingly he slipped into the cloister, and installed himself in
the first carrel of the south walk, curled up in the corner, where he could see
the south door of the church, by which brothers, guests and boys would all
emerge when the service ended. Once the obedientiaries and choir monks had
passed, it should not be difficult to worm his way in among the boys without
being noticed. And here they came at last, Abbot Radulfus, Prior Robert and all
the brothers, passing decorously by, and out into the evening on their way to
supper; and then the less orderly throng of the abbey young. Richard was
sidling along the wall that concealed him, ready to slip out and mingle with
them as they passed, when a familiar and censorious voice made itself heard
just on the other side of the wall, in the very archway through which the
children must pass. “Silence, there! Let me hear no chattering so soon after
divine worship! Is this how you were taught to leave the holy place? Get into
line, two and two, and behave with due reverence.” Richard froze, his back pressed against
the chill stone of the wall, and drew back stealthily into the darkest corner
of the carrel. Now what had possessed Brother Jerome to let the procession of
the choir monks pass by without him, and wait here to hector and scold the
unoffending children? For there he stood immovable, harrying them into tidy
ranks, and Richard was forced to crouch in hiding and let his best hope of
escape dwindle away into the evening air in the great court, leaving him
trapped. For of all the brothers, Jerome was the one before whom he would least
willingly creep forth ignominiously to be arraigned and lectured. And now the
boys were gone, a few abbey guests emerging at leisure from the church, and
still Jerome stood there waiting, for Richard could see his meagre shadow on
the flags of the floor. And suddenly it appeared that he had been
waiting for one of the guests, for the shadow intercepted and melted into a
more substantial shadow. Richard had seen the substance pass, a big, muscular
striding man with a face as solid and russet as a sandstone wall, and the rich
gown of the middle nobility, short of the baronage or even their chief tenants,
but still to be reckoned with. “I have been waiting, sir,” said Brother Jerome,
self-important but respectful, “to speak a word to you. I have been thinking of
what you told us at chapter this morning. Will you sit down with me in private
for a few moments?” Richard’s young heart seemed to turn over within him, for
there was he crouched on the stone bench by one of Brother Anselm’s aumbries in
the carrel right beside them, and he was in terror that they would immediately
walk in upon him. But for his own reasons, it seemed, Brother Jerome preferred
to be a little more retired, as if he did not want anyone still within the
church, perhaps the sacristan, to observe this meeting as he left, for he drew
his companion deep into the third carrel, and there sat down with him. Richard
could easily have slid round the corner and out of the cloister now that the
way was free, but he did not do so. Pure human curiosity kept him mute and
still where he was, almost holding his breath, a little pitcher with very long
ears. “This malefactor of whom you spoke,” began Jerome, “he who assaulted your
steward and has run from you—how did you say he was called?” “His name is Brand. Why, have you any word
of him?” “No, certainly none by that name. I do
firmly believe,” said Jerome virtuously, “that it is every man’s duty to help
you to reclaim your villein if he can. Even more it is the duty of the church,
which should always uphold justice and law, and condemn the criminal and
lawbreaker. You did tell us this fellow is young, about twenty years?
Beardless, reddish dark as to his hair?” “All that, yes. You know of such a one?”
demanded Drogo sharply. “It may not be the same man, but there is
one young man who would answer to such a description, only one to my knowledge
who is lately come into these parts. It would be worth asking. He came here
with a pilgrim, a holy man who has settled down in a hermitage only a few miles
from us, on the manor of Eaton. He serves the hermit. If he is indeed your
rogue, he must have imposed on that good soul, who in the kindness of his heart
has given him work and shelter. If it is so, then it is only right that his
eyes should be opened to the kind of servitor he is harbouring. And if he
proves not to be the man, there is no harm done. But indeed I did have my
doubts about him, the one time he came here with a message. He has a sort of
civil insolence about him that sorts ill with a saint’s service.” Richard crouched motionless, hugging his
knees, his ears stretched to catch every word that passed. “Where is this hermitage to be found?”
demanded Drogo, with the hunger of the manhunt in his voice. “And what is the
fellow calling himself?” “He goes by the name of Hyacinth. The
hermit’s name is Cuthred, anyone in Wroxeter or Eaton can show you where he
dwells.” And Jerome launched willingly into exact instructions as to the road,
which occupied him so happily that even if there had been any small sounds from
the neighbouring carrel he probably would not have heard them. But Richard’s
small bare feet made no sound on the flags as he slid hastily round into the
archway, and fled down the court to the stables, still carrying his shoes. His
hard little soles patterned like pebbles on the cobbles of the stableyard,
careless of being overheard now that he was safely out of that narrow, darkening
carrel, echoing hollowly to the sound of one self-righteous voice and one
wolfish one plotting the capture and ruin of Hyacinth, who was young and lively
and ranked as a friend. But they should not have him, not if Richard could
prevent. No matter how detailed Brother Jerome’s directions, that man who
wanted his villein back, and certainly meant him no good if ever he got him,
would still have to find his way and sort out the woodland paths as he came to
them, but Richard knew every track, and could ride by the shortest way, and
fast, if only he could get his pony saddled and smuggled quietly out at the
gatehouse before the enemy sent a groom to saddle his own tall horse. For he
was hardly likely to do it for himself if he had a servant to do it for him. The
thought of the twilit woods did not daunt Richard, his heart rose excitedly to
the adventure. Luck or heaven favoured him, for it was
the hour when everyone was at supper, and even the porter at the gatehouse was
taking his meal within, and left the gate unwatched while he ate. If he did
hear hooves, and come out to see who the rider might be, he came too late to
see Richard scramble into the saddle and set off at a round trot along the
Foregate towards Saint Giles. He had even forgotten that he was hungry, and
felt no pang at going supperless. Besides, he was a favourite with Brother
Petrus, the abbot’s cook, and might be able to wheedle something out of him
later. As for what was to happen when his absence was discovered, as it surely
must be at bedtime even if it passed unremarked at supper, there was no point
in giving any thought to that. What mattered was to find Hyacinth, and warn
him, if he was indeed this Brand, that he had better get away into hiding as
fast as he could, for the hunt was out after him, and close on his heels. After
that, let what was bound to happen, happen! He turned into the forest beyond
Wroxeter, on a broad ride which Eilmund had cleared for the passage of his
coppice wood and trimmed poles. It led directly to the forester’s cottage, but
also provided the quickest way to a side-path which continued to the hermitage,
the obvious place to look first for Cuthred’s servant. The forest here was
chiefly oak, and old, the ground cover light and low, and the deep layers of
the leaves of many autumns made riding silent. Richard had slackened speed
among the old trees, and the pony stepped with delicate pleasure in the
cushioned mould. But for the hush, the boy would never have heard the voices,
for they were low and intent, and manifestly the one was a man’s, the other a
girl’s, though their words were too soft to be distinguished, meant only for
each other. Then he saw them, aside from the path, very still and very close
beside the broad bole of an oak tree. They were not touching, though they had
eyes only for each other, and whatever they had to say was earnest and of high
importance. The shout Richard launched at sight of them startled them apart
like fluttered birds. “Hyacinth! Hyacinth!” He rolled and fell from his pony, rather
than dismounted, and flew to meet them as they started towards him. “Hyacinth, you must hide—you must get away
quickly! They’re after you, if you’re Brand—are you Brand? There’s a man has
come looking for you, he says he’s hunting a runaway villein named Brand…”
Hyacinth, alert and quivering, held him by the shoulders, and dropped to his
knees to have him eye to eye. “What like of man? A servant? Or the man himself?
And when was this?” “After Vespers. I heard them talking.
Brother Jerome told him there was a young man newly come into this country, who
might be the one he’s looking for. He told him where to find you, and he’s
coming to look for you at the hermitage now, this very night. An awful man, big
and loud-mouthed. I ran to get my pony while they were still talking, I got
away before him. But you mustn’t go back to Cuthred, you must get away quickly
and hide.” Hyacinth caught the boy in his arms in a
brief, boisterous embrace. “You’re a true and gallant friend as any man could
have, and never fear for me, now I’m warned what can harm me? That’s the man
himself, no question! Drogo Bosiet thinks highly enough of me to waste time and
men and money on hunting me down, and in the end he’ll get nothing for his
pains.” “Then you are Brand? You were his
villein?” “I love you all the more,” said Hyacinth,
“for viewing my villeinage as past. Yes, the name they gave me long ago was
Brand, I chose Hyacinth for myself. You and I will keep to that name. And now
you and I, my friend, must part, for what you must do now is ride back to the
abbey quickly, before the light’s gone, and before you’re missed. Come, I’ll
see you safe to the edge of the wood.” “No!” said Richard, outraged. “I’ll go
alone, I’m not afraid. You must vanish now, at once!” The girl had laid her hand on Hyacinth’s
shoulder. Richard saw her eyes wide and bright with resolution rather than
alarm in the encroaching twilight. “He shall, Richard! I know a place where
he’ll be safe.” “You ought to try to get into Wales,” said
Richard anxiously, even somewhat jealously, for this was his friend, and he was
the rescuer, and almost he resented it that Hyacinth should owe any part of his
salvation to someone else, and a woman, at that. Hyacinth and Annet looked briefly at each
other, and smiled, and the quality of their smiles lit up the woodland. “No,
not that,” said Hyacinth gently. “If run I must, I’ll not run far. But you need
not fear for me, I shall be safe enough. Now mount, my lord, and be off with
you, back where you’ll be safe, or I won’t stir a step.” That set him in motion briskly enough.
Once he looked back to wave, and saw them standing as he had left them, gazing
after him. A second time he looked back, before the spot where they stood was
quite hidden from him among the trees, but they were gone, vanished, and the
forest was silent and still. Richard remembered his own problems ahead, and
took the road homeward at an anxious trot. Drogo Bosiet rode through the early
twilight by the ways Brother Jerome had indicated to him, asking peremptorily
of the villagers in Wroxeter for confirmation that he was on the best road to
the cell of the hermit Cuthred. It seemed that the holy man was held in the
kind of unofficial reverence common to the old Celtic eremites, for more than
one of those questioned spoke of him as Saint Cuthred. Drogo entered the forest close to where
Eaton land, as the shepherd in the field informed him, bordered Eyton land, and
a narrow ride brought him after almost a mile of forest to a small, level
clearing ringed round with thick woodland. The stone hut in the centre was
stoutly built but small and low-roofed, and showed signs of recent repair after
being neglected for years. There was a little square garden enclosure round it,
fenced in with a low pale, and part of the ground within had been cleared and
planted. Drogo dismounted at the edge of the clearing and advanced to the
fence, leading his horse by the bridle. The evening silence was profound, there
might have been no living being within a mile of the place. But the door of the hut stood open, and
from deep within a steady gleam of light showed. Drogo tethered his horse, and
strode in through the garden and up to the door, and still hearing no sound,
went in. The room into which he stepped was small and dim, and contained little
but a pallet bed against the wall, a small table and a bench. The light burned
within, in a second room, and through the open doorway, for there was no door
between, he saw that this was a chapel. The lamp burned upon a stone altar,
before a small silver cross set up on a carved wooden casket reliquary, and on
the altar before the cross lay a slender and elegant breviary in a gilded
binding. Two silver candlesticks, surely the gifts of the hermit’s patroness,
flanked the cross, one on either side. Before this altar a man was kneeling
motionless, a tall man in a rough black habit, with the cowl raised to cover
his head. Against the small, steady light the dark figure was impressive, the
long, erect back straight as a lance, the head not bowed but raised, the very image
of sanctity. Even Drogo held his tongue for a moment, but no longer. His own
needs and desires were paramount, a hermit’s prayers could and must yield to
them. Evening was rapidly deepening into night, and he had no time to waste. “You are Cuthred?” he demanded firmly.
“They told me at the abbey how to find you.” The dignified figure did not move, unless
he unfolded his unseen hands. But he said in a measured and unstartled voice:
“Yes, I am Cuthred. What do you need from me? Come in and speak freely.” “You have a boy who runs your errands.
Where is he? I want to see him. You may well have been cozened into keeping a
rogue about you unawares.” And at that the habited figure did turn, the cowled
head reared to face the stranger, and the sidelong light from the altar lamp
showed a lean, deep-eyed, bearded face, a long, straight, aristocratic nose, a
fell of dark hair within the hood, as Drogo Bosiet and the hermit of Eyton
forest looked long and steadily at each other. Brother Cadfael was sitting by Eilmund’s
couch, supping on bread and cheese and apples, since like Richard he had missed
his usual supper, and well content with a very discontented patient, when Annet
came back from feeding the hens and shutting them in, and milking the one cow
she kept for their own use. She had been an unconscionable time about it, and
so her disgruntled father told her. All trace of fever had left him, his colour
was good, and he was in no great discomfort, but he was in a glum fury with his
own helplessness, and impatient to be out and about his business again,
distrusting the abbot’s willing but untutored substitutes to take proper care
of his forest. The very shortness of his temper was testimony to his sound
health. And the offending leg was straight and gave no great pain. Cadfael was
well satisfied. Annet came in demurely, and laughed at her father’s grumbling,
no way in awe of him. “I left you in the best of company, and I knew you’d be
the better for an hour or so without me, and so would I for an hour without
you, such an old bear as you’re become! Why should I hurry back, on such a fine
evening? You know Brother Cadfael has taken good care of you, don’t grudge me a
breath of air.” But by the look of her she had enjoyed something more potent
than a mere breath of air. There was a brightness and a quivering aliveness
about her, as if after strong wine. Her brown hair, always so smoothly banded,
had shaken loose a few strands on her shoulders, Cadfael noted, as though she
had wound her way through low branches that caught at the braids, and the
colour in her cheeks was rosy and roused, to match the brilliance of her eyes.
She had brought in a few of the month’s lost leaves on her shoes. True, the
byre lay just within the trees at the edge of the clearing, but there were no
well-grown oaks there. “Well, now that you’re back, and I shan’t be leaving him
to complain without a listener,” said Cadfael, “I’d best be getting back before
it’s full dark. Keep him off his feet for a few days yet, lass, and I’ll let
him up on crutches soon if he behaves himself. At least he’s taken no harm from
lying fast in the water, that’s a mercy.” “Thanks to Cuthred’s boy Hyacinth,” Annet
reminded them. She flicked a swift glance at her father, and was pleased when
he responded heartily: “And that’s truth if ever there was! He was as good as a
son to me that day, and I don’t forget it.” And was it fancy, or did Annet’s cheeks
warm into a deeper rose? As good as a son to a man who had no son to be his
right hand, but only this bright, confident, discreet and loving daughter? “Possess your soul in patience,” advised
Cadfael, rising, “and we’ll have you as sound as before. It’s worth waiting
for. And don’t fret about the coppice, for Annet here will tell you they’ve
made a good job of clearing the brook and shaved off the overhang of the bank.
It will hold.” He made fast his scrip to his girdle, and turned to the door. “I’ll see you to the gate,” said Annet,
and came out with him into the deep twilight of the clearing, where his horse
was placidly pulling at the turf. “Girl,” said Cadfael with his foot in the
stirrup, “you blossom like a rose tonight.” She was just taking up the loose tresses
in her hands, and smoothing them back into neatness with the rest. She turned
and smiled at him. “But I seem to have been through a thorn bush,” she said. Cadfael leaned from the saddle and
delicately picked a sear oak leaf out of her hair. She looked up to see him
twirling it gently between his fingers by the stem, and wonderfully she smiled.
That was how he left her, roused and braced, and surely having made up her mind
to go, undaunted, through all the thorny thickets that might be in the path
between her and what she wanted. She was not ready yet to confide even in her
father, but it troubled her not at all that Cadfael should guess at what was in
the wind, nor had she any fear of a twisted ending. Which did not preclude the
possibility that others might have good reason to fear on her account. Cadfael rode without haste through the
darkening wood. The moon was already up, and bright where it could penetrate
the thickness of the trees. Compline must be long over by now, and the brothers
making ready for sleep. The boys would be in their beds long ago. It was cool
and fresh in the green-scented forest, pleasant to ride alone and at leisure,
and have time to think of timeless things that could not be accommodated in the
bustle of the day, sometimes not even during the holy office or the quiet times
of prayer, where by rights they belonged. There was more room for them here
under this night sky still faintly luminous round the rims of vision. Cadfael
rode in a deep content of mind through the thickest part of the woodland
growth, with a glimmer of light from the open fields ahead before him. It was the rustling movement on his left,
among the trees, that startled him out of his muse. Something vaguely pale in
the gloom moved alongside him, and he heard the slight jingling of a horse’s
bit and bridle. A riderless horse, wandering astray but saddled and bridled,
for the small metallic sounds rang clear. He had not been riderless when he set
out from his stable. In glimpses of moonlight between the branches the pale
shape shone elusively, drawing nearer to the path. Cadfael had seen that light
roan hide before, that same afternoon in the great court of the abbey. He dismounted in haste, and called,
advancing to take the slack bridle and run a hand over the dappled forehead.
The saddle was still in place, but the straps that had held a small saddle-roll
behind it had been sliced through. And where was the rider? And why, indeed,
had he set out yet again, after returning empty-handed from a day’s hunting?
Had someone provided him a clue to start him off again after his prey, even
thus late at night? Cadfael parted the bushes and turned in from the path,
where he had first glimpsed the pale form moving. Here nothing seemed
disturbed, the tangle of branches showed no disrupting passage. He worked back
a little to emerge again on the path, and there, aside under the bushes in long
grass, so hidden that he had ridden past it and seen no sign, he found what he
had feared to find. Drogo Bosiet lay sprawled on his face, sunk deep in the
ripe autumnal herbage, and even against the dark colouring of his gown, Cadfael
could just distinguish the darker blot that was his blood, welling out under
his left shoulder blade, where the dagger that had killed him had plunged and
been withdrawn. Chapter Six AT SO LATE AN HOUR there was small chance
of reaching immediate help at either abbey or castle, and none of deriving any
knowledge from the darkening scene here in the forest. All Cadfael could do,
thus alone, was to kneel beside the mute body and feel for a heartbeat or
pulse, and listen for any faint sign of breathing. But though Drogo’s flesh was
warm, and yielded pliably to handling, there was no breath in him, and the
heart in his great chest, almost certainly pierced by the thrust from behind,
was stonily still. He could not have been dead very long, but the gush of blood
that had sprung out with the blade had ceased to flow, and was beginning to dry
at its edges into a dark crust. More than an hour ago, Cadfael thought, judging
by what signs he had, perhaps as much as two hours. And his saddle-roll cut
loose and taken. Here, in our woods! When did any man ever hear of footpads so
close? Or has some cutthroat from the town heard of Eilmund being laid up at
home, and ventured to try his luck here for a chance traveller riding alone? Delay could not harm Drogo now, and
daylight might show at least some trace to lead to his murderer. Best leave him
so, and take word to the castle, where there was always a guard waking, and
leave a message for Hugh, to be delivered as soon as there was light. At
midnight the brothers would rise for Matins, and the same grim news could and
should be delivered then to Abbot Radulfus. The dead man was the abbey’s guest,
and his son expected within a few days, and to the abbey he must be taken for
proper and reverent care. No, there was nothing more to be done for Drogo Bosiet,
but at least he could get the horse back to his stable. Cadfael mounted, and
gathered the loose bridle in his left hand, and the horse came with him
docilely. There was no haste. He had until midnight. No need to save time,
since even if he reached his bed before Matins, sleep would be impossible.
Better take care of the horses and then wait for the bell. Abbot Radulfus came early to the church
for Matins, to find Cadfael waiting for him in the south porch as he crossed
from his lodging. The bell in the dortoir was only just sounding. It takes but
a few moments to say bluntly that a man is dead, and by an act of man, not of
God. Radulfus was never known to waste words in
exclamation, and did not do so now at the news that a guest of his house had
come to an unlawful end in the abbey’s own forest. The gross affront and
grosser wrong he accepted in sombre silence, and the right and duty of
retribution, as incumbent now upon the church as on the secular authority, he
took up with a deep assenting nod of his head, and a grim tightening of his
long, firm lips. In the hush while he thought, they heard the soft, sandalled
steps of the brothers descending the night stairs. “And you have left word for
Hugh Beringar?” asked the abbot. “At his house and at the castle.” “No man can do more, then, until first
light. He must be brought here, for here his son will come. But you—you will be
needed, you can lead straight to where he lies. Go now, I excuse you from the
office, go and take some rest, and at dawn ride to join the sheriff. Say to him
that I will send a party after, to bring the body home.” In the first hesitant light of a chill
morning they stood over Drogo Bosiet’s body, Hugh Beringar and Cadfael, a
sergeant of Hugh’s garrison and two men-at-arms, all silent, all with eyes
fixed on the great patch of encrusted blood that soaked the back of the rich
riding coat. The grass hung as heavy and flattened with dew as if after rain,
and the moisture had gathered in great pearls in the woollen pile of the dead
man’s clothing, and starred the bushes in a treasury of cobwebs. “Since he plucked out the dagger from the
wound,” said Hugh, “most likely he took it away with him. But we’ll look about
for it, in case he discarded it. And you say the straps of the saddle-roll were
sliced through? After the slaying—he needed the knife for that. Quicker and
easier in the dark to cut it loose than unbuckle it, and whoever he was, he
wouldn’t want to linger. Strange, though, that a mounted man should fall victim
to such an attack. At the least sound he had only to spur and draw clear,
surely.” “But I think,” said Cadfael, studying how
the body lay, “that he was on foot here, and leading the horse. He was a
stranger, and the path here is very narrow and the trees crowd close, and it was
dark or getting dark. See the leaves that have clung to his boot soles. He
never had time to turn, the one stroke was enough. Where he had been I don’t
know, but he was on his way back to his lodging in our guest hall when he was
struck down. With no struggle and little noise. The horse had taken no great
alarm, he strayed only a few yards.” “Which argues an expert footpad and
thief,” said Hugh. “But do you believe in that? In my writ and so close to the
town?” “No. But some secret rogue, perhaps even a
sneak thief out of the town, might risk one exploit, knowing Eilmund is laid up
at home. But this is guessing,” said Cadfael, shaking his head. “Now and then
even a poacher might be tempted to try murder, if he came on a man of
substance, alone and at night. But guessing is small use.” The party sent by Abbot Radulfus to carry
Drogo back to the abbey were already winding their way along the path with
their litter. Cadfael knelt in the grass, soaking his habit at the knees in the
plenteous dew, and carefully turned the stiffening body face upward. The heavy
muscling of the cheeks had fallen slack, the eyes, so disproportionately small
for the massive countenance, were half open. He looked older and less
arrogantly brutal in death, a mortal man like other men, almost piteous. The
hand that had lain hidden under his body wore a heavy silver ring. “Something the thief missed,” said Hugh,
looking down with something of startled regret in his face for so much power
now powerless. “Another sign of haste. Or he would have ransacked every
garment. And proof enough that the body was not moved. He lies as he fell,
facing towards Shrewsbury. It’s as I said, he was on his way home.” “There’s a son expected, you said? Come,”
said Hugh, “we can leave him to your men now, and my fellows will comb the
woods all round in case there’s sign or trace to be found, though I doubt it.
You and I will be off back to the abbey, and see what the abbot has brought to
light at chapter. For someone must surely have put some notion into his mind,
to send him out again so late.” The sun was above the rim of the world, but
veiled and pale, as they mounted and turned back along the narrow ride. The
spider-draped bushes caught the first gleams that pierced the mist, and flashed
in coruscations of diamonds. When they emerged into the open, low-lying fields
the horses waded through a shallow lilac-tinted sea of vapour. “What do you know of this man Bosiet,”
asked Hugh, “more than he has told me, or I have gleaned without his telling?” “Little enough, I expect. He’s lord of
several manors in Northamptonshire, and some little while since a villein of
his, as like as not for a very good reason, laid his steward flat and put him
to bed for some days, and then very wisely took to his heels before they could
lay hands on him. Bosiet and his men have been hunting for the fellow ever
since. They must have wasted a good while searching the rest of the shire, I
fancy, before they got word from someone that he’d made for Northampton and
seemed to be heading north and west. And between them they’ve followed this
far, making drives in both directions from every halt. He must have cost them
far above his value, valuable though they say he is, but it’s his blood they’re
after first and foremost, and seemingly they set a higher price on that than on
his craft, whatever that may be. There was a very vigorous hate there,” said
Cadfael feelingly. “He brought it to chapter with him. Father Abbot was not
greatly taken with the notion of helping him to the sort of revenge he’d be
likely to take.” “And shrugged him off on to me,” said
Hugh, briefly grinning. “Well, small blame to him. I took your word for it, and
stayed out of his way as long as I could. In any case I could give him no help.
What else do you know of him?” “That he has a groom named Warin, the one
that rode with him, though not, it seems, on his last ride. Maybe he’d sent his
man on some other errand, and couldn’t wait once he got the word, but set off
alone. He’s—he was—a man who liked to use his fists freely on his servants, for
any offence or none. At least he’d laid Warin’s face open for him, and
according to the groom that was no rarity. As for the son, according to Warin
he’s much like his father, and just as surely to be avoided. And he’ll be
coming from Stafford any day now—” “To find he has to coffin his father’s
body and take it home for burial,” said Hugh ruefully. “To find he’s now lord of Bosiet,” said
Cadfael. “That’s the reverse of the coin. Who knows which side up it will look
to him?” “You’re grown very cynical, old friend,”
remarked Hugh, wryly smiling. “I’m thinking,” Cadfael owned, “of reasons
why men do murder. Greed is one, and might be spawned in a son, waiting
impatiently for his inheritance. Hate is another, and a misused servant might
entertain it willingly if chance offered. But there are other and stranger
reasons, no doubt, like a simple taste for thieving, and a disposition to make
sure the victim never blabs. A pity, Hugh, a great pity there should be so much
hurrying on of death, when it’s bound to reach every man in its own good time.” By the time they emerged on to the
highroad at Wroxeter the sun was well up, and the mist clearing from its face,
though the fields still swam in pearly vapour. They made good speed from there
along the road to Shrewsbury, and rode in at the gatehouse after the end of
High Mass, when the brothers were dispersing to their work until the hour of
the midday meal. “The lord abbot’s been asking after you,”
said the porter, coming out from his lodge at sight of them. “He’s in his
parlour, and the prior with him, and asks that you’ll join him there.” They left their horses to the grooms, and
went at once to the abbot’s lodging. In the panelled parlour Radulfus looked up
from his desk, and Prior Robert, very erect and austere on a bench beside the
window, looked down his nose with a marked suggestion of disapproval and
withdrawal. The complexities of law and murder and manhunt had no business to
intrude into the monastic domain, and he deplored the necessity to recognise
their existence, and the very processes of dealing with them when they did
force a breach in the wall. Close to his elbow, unobtrusive in his shadow,
stood Brother Jerome, his narrow shoulders hunched, thin lips drawn tight, pale
hands folded in his sleeves, the image of virtue assailed and bearing the cross
with humility. There was always a strong element of complacency in Jerome’s
humility, but this time there was also a faintly defensive quality, as though
his rightness had somehow, if only by implication, been questioned. “Ah, you are back!” said Radulfus. “You
have not brought back the body of our guest so quickly?” “No, Father, not yet, they will be
following us, but on foot it will take some time. It is just as Brother Cadfael
reported it to you in the night. The man was stabbed in the back, probably as
he was leading his horse, the path there being narrow and overgrown. You will
know already that his saddle-roll was cut loose and stolen. By what Brother
Cadfael observed of the body when he found it, the thing must have been done
about the time of Compline, perhaps a little before. There’s nothing to show by
whom. By the hour, he must have been on his way back here to your guest hall.
By the way he faced as he fell, also, for the body was not moved, or his ring
would have been taken, and he still wears it. But as to where he had been in
those parts, there’s no knowing.” “I think,” said the abbot, “we have
something to show on that head. Brother Jerome here will tell you what he has
now told to Prior Robert and me.” Jerome was usually only too ready to hear his
own voice, whether in sermon, homily or reproof, but it was noticeable that
this time he was assembling his words with more than normal care. “The man was a guest and an upright
citizen,” he said, “and had told us at chapter that he was pursuing an offender
against the law, one who had committed assault against the person of his
steward and done him grievous harm, and then absconded from his master. I took
thought afterwards that there was indeed one newcomer in these parts who might
well be the man he sought, and I considered it the duty of every one of us to
help the cause of justice and law. So I spoke to the lord of Bosiet. I told him
that the young man who serves the hermit Cuthred, and who came here with him
only a few weeks ago, does answer to the description he gave of his runaway
villein Brand, though he calls himself Hyacinth. He is of the right age, his
colouring as his master described it. And no one here knows anything about him.
I thought it only right to tell him the truth. If the young man proved not to
be Brand, there was no harm to him.” “And you told him, I believe,” said the
abbot neutrally, “how to get to the hermit’s cell, where he could find this
young man?” “I did, Father, as was my duty.” “And he at once set off to ride to that
place.” “Yes, Father. He had sent his groom on an
errand into the town, he was obliged to saddle up for himself, but he did not
wish to wait, since most of the day was gone.” “I have spoken to the groom Warin, since
we learned of his master’s death,” said the abbot, looking up at Hugh. “He was
sent to enquire after any craftsman in fine leather-work in Shrewsbury, for it
seems that was the young man’s craft also, and Bosiet thought he might have tried
to get work within the borough among those who could use his skills. There is
no blame can attach to the servant, by the time he returned his master was long
gone. His errand could not wait, it seems, until morning.” His voice was
measured and considered, with no inflection of approval or disapproval. “That
solves, I think, the problem of where he had been.” “And where I must follow him,” said Hugh,
enlightened. “I’m obliged to you, Father, for pointing me the next step of the
road. If he did indeed talk to Cuthred, at least we may learn what passed, and
whether he got the answer he wanted—though plainly he was returning alone. Had
he been bringing a captive villein with him, he would hardly have left him with
free hands and a dagger about him. With your permission, Father, I’ll keep
Brother Cadfael with me as witness, rather than take men-at-arms to a
hermitage.” “Do so,” said the abbot willingly. “This
unfortunate man was a guest of our house, and we owe him every effort which may
lead to the capture of his murderer. And every proper rite and service that can
still be paid to his corpse. Robert, will you see to it that the body is
reverently received when it comes? And Brother Jerome, you may assist. Your
zeal to be of help to him should not be frustrated. You shall keep a night
vigil with him in prayers for his soul.” So there would be two lying side by side
in the mortuary chapel tonight, Cadfael thought as they went out together from
the parlour: the old man who had closed a long life as gently as a spent flower
sheds it petals, and the lord of lands taken abruptly in his malice and hatred,
with no warning, and no time to make his peace with man or God. Drogo Bosiet’s
soul would be in need of all the prayers it could get. “And has it yet entered your mind,” asked
Hugh abruptly, as they rode out along the Foregate for the second time, “that
Brother Jerome in his zeal for justice may have helped Bosiet to his death?” If it had, Cadfael was not yet minded to
entertain the thought. “He was on his way back,” he said cautiously, “and
empty-handed. It argues that he was disappointed. The boy is not his lost
villein.” “It could as well argue that he is, and
saw his doom bearing down on him in time to vanish. How then? He’s been in the
woods there now long enough to know his way about. How if he was the hand that
held the dagger?” No denying that it was a possibility. Who could have better
reason for slipping a knife into Drogo Bosiet’s back than the lad he meant to
drag back to his own manor court, flay first, and exploit afterwards lifelong? “It’s what will be said,” agreed Cadfael
sombrely. “Unless we find Cuthred and his boy sitting peacefully at home
minding their own business and meddling with no one else’s. Small use guessing
until we hear what happened there.” They approached the projecting tongue of
Eaton land by the same path Drogo had used, and saw the small clearing in thick
woodland open before them almost suddenly, as he had seen it, but in full
daylight, while he had come in early dusk. Muted sunlight filtering through the
branches turned the sombre grey of the stone hut to dull gold. The low pales of
the fence that marked out the garden were set far apart, a mere sketched
boundary, no bar to beast or man, and the door of the hut stood wide open, so that
they saw through into the inner room where the constant lamp on the stone altar
showed tiny and dim as a single spark, almost quenched by the light falling
from the tiny shutterless window above. Saint Cuthred’s cell, it seemed, stood
wide open to all who came. A part of the enclosed garden was still wild, though
the grass and herbage had been cut, and there the hermit himself was at work
with mattock and spade, heaving up the matted clods and turning the soil below
as he cleared it. They watched him at it as they approached, inexpert but
dogged and patient, plainly unused to handling such tools or stooping to such
labours as should have fallen to Hyacinth. Who, by the same token, was nowhere
to be seen. A tall man, the hermit, long-legged, long-bodied, lean and
straight, his coarse dark habit kilted to his knees, and the cowl flung back on
his shoulders. He saw them coming and straightened up from his labours with the
mattock still in his hands, and showed them a strong, fleshless face,
olive-skinned and deep-eyed, framed in a thick bush of dark hair and beard. He
looked from one to the other of them, and acknowledged Hugh’s reverence with a
deep inclination of his head, without lowering his eyes. “If your errand is to Cuthred the hermit,”
he said in a deep and resonant voice, and with assured authority, “come in and
welcome. I am he.” And to Cadfael, after studying his face for a moment: “I
think I saw you at Eaton when the lord Richard was buried. You are a brother of
Shrewsbury.” “I am,” said Cadfael. “I was there in the
boy’s escort. And this is Hugh Beringar, sheriff of this shire.” “The lord sheriff does me honour,” said
Cuthred. “Will you enter my cell?” And he loosed his frayed rope girdle and
shook down the skirt of his habit to his feet, and led the way within. The
thick tangle of his hair brushed the stone above the doorway as he entered. He
stood a good head taller than either of his visitors. In the dim living room there was one
narrow window that let in the afternoon light, and a small stir of breeze that
brought in the scent of mown herbage and moist autumn leaves. Through the
doorless opening into the chapel within they saw all that Drogo had seen, the
stone slab of the altar with its carved casket, the silver cross and
candlesticks, and the open breviary lying before the small spark of the lamp.
The hermit followed Hugh’s glance to the open book and, entering, closed it
reverently, and laid it with loving care in accurate alignment with the forward
edge of the reliquary. The fine gilt ornament and delicate tooling of the
leather binding gleamed in the small light of the lamp. “And how may I be of
service to the lord sheriff?” asked Cuthred, his face still turned towards the
altar. “I need to ask you some few questions,”
said Hugh with deliberation, “in the matter of a murdered man.” That brought the lofty head round in
haste, staring aghast and astonished. “Murdered? Here and now? I know of none.
Say plainly what you mean, my lord.” “Last night a certain Drogo Bosiet, a
guest at the abbey, set out to visit you, at the prompting of one of the
brothers. He came here in search of a runaway villein, a young man of about
twenty years, and his intent was to view your boy Hyacinth, being a stranger
and of the right age and kind, and see whether he is or is not the bondman who
ran away from Bosiet. Did he ever reach you? By the time he had ridden this far
it would already be evening.” “Why, yes, such a man did come,” said
Cuthred at once, “though I did not ask his name. But what has this to do with
murder? A murdered man, you said.” “This same Drogo Bosiet, on his way back
towards the town and the abbey, was stabbed in the back and left beside the
track, a mile or more from here. Brother Cadfael found him dead and his horse
wandering loose, last night in the full dark.” The hermit’s deep-set eyes, flaring
reddish in their gaunt sockets, flashed from one face to the other in
incredulous questioning. “Hard to believe, that there could be cutthroats and
masterless men here, in this well-farmed, well-managed country—within your
writ, my lord, and so near the town. Can this be what it seems, or is there
worse behind it? Was the man robbed?” “He was, of his saddle-roll, whatever that
may have held. But not of his ring, not of his gown. What was done was done in
haste.” “Masterless men would have stripped him
naked,” said Cuthred with certainty. “I do not believe this forest is shelter
for outlaws. This is some very different matter.” “When he came to you,” said Hugh, “what
did he have to say? And what followed?” “He came when I was saying Vespers, here
in the chapel. He entered and said that he had come to see the boy who runs my
errands, and that I might find I had been deceived into taking a villain into
my employ. For he was seeking a runaway serf, and had been told that there was
one here of the right age, newly come and a stranger to all, who might well be
his man. He told me whence he came, and in what direction he had reason to
believe his fugitive had fled. These things, and the time, fitted all too well
for my peace of mind with the time and place where first I met and pitied
Hyacinth. But it was not put to the test,” said Cuthred simply. “The boy was
not here. A good hour earlier I had sent him on an errand to Eaton. He did not
come back. He has not come back even today. Now I doubt much if he ever will.” “You do believe,” said Hugh, “that he is
this Brand.” “I cannot judge. But I saw that he well
might be. And when he failed to come back to me last night, then I felt it must
be so. It is no part of my duty to give up any man to retribution, that is
God’s business. I was glad I could not say yes or no, and glad he was not here
to be seen.” “But if he had simply got wind of the
search for him, and kept out of the way,” said Cadfael, “he would have come
back to you by now. The man who hunted him had gone away empty-handed, and if
another visit threatened, he could do as much again, provided you did not
betray him. Where else would he be so safe as with a holy hermit? But still he
has not come.” “But now you tell me,” said Cuthred
gravely, “that his master is dead—if this man was indeed his lord. Dead and
murdered! Say that my servant Hyacinth had got wind of Bosiet’s coming, and did
more than absent himself. Say that he thought it better to lie in ambush and
end the search for him once for all! No, I do not think now that I shall ever
see Hyacinth again. Wales is not far, and even an incomer without a kinship can
find service there, though upon hard terms. No, he will not come back. He will
never come back.” It was a strange moment for Cadfael’s mind
to wander, as though some corner of his consciousness had made even more of one
remembered moment than he had realised, for he found himself thinking suddenly
of Annet coming into her father’s house radiant and roused and mysterious, with
an oak leaf in her disordered hair. A little flushed and breathing as though
she had been running. And past the hour of Compline, at a time when surely
Drogo of Bosiet already lay dead more than a mile away on the track to
Shrewsbury. True, Annet had gone out dutifully to shut up the hens and the cow
for the night, but she had been a very long time about it, and come back with
the high colour and triumphant eyes of a girl returning from her lover. And had
she not made occasion to say a good word for Hyacinth, and taken pleasure in
hearing her father praise him? “How did you come upon this young man in
the first place?” Hugh was asking. “And why did you take him into your
service?” “I was on my way from St Edmundsbury, by
way of the Augustinian canons at Cambridge, and I lodged two nights over at the
Cluniac priory in Northampton. He was among the beggars at the gate. Though he
was able-bodied and young he was also shabby and unkempt as if he had been
living wild. He told me his father had been dispossessed and was dead, and he
had no kin left and no work, and out of compassion I clothed him and took him
as my servant. Otherwise he would surely have sunk into thieving and banditry
in order to live. And he has been quick and obedient to me, and I thought him
grateful, and so perhaps he truly was. But now it may all be in vain.” “And when was this that you met him
there?” “In the last days of September. I cannot
be sure of the exact day.” Time and place fitted all too well. “I see I have a manhunt on my hands,” said
Hugh wryly, “and I’d best be getting back to Shrewsbury, and setting on the
hounds at once. For whether the lad’s a murderer or no, I’ve no choice now but
to find and take him.” Chapter Seven IT HAD ALWAYS BEEN BROTHER JEROME’S CONTENTION,
frequently and vociferously expressed, that Brother Paul exercised far too
slack an authority over his young charges, both the novices and the children.
It was Paul’s way to make his supervision of their days as unobtrusive as
possible except when actually teaching, though he was prompt to appear if any
of them needed or wanted him. But such routine matters as their ablutions,
their orderly behaviour at meals, and their retiring at night and rising in the
morning were left to their good consciences and to the sound habits of
cleanliness and punctuality they had been taught. Brother Jerome was convinced
that no boy under sixteen could be trusted to keep any rule, and that even
those who had reached that mature age still had more of the devil in them than
of the angels. He would have watched and hounded and corrected their every
movement, had he been master of the boys, and made a great deal more use of
punishments than ever Paul could be brought to contemplate. It was pleasure to
him to be able to say, with truth, that he had always prophesied disaster from
such lax stewardship. Three schoolboys and nine novices, in a range of ages
from nine years up to seventeen, are quite enough active youngsters to satisfy
the casual eye at breakfast, unless someone has reason to count them, and
discover that they fall one short of the right tally. Probably Jerome would
have counted them on every occasion, certain that sooner or later there would
be defaulters. Brother Paul did not count. And as he was needed at chapter and
afterwards that day on specific business concerning his office, he had confided
the morning’s schooling to the most responsible of the novices, another policy
which Jerome deplored as ruinous to discipline. In church the small fry
occupied such insignificant places that one more or less would never be
noticed. So it was only late in the afternoon, when Paul mustered his flock
again into the schoolroom, and separated the class of novices from the younger
boys, that the absence of Richard was at last manifest. Even then Paul was not at first alarmed or
disturbed. The child was simply loitering somewhere, forgetful of time, and
would appear at a run at any moment. But time slid by and Richard did not come.
Questioned, the three boys remaining shuffled their feet uneasily, shifted a
little closer together to have the reassurance of shoulder against shoulder,
shook their heads wordlessly, and evaded looking Brother Paul in the eye. The
youngest in particular looked less than happy, but they volunteered nothing,
which merely convinced Paul that Richard was deliberately playing truant, that
they were well aware of it and disapproved but would not let out one word to
betray him. That he refrained from threatening them with dire penalties for
such refractory silence would only have confirmed Jerome in his black
disapproval of such an attitude. Jerome encouraged tale-bearers. Paul had a
sneaking sympathy with the sinful solidarity that would invite penalties to
fall on its own head rather than betray a companion. He merely stated firmly
that Richard should be called to account for his behaviour later and pay the
penalty of his foolishness, and proceeded with the lesson. But he was
increasingly aware of his pupils” inattention and uneasiness, and the guilty
glances they slid sidelong at one another over their letters. By the time they
were dismissed he felt that the youngest, at any rate, was on the verge of
blurting out whatever he knew, and his very distress argued that there was more
behind this defection than the mere capricious cutting of a class. Paul called the child back as they were
leaving, half-gratefully, half-fearfully. “Edwin, come here to me!” Understandably, the other two fled,
certain now that the sky was about to fall on them, and in haste to avoid the
first shock, whatever followed later. Edwin halted, turned, and slowly trailed
his way back across the room, his eyes lowered to the small feet he was
dragging reluctantly along the boards of the floor. He stood before Brother
Paul, and trembled. One knee was still bandaged, and the linen had slipped
awry. Without thinking, Paul unwound it and made it neat again. “Edwin, what is it you know about Richard?
Where is he?” The child gulped out with utter conviction: “I don’t know!” and
burst into tears. Paul drew him close and let him bury his nose in a
long-suffering shoulder. “Tell me! When did you last see him? When
did he go?” Edwin sobbed inarticulately into the rough woollen folds, until
Paul held him off and peered into the smudged and woeful face. “Come! Tell me
everything you know.” And it came out in a flood, between hectic
sniffs and sobs. “It was yesterday, after Vespers. I saw him, he took his pony
and rode out along the Foregate. I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t, and
we were frightened—We didn’t want him to be caught, he’d be in such terrible
trouble—We didn’t want to tell, we thought he’d come back and no one need
know…” “Do you tell me,” demanded Paul, appalled
and for once sounding formidable, “that he did not sleep here in his bed last
night? That he’s been gone since yesterday and not a word said?” A fresh burst of despairing tears
distorted Edwin’s round flushed face, and his violently nodding head admitted
the impeachment. “And all of you knew this? You three? Did you never think that
he might be hurt somewhere, or in danger? Would he stay out all night
willingly? Oh, child, why did you not tell me? All this time we’ve lost!” But
the boy was frightened enough already, there was nothing to be done with him
but hush and reassure and comfort him, where reassurance and comfort were very
hard to find. “Now, tell me—you saw him go, mounted. After Vespers? Did he not
say what he intended?” Edwin, very drearily, gathered what sense he had left
and fumbled out the rest of it. “He came too late for Vespers. We were down on
the Gaye, by the river, he didn’t want to come in, and when he did run after us
it was too late. I think he waited to try and slip in with us when we came out
of church, but Brother Jerome was standing talking to—to that man, the one
who…” He began to whimper again, recalling what he should not have seen, but of
course had, the bearers of the litter coming in at the gatehouse, the bulky
body motionless, the powerful face covered. “I waited at the school door,”
whispered the tearful voice, “and I saw Richard come running out and down to
the stables, and then he came back with his pony, and led it out at the gate in
a great hurry, and rode away. And that’s all I know. I thought he would soon
come back,” he wailed hopelessly. “We didn’t want to get him into trouble…” If
they had recoiled from doing that, they had certainly given him ample time and
scope to get himself into trouble, deeper than any disloyalty of theirs might
have plunged him. Brother Paul resignedly shook and patted his penitent into
relative calm. “You have been very wrong and foolish, and
if you’re in disgrace it’s no more than you deserve. But answer everything
truthfully now, and we’ll find Richard safe and sound. Go now, at once, and
find the other two, and the three of you wait here until you are sent for.” And Paul was off at a shaken run to take
the bad news first to Prior Robert and then to the abbot, and then to confirm
that the pony Dame Dionisia had sent as bait to her grandson was indeed gone
from his stall. And there was great clamour and running about and turning
grange court and barns and guest halls inside out, in case the culprit had not,
after all deserted the enclave, or for sounder reasons had returned to it
furtively, to try and conceal the fact that he had ever left it. The wretched
schoolboys, tongue-lashed by Prior Robert and threatened with worse when anyone
had time to perform it, cowered shivering and reduced to tears by the enormity
of what had seemed to them good intentions, and having survived the first storm
of recriminations, settled down stoically to endure the rest supperless and
outcast. Not even Brother Paul had time to offer them any further reassuring
words, he was too busy searching through the complex recesses of the mill and
nearer alleys of the Foregate. Into this frenzy of alarm and activity Cadfael
came riding in the early evening, after parting from Hugh at the gate. This
very night there would be sergeants out dragging the woods from Eyton westward
for the fugitive who might or might not be Brand, but must at all costs be
captured. Hugh was no fonder of manhunts than was Cadfael, and many a misused
serf had been driven at last to flight and outlawry, but murder was murder, and
the law could not stomach it. Guilty or innocent, the youth Hyacinth would have
to be found. Cadfael dismounted at the gatehouse with his mind full of one
vanished youngster, to be met by the spectacle of agitated brothers running
hither and thither among all the monastic buildings in search of a second one.
While he was gaping in amazement at the sight, Brother Paul came bearing down
upon him breathless and hopeful. “Cadfael, you’ve been in the forest. You
haven’t seen hide or hair of young Richard, have you? I’m beginning to think he
must have run home…” “The last place he’d be likely to go,”
said Cadfael reasonably, “while he’s wary of his grandmother’s intentions. Why?
Do you tell me you’ve mislaid the imp?” “He’s gone—gone since last night, and we
never knew it until an hour ago.” Paul poured out the dismal story in a cascade
of guilt and remorse and anxiety. “I am to blame! I have failed in my duty,
been too complacent, trusted them too far… But why should he run away? He was
happy enough. He never showed signs…” “Doubtless he had his reasons,” said Cadfael,
scrubbing thoughtfully at his blunt brown nose. “But back to the lady? I doubt
it! No, if he went off in such haste it was something new and urgent that sent
him running. Last night after Vespers, you said?” “Edwin tells me Richard dawdled too long by
the river, and came too late for Vespers, and must have been lurking in the
cloister to slip in among the rest of the boys when they came out. But he could
not do it because Jerome stood there in the archway, waiting to speak to
Bosiet, who had attended among the guests. But when Edwin looked back he saw
Richard come running out down to the stables, and then out at the gate in a
hurry.” “Did he so!” said Cadfael, enlightened.
“And where was Jerome, then, and Bosiet, that the boy was able to make off undetected?”
But he did not wait for an answer. “No, never trouble to guess. We already know
what they had to talk about, between the two of them—a small matter, and
private. Jerome wanted no other audience, but it seems he had one of whom he
knew nothing. Paul, I must leave you to your hunt a little while longer, and
ride after Hugh Beringar. He’s already committed to a search for one vanished
lad, he may as well make it for two, and drag the coverts but once.” Hugh, overtaken under the arch of the town
gate, reined in abruptly at the news, and turned to stare meditatively at
Cadfael. “So you think that’s the way of it!” he said and whistled. “Why should
he care about a young fellow he’s barely seen and never spoken to? Or have you
reason to think the two of them have had their heads together?” “No, none that I know of. Nothing but the
timing of it, but that links the pair closely enough. Not much doubt what
Richard overheard, and none that it sent him hotfoot on some urgent errand. And
before Bosiet can get to the hermitage, Hyacinth vanishes.” “And so does Richard!” Hugh’s black brows
drew together, frowning over the implications. “Do you tell me if I find the
one I shall have found both?” “No, that I gravely doubt. The boy surely
meant to be back in the fold before bedtime, and all innocence. He’s no fool,
and he has no reason to want to leave us. But all the more reason we should be
anxious about him now. He would be back with us, surely, if something had not
prevented. Whether his pony’s thrown him somewhere, and he’s hurt, or lost—or
whether… They’re wondering if he’s run home to Eaton, but that’s rankly
impossible. He never would.” Hugh had grasped the unspoken suggestion
which Cadfael himself had hardly had time to contemplate. “No, but he might be
taken there! And by God, so he might! If some of Dionisia’s people happened on
him alone in the woods, they’d know how to please their lady. Oh, I know the
household there are Richard’s people, not hers, but there must be one or two
among them would take the chance of present favours if it offered. Cadfael, old
friend,” said Hugh heartily, “you go back to your workshop and leave Eaton to
me. As soon as I’ve set my men on the hunt, yes, for both, I’ll go myself to
Eaton and see what the lady has to say for herself. If she baulks at letting me
turn her manor inside out for the one lad, I shall know she has the other
hidden away somewhere about the place, and I can force her hand. If Richard’s
there, I’ll have him out for you by tomorrow, and back in Brother Paul’s arms,”
promised Hugh buoyantly. “Even if it costs the poor imp a whipping,” he
reflected with a sympathetic grin, “he may find that preferable to being
married off on his grandmother’s terms. At least the sting doesn’t last so
long.” Which was a very perverse blasphemy
against marriage, Cadfael thought and said, coming from one who had such
excellent reason to consider himself blessed in his wife and proud of his son.
Hugh had wheeled his horse towards the steep slope of the Wyle, but he slanted
a smiling glance back over his shoulder. “Come up to the house with me now, and
complain of me to Aline. Keep her company while I’m off to the castle to start
the hunt.” And the prospect of sitting for an hour or
so in Aline’s company, and playing with his godson Giles, now approaching three
years old, was tempting, but Cadfael shook his head, reluctantly but
resignedly. “No, I’d best be going back. We’ll all be busy hunting our own
coverts and asking along the Foregate until dark. There’s no certainty where
he’ll be, we dare miss no corner. But God speed your search, Hugh, for it’s
more likely than ours.” He walked his horse back over the bridge towards the
abbey with a slack rein, suddenly aware he had ridden far enough for one day,
and looked forward with positive need to the stillness and soul’s quiet of the
holy office, and the vast enclosing sanctuary of the church. The thorough
search of the forest must be left to Hugh and his officers. No point even in
spending time and grief now wondering where the boy would spend the coming
night, though an extra prayer for him would not come amiss. And tomorrow,
thought Cadfael, I’ll go and visit Eilmund, and take him his crutches, and keep
my eyes open on the way. Two missing lads to search for. Find one, find both?
No, that was too much to hope for. But if he found one, he might also be a long
step forward towards finding the other. There was a newly-arrived guest standing
at the foot of the steps that led up to the door of the guest hall, watching
with contained interest the continuing bustle of a search which had now lost
its frenetic aspect and settled down grimly into the thorough inspection of
every corner of the enclave, besides the parties that were out enquiring along
the Foregate. The obsessed activity around him only made his composed stillness
the more striking, though his appearance otherwise was ordinary enough. His
figure was compact and trim, his bearing modest, and his elderly but
well-cared-for boots, dark chausses and good plain cotte cut short below the
knee, were the common riding gear of all but the highest and the lowest who
travelled the roads. He could as well have been a baron’s sub-tenant on his
lord’s business as a prosperous merchant or a minor nobleman on his own.
Cadfael noticed him as soon as he dismounted at the gate. The porter came out
from his lodge to plump himself down on the stone bench outside with a gusty
sigh, blowing out his russet cheeks in mild exasperation. “No sign of the boy,
then?” said Cadfael, though plainly expecting none. “No, nor likely to be, not
within here, seeing he went off pony and all. But make sure first here at home,
they say. They’re even talking of dragging the mill-pond. Folly! What would he
be doing by the pool, when he went off at a trot along the Foregate—that we do
know. Besides, he’ll never drown, he swims like a fish. No, he’s well away out
of our reach, whatever trouble he’s got himself into. But they must needs turn
out all the straw in the lofts and prod through the stable litter. You’d best
hurry and keep a sharp eye on your workshop, or they’ll be turning that inside
out.” Cadfael was watching the quiet dark figure
by the guest hall. “Who’s the newcomer?” “One Rafe of Coventry. A falconer to the
earl of Warwick. He has dealings with Gwynedd for young birds to train, so
Brother Denis tells me. He came not a quarter of an hour since.” “I took him at first to be Bosiet’s son,”
said Cadfael, “but I see he’s too old—more the father’s own generation.” “So did I take him for the son. I’ve been
keeping a sharp watch for him, for someone has to tell him what’s waiting for
him here, and I’d rather it was Prior Robert than take it on myself.” “I like to see a man,” said Cadfael
appreciatively, his eyes still on the stranger, “who can stand stock still in
the middle of other people’s turmoil, and ask no questions. Ah, well, I’d
better get this fellow unsaddled and into his stall, he’s had a good day’s
exercise with all this coming and going. And so have I.” And tomorrow, he thought, leading the
horse at a leisurely walk down the length of the great court towards the stable
yard, I must be off again. I may be astray, but at least let’s put it to the
test. He passed close to where Rafe of Coventry
stood, passively interested in the bustle for which he asked no explanation,
and thinking his own thoughts. At the sound of hooves pacing slowly on the
cobbles he turned his head, and meeting Cadfael’s eyes by chance, gave him the
brief thaw of a smile and a nod by way of greeting. A strong but
uncommunicative face he showed, broad across brow and cheekbones, with a
close-trimmed brown beard and wide-set, steady brown eyes, wrinkled at the
corners as if he lived chiefly in the open, and was accustomed to peering
across distances. “You’re bound for the stables, Brother? Be
my guide there. No reflection on your grooms, but I like to see my own beast
cared for.” “So do I,” said Cadfael warmly, checking
to let the stranger fall into step beside him. “It’s a lifetime’s habit. If you
learn it young you never lose it.” They matched strides neatly, being of the
same modest stature. In the stable yard an abbey groom was rubbing down a tall
chestnut horse with a white blaze down his forehead, and hissing gently and
contentedly to him as he worked. “Yours?” said Cadfael, eyeing the beast
appreciatively. “Mine,” said Rafe of Coventry briefly, and
himself took the cloth from the groom’s hand. “My thanks, friend! I’ll take him
myself now. Where may I stable him?” And he inspected the stall the groom
indicated, with a long, comprehensive glance round and a nod of satisfaction.
“You keep a good stable here, Brother, I see. No offence that I prefer to do my
own grooming. Travellers are not always so well provided, and as you said, it’s
habit.” “You travel alone?” said Cadfael, busy
unsaddling but with a sharp eye on his companion all the same. The belt that
circled Rafe’s hips was made to carry sword and dagger. No doubt he had shed
both in the guest hall with his cloak and gear. A falconer is not easily fitted
into a category where travel is concerned. A merchant would have had at least
one able-bodied servant with him for protection, probably more. A soldier would
be self-sufficient, as this man chose to be, and carry the means of protecting
himself. “I travel fast,” said Rafe simply.
“Numbers drag. If a man depends only on himself, there’s no one can let him
fall.” “You’ve ridden far?” “From Warwick.” A man of few words and no
curiosity, this falconer of the earl’s. Or did that quite hold good? Concerning
the search for the lost boy he showed no disposition to ask questions, but he
was taking a measured interest in the stables and the horses they held. Even
after he had satisfied himself of his own beast’s welfare, he still stood
looking round him at the rest with a keen professional eye. The mules and the
working horses he passed by, but halted at the pale roan that had belonged to
Drogo Bosiet. That was understandable enough in a lover of good horseflesh, for
the roan was a handsome animal and clearly from stock of excellent quality. “Can your house afford such bloodstock?”
He passed a hand approvingly over the glossy shoulder and stroked between the
pricked ears. “Or does this fellow belong to a guest?” “He did,” said Cadfael, himself sparing of
words. “He did? How is that?” Rafe had turned
alertly to stare, and in the unrevealing face the eyes were sharp and intent. “The man who owned him is dead. He’s lying
in our mortuary chapel this moment.” The old brother had gone to his rest in
the cemetery that same morning, Drogo had the chapel to himself now. “What kind of man was that? And how did he
die?” On this head he had questions enough to ask, startled out of his
detachment and indifference. “We found him dead in the forest, a few
miles from here, with a knife wound in his back. And robbed.” Cadfael was never
quite sure why he himself had become so reticent at this point, and why, for
instance, he did not simply name the dead man. And had his companion persisted,
as would surely have been natural enough, he would have answered freely. But
there the questioning stopped. Rafe shrugged off the implied perils of
riding alone in the forests of the border shires, and closed the low door of
the stall on his contented horse. “I’ll bear it in mind. Go well armed, I say,
or keep to the highroads.” He dusted his hands and turned towards the gateway
of the yard. “Well, I’ll go and make ready for supper.” And he was off at a
purposeful walk, but not immediately towards the guest hall. Instead, he
crossed to the archway of the cloister, and entered there. Cadfael found something
so significant in that arrow-straight progress towards the church that he
followed, candidly curious and officiously helpful, and finding Rafe of
Coventry standing hesitant by the parish altar, looking round him at the
multiplicity of chapels contained in transepts and chevet, directed him with
blunt simplicity to the one he was looking for. “Through here. The arch is low, but you’re
my build, no need to stoop your head.” Rafe made no effort to disguise or
disclaim his purpose, or to reject Cadfael’s company. He gave him one calm,
considering look, nodded his acknowledgements, and followed. And in the stony
chill and dimming light of the chapel he crossed at once to the bier where
Drogo Bosiet’s body lay reverently covered, with candles burning at head and
feet, and lifted the cloth from the dead face. Very briefly he studied the
fixed and pallid features, and again covered them, and the movements of his
hands as they replaced the cloth had lost their urgency and tension. He had
time even for simple human awe at the presence of death. “You don’t, by any chance, know him?”
asked Cadfael. “No, I never saw him before. God rest his
soul!” And Rafe straightened up from stooping over the bier, and drew a
liberating breath. Whatever his interest in the body had been, it was over. “A man of property, by the name of Drogo
Bosiet, from Northamptonshire. His son is expected here any day now.” “Do you tell me so? A bleak coming that
will be for him.” But the words he used now were coming from the surface of his
mind only, and answers concerned him scarcely at all. “Have you many guests at
this season? Of my own years and condition, perhaps? I should enjoy a game of
chess in the evening, if I can find a partner.” If he had lost interest in Drogo Bosiet,
it seemed he was still concerned to know of any others who might have come here
as travellers. Any of his own years and condition! “Brother Denis could give you a match,”
said Cadfael, deliberately obtuse. “No, it’s a quiet time with us. You’ll find
the hall half-empty.” They were approaching the steps of the guest hall, side
by side and easy together, and the late afternoon light, overcast and still,
was beginning to dim into the dove grey of evening. “This man who was struck down in the
forest,” said Rafe of Coventry. “Your sheriff will surely have the hounds out
after an outlaw so near the town. Is there suspicion of any man for the deed?” “There is,” said Cadfael, “though there’s
no certainty. A newcomer in these parts, who’s missing from his master’s
service since the attack.” And he added, innocently probing without seeming to
probe: “A young fellow he is, maybe twenty years old…” Not of Rafe’s years or
condition, no! And of no interest to him, for he merely nodded his acceptance
of the information, and by the indifference of his face as promptly discarded
it. “Well, God speed their hunting!” he said,
dismissing Hyacinth’s guilt or innocence as irrelevant to whatever he had on
that closed and armoured mind of his. At the foot of the guest hall steps he
turned in, surely to examine, thought Cadfael, every man of middle years who
would come to supper in hall. Looking for one in particular? Whose name, since
he did not ask for names, would be unhelpful, because false? One, at any rate,
who was not Drogo Bosiet of Northamptonshire! Chapter Eight HUGH CAME TO THE MANOR OF EATON early in
the morning, with six mounted men at his back, and a dozen more deployed behind
him between the river and the highroad, to sweep the expanse of field and
forest from Wroxeter to Eyton and beyond. For a fugitive murderer they might
have to turn the hunt westward, but Richard must surely be somewhere here in
this region, if he had indeed set out to warn Hyacinth of the vengeance bearing
down on him. Hugh’s party had followed the direct road from the Abbey Foregate
to Wroxeter, an open, fast track, and thence by the most direct path into the
forest, to Cuthred’s cell, where Richard would have expected to find Hyacinth.
By young Edwin’s account he had been only a few minutes ahead of Bosiet, he
would have made all haste and taken the shortest and fastest way. But he had
never reached the hermitage. “The boy Richard?” said the hermit, astonished.
“You did not ask me of him yesterday, only of the man. No, Richard did not
come. I remember the young lord well, God grant no harm has come to him! I did
not know he was lost.” “And you’ve seen nothing of him since?
It’s two nights now he’s been gone.” “No, I have not seen him. My doors are
always open, even by night,” said Cuthred, “and I am always here if any man
needs me. Had the child been in any peril or distress within reach of me, he
would surely have come running here. But I have not seen him.” It was simple truth that both doors stood
wide, and the sparse furnishings of both living room and chapel were clear to
view. “If you should get any word of him,” said Hugh, “send to me, or to the
abbey, or if you should see my men drawing these coverts round you—as you will
give them the message.” “I will do so,” said Cuthred gravely, and
stood at the open gateway of his little garden to watch them ride away towards
Eaton. John of Longwood came striding out from
one of the long barns lining the stockade, as soon as he heard the dull
drumming of many hooves on the beaten earth of the yard. His bare arms and
balding crown were the glossy brown of oak timber, for he spent most of his
time out and active in all weathers, and there was no task about the holding to
which he could not turn his hand. He stared at sight of Hugh’s men riding in
purposefully at the gate, but in wonder and curiosity rather than
consternation, and came readily to meet them. “Well, my lord, what’s afoot with
you so early?” He had already taken in the significance of their array. No
hounds, no hawks, but steel by their sides, and two of them archers shouldering
bows. This was another kind of hunt. “We’ve had no trouble hereabouts. What’s
the word from Shrewsbury?” “We’re looking for two defaulters,” said
Hugh briskly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard we have a man murdered between
here and the town, two nights ago. And the hermit’s boy is fled, and suspect of
being the man’s runaway villein, with good reason to make away with him and run
for the second time. That’s the one quarry we’re after.” “Oh, ay, we’d heard about him,” said John
readily, “but I doubt he’s a good few miles from here by this time. We’ve not
seen hide or hair of him since late that afternoon, when he was here to fetch
some honey cakes our dame had for Cuthred. She was not best pleased with him,
neither, I heard her scolding. And for sure he was an impudent rogue. But the
start he’s had, I fancy you won’t see him again. I never saw him carry steel,
though,” said John by way of a fair-minded afterthought, and frowned over the
resultant doubt. “There’s a chance at least that some other put an end to his
master. The threat to haul him back to villeinage would be enough to make the
lad take to his heels, the faster the better. In unknown country his lord would
be hard put to it to track him down. No need, surely, to kill him. Small
inducement to stay and take the risk.” “The fellow’s neither convicted nor
charged yet,” said Hugh, “nor can be until he’s taken. But neither can he be
cleared until then. And either way I want him. But we’re after another runaway,
too, John. Your lady’s grandson, Richard, rode out of the abbey precinct that
same evening, and hasn’t come back.” “The young lord!” echoed John, stricken
open-mouthed with astonishment and consternation. “Two nights gone, and only
now we get to hear of it? God help us, she’ll run mad! What happened? Who
fetched the lad away?” “No one fetched him. He up and saddled his
pony and off he went, alone, of his own will. And what’s befallen him since
nobody knows. And since one of the pair I’m seeking may be a murderer, I’m
leaving no barn un-ransacked and no house unvisited, and with orders to every
man to keep a sharp lookout for Richard, too. Granted you’re a good steward,
John, not even you can know what mouse has crept into every byre and sheep fold
and storehouse on the manor of Eaton. And that’s what I mean to know, here and
everywhere between here and Shrewsbury. Go in and tell Dame Dionisia I’m asking
to speak with her.” John shook his head helplessly, and went. Hugh dismounted,
and advanced to the foot of the stairs that led up to the hall door, above the
low undercroft, waiting to see how Dionisia would bear herself when she emerged
from the broad doorway above. If she really had not heard of the boy’s
disappearance until this moment, when her steward would certainly tell her, he
could expect a fury, fuelled all the more by genuine dismay and grief. If she
had, then she had had time to prepare herself to present a fury, but even so
she might let slip something that would betray her. As for John, his honesty
was patent. If she had the boy hidden away, John had had no part in it. He was
not an instrument she would have used for such a purpose, for he was stubbornly
determined to be Richard’s steward rather than hers. She came surging out from the shadow of
the doorway, blue skirts billowing, imperious eyes smouldering. “What’s this I
hear, my lord? It surely cannot be true! Richard missing?” “It is true, madam,” said Hugh watching
her intently, and undisturbed by the fact of having to look up to do it, as
indeed he would have had to do even if she had come darting down the steps to
his level, for she was taller than he. “Since the night before last he’s been
gone from the abbey school.” She flung up her clenched hands with an
indignant cry. “And only now am I told of it! Two nights gone! Is that the care
they take of their children? And these are the people who deny me the charge of
my own flesh and blood! I hold the abbot responsible for whatever distress or
harm has come to my grandson. The guilt is on his head. And what are you doing,
my lord, to recover the child? Two days you tell me he’s been lost, and late
and laggard you come to let me know of it…” The momentary hush fell only
because she had to stop to draw breath, standing with flashing eyes at the head
of the steps, tall and greying fair and formidable, her long patrician face
suffused with angry blood. Hugh took ruthless advantage of the lull,
while it lasted, for it would not last long. “Has Richard been here?” he
demanded bluntly, challenging her show of furious deprivation and loss. She caught her breath, standing
open-mouthed. “Here! No, he did not come here. Should I be thus distraught if
he had?” “You would have sent word to the abbot, no
doubt,” said Hugh guilelessly, “if he had come running home? They are no less
anxious about him at the abbey. And he rode away alone, of his own will. Where
should we first look for him but here? But you tell me he is not here, has not
been here. And his pony has not come wandering home to his old stable?” “He has not, or I should have been told at
once. If he’d come home riderless,” she said, her nostrils flaring, “I would
have had every man who is mine scouring the woods for Richard.” “My men are busy this minute doing that
very thing,” said Hugh. “But by all means turn out Richard’s people to add to
the number, and welcome. The more the better. Since it seems we’ve drawn
blank,” he said, still thoughtfully studying her face, “and after all, he is
not here.” “No,” she blazed, “he is not here! No, he
has not been here! Though if he left of his own will, as you claim, perhaps he
meant to come home to me. And for whatever has befallen him on the way I hold
Radulfus to blame. He is not fit to have charge of a noble child, if he cannot
take better care of him.” “I will tell him so,” said Hugh
obligingly, and went on with aggravating mildness: “My present duty is to
continue the search, then, both for Richard and for the thief who killed an
abbey guest in Eyton forest. You need not fear, madam, that my search will not
be thorough. Since I cannot expect you to make daily rounds of every corner of
your grandson’s manor, no doubt you’ll be glad to allow me free access
everywhere, to do that service for you. You’ll wish to set the example to your
tenants and neighbours.” She gave him a long, long, hostile look, and as
suddenly whirled on John of Longwood, who stood impassive and neutral at her
elbow. In the gale of her movements her long skirt lashed like the tail of an
angry cat. “Open my doors to these officers. All my doors! Let them satisfy themselves
I’m neither harbouring a murderer nor hiding my own flesh and blood here. Let
all our tenants know it’s my will they should submit to search as freely as I
do. My lord sheriff,” she said, looking down with immense dignity upon Hugh,
“enter and search wherever you wish.” He thanked her with unabashed civility,
and if she saw the glint in his eye, that just fell short of becoming an open
smile, she scorned to acknowledge it, but turned her straight back and withdrew
with a rapid and angry gait into the hall, leaving him to a search he already
felt must prove fruitless. But there was no certainty, and if she had
calculated that such a rash and sweeping invitation would be taken as proof,
and send them away satisfied, even shamefaced, she was much deceived. Hugh set
to work to probe every corner of Dionisia’s hall and solar, kitchens and
stores, examined every cask and handcart and barrel in the undercroft, every
byre and barn and stable that lined the stockade, the smith’s workshop, every
loft and larder, and moved outward into the fields and sheep folds, and thence
to the huts of every tenant and cotter and villein on Richard’s land. But they
did not find Richard. Brother Cadfael rode for Eilmund’s assart
in the middle of the afternoon, with the new crutches Brother Simon had cut to
the forester’s measure slung alongside, good, sturdy props to bear a solid
weight. The fracture appeared to be knitting well, the leg was straight and not
shortened. Eilmund was not accustomed to lying by inactive, and was jealous of
any other hands tending his woodlands. Once he got hold of these aids Annet
would have trouble keeping him in. It was in Cadfael’s mind that her father’s
helplessness had afforded her an unusual measure of freedom to pursue her own
feminine ploys, no doubt innocent enough, but what Eilmund would make of them
when he found out was another matter. Approaching the village of Wroxeter,
Cadfael met with Hugh riding back towards the town, after a long day in the
saddle. Beyond, in fields and woodlands, his officers were still methodically
combing every grove and every headland, but Hugh was bound back to the castle
alone, to collect together whatever reports had been brought in, and consider
how best to cover the remaining ground, and how far the search must be extended
if it had not yet borne fruit. “No,” said Hugh, answering the unasked question
almost as soon as they were within hail of each other, “she has not got him. By
all the signs she did not even know you’d lost him until I brought the word, though
it’s no great trick, I know, for any woman to put on such an exclaiming show.
But we’ve parted every stalk of straw in her barns, and what we’ve missed must
be too small ever to be found. No black pony in the stables. Not a soul but
tells the same story, from John of Longwood down to the smith’s boy. Richard is
not there. Not in any cottage or byre in this village. The priest turned out
his house for us, and went with us round the manor, and he’s an honest man.” Cadfael nodded sombre confirmation of his
own doubts. “I had a feeling there might be more to it than that. It would be
worth trying yonder at Wroxeter, I suppose. Not that I see Fulke Astley as a
likely villain, he’s too fat and too cautious.” “I’m just come from there,” said Hugh.
“Three of my men are still prodding into the last corners, but I’m satisfied
he’s not there, either. We’ll miss no one manor, cottage, assart, all. Of what
falls alike on them all none of them can well complain. Though Astley did
bristle at letting us in. A matter of his seigneurial dignity, for there was
nothing there to find.” “The pony,” said Cadfael, gnawing a
considering lip, “must be shut away somewhere.” “Unless,” said Hugh sombrely, “the other
fugitive has ridden him hard out of the shire, and left the boy in such case
that he cannot bear witness even when we find him.” They stared steadily upon each other,
mutely admitting that it was a black and bitter possibility, but one that could
not be altogether banished. “The child ran off to him, if that is
indeed what he did,” Hugh pursued doggedly, “without saying a word to any
other. How if it was indeed to a rogue and murderer he went, in all innocence?
The cob is a sturdy little beast, big for Richard, the hermit’s boy a light
weight, and Richard the only witness. I don’t say it is so. I do say such
things have happened, and could happen again.” “True, I would not dispute it,” admitted
Cadfael. There was that in his tone that caused
Hugh to say with certainty: “But you do not believe it.” It was something of
which Cadfael himself had been less certain until that moment. “Do you feel
your thumbs pricking? I know better than to ignore the omen if you do,” said
Hugh with a half-reluctant smile. “No, Hugh.” Cadfael shook his head. “I
know nothing that isn’t known to you, I am nobody’s advocate in this
matter—except Richard’s—I’ve barely exchanged a word with this boy Hyacinth,
never seen him but twice, when he brought Cuthred’s message to chapter and when
he came to fetch me to the forester. All I can do is keep my eyes open between
here and Eilmund’s house, and that you may be sure I shall do—perhaps even do a
little beating of the bushes myself along the way. If I have anything to tell,
be sure you’ll hear it before any other. Be it good or ill, but God and Saint Winifred
grant us good news!” On that promise they parted, Hugh riding
on to the castle to receive whatever news the watch might have for him thus
late in the afternoon, Cadfael moving on through the village towards the edge
of the woodland. He was in no hurry. He had much to think about. Strange how
the very act of admitting that the worst was possible had so instantly
strengthened his conviction that it had not happened and would not happen.
Stranger still that as soon as he had stated truthfully that he knew nothing of
Hyacinth, and had barely spoken a word to him, he should find himself so
strongly persuaded that very soon that lack might be supplied, and he would
learn, if not everything, all that he needed to know. Eilmund had regained his healthy colour,
welcomed company eagerly, and could not be restrained from trying out his
crutches at once. Four or five days cooped up indoors was a sore test of his
temper, but the relief of being able to hurple vigorously out into the garden,
and finding himself a fast learner in the art of using his new legs, brought
immediate sunny weather with him. When he had satisfied himself of his
competence, he sat down willingly, at Annet’s orders, to share a supper with
Cadfael. “Though by rights I ought to be getting
back,” said Cadfael, “now I know how well you’re doing. The bone seems to be
knitting straight and true as a lance, and you’ll not need me here harrying you
every day. And speaking of inconvenient visitors, have you had Hugh Beringar or
his men here today searching the woods around? You’ll have heard before now
they’re hunting Cuthred’s boy Hyacinth for suspicion of killing his master? And
there’s young Richard missing, too.” “We heard of the both only last night,”
said Eilmund. “Yes, they were here this morning, a long line of the garrison
men working their way along every yard of the forest between road and river.
They even looked in my byre and henhouse. Will Warden grumbled himself it was
needless folly, but he had his orders. Why waste time, he says, aggravating a
good fellow we all know to be honest, but it’s as much as my skin’s worth to
leave out a single hut or let my beaters pass by a solitary bush, with his
lordship’s sharp eye on us all. Do you know, have they found the child?” “No, not yet. He’s not at Eaton, that’s
certain. If it’s any comfort, Eilmund, Dame Dionisia had to open her doors to
the search, too. Noble and simple, they’ll all fare alike.” Annet waited upon them in silence,
bringing cheese and bread to the table. Her step was as light as always, her
face as calm, only at the mention of Richard did her face cloud over in anxious
sympathy. There was no knowing what went on behind her composed face, but
Cadfael hazarded his own guesses. He took his leave in good time, against
Eilmund’s hospitable urgings. “I’ve been missing too many services, these last
days, I’d best get back to my duty, and at least put in an appearance for
Compline tonight. I’ll come in and see you the day after tomorrow. You take
care how you go. And, Annet, don’t let him stay on his feet too long. If he
gives you trouble, take his props away from him.” She laughed and said that she would, but
her mind, Cadfael thought, was only half on what she said, and she had not made
any move to second her father’s protest at such an early departure. Nor did she
come out to the gate with him this time, but only as far as the door, and there
stood to watch him mount, and waved when he looked back before beginning to
thread the narrow path between the trees. Only when he had vanished did she
turn and go back into the cottage. Cadfael did not go far. A few hundred yards
into the woods there was a hollow of green surrounded by a deep thicket, and
there he dismounted and tethered his horse, and made his way back very quietly
and circumspectly to a place from which he could see the house door without
himself being seen. The light was dimming gently into the soft green of dusk,
and the hush was profound, only the last birdsong broke the forest silence. In a few minutes Annet came out to the
door again, and stood for a little while braced and still, her head alertly
reared, looking all round the clearing and listening intently. Then, satisfied,
she set off briskly out of the fenced garden and round to the rear of the
cottage. Cadfael circled with her in the cover of the trees. Her hens were
already securely shut in for the night, the cow was in the byre; from these
customary evening tasks Annet had come back a good hour ago, while her father
was trying out his crutches in the grassy levels of the clearing. It seemed
there was one more errand she had to do before the full night came down and the
door was closed and barred. And she went to it at a light and joyous run, her
hands spread to part the bushes on either side as she reached the edge of the clearing,
her light brown hair shaking loose from its coil and dancing on her shoulders,
her head tilted back as though she looked up into the trees, darkening now over
her head and dropping, silently and moistly, the occasional withered leaf, the
tears of the aging year. She was not going far. No more than a hundred paces
into the woods she halted, poised still in the same joyous attitude of flight,
under the branches of the first of the ancient oaks, still in full but
tarnished leafage. Cadfael, not far behind her in the shelter of the trees, saw
her throw back her head and send a high, melodious whistle up into the crown of
the tree. From somewhere high above a soft shimmering of leaves answered,
dropping through the branches as an acorn might fall, and in a moment the
descending shiver of movement reached the ground in the shape of a young man
sudden and silent as a cat, who swung by his hands from the lowest bough and
dropped lightly on his feet at Annet’s side. As soon as he touched ground they
were in each other’s arms. So he had not been mistaken. The two of them had
barely set eyes on each other when they fell to liking, blessed as they were
with the good ground of his services to her father. With Eilmund laid up
helpless in the house she could go freely about her own secret business of
hiding and feeding a fugitive, but what would they do now that the forester was
likely to be up and about, however limited his range must remain? Was it fair
to present her father with such a problem in loyalties, and he an official
involved with law, if only forest law? But there they stood linked, as candidly
as children, with such a suggestion of permanence about their embrace that it
surely would take more than father or lord or law or king to disentangle them.
With her long mane of hair loosed, and her feet bare, and Hyacinth’s classic
elegance of shape and movement, and fierce, disquieting beauty, they might have
been two creatures bred out of the ancient forest, faun and nymph out of a
profane but lovely fable. Not even the gathering twilight could dim their
brightness. Well, thought Cadfael, surrendering to the
vision, if this is what we have to deal with, from this we must go on, for
there’s no going back. And he stepped rustling out of the bushes, and walked
towards them without conceal. They heard him and sprang round instantly with
heads reared, cheek to cheek, like deer scenting danger. They saw him, and
Annet flung out her arms and shut Hyacinth behind her against the bole of the
tree, her face blanched and sharp as a sword, and as decisively Hyacinth
laughed, lifted her bodily aside, and stepped before her. “As if I needed the proof!” said Cadfael,
to afford them whatever reassurance his voice might convey, and he halted
without coming too close, though they knew already there was no point in
running. “I’m not the law. If you’ve done no wrong you’ve nothing to fear from
me.” “It takes a bolder man than I am,” said
Hyacinth’s clear voice softly, “to claim he’s done no wrong.” Even in the
dimming light his sudden, unnerving smile shone perceptibly for a moment. “But
I’ve done no murder, if that’s what you mean. Brother Cadfael, is it?” “It is.” He looked from one roused and
wary face to the other, and saw that they were breathing a little more easily
and every moment less tensed for flight or attack. “Lucky for you they brought
no hounds with them this morning. Hugh never likes to hunt a man with hounds.
I’m sorry, lad, if my visit tonight kept you fretting longer than you need have
done in your nest up there. I hope you spend your nights in better comfort.” At that they both smiled, still somewhat
cautiously and with eyes alert and wild, but they said nothing. “And where did you hide through the
sergeant’s search, that they never got wind of you at all?” Annet made up her mind, with the same
thorough practical resolution with which she did everything. She stirred and
shook herself, the glossy cloak of her hair billowing into a pale cloud about
her head. She drew breath deeply, and laughed. “If you must know, he was under
the brychans of Father’s bed, while Will Warden sat on the bench opposite
drinking ale with us, and his men peered in among my hens and forked through
the hay in the loft, outside. You thought, I believe,” she said, coming close
to Cadfael and drawing Hyacinth after her by the hand, “that Father was in
ignorance of what I was doing. Did you hold that against me, even a little? No
need, he knows all, has known it from the beginning, or at least from the
moment this manhunt began. And now that you’ve found us out, had we not better
all go into the house, and see what our four heads can come up with for the
future, to get us all out of this tangle?” “They’ll not come here again,” said
Eilmund comfortably, presiding over this meeting in his house from the throne
of his bed, the same bed under which Hyacinth had couched secure in the
presence of the hunters. “But if they do, we’ll know of it in time. Never twice
the same hiding place.” “And never once any qualms that you might
be hiding a murderer?” asked Cadfael, hopeful of being convinced. “No need for any! From the start of it I
knew I was not. And you shall know it, too. I’m talking of proof positive,
Cadfael, not a mere matter of faith, though faith’s no mere matter, come to
that. You were here last night, it was on your way back you found the man dead,
and dead no more than an hour when you found him. Do you say aye to that?” “More than willingly, if it helps your
proof along.” “And you left me when Annet here came back
from doing the work that keeps her busy in the evening. You’ll call to mind I
said she’d been long enough about it, and so she had, well above an hour. For
good reason, she’d been meeting with this youngster here, and whatever they
were about, they were in no hurry about it, which won’t surprise you greatly, I
daresay. In short, these two were together in the woods a mile or so from here
from the time she left you and me together, until she came back nigh on two
hours later. And there young Richard found them, and this lad she brought back
with her here, and ten minutes after you were gone she brought him in to me. No
murderer, for all that while he was with her, or me, or the both of us, and in
this house he slept that night. He never was near the man who was killed, and
we can swear to it.” “Then why have you not…” Cadfael began,
and as hastily caught himself back from the needless question, and held up a
hand to ward off the obvious answer. “No, say no word! I see very well why. My
wits are grown dull tonight. If you came forward to tell Hugh Beringar he’s
after a man proven innocent, true enough you could put that danger away from
him. But if one Bosiet is dead, there’s another expected at the abbey any day
now he may be there this minute, for all I know. As bad as his sire, so says
the groom, and he has good reason to know, he bears the marks of it. No, I see
how you’re bound.” Hyacinth sat in the rushes on the floor at
Annet’s feet, hugging his drawn up knees. He said without passion or emphasis,
but with the calm finality of absolute resolution: “I am not going back there.” “No, no more you shall!” said Eilmund
heartily. “You’ll understand, Cadfael, that when I took the lad in, there was
no question of murder at all. It was a runaway villein I chose to shelter, one
with good reason to run, and one that had done me the best of turns any man
could do for another. I liked him well, I would not for any cause have sent him
back to be misused. And then, when the cry of murder did arise, I had no call
to feel any differently, for I knew he had no part in it. It went against the
grain not to be able to go out and say so to sheriff and abbot and all, but you
see it was impossible. And the upshot of it is, here we are with the lad on our
hands, and how are we best to make sure of his safety?” Chapter Nine IT WAS ALREADY TAKEN FOR GRANTED by all of
them, it seemed, that Cadfael was on their side, and wholeheartedly a party to
their conspiracy. How could it be otherwise? Here was absolute proof that the
boy was no murderer, proof that could be laid in Hugh Beringar’s hands with
confidence in his justice, no question of that. But it could not be done
without exposing Hyacinth to the very danger from which he had escaped once,
and could hardly hope to escape a second time. Hugh was bound by law as fast as
any man, even his gift for turning a blind eye and a deaf ear would not help
Hyacinth if once Bosiet got wind of where he was and who was sheltering him. “Between us,” said Cadfael, though
somewhat dubiously, “we might be able to get you away out of the county and
into Wales, clean away from pursuit…” “No,” said Hyacinth firmly, “I won’t run.
I’ll hide for as long as I must, but I won’t run any further. It’s what I meant
to do, when I set off this way, but I’ve changed my mind.” “Why?” demanded Cadfael simply. “For two good reasons. One, because
Richard’s lost, and Richard saved my skin for me by bringing warning, and I’m
his debtor until I know he’s safe, and back where he should be. And two,
because I want my freedom here in England, here in Shrewsbury, and I mean to
get work in the town when I can with safety, and earn my living, and take a
wife.” He looked up with a bright, challenging flash of his amber eyes at
Eilmund, and smiled. “If Annet will have me!” “You’d best ask my leave about that,” said
Eilmund, but with such good humour that it was plain the idea was not entirely
new to him, nor necessarily unwelcome. “So I will, when the time comes, but I
would not offer you or her what I am and have now. So let that wait, but don’t
forget it,” warned the faun, gleaming. “But Richard I must find, I will find!
That’s first!” “What can you do,” said Eilmund
practically, “more than Hugh Beringar and all his men are doing? And you a
hunted man yourself, with the hounds close on your tail! You stay quiet like a
sensible lad, and hide your head until Bosiet’s hunt for you starts costing him
more even than his hatred’s worth. As it will, in the end. He has manors at
home now to think about.” But whether Hyacinth was, by ordinary standards, a
sensible lad was a matter for conjecture. He sat very still, in that taut,
suggestive way he had, that promised imminent action, the soft glow of Annet’s
fire glowing in the subtle planes of his cheeks and brow, turning his bronze to
gold. And Annet, beside him on the cushioned bench by the wall, had something
of the same quality. Her face was still, but her eyes were sapphire bright. She
let them talk about her in her presence, and felt no need to add a word on her
own account, nor did she so much as touch Hyacinth’s slender shoulder to
confirm her secure tenure. Whoever had doubts about Annet’s claims on the
future, Annet had none. “Richard left you as soon as he’d
delivered his warning?” asked Cadfael. “He did. Hyacinth wanted to go with him to
the edge of the wood,” said Annet, “but he wouldn’t have it. He wouldn’t stir
unless Hyacinth went into hiding at once, so we promised. And he set off back
along the track. And we came back here to Father, as he’s told you, and saw no
one else along the way. Richard would not have gone anywhere near Eaton, or I’d
have thought his grandmother might have taken him. But he was bent on getting
back to his bed.” “It was what we all thought,” owned
Cadfael, “not least Hugh Beringar. But he was there early and turned the place
wrong side out, and the boy is not there. I think John of Longwood and half the
household beside would have told if he’d been seen there. Dame Dionisia is a
formidable lady, but Richard is the lord of Eaton, it’s his bidding they’ll
have to do in the future, not hers. If they dared not speak out before her
face, they’d have done it softly behind her back. No, he is not there.” It was long past time for Vespers. Even if
he started back now he would be too late for Compline, but still he sat
stubbornly going over this whole new situation in his mind, looking for the
best way forward, where there seemed to be nothing to be done but wait, and
continue to evade the hunt. He was grateful that Hyacinth was no murderer, that
at least was a gain. But how to keep him out of the hands of Bosiet was another
matter. “For God’s sake, boy,” he said, sighing,
“what was it you did to your overlord, there in Northamptonshire, to get
yourself so bitterly hated? Did you indeed assault his steward?” “I did,” acknowledged Hyacinth with
satisfaction, and a red reminiscent spark kindled in his eyes. “It was after
the last of the harvest, and there was a girl gleaning in the poor leavings in
one of the demesne fields. There never was a girl safe from him if he came on
her alone. It was only by chance I was near. He had a staff, and dropped her to
swing at my head with it when I came at him. I got a few bruises, but I laid
him flat against the stones under the headland, clean out of his wits. So there
was nothing I could do but run for it. I’d nothing to leave, no land. Drogo
distrained on my father two years before, when he was in his last illness and I
had all to do, our fields and Bosiet’s harvest labour, and we ended in debt.
He’d been after us a long while, he said I was for ever rousing his villeins
against him… Well, if I was it was for their rights. There are laws to defend
life and limb even for villeins, but they meant precious little in Bosiet’s
manors. He’d have had me half-killed for attacking the steward. He’d have had
me hanged if I hadn’t been profitable to him. It was the chance he’d been
waiting for.” “How were you profitable to him?” asked
Cadfael. “I had a turn for fine leather-work belts,
harness, pouches, and the like. When he’d made me landless he offered to leave
me the toft if I’d bind myself to turn over all my work to him for my keep. I’d
no choice, I was still his villein. But I began to do finer tooling and
gilding. He wanted to get some favour out of the earl once, and he had me make
a book cover to give him as a present. And then the prior of the Augustinian
canons at Huntingdon saw it, and ordered a special binding for their great
codex, and the sub-prior of Cluny at Northampton wanted his best missal
rebound, and so it grew. And they paid well, but I got nothing out of it. Drogo’s
done well out of me. That’s the other reason he wanted me back alive. And so
will his son Aymer want me.” “If you have a trade the like of that at
your finger-ends,” said Eilmund approvingly, “you can make your way anywhere,
once you’re free of these Bosiets. Our abbot might very well put some work your
way, and some town merchant would be glad to have you in his employ.” “Where and how did you meet with Cuthred?”
asked Cadfael, curiously. “That was at the Cluniac priory in
Northampton. I lay up for the night there, but I dared not go into the enclave,
there were one or two there who knew me. I got food by sitting with the beggars
at the gate, and when I was making off before dawn, Cuthred was for starting
too, having spent the night in the guest hall.” An abrupt dark smile plucked at
the corners of Hyacinth’s eloquent lips. He kept his startling eyes veiled
under their high-arched golden lids. “He proposed we should travel together.
Out of charity, surely. Or so that I should not have to thieve for my food, and
sink into a worse condition even than before.” As abruptly he looked up,
unveiling the full brilliance of wide eyes fixed full and solemnly on Eilmund’s
face. The smile had vanished. “It’s time you knew the worst of me, I want no
lies among this company. I came this way owing the world nothing, and ripe for
any mischief, and a rogue and a vagabond I could be, and a thief I have been at
need. Before you shelter me another hour, you should know what cause you have
to think better of it. Annet,” he said, his voice soft and assuaged on her
name, “already knows what you must know too. You have that right. I told her
the truth the night Brother Cadfael was here to set your bone.” Cadfael remembered the motionless figure
sitting patiently outside the cottage, the urgent whisper: “I must speak to
you!” And Annet coming out into the dark, and closing the door after her. “It was I,” said Hyacinth with steely
deliberation, “who dammed the brook with bushes so that your seedlings were
flooded. It was I who undercut the bank and bridged the ditch so that the deer
got into the coppice. It was I who shifted a pale of the Eaton fence to let out
the sheep to the ash saplings. I had my orders from Dame Dionisia to be a thorn
in the flesh to the abbey until they gave her her grandson back. That was why
she set up Cuthred in his hermitage, to put me there as his servant. And I knew
nothing then of any of you, and cared less, and I was not going to quarrel with
what provided me a comfortable living and a safe refuge until I could do
better. It’s my doing, more’s the pity, that the worse thing happened, and the
tree came down on you and pinned you in the brook, my doing that you’re lamed
and housebound here though that slip came of itself, I didn’t touch it again.
So now you know,” said Hyacinth, “and if you see fit to take the skin off my
back for it, I won’t lift a hand to prevent, and if you throw me out
afterwards, I’ll go.” He reached up a hand to Annet’s hand and added flatly:
“But not far!” There was a long pause while two of them
sat staring at him, intently and silently, and Annet watched them no less
warily, all of them withholding judgement. No one had exclaimed against him, no
one had interrupted this half-defiant confession. Hyacinth’s truth was used
like a dagger, and his humility came very close to arrogance. If he was
ashamed, it did not show in his face. Yet it could not have been easy to strip
himself thus of the consideration and kindness father and daughter had shown
him. If he had not spoken, clearly Annet would have said no word. And he had
not pleaded, nor attempted any extenuation. He was ready to take what was due
without complaint. Doubtful if anyone, however eloquent or terrible a
confessor, would ever get this elusive creature nearer to penitence than this. Eilmund stirred, settling his broad
shoulders more easily against the wall, and blew out a great, gusty breath.
“Well, if you brought the tree down on me, you also hoisted it off me. And if
you think I’d give up a runaway villein to slavery again because he’d played a
few foul tricks on me, you’re not well acquainted with my simple sort. I fancy
the fright I gave you that day was all the thrashing you needed. And since then
you’ve done me no more injury, for from all I hear there’s been quiet in the
woods from that day. I doubt if the lady’s satisfied with her bargain. You show
sense, and stay where you are.” “I told him,” said Annet, confidently
smiling, “you would not pay back injury for injury. I never said a word, I knew
he would out with it himself. And Brother Cadfael knows now Hyacinth’s no
murderer, and has owned to the worst he knows about himself. There’s not one of
us here will betray him.” No, not one! But Cadfael sat somewhat
anxiously pondering what could best be done now. Betrayal was impossible,
certainly, but the hunt would go on, and might well drag all these woods over
again, and in the meantime Hugh, in his natural concentration on this most
likely quarry, might be losing all likelihood of finding the real murderer.
Even Drogo Bosiet was entitled to justice, however he infringed the rights of
others. Withholding from Hugh the certainty and proof of Hyacinth’s innocence
might be delaying the reassessment that would set in motion the pursuit of the
guilty. “Will you trust me, and let me tell Hugh
Beringar what you have told me? Give me leave,” urged Cadfael hastily, seeing
their faces stiffen in consternation, “to deal with him privately—” “No!” Annet laid her hand possessively on
Hyacinth’s shoulder, burning up like a stirred fire. “No, you can’t give him
up! We have trusted you, you can’t fail us.” “No, no, no, not that! I know Hugh well,
he would not willingly give up a villein to mistreatment, he is for justice
even before law. Let me tell him only that Hyacinth is innocent, and show him
the proof. I need say nothing as to how I know or where he is, Hugh will take
my word. Then he can hold off this search and leave you alone until it’s safe
for you to come forth and speak openly.” “No!” cried Hyacinth, on his feet in one
wild, smooth movement, his eyes two yellow flames of alarm and rejection. “Not
a word to him, never a word! If we’d thought you’d go to him we’d never have
let you in to us. He’s the sheriff, he must take Bosiet’s part—he has manors,
he has villeins of his own, do you think he’d ever side with me against my
legal lord? I should be dragged back at Aymer’s heels, and buried alive in his
prison.” Cadfael turned to Eilmund for help. “I
swear to you I can lift this suspicion from the lad by speaking with Hugh.
He’ll take my word and hold off from the hunt—withdraw his men, or send them
elsewhere. He has still Richard to find. Eilmund, you know Hugh Beringar better
than to doubt his fairness.” But no, Eilmund did not know him, not as
Cadfael knew him. The forester was shaking his head doubtfully. A sheriff is a
sheriff, pledged to law, and law is rigid and weighted, all in all, against the
peasant and the serf and the landless man. “He’s a decent, fair-minded man,
sure enough,” said Eilmund, “but I dare not stake this boy’s life on any king’s
officer. No, leave us keep as we are, Cadfael. Say nothing to any man, not
until Bosiet’s come and gone.” They were all linked against him. He did
his best, arguing quietly what ease it would be to know that the hunt would not
be pressed home against Hyacinth, that his innocence, once communicated privily
to Hugh, would set free the forces of law to look elsewhere for Drogo’s
murderer, and also allow them to press their search for Richard more
thoroughly, and with more resources, through these forests where the child had
vanished. But they had their arguments, too, and there was matter in them. “If you told the sheriff, even secretly,”
urged Annet, “and if he did believe you, he would still have Bosiet to deal
with. His father’s man will tell him it’s as good as certain his runaway is
somewhere here in hiding, murderer or no. He’ll go the length of using hounds,
if the sheriff draws his men off. No, say nothing to anyone, not yet. Wait
until they give up and go home. Then we’ll come forth. Promise! Promise us
silence until then!” There was nothing to be done about it. He promised. They
had trusted him, and against their absolute prohibition he could not hold out.
He sighed and promised. It was very late when he rose at last, his
word given, to begin the night ride back to the abbey. He had given a promise
also to Hugh, never thinking how hard it might be to keep. He had said that if
he had anything to tell, Hugh should hear it before any other. A subtle, if
guileless, arrangement of words, through which a devious mind could find
several loopholes, but what he meant had been as clear to Hugh as it was to
Cadfael. And now he could not make it good. Not yet, not until Aymer Bosiet
should grow restive, count the costs of his vengeance, and think it better to
go home and enjoy his new inheritance instead. In the doorway he turned back to
ask of Hyacinth one last question, a sudden afterthought. “What of Cuthred?
With you two living so close—did he have any part in all this mischief of yours
in Eilmund’s forest?” Hyacinth stared at him gravely, in mild
surprise, his amber eyes wide and candid. “How could he?” he said simply. “He
never leaves his own pale.” Aymer Bosiet rode into the great court of
the abbey about noon of the next day, with a young groom at his back. Brother
Denis the hospitaller had orders to bring him to Abbot Radulfus as soon as he
arrived, for the abbot was unwilling to delegate to anyone else the task of
breaking to him the news of his father’s death. It was achieved with a delicacy
for which, it seemed, there was little need. The bereaved son sat silently
revolving the news and all its implications at length, and having apparently
digested and come to terms with it, expressed his filial grief very suitably,
but with his mind still engaged on side issues, a shrewdly calculating mind
behind a face less powerful and brutal than his father’s, but showing little
evidence of sorrow. He did frown over the event, for it involved troublesome
duties, such as commissioning coffin and cart and extra help for the journey
home, and making the best possible use of such time as he could afford here.
Radulfus had already had Martin Bellecote, the master carpenter in the town,
make a plain inner coffin for the body, which was not yet covered, since
doubtless Aymer would want to look upon his father’s face for a last time and
take his farewells. The bereaved son revolved the matter in
his mind, and asked point-blank and with sharp intent: “He had not found our
runaway villein?” “No,” said Radulfus, and if he was shaken
he contrived to contain the shock. “There was a suggestion that the young man
was in the neighbourhood, but no certainty that the youth in question was
really the one sought. And I believe now no one knows where he is gone.” “My father’s murderer is being sought?” “Very assiduously, with all the sheriffs
men.” “My villein also, I trust. Whether or
not,” said Aymer grimly, “the two turn out to be the same. The law is bound to
do all it can to recover my property for me. The rogue is a nuisance, but
valuable. For no price would I be willing to let him go free.” He bit off the
words with a vicious snap of large, strong teeth. He was as tall and long-boned
as his father, but carried less flesh, and was leaner in the face; but he had
the same shallowly-set eyes of an indeterminate, opaque colour, that seemed all
surface and no depth. Thirty years old, perhaps, and pleasurably aware of his
new status. Proprietorial satisfaction had begun to vibrate beneath the hard
level of his voice. Already he spoke of “my property’. That was one aspect of
his bereavement which certainly had not escaped him. “I shall want to see the
sheriff concerning this fellow who calls himself Hyacinth. If he has run, does
not that make it more likely he is indeed Brand? And that he had a hand in my
father’s death? There’s a heavy score against him already. I don’t intend to
let such a debt go unpaid.” “That is a matter for the secular law, not
for me,” said Radulfus with chill civility. “There is no proof of who killed the
lord Drogo, the thing is quite open. But the man is being sought. If you will
come with me, I’ll take you to the chapel where your father lies.” Aymer stood beside the open coffin on its
draped bier, and the light of the tall candles burning at Drogo’s head and feet
showed no great change in his son’s face. He gazed down with drawn brows, but
it was the frown of busy thought rather than grief or anger at such a death. “I feel it bitterly,” said the abbot,
“that a guest in our house should come to so evil an end. We have said Masses
for his soul, but other amends are out of my scope. I trust we may yet see
justice done.” “Indeed!” agreed Aymer, but so absently
that it was plain his mind was on other things. “I have no choice but to take
him home for burial. But I cannot go yet. This search cannot be so soon
abandoned. I must ride into the town this afternoon and see this master
carpenter of yours, and have him make an outer coffin and line it with lead,
and seal it. A pity, he could have lain just as properly here, but the men of
our house are all buried at Bosiet. My mother would not be content else.” He said it with a note of vexation in his
musings. But for the necessity of taking home a corpse he could have lingered
here for days to pursue his hunt for the escaped villein. Even as things stood
he meant to make the fullest use of his time, and Radulfus could not help
feeling that it was the villein he wanted most vindictively, not his father’s
murderer. By chance Cadfael happened to be crossing
the court when the newcomer took horse again, early in the afternoon. It was
his first glimpse of Drogo’s son, and he stopped and drew aside to study him
with interest. His identity was never in doubt, for the likeness was there,
though somewhat tempered in this younger man. The curiously shallow eyes, so
meanly diminished by their lack of the shadow and form deep sockets provide,
had the same flat malevolence, and his handling of horseflesh as he mounted was
more considerate by far than his manner towards his groom. The hand that held
his stirrup was clouted aside by the butt of his whip as soon as he was in the
saddle, and when Warin started back from the blow so sharply that the horse
took fright and clattered backwards on the cobbles, tossing up his head and snorting,
the rider swung the whip at the groom’s shoulders so readily and with so little
apparent anger or exasperation that it was plain this was the common currency
of his dealings with his underlings. He took only the younger groom with him
into the town, himself riding his father’s horse, which was fresh and spoiling
for exercise. No doubt Warin was only too glad to be left behind here in peace
for a few hours. Cadfael overtook the groom and fell into step beside him as he
turned back towards the stables. Warin looked round to show him a bruise
rapidly fading, but still yellow as old parchment, and a mouth still elongated
by the healing scar at one corner. “I’ve not seen you these two days,” said
Cadfael, eyeing the traces of old violence and alert for new. “Come round with
me into the herb garden, and let me dress that gash again for you. He’s safely
away for an hour or two, I take it, you can breathe easily. And it would do
with another treatment, though I see it’s clean now.” Warin hesitated only for a moment.
“They’ve taken the two fresh horses, and left me the others to groom. But they
can wait a while.” And he went willingly at Cadfael’s side, his lean person, a
little withered before its time, seeming to expand in his lord’s absence. In
the pleasant aromatic coolness of the workshop, under the faintly stirring
herbs that rustled overhead, he sat eased and content to let his injury be
bathed and anointed, and was in no hurry to get back to his horses even when
Cadfael had done with him. “He’s hotter even than the old one was on
Brand’s heels,” he said, shaking a helpless but sympathetic head over his
former neighbour’s fortunes. “Torn two ways, between wanting to hang him and
wanting to work him to death for greed, and it isn’t whether or not Brand killed
the old lord that will determine which way the cat jumps, for there was no
great love lost there, neither. Not much love in all that household to be
gained or lost. But good haters, every one.” “There are more of them?” Cadfael asked
with interest, “Drogo has left a widow?” “A poor pale lady, all the juice crushed
out of her,” answered Warin, “but better born than the Bosiets, and has
powerful kin, so they have to use her better than they use anyone else. And
Aymer has a younger brother. Not so loud nor so violent, but sharper witted and
better able to twist and turn. That’s all of them, but it’s enough.” “Neither one of them married?” “Aymer’s had one wife, but she was a
sickly thing and died young. There’s an heiress not far from Bosiet they both
fancy now—though by rights it’s her lands they fancy. And if Aymer is the heir,
Roger’s far the better at making himself agreeable. Not that it lasts beyond
when he gets his way.” It sounded a poor outlook for the girl, whichever of the
two got the better of the contest, but it also sounded one possible reason why
Aymer should not loiter here too long, or he might lose his advantages at home.
Cadfael felt encouraged. Absence from a newly-inherited honour might even be
dangerous, if there was a clever and treacherous younger brother left behind
there to make calculated use of his opportunities. Aymer would be bearing that
in mind, even while he grudged giving up his vindictive pursuit of Hyacinth.
Cadfael still could not think of the boy as Brand, the name he had chosen for
himself fitted him so much better. “I wonder,” said Warin, unexpectedly harking
back to the same elusive person, “where Brand really got to? Lucky for him we
did give him some grace—not that my lord intended it so!—for at first they
thought that a man with the skill he had at his finger-ends would surely make
for London, and we wasted a week or more searching all the roads south. We got
beyond Thame before one of his men came riding after us, saying Brand had been
seen in Northampton. If he’d started off northwards, Drogo reckoned he’d
continue so, and likely to bear west as he went, and make for Wales. I wonder
has he reached it. Even Aymer won’t follow him over the border.” “And you picked up no more sightings of
him along the way?” asked Cadfael. “No, never a trace. But we’re far out of
the country where anyone would know him, and not everybody wants to get tangled
into such a business. And he’ll have taken another name, for sure.” Warin rose,
refreshed but reluctant, to go back to his duties. “I hope it may stand him in
good stead. No matter what the Bosiets say, he was a decent lad.” Brother Winfrid was busy sweeping up
leaves under the orchard trees, for the moist autumn had caused them to fall
before they took their bright seasonal colouring, in a soft green rain that
rotted gently into the turf. Cadfael found himself alone and without occupation
after Warin had left him. The more reason to sit down quietly and think, and a
prayer or two wouldn’t come amiss, either, for the boy who had gone rushing off
on his black pony, on his self-appointed, mad and generous mission, for the
rash young man he had set out to save, even for the hard, malignant lordling
cut off without time for penitence or absolution, and bitterly in need of
grace. The bell for Vespers called him out of his
musings, and he went gladly to answer it, out through the gardens and across
the court to the cloister and the south door of the church, to be early in his
place. In the past few days he had missed all too many services, he was in need
of the reassurance of brotherhood. There were always a few of the people of the
Foregate at Vespers, the devout old women who inhabited some of the abbey’s
grace houses, elderly couples retired and happy to fill up their leisure and
meet their friends at church, and often guests of the house coming back from
the activities of the day. Cadfael heard them stirring beyond the parish altar,
in the vast spaces of the nave. Rafe of Coventry, he noted, had come in from
the cloister and chosen a place from which he could see within, past the parish
altar and into the choir. Kneeling at prayer, he had still that quiet composure
about him, a man secure and at peace with his own body, and wearing his
inscrutable face rather as a shield than as a mask. So he had not yet moved on
to contact those suppliers of his in Wales. He was the only worshipper from the
guest hall. Aymer Bosiet must be still about his funereal business in the town,
or else beating the coverts in field and forest somewhere after his runaway. The brothers came in and took their
places, the novices and schoolboys followed. There was a bitter reminder there,
for their numbers were still one short. There was no forgetting about Richard.
Until he was recovered there would be no peace of mind, no lightness of heart,
for any of those children. At the end of Vespers Cadfael lingered in his stall,
letting the procession of brothers and novices file out into the cloister
without him. The office had its beauty and consolation, but the solitude
afterwards was also salutary in its silence, after the echoes of the music had
all died away, and to be here alone in this evening hour had a special
beneficence, whether because of the soft, dove-coloured light or the sense of
enlargement that seemed to swell the soul to inhabit and fill the last arches
of the vault, as a single drop of water becomes the ocean into which it falls.
There was no better time for profound prayer, and Cadfael felt the need of it.
For the boy in particular, equally solitary somewhere, perhaps afraid. It was
to Saint Winifred Cadfael addressed his plea, a Welshman invoking a Welsh
saint, and one to whom he felt very close, and for whom he had an almost family
affection. Herself hardly more than a child at her martyrdom, she would not let
harm come to another threatened child. Brother Rhun, whom she had healed, was
carefully trimming the scented candles he made for her shrine when Cadfael
approached, but he turned his fair young head towards the petitioner, gave him
one glance of his aquamarine eyes, that seemed to have their own innate light,
and smiled and went away. Not to linger and complete his work when the prayers
ended, not to hide in the shadows and watch, but clean away out of knowledge,
on swift, agile, silent feet that had once gone lamely and in pain, to leave
the whole listening vault ready to receive the appeal in its folded hands, and
channel it aloft. Cadfael arose from his knees comforted, without knowing or
asking why. Outside, the light was fading rapidly, and here within, the altar
lamp and Saint Winifred’s perfumed candles made small islands of pure radiance
in a great enfolding gloom, like a warm cloak against the frost of the outside
world. The grace that had just touched Cadfael had a long enough reach to find
Richard, wherever he was, deliver him if he was a prisoner, console him if he
was frightened, heal him if he was hurt. Cadfael went out from the choir, round
the parish altar and into the nave, sensible of having done what was most
needful, and content to wait patiently and passively until grace should be
manifested. It seemed that Rafe of Coventry had also had solemn and personal
prayers to offer, for he was just rising from his knees in the empty and silent
nave as Cadfael came through. He recognised his acquaintance of the stable yard
with a shadowed but friendly smile, that came and went briefly on his lips but
lingered amiably in his eyes. “Good even, Brother!” Matched in height
and pace, they fell naturally into step together as they turned towards the
south porch. “I hope to be held excused,” said Rafe, “for coming to church
booted and spurred and dusty from riding, but I came late, and had no time to
make myself seemly.” “Most welcome, however you come,” said
Cadfael. “Not everyone who lodges with us shows his face in the church. I’ve
had small chance to see you these two days, I’ve been out and about myself.
Have you had successful dealing in these parts?” “Better, at least, than one of your
guests,” said Rafe, casting a side glance at the narrow door that led towards
the mortuary chapel. “But no, I would not say I’ve found quite what I needed.
Not yet!” “His son is here now,” said Cadfael,
following the glance. “This morning he came.” “I have seen him,” said Rafe. “He came
back from the town just before Vespers. By the look and the sound of him he’s
done none too well, either, with whatever he’s about. I suppose it’s a man he’s
after?” “It is. The young man I told you of,” said
Cadfael drily, and studied his companion sidelong as they crossed the lighted
parish altar. “Yes, I remember. Then he’s come back empty-handed, no poor
wretch tethered to his stirrup leather.” But Rafe remained tolerantly
indifferent to young men, and indeed to the Bosiet clan. His thoughts were
somewhere else. At the alms box beside the altar he stopped, on impulse, and
dug a hand into the pouch slung at his waist, to draw out a handful of coins.
One of them slipped through his fingers, but he did not immediately stoop to
pick it up, but dropped three of its fellows into the box before he turned to
look for the stray. By which time Cadfael had lifted it from the tiled floor,
and had it in his open palm. If they had not been standing where the altar
candles gave a clear light he would have noticed nothing strange about it. A
silver penny like other silver pennies, the universal coin. Yet not quite like
any he had seen before in the alms boxes. It was bright and untarnished, but
indifferently struck, and it felt light in the hand. Clumsily arrayed round the
short cross on the reverse, the moneyer’s name appeared to be Sigebert, a
minter Cadfael never remembered to have heard of in the midlands. And when he
turned it, the crude head was not Stephen’s familiar profile, nor dead King
Henry’s, but unmistakably a woman’s, coifed and coroneted. It hardly needed the
name sprawled round the rim: “Matilda Dom. Ang.” The empress’s formal name and
title. It seemed her mintage was short-weight. He looked up to find Rafe watching him
steadily, and with a small private smile that held more irony than simple amusement.
There was a moment of silence while they eyed each other. Then: “Yes,” said
Rafe, “you are right. It would have been noted after I was gone. But it has a
value, even here. Your beggars will not reject it because it was struck in
Oxford.” “And no long time ago,” said Cadfael. “No long time ago.” “My besetting sin,” said Cadfael ruefully,
“is curiosity.” He held out the coin, and Rafe took it as gravely, and with
deliberation dropped it after its fellows into the alms box. “But I am not
loose-mouthed. Nor do I hold any honest man’s allegiance against him. A pity
there should have to be factions, and decent men fighting one another, and all
of them convinced they have the right of it. Come and go freely for me.” “And does your curiosity not extend,” wondered
Rafe softly, the wry smile perceptible in his voice, “to wondering what such a
man is doing here, so far from the battle? Come, I am sure you have guessed at
what I am. Perhaps you think I felt it the wiser part to get out of Oxford
before it was too late?” “No,” said Cadfael positively, “that never
did and never would enter my mind. Not of you! And why should so discreet a man
as that venture north into king’s country?” “No, granted that argues very little
wisdom,” agreed Rafe. “What would you guess then?” “I can think of one possibility,” said
Cadfael gravely and quietly. “We heard here of one man who did not take flight
of his own will out of Oxford, while there was time, but was sent. On his
lady’s business, and with that about him well worth stealing. And that he did
not get far, for his horse was found straying and blood-stained, all that he
had carried gone, and the man himself vanished from the face of the earth.”
Rafe was watching him attentively, his face unreadable as ever, the lingering smile
sombre but untroubled. “Such a man as you seem to me,” said Cadfael, “might
well have come so far north from Oxford looking for Renaud Bourchier’s
murderer.” Their eyes held, mutually accepting, even
approving, what they saw. Slowly and with absolute finality Rafe of Coventry
said: “No.” He stirred and sighed, breaking the spell of the brief but profound
silence that followed. “I am sorry, Brother, but no, you have not read me
right. I am not looking for Bourchier’s murderer. It was a good thought, almost
I wish it had been true. But it is not.” And with that he moved on towards the
south door, and out into the early twilight in the cloister, and Brother
Cadfael followed in silence, asking and offering nothing more. He knew truth
when he heard it. Chapter Ten IT WAS ABOUT THE SAME HOUR that Cadfael
and Rafe of Coventry emerged from the church after Vespers, when Hyacinth stole
out from Eilmund’s cottage, and made his way through the deepest cover towards
the river. He had been all that day pinned close within doors, for there had
again been men of the garrison sweeping through the forest, and though their
passage was rapid and cursory, for the aim was to carry the search further
afield, and though they knew Eilmund, and felt no compulsion to investigate his
holding a second time, they were still liable to look in on him in neighbourly
fashion as they passed, and ask him casually if anything of note had come to
his attention. Hyacinth did not take kindly to being shut within doors, nor,
indeed, to hiding. By the evening he was chafing at his confinement, but by
then the hunters were on their way back, abandoning the chase until the morrow,
and he was free to do a little hunting of his own. For all the wariness and
fear he felt on his own account, and admitted with his infallible and fiery
honesty, he could not rest for thinking of Richard, who had come running to
warn him, so gallantly and thoughtlessly. But for that the boy would never have
placed himself in danger. But why should there be danger to him in his own
woods, among his own people? In a troubled England there were lawless men
living wild, no doubt of that, but this shire had gone almost untouched by the
war for more than four years now, and seemed to enjoy a degree of peace and
order unmatched further south, and the town was barely seven miles distant, and
the sheriff active and young, and even, so far as a sheriff can be, popular
with his people. And the more Hyacinth thought about it, the more clear did it
seem to him that the only threat to Richard that he had ever heard of was Dame
Dionisia’s threat to marry him off to the two manors she coveted. For that she
had persisted in every device she could think of. Hyacinth had been her
instrument once, and could not forget it. She must be the force behind the
boy’s disappearance. True, the sheriff had descended on Eaton,
searched every corner, and found no trace, and no one, in a household devoted
to the boy, able to cast the least suspicion on Dionisia’s indignant innocence.
She had no other property where she could hide either boy or pony. And though
Fulke Astley might be willing to connive, feeling that he had as good a chance
of securing Eaton as she had of getting her hands on his daughter’s
inheritance, yet Wroxeter also had been searched thoroughly, and without
success. Today the hunt had moved on, and according
to all that Annet had gathered from the returning sergeants it would continue
as doggedly on the morrow, but it had not yet reached Leighton, two miles
down-river. And though Astley and his household preferred to live at Wroxeter,
the more remote manor of Leighton was also in his hold. It was the only starting point Hyacinth
could find, and it was worth a venture. If Richard had been caught in the woods
by some of Astley’s men, or those from Eaton who were willing to serve
Dionisia’s turn, it might well have been thought wisest to remove him as far as
Leighton, rather than try to hide him nearer home. Moreover, if she still
intended to force this marriage on the boy—there were ways of getting the right
answers out of even the most stubborn children, more by guile than by
terror—she needed a priest, and Hyacinth had been about the village of Eaton
long enough to know that Father Andrew was an honest man, by no means a good
tool for such a purpose. The priest at Leighton, less well acquainted with the
ins and outs of the affair, might be more amenable. At least it was one thing
which could be tested. It was no use Eilmund counselling him sensibly and
good-naturedly to stay where he was and not risk capture; even Eilmund
understood and approved what he called folly. Annet had not tried to dissuade
Hyacinth, only sensibly provided him a black, much worn coat of Eilmund’s too
wide for him but excellent for moving invisibly by night, and a dark capuchon
to shadow his face. Between the forest and the meanderings of
the river, downstream from the mill and the fisheries and the few cottages that
served them, the open water meadows extended, and there the light still hung,
and a faint ground mist lay veiling the green, and twined like a silver serpent
along the river. But along the northern rim the forest continued, halfway to
Leighton, and beyond that point the ground rose towards the last low foothills
of the Wrekin, and he would have to make use of what scattered cover remained.
But here where trees and grassland met he could move fast, keeping within the
edge of the woods but benefiting by the light of the open fields, and the
stillness and silence and the careful stealth of his own movements would ensure
that he should get due warning of any other creature stirring in the night. He had covered more than a mile when the
first small sounds reached him, and he froze, and stood with pricked ears,
listening intently. A single metallic note, somewhere behind him, harness
briefly shaken. Then a soft brushing of bushes as something passed, and then,
unmistakable though quiet, and still some distance away, a subdued voice
ventured briefly what sounded like a question, and as meekly subsided. Not one
person abroad in the dusk, but two, or why speak at all? And mounted, and
keeping to the rim of the woodland like himself, when it would have been
simpler by far to take to the meadows. Riders by night, no more anxious to be
observed than he was, and going in the same direction. Hyacinth strained his
ears to pick up the muted, leaf-cushioned tread of hooves, and try to determine
the line they were taking through the trees. Close to the rim, for the sake of
what light remained, but more concerned with secrecy than with haste. Cautiously Hyacinth withdrew further into
the forest, and stood motionless in cover to let them pass by. There was still
enough light left to make them a little more than shadowy outlines as they came
and passed in single file, first a tall horse that showed as a moving pallor,
probably a light grey, with a big, gross man on his back, bearded, bare-headed,
the folds of his capuchon draped on his shoulders. Hyacinth knew the shape and
the bearing, had seen this very man mount and ride, thus sack-like but solid in
the saddle, from Richard Ludel’s funeral. What was Fulke Astley doing here in
the night, making his way thus furtively, not by the roads but through the
forest, from one to the other of his own manors? For where else could he be
bound? And the figure that followed him, on a
thickset cob, was certainly a woman, and could be nobody else but his daughter,
surely, that unknown Hiltrude who seemed so old and unpleasing to young
Richard. So their errand, after all, was not so
mysterious. Of course they would want the marriage achieved as soon as
possible, if they had Richard in their hands. They had waited these few days
until both Eaton and Wroxeter had been searched, but with the hunt being spread
more widely they would wait no longer. Whatever risk they might be taking, once
the match was a reality they could weather whatever storms followed. They could
even afford to set Richard free to return to the abbey, for nothing and no one
but the authority of the church could set him free from a wife. And that being so, what could be done to
prevent? There was no time to run back either to Eilmund’s house, and have
Annet carry words to castle or abbey, or direct to the town, and Hyacinth still
found himself humanly reluctant to throw his own chance of liberty to the
winds. But it did not arise, there was no time left at all. If he went back, by
the time rescue could arrive for Richard he would be married. Perhaps there
might yet be time to find where they had hidden him, and whisk him away from
under their noses. These two were in no hurry, and Dame Dionisia had still to
make the short journey from Eaton without detection. And the priest—where would
they have found a willing priest? Nothing could be done until a priest was
there. Hyacinth forsook the thick cover, and made
his way deeper into the belt of forest, no longer intent on secrecy, only on
speed. At the pace the riders were making he could outrun them on a path, and
in this extremity he would venture even the highroad, if need be, and risk
meeting others still out on their own lawful occasions. But there was a path,
too near the open road for the Astleys to favour it, and merging into the road
itself once it had crossed the upland ridge. Hyacinth reached it and ran, fleet
and silent on the thick carpet of leaves too moist and limp to rustle under his
feet. Once out on to the open track and plunging downhill towards the village,
still almost a mile distant, he drew off again into the fields dipping to the
river, and ran from one scattered covert to another, assured now that he was
ahead of Astley. He waded the little stream that came down from the foot of the
Wrekin to reach the Severn here, and went on along the river bank. One isolated
tongue of woodland came down almost to the water, and from its shelter he could
see for the first time the low stockade of the manor, and the long level of the
roof within, sharp and clear against the glimmer of the water and the pallor of
the sky. It was good fortune that the trees
approached so closely to the stockade on the side nearest to the river bank.
From tree to tree Hyacinth darted, and reaching an oak that spread branches
across the barrier, climbed nimbly up into the crotch to peer cautiously within
the enclosure. He was looking at the long rear face of the house, across the
roofs of barn and byre and stable lining the containing fence. The same pattern
of a low undercroft, with hall and chamber and kitchen above on the living
floor, and the steps to the only door must be on the opposite side. Here there
was no entrance except to the undercroft, and only one small window, and that
was shuttered. Under it a small wing had been built out, extending the
undercroft. The shingled roof was steep, the eaves dipped fairly low. Hyacinth
eyed it speculatively, and debated how securely fastened those shutters might
be. To reach them would be easily possible, to find a way in by that road might
be more of a problem. But this rear face of the house was the only one
sheltered from observation. All this nefarious activity of Astleys and Ludels
would be centred round the single great doorway into the hall, on the other
side. He swung himself down to hang by his hands
within the pale, and dropped into a shadowy corner between barn and stable. At
least stumbling on this nocturnal journey eased him of one fear. Richard was
surely here, was alive and well and presentable as they wanted him, well fed,
well cared for, probably even indulged beyond normal in the hope of cajoling
him into willing consent. Indulged, in fact, with everything he could desire
and they furnish, except his freedom. And that was the first profound relief.
Now to get him out! Here in the darkening yard there was no one stirring.
Hyacinth slid softly out of his shelter and moved round the pale from shadow to
shadow, until he slipped round the corner to the eastern end of the house.
There were unshuttered windows above him here, subdued light shining through.
He refuged in the deep doorway to the undercroft, and stretched his ears for
voices from above, and thought that he caught wordless murmurings, as though
the aim was to keep everything of this night’s activities secret. Round the
next corner, where the steep stairway to the hall door ascended, there was a
torch fixed, he knew it by the flickering light spilled on the beaten earth
before him by fitful glimpses. There were servants moving there, too,
soft-stepping and low-voiced. And the dull sound of hooves, coming at a walk
into the court. The bride and her father arriving, thought Hyacinth, and
wondered for a fleeting moment how the girl felt about the match, and whether
she was not as wronged and slighted as Richard, and even more helpless. He drew back in some haste, for the grooms
would be leading the horses to the stables, which were in the near corner of
the yard, for he had heard the beasts stirring in their stalls as he hung
listening in the tree. The jutting wing of the undercroft provided cover from
that corner. He rounded it and flattened himself into the dark angle of the
walls behind the obstruction, and heard a single groom come leading both
mounts. He could not move until the man had gone,
and time was snapping at his heels like a herdsman’s dog. But the groom was
brisk, and wasted no time on his charges, perhaps wanting his bed, for it must
be getting late. Hyacinth heard the stable door slammed to, and the rapid
footsteps scurrying away round the corner of the house. Only then, when he was
able to draw off and take another look at this almost blind face of the manor,
did Hyacinth observe what he had missed before. Through the join in the massive
shutters on this, the only shuttered window in the house in these mild nights,
a hair-line of light showed. More noticeable still, in one of the boards, close
to the join, there was a small round eye of light, where a slanting knot in the
wood had fallen out and left a hole. Why should this rear room be shuttered and
lighted, unless it had a guest, and one who must be kept safe and secret?
Hyacinth doubted if the space between the stone mullions would be large enough to
let a man through, but it might be wide enough for a ten-year-old boy, and one
rather small for his years. With that low roof beneath the window, they would
not want him to make his escape, nor would they want any inquisitive person to
see him there within. It could at least be tried. Hyacinth leaped to get a hold
of the overhanging eaves, and hauled himself up on to the shingles, to lie flat
there against the stone wall, listening, though he had made little noise about
it, and no one stirred to take note or investigate. He drew himself cautiously
up the slope of the roof to the shuttered window. The timbers were heavy and
solid, and secured somehow within the room, for when he laid a hand under the
centre, where they joined, and essayed to pull them apart, they held fast as
iron, and he had no tools to try and force them apart, and doubted if he could
have done it even if he had had a whole armoury of implements. The hinges were
strong and immovable. Neither top nor bottom of the shutters yielded to force
even by a hair. There must be iron bolts that could be shot from within, and
securely locked. And time was running out. Richard was strong-willed, obstinate
and ingenious. If it had been possible for him to break out from his prison, he
would have done it long ago. Hyacinth laid his ear to the hair-line
crack, but could hear nothing moving within. He must now make sure whether he
was wasting the time which was so precious and running out so fast. At the risk
of being detected, he rapped with his knuckles against the shutter, and setting
his lips to the tiny eye of light, sent a shrill whistle through the hole. This time there was an audible gasp
somewhere in the room, then a rapid scrambling, as if someone had uncurled from
being coiled defensively into a corner, set foot to floor, and taken a couple
of startled steps across the room, only to halt again in doubt and alarm.
Hyacinth rapped again, and called softly through the hole: “Richard, is that
you?” Light footsteps came in a rush, a small
body crowded against the inner side of the shutters. “Who is it?” whispered
Richard’s voice urgently, close to the crack of light. “Who’s there?” “Hyacinth! Richard, are you alone? I can’t
get in to you. Is all well with you?” “No!” breathed the voice in indignant
complaint, and proving by its spirit and anger that in fact he was in very good
heart and excellent condition. “They won’t let me out, they keep hammering and
hammering at me to do what they want, and agree to be married. They’re bringing
her tonight, they’re going to make me…” “I know,” groaned Hyacinth, “but I can’t
get you out. And there’s no time to get word to the sheriff. Tomorrow I could,
but I saw them coming here tonight.” “They won’t let me out until I do what
they want,” Richard hissed grievously into the crack. “I almost said I would.
They go on and on at me, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m frightened
they’ll only take me and hide me somewhere else if I refuse, because they know
every house is being searched.” His voice was losing its bold, belligerent tone
and faltering into distress. It’s hard for a boy of ten to stand off for long
the implacable adults who hold the upper hand. “My grandmother promised I
should have whatever I liked, whatever I wanted, if I’d say the words she wants
me to say. But I don’t want a wife…” “Richard… Richard…” Hyacinth was repeating
persistently into this lament, and for a while unheard. “Listen, Richard!
They’ll have to bring a priest to marry you—not Father Andrew, surely, he’d
have scruples—but someone. Speak to him, tell him it’s against your will, tell
him—Richard, have you heard who it’s to be?” A new and arresting thought had
entered his mind. “Who is to marry you?” “I heard them,” whispered Richard, grown
calm again, “saying they couldn’t trust Father Andrew. My grandmother is
bringing the hermit with her to do it.” “Cuthred? You’re sure?” Hyacinth had
almost forgotten to keep his voice down in his astonishment. “Yes, Cuthred. Yes, I’m sure, I heard her
say so.” “Richard, listen, then!” Hyacinth leaned
close, his lips to the crack. “If you refuse, they’ll only visit it on you, and
take you away somewhere else. Better for you to do what they want. No, trust
me, do what I say, it’s the only way we can foil them. Believe me, you won’t
have anything to fear, you won’t be burdened with a wife, you’re safe as in
sanctuary. Just do as I say, be meek and obedient, and let them think you
tamed, and they may even let you take your pony and ride back to the abbey, for
they’ll have what they wanted, and think it can’t be undone. But it can! Oh,
never fret, they won’t want anything more of you, not for years yet! Trust me,
and do it! Will you? Quickly, before they come! Will you do it?” Bemused and doubtful, Richard faltered:
“Yes!” but could not help protesting the next moment: “But how can that be? Why
do you say it’s safe?” Hyacinth pressed close and whispered the answer. He knew
by the sudden shaken spurt of laughter, exuberant and brief, that Richard had
caught it and understood. And just in time, for he heard from across the room
the sharp clash of a door being unbolted and flung open, and the voice of Dame
Dionisia, honey and gall, half cajoling and half menacing, saying firmly and
loudly: “Your bride is come, Richard. Here is Hiltrude. And you will be
gracious and courteous to her, will you not, and please us all?” Richard must have darted away from the
window at the first touch of a hand on the bolt, for his small, cautious voice
said just audibly, and from some yards distant: “Yes, grandmother!” Unwillingly
dutiful, reluctantly obedient, a will only half-broken, but half would do! Her gratified but still wary: “That’s my
good child!” was the last thing Hyacinth heard as he edged his way carefully
down the slope of the roof and dropped to the ground. He went on his homeward
way without haste, content with his night’s work. There was now no urgency, he
could afford to go slowly, mindful that he himself was still hunted. For the
boy was alive, well fed, well cared for, and in good spirits. No actual harm
had come to him, none would come, however he chafed at being a prisoner. And in
the end he would have the laugh of his captors. Hyacinth made his way blithely
through the soft, chilly night scented with the rising mist of the water
meadows, and the deep, dank leaf mould of the woods. The moon rose, but so
veiled that it gave only a dim grey light. By midnight he would be safely back
in his sanctuary in Eyton forest. And in the morning, by some means Annet would
contrive for the purpose, Hugh Beringar should learn exactly where to look for
Brother Paul’s lost schoolboy. When it was all over, and he had done what
they wanted, however grudgingly, Richard had expected to be made much of by way
of gratitude, perhaps even let out from this small room which was his prison,
however comfortable it might be. He was not so foolish as to suppose that they
would set him free to do as he pleased. He would have to keep up this meek
front for a while, and suppress the inward glee he felt at having the laugh of
them in secret, before they would dare to produce him before the world, with
what manner of story to account for his loss and recovery he could not guess,
but they would have it all off by heart. Certainly they would say he had
consented of his own will to the ceremony just completed, and to the best of
their knowledge it would then be far too late for him to say anything to the
contrary, since what was done could not be undone. Only Richard knew that in
fact nothing had been done to need undoing. He had absolute faith in Hyacinth.
Whatever Hyacinth said was sooth. But he had considered that they would owe him
thanks and indulgence for his compliance. He had preserved his sullen but
subdued face, because it would have been too betraying to let even a gleam of
laughter show through, but he had repeated all the words they dictated to him,
had even brought himself to take Hiltrude’s hand when he was told to do so,
though he had never once looked at her until the sound of her soft, dull voice,
repeating the vows as resignedly as his own, had jolted him into wondering for
a moment if she was being forced as he was. That possibility had never occurred
to him until then, and he did lift a furtive glance to her face. She was not so
very old, after all, and not very tall, and did not look like a threat so much
as a victim. She might not even be really plain if only she did not look so
subdued and glum. His startled impulse of sympathy for her was complicated by a
grain of equally surprised resentment that she should seem as depressed at
marrying him as he had good cause to be at marrying her. But after all his compliance, not a word
of thanks, rather his grandmother studied him ominously and at length, and he
was afraid with some lingering suspicion in her eye, and then admonished him
grimly: “You have done well to come to your duty at last, and behave yourself
fittingly towards those who know best for you. See that you keep to that mind,
sir! Now say your goodnight to your wife. Tomorrow you shall get to know her
better.” And he had done as he was told, and they
had all left him there, still bolted in alone, though they had sent a servant
with food from the supper they were no doubt enjoying in the hall. He sat
brooding on his bed, thinking over all that had happened in one late evening,
and all that might follow next day. Hiltrude he forgot as soon as she was out
of sight. He knew about these affairs. If you were only ten years old they
didn’t, for some reason, make you live with your wife, not until you were grown
up. While she remained under the same roof with you, you would be expected to
be civil to her, perhaps even attentive, but then she would go back with her
father to her own home until you were thought to be old enough to share your
bed and household with her. Now that he began to think seriously about it, it
seemed to Richard that there were no privileges at all attached to being
married, his grandmother would go on treating him just as before, as a child of
no account, ordering him about, scolding him, cuffing him if he annoyed her,
even beating him if he defied her. In short, it behoved the lord of Eaton to
regain his liberty by whatever means offered, and escape out of her hold. He
could not be very important to her now, he had served his purpose, what
mattered was the land settlement. If she felt she had secured that, she might
soon be willing to let go of the instrument. Richard rolled himself warmly in
his brychans and went to sleep. If they were discussing him in hall, and
debating what to do about him, that did not trouble his dreams. He was too
young and too innocently hopeful to take his problems to bed with him. His door was still bolted next morning,
and the servant who brought his breakfast gave him no chance to slip past,
though indeed he had no intention of trying it, since he knew he would not get
far, and his role now was to continue to be docile and disarm suspicion. When
his grandmother drew the bolt and came in to him it was old familiar habit,
rather than guile, that caused him to rise at her entrance, as he had been
taught, and lift up his face for her kiss. And the kiss was no chillier than it
had always been, and for a moment he felt the inescapable kindness of the blood
warm them both, something he had never questioned, though she had very seldom
expressed it. The contact caused him to shake, and brought the sudden
astonished sting of tears into his eyes just as inevitably as the surge of
obstinate recoil into his mind. It did him no harm with her. She looked down at
him from her erect and formidable height with a somewhat softened gaze. “Well, sir, and how do you find yourself
this morning? Are you minded to be a good, obedient boy, and do all you can to
please me? If so, you shall find you and I will get on very well together. You
have made a beginning, now go on as you began. And think shame that you defied
and denied me so long.” Richard drooped his long lashes and looked down at his
feet. “Yes, grandmother.” And then, in meek assay: “May I go out today? I don’t
like being shut in here, as if it was night all the time.” “We’ll see,” she said, but to Richard the
tone clearly meant: “No!” She would not reason nor bargain, only lay down the
law to him. “But not yet, you have not deserved it. First prove that you’ve
learned where your duty lies, and then you shall have your freedom again. You
are not ill done to, you have everything you need here, be content until you
have earned more and better.” “But I have!” he flashed. “I did what you
wanted, you ought to do what I want. It’s unfair to shut me up here, unfair and
unkind. I don’t even know what you’ve done with my pony.” “Your pony is safe in the stable,” said
Dionisia sharply, “and well cared for, as you are. And you had best mind your
manners with me, sir, or you’ll have cause to regret it. They’ve taught you at
that abbey school to be saucy to your elders, but it’s a lesson you had better
unlearn as quickly as you can, for your own sake.” “I’m not being saucy,” he pleaded,
relapsing into sullenness. “I only want to be in daylight, I want to go out,
not sit here without even being able to see the trees and the grass. It’s
wretched in here, without any company…” “You shall have company,” she promised,
seizing on one complaint to which she could provide a complaisant answer. “I’ll
send your bride to keep you company. I want you to get to know her better now,
for after today she’ll return to Wroxeter with her father, and you, Richard,”
she said warningly and with a sharpening eye on him, “will return with me to
your own manor, to take your proper place. And I shall expect you to conduct
yourself properly there, and not go hankering after that school, now that
you’re married and a man of substance. Eaton is yours, and that is where you
should be, and I expect you to maintain that, if anyone—anyone—should call it
in question. Do you understand me, sir?” He understood her very well. He was to
be cajoled, intimidated, bullied into declaring, even to Brother Paul and
Father Abbot if need be, that he had run home to his grandmother of his own
will, and of his own will submitted to the marriage they had planned for him.
He hugged his secret knowledge gleefully to his heart as he said submissively:
“Yes, madam!” “Good! And now I’ll send in Hiltrude to
you, and see that you behave well to her. You will have to get used to her, and
she to you, so you may as well begin now.” And she relented so far as to kiss
him again on leaving him, though it resembled a slap as much as a kiss. She
went out in a dusty swirl of long green skirts, and he heard the bolt shot
again after her. And what had he got out of all that, except the fact that his
pony was in the stable here, and if only he could get to it he might make his
escape even now. But presently in came Hiltrude, as his grandmother had
threatened, and all his resentment and dislike of the girl, undeserved though
it was, boiled up within him into childish anger. She still seemed to him to belong at least
to the generation of the mother he could hardly remember, but she was not
really utterly plain, she had a clear, pale skin and large, guarded brown eyes,
and if her hair was straight and of a mousey brown colour, she had a great mass
of it, plaited in a thick braid that hung to her waist. She did not look
ill-natured, but she did look bitterly resigned and wretched. She stood for a
moment with her back to the door, staring thoughtfully at the boy curled up
glumly on his bed. “So they’ve sent you to be my guard dog,” said Richard
unpleasantly. Hiltrude crossed the room and sat down on the sill of the
shuttered window, and looked at him without favour. “I know you don’t like me,”
she said, not sadly but with quite unexpected vigour. “Small reason why you
should, and for that matter, I don’t like you. But it seems we’re both bound,
no help for it now. Why, why did you ever give way? I only said I would, at last,
because I was so sure you were safe enough there at the abbey, and they’d never
let it come to this. And then you have to fall into their hands like a fool,
and let them break you down. And here we both are, and may God help us!” She
relented of the note of exasperation in her own voice, and ended with weary
kindness: “It’s not your fault, you’re only a child, what could you do? And it
isn’t that I dislike you, I don’t even know you, it’s just that I didn’t want
you, I don’t want you, any more than you want me.” Richard was staring at her, by this time,
with mouth and eyes wide open, struck dumb with astonishment at finding her, as
it were, not a token embarrassment, a millstone round his neck, but a real
person with a great deal to say for herself, and by no means a fool. Slowly he
uncoiled his slim legs and set his feet to the floor, to feel solid substance
under him. Slowly he repeated, in a small, shocked voice: “You never wanted to
marry me?” “A baby like you?” she said, careless of
offence. “No, I never did.” “Then why did you ever agree to do it?” He
was too indignant over her capitulation to resent the reflection on his years.
“If you’d said no, and kept saying it, we should both have been saved.” “Because my father is a man very hard to
say no to, and had begun to tell me that I was getting too old to have another
suitor, and if I didn’t take you I should be forced to enter a sisterhood and
stay a maid until I died. And that I wanted even less. And I thought the abbot
would keep fast hold of you, and nothing would ever be allowed to come of it.
And now here we are, and what are we to do about it?” Himself surprised at feeling an almost
sympathetic curiosity about this woman who had sloughed a skin before his eyes,
and emerged as vivid and real as himself, Richard asked almost shyly: “What do
you want? If you could have your way, what would you like to have?” “I would like,” said Hiltrude, her brown
eyes suddenly burning with anger and loss, “a young man named Evrard, who keeps
my father’s manor roll and is his steward at Wroxeter, and who likes me, too,
whether you think that likely or not. But he’s a younger son and has no land,
and where there’s no land to marry to his own my father has no interest.
There’s an uncle who may well leave his manor to Evrard, being fond of him and
childless, but land now is what my father wants, not someday and maybe land.”
The fire burned down. She turned her head aside. “Why do I tell you this? You
can’t understand, and it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you can do to better
it.” Richard was beginning to think that there
might be something very pertinent he could do for her, if she in her turn would
do something for him. Cautiously he asked: “What are they doing now, your
father and my grandmother? She said you’d be going back to Wroxeter after
today. What are they planning? And has Father Abbot been looking for me all
this time since I left?” “You didn’t know? Not only the abbot, but
the sheriff and all his men are looking for you. They’ve searched Eaton and
Wroxeter, and are beating every bush in the forest. My father was afraid they
might reach here by today, but she thought not. They were wondering whether to
move you back to Eaton in the night, since it’s been searched already, but Dame
Dionisia felt sure the officers had several days” work left before they’d reach
Leighton, and in any case, she said, if a proper watch was set there’d be ample
time to put you over the river with an escort and send you down to shelter at
Buildwas. Better, she said, than moving you back towards Shrewsbury yet.” “Where are they now?” asked Richard
intently. “My grandmother?” “She’s ridden back to Eaton to have
everything there looking just as it should. Her hermit went back to his cell in
the night. It wouldn’t do if anyone knew he’d been away.” “And your father?” “He’s out and about among his tenants
here, but he’ll not be far away. He took his clerk with him. There’ll be dues
unpaid that he wants collected, I daresay.” She was indifferent to her father’s
movements, but she did feel some curiosity as to what was going on in this
child’s head, to sharpen his voice into such hopeful purpose, and brighten his
disconsolate eye. “Why? What is there in that for you? Or for me!” she added
bitterly. “There might,” said Richard, beginning to
glitter, “be something I can do for you, something good, if you’ll do something
for me in return. If they’re both out of the house, help me to get away while
they’re gone. My pony’s there in the stable, she told me as much. If I could
get to him and slip away, you could bolt the door again, and no one would know
I was gone until evening.” She shook her head decisively. “And who would get
the blame? I wouldn’t put it off on to one of the servants, and I’ve no great
appetite for it myself. The troubles I already have are enough for me, I thank
you!” But she added warily, seeing that his hopeful fire was by no means
quenched: “But I would be willing to think out the best means, if I thought it
would solve anything for me. But how can it? For a fair deliverance I’d venture
anything Father could say or do. But what’s the use, when we’re tied together
as we are, and no way out?” Richard bounded up from his bed and darted across
the room to settle confidingly beside her on the broad sill. Close to her ear
he said breathlessly: “If I tell you a secret, will you swear to keep it until
I’m safely away, and help me to get out of here? I promise you, I promise you
it will be worth your while.” “You are dreaming,” she said tolerantly,
turning to look at him thus closely, and seeing his secret brightness undimmed
by her disbelief. “There’s no way out of marriage unless you’re a prince and
have the Pope’s ear, and who cares about lesser folk like us? True, we’re not
bedded, nor will be for years yet, but if you think your old dame and my father
would ever let it come to an annulment, you waste your hopes. They’ve got their
way, they’ll never let go of their gains.” “No, it’s nothing like that,” he
persisted, “we need nothing from Pope or law. You must believe me. At least
promise not to tell, and when you hear what it is, you’ll be willing to help
me, too.” “Very well,” she said, humouring him, even
half convinced now that he knew something she did not know, but still doubting
if it would or could deliver them. “Very well, I promise. What is this precious
secret?” Gleefully he advanced his lips to her ear, his cheek teased by the
touch of a lock of her hair that curled loose there, and breathed his secret as
though the very boards at their backs had ears. And after one incredulous instant
of stillness and silence she began to laugh very softly, to shake with her
laughter, and throwing her arms about Richard, hugged him briefly to her heart.
“For that you shall go free, whatever it cost me! You deserve it!” Chapter Eleven ONCE CONVINCED, it was she who made the
plans. She knew the house and the servants, and as long as there was no
suspicion of her subservience she had the entry everywhere, and could give
orders to grooms and maids as she pleased. “Best wait until after they’ve brought
your dinner and taken away the dish again. It will be a longer time then before
anyone comes in to you again. There’s a back gate through the pale, from the
stable out into the paddock. I could tell Jehan to turn your pony out to grass,
he’s been shut in too long to be liking it. There are some bushes in the field
there, round behind the stable, close to the wicket. I’ll make shift to hide
your saddle and harness there before noon. I can get you out of here through
the undercroft, while they’re all busy in hall and kitchens.” “But your father will be home then,”
protested Richard doubtfully. “After his dinner my father will be
snoring. If he does look in on you at all, it will be before he sits down to
table, to make sure you’re safe in your cage. Better for me, too, I shall have
sat out my morning with you gallantly, who’s to think I’ll change my tune after
that? It might even be good sport,” said Hiltrude, growing animated in
contemplating her benevolent mischief, “when they go to take you your supper, and
find the window still shuttered and barred, and the bird flown.” “But then everyone will be harried and
cursed and blamed,” said Richard, “because somebody must have drawn the bolt.” “So then we all deny it, and whoever looks
likeliest to be suspected I’ll bring off safely, saying he’s never been out of
my sight and never touched the door since your dinner went in. If it comes to
the worst,” said Hiltrude, with uncustomary resolution, “I’ll say I must have
forgotten to shoot the bolt after leaving you the last time. What can he do?
He’ll still be thinking he has you trapped in marriage with me, wherever you
run to. Better still,” she cried, clapping her hands, “I’ll be the one who
brings you your dinner, and waits with you, and brings out the dish again—then
no one else can be blamed for leaving the door unbolted. A wife should begin at
once to wait on her husband, it will look well.” “You’re not afraid of your father?”
ventured Richard, open-eyed with startled respect, even admiration, but
reluctant to leave her to sustain so perilous a part. “I am—I was! Now, whatever happens, it
will be worth the pains. I must go, Richard, while there’s no one in the
stable. You wait and trust me, and keep up your heart. You’ve lifted mine!” She was at the door when Richard, still
thoughtfully following her light and buoyant passage, so changed from the
subdued, embittered creature whose cold hand he had held in the night, said
impulsively after her: “Hiltrude—I think I might do worse than marry you, after
all.” And added, with barely decent haste:
“But not yet!” Everything that she had promised she
performed. She brought his dinner, and sat with him and made desultory, awkward
talk while he ate it, such talk as might be expected to a stranger, and a child
at that, and one forced upon her and reluctantly accepted, so that however much
he might be resented, there was no longer any point in being at odds with him.
Less from guile than because he was hungry and busy eating, Richard responded
with grunts rather than words. Had anyone been listening, they would certainly
have found the exchanges depressingly appropriate. Hiltrude carried the dish back to the
kitchen, and returned to him as soon as she had made certain that everyone else
about the house was occupied. The narrow wooden stair down into the undercroft
was conveniently screened from the passage that led to the kitchen, they had no
trouble in skipping hastily down it, and emerging from below ground by the deep
doorway where Hyacinth had sheltered, and from there it was just one dangerous
dart across open ground to the wicket in the fence, half hidden by the bulk of
the stable. Saddle and bridle and all, she had left his harness concealed
behind the bushes, and the sable pony came to him gladly. Close under the rear wall
of the stable he saddled up in trembling haste, and led the pony out of the
paddock and down towards the river, where the belt of trees offered cover,
before he dared to tighten the girth and mount. Now, if all went well, he had
until early evening before he would be missed. Hiltrude went back up the stairs
from the undercroft, and took care to spend her afternoon blamelessly among the
women of the household, within sight every moment, and occupied with the proper
affairs of the lady of the manor. She had bolted Richard’s door, since clearly
if it had been inadvertently left unfastened, and the prisoner taken advantage
of the fact, even a ten-year-old boy would have the sense to shoot the bolt
again and preserve the appearances. When the flight was discovered she could
very well protest that she had no recollection of forgetting to fasten it,
though admitting at last that she must have done so. But by then, if all went
well, Richard would be back in the abbey enclave, and taking belated thought
how to present himself as the blameless victim, and bury all recollection of
the guilty truant who had run off without permission and caused all this
turmoil and anxiety. Well, that was Richard’s affair. She had done her part. It was a pity that the groom who had turned
Richard’s pony into the paddock should have occasion to fetch in one of the
other beasts out to graze, about the middle of the afternoon, since he had
noticed that it was slightly lame. He could hardly fail to observe that the
pony was gone. Seizing on the first and obvious, if none too likely,
possibility, he was halfway across the court crying that there had been thieves
in the paddock before it occurred to him to go back and look in the stable for
the saddle and harness. That put a somewhat different complexion on the loss.
And besides, why take the least valuable beast in sight? And why risk theft in
daylight? Good dark nights were more favourable. So he arrived in hall
announcing loudly and breathlessly that the young bridegroom’s pony was gone, saddle
and all, and my lord had better look to see if he still had the boy safe under
lock and key. Fulke went himself, in haste, hardly believing the news, and
found the door securely bolted as before, but the room within empty. He let out
a bellow of rage that made Hiltrude flinch over her embroidery frame, but she
kept her eyes lowered to her work, and went on demurely stitching until the
storm erupted in the doorway and swelled to fill the hall. “Which of you was it? Who waited on him
last? Which fool among you, fools every one as you are, left the door unbarred?
Or has one of you loosed him deliberately, in my despite? I’ll have the hide of
the traitorous wretch, whoever he may be. Speak up! Who took the slippery imp
his dinner?” The menservants held off out of his immediate reach, every one
babbling out his own innocence. The maids fluttered and looked sidelong at one
another, but hesitated to say a word against their mistress. But Hiltrude, her
courage fast in both hands and bulking encouragingly solid now that it came to
the test, laid her work aside and said boldly, not yet sounding defensive:
“But, Father, you know I did that myself. You saw me bring out the dish
afterwards. Certainly I bolted the door again I feel sure I did. No one else
has been in to him since, unless you have visited him yourself, sir. Who else
would, unless he was sent? And I’ve sent nobody.” “Are you so certain, madam?” roared Fulke.
“You’ll tell me next the lad’s not gone at all, but sitting there where he
should be. If you were the last to go in there, then you’re to blame for
letting him slip out and take to his heels. You must have left the door
unbolted, how else could he get out? How could you be such a fool?” “I did not leave it unbolted,” she
repeated, but with less certainty this time. “Or even if I may have forgotten,”
she conceded defensively, “though I don’t believe I did—but if I did, does it
matter so much now? He can’t alter what’s done, nor can anyone else. I don’t
see why it should cause such a flurry.” “You don’t see, you don’t see—you don’t
see beyond the end of your nose, madam! And he to go running back to his abbot,
with the tales he can tell?” “But he has to come back into the light
sooner or later,” she said meekly. “You couldn’t keep him shut up for ever.” “So he has, we all know it, but not yet,
not until we’ve got his mark—no, for he can sign his name, which is better!—on
the marriage settlements, and made him see he may as well fit his story to
ours, and accept what’s done. A few days and it could all have been done our
way, the proper way. But I’ll not let him get away without a race for it,”
swore Fulke vengefully, and turned to roar at his petrified grooms: “Saddle my
horse, and make haste about it! I’m going after him. He’ll make straight for
the abbey, and keep well clear of Eaton, surely. I’ll have him back by the ear
yet!” In the full light of afternoon Richard did
not dare take to the road, even by skirting the village widely. There he could
have made better speed, but might all too easily attract the attention of
tenants or retainers who would serve Astley’s ends for their own sakes, and
drag him back to his captivity. Moreover, the road would take him far too close
to Eaton. He kept to the belt of woodland that stretched westward for half a
mile or so above the river, thinning as it went until it was no more than a
belt of single oaks spaced out beside the water. Beyond that, emerald water
meadows filled a great bend in the Severn, open and treeless. There he kept
inland far enough to have some cover from the few bushes that grew along the
headlands of the Leighton fields. Upstream, where he must go, the valley
widened into a great green level of flood meadows, with only a few isolated
trees on the higher spots, but the northern bank where he rode rose within
another mile into the low ridge of Eyton forest, where he could go in thick
cover for more than half the distance to Wroxeter. It would mean going more
slowly, but it was not pursuit he feared then, it was being recognised and
intercepted on the way. Wroxeter he must avoid at all costs, and the only way
he knew was by fording the Severn there, short of the village and out of sight
of the manor, to reach the road on the southern side, and then ride full tilt
for the town. He made a little too much haste in the
forest, where his familiarity with the land had led him to take a short cut
between paths, and paid for it with a fall when his pony stepped in the soft
edge of a badger’s sett. But he dropped lightly enough into the thick
cushioning of leaves, and escaped with a few bruises, and the pony, startled
and skittish but docile, came back to him readily once the first fright was
over. After that he bore in mind that haste was not necessarily another word
for speed, and took more care until he came to the more open ways. He had not
reasoned about his flight, but set off bent on getting back to the abbey and
making his peace there, whatever scoldings and punishments might be waiting for
him, once all anxiety on his behalf was banished. He knew enough about grown-up
people, however various they might seem in all other ways, to understand that
they all shared the same instinct when a child in their charge was recovered
out of danger, to hug him first, and clout him immediately afterwards. If,
indeed, the clout did not come first! He would not mind that. Now that he had
been dragged forcibly away from the schoolroom, and Brother Paul, and his
fellow pupils, and even the awesome face of Father Abbot, all he wanted was to
get back to them, to have the safe walls and the even safer horarium of the
monastic day wrapped round him like a warm cloak. He could, had he even thought
of it, have ridden to the mill by the river at Eyton, or the forester’s
cottage, any dwelling on this soil held by the abbey, and been received into
safe shelter, but that possibility never entered his head. He made for the
abbey like a bird to its nest. At this moment he had no other home, lord of
Eaton though he might be. Once out of the forest there was a good
and open track almost to the ford, which lay on the southern side of Wroxeter
village. Over these two miles he went briskly, but not so fast as to call
attention to himself, for here there were other people to be met with
occasionally, about their daily business in the fields or travelling the path
between villages. He saw none that he knew, and answered such casual greetings
as they gave him as briefly as they were given, and did not loiter. The belt of trees on the near side of the
ford came into view, the few willows dipping to the water, and the top of the
tower of the collegiate church just showed among the branches, with one corner
of a roof. The rest of the village and the demesne lay beyond. Richard
approached the shelter of the trees cautiously, and dismounted in cover to peer
through at the shallow spread of the water round a small island, and the path
that came down from the village to the ford. He heard the voices before he
reached a clear view, and halted to listen acutely, hoping the speakers would
pass towards the village and leave his path clear. Two women, chattering and
laughing, and an accompanying light splashing in the edge of the water, and
then a man’s voice, equally idle and easy, teasing and chaffing the girls.
Richard ventured closer, until he could see the speakers clearly, and halted
with an indrawn breath of exasperation and dismay. The women had been washing
linen, and had it spread on the low bushes to dry, and since the day was not
cold, and since they had been joined by a young and not unattractive companion,
they were in no hurry to leave the shore. Richard did not know the women, but
the man he knew only too well, though not his name. This big, red-haired,
strutting young gamecock was Astley’s foreman on the demesne farm, and one of
the two who had encountered and recognised Richard in the woods, trotting home
to the abbey in haste, and taken advantage of the hour and the solitude to do
their lord a favour. Those same muscular arms which were now making free with
one of the giggling laundresses had hoisted Richard ignominiously out of the
saddle, and held him kicking and raging over a thick shoulder that might have
been made of oak for all the effect his belabouring fists had on it, until the
other miscreant had stopped the boy’s mouth with his own capuchon, and pinioned
his arms with his own reins. That same night, when it was fully dark, past
midnight and all honest folk in their beds, the same trusted pair had bundled
him away to the more distant manor for safekeeping. Richard remembered these
indignities bitterly. And now here was this very fellow getting in his way once
again, for he could not ride out of cover and make for the ford without passing
close and being recognised, and almost certainly recaptured. There was nothing to be done but draw back
into deeper cover and wait for them all to go away, back to the village and the
manor. No hope of circling Wroxeter by a wider way and continuing on this north
bank of the river, he was already too close to the edge of the village and all
the approaches were open to view. And he was losing time, and without reasoning
why, he felt that time was vital. He lost an hour there, gnawing his knuckles
in desperate frustration and watching for the first move. Even when the women
did decide to take up their washing and make for home they were in no hurry
about it, but dawdled away up the path still bantering and laughing with the
young man who strode between them. Only when their voices had faded into
silence, and no other soul stirred about the ford, did Richard venture out from
cover and spur his pony splashing down into the shallows. The ford was smooth going in the first
stretch, sandy and shallow, then the path trod dry-shod over the tip of the
island, and again plunged into the long passage beyond, a wide archipelago of
small, sandy shoals, dimpling and gleaming with the soft, circuitous motion of
the water. In mid-passage Richard drew rein for a moment to look back, for the
broad, innocent expanse of green meadows oppressed him with a feeling of
nakedness and apprehension. Here he could be seen from a mile or more away, a
small dark figure on horseback, defenceless and vulnerable, against a landscape
all moist, pearly light and pale colours. And there, riding at a gallop towards
the ford, on the same path by which he had come, distant and small still but
all too purposefully riding after him, came a single horseman on a big,
light-grey horse, Fulke Astley in determined pursuit of his truant son-in-law. Richard shot through the shallows in a
flurry of spray, and was off in a desperate hurry through the wet meadows,
heading west for the track that would bring him in somewhat over four miles to
Saint Giles, and the last straight run to the abbey gatehouse. Over a mile to
go before he could find cover in the undulating ground and the scattered groves
of trees, but even then he could not hope to shake off the pursuit now that he
had been sighted, as surely he must have been. And his pony was no match for
that raking dappled beast behind him. But speed was the only hope he had. He
still had a fair start, even if he had lost the best of it waiting to cross the
ford. He dug in his heels and set his teeth and made for Shrewsbury as if
wolves were at his heels. The ground rose, folded in low hills, dotted with
trees and slopes of bushes, hiding hunted and hunter from each other, but the
distance between them must be shortening, and where the track ran level and
unsheltered for a while Richard stole an uneasy glance over his shoulder,
glimpsed his enemy again, nearer than before, and paid for his momentary
inattention with another fall, though this time he clung to the reins and saved
himself both the worst of the shock and the effort of catching his pony again.
Muddied and bruised and furious with himself, he scrambled headlong back into
the saddle and rode wildly on, feeling Astley’s fixed stare as a dagger in his
back. It was fortunate that the pony was Welsh-bred and sturdy, and had been
some days spoiling for exercise, and that the weight he carried was so light,
but even so the pace was unkind, and Richard knew it and fretted over it, but
could not slacken it. By the time the fence of Saint Giles came in sight, and
the track broadened into a road, he could hear the hooves pounding somewhere
behind him. But for that he might have turned in there for refuge, since the
leper hospice was manned and served by the abbey, and Brother Oswin would not
have surrendered him to anyone unless on the abbot’s orders. But by then there
was no time to halt or turn aside. Richard crouched low and galloped on along
the Foregate, every moment expecting to see Fulke Astley’s massive shadow cast
across his quarter, and a big hand stretching out to grasp his bridle. Round
the corner of the abbey wall now, and pounding along the straight stretch to
the gatehouse, scattering the craftsmen and cottagers just ending their day’s
work and turning homeward, and the children and dogs playing in the highway. There was barely five yards between them
when Richard swung recklessly in at the gatehouse. At Vespers that evening there were several
worshippers from the guest hall, as Cadfael noted from his place in the choir.
Rafe of Coventry was present, taciturn and unobtrusive as ever, and even Aymer
Bosiet, after his day’s activities in pursuit of his elusive property, had put
in a morose and grim appearance, possibly to pray for a reliable lead from
heaven. By the look of him he had weighty matters on his mind, since he was
frowning over them all through Vespers, like a man trying to make up his mind.
Perhaps the necessity to remain on good terms with his mother’s powerful kin
was urging him to hasten home at once with Drogo’s body, and show some signs of
family piety. Perhaps the thought of a subtle younger brother, there on the
spot and fully capable of mischief for his own advancement, might also be
arguing for the abandonment of a wild-goose chase in favour of a certain
inheritance. Whatever his preoccupations, he provided
one more witness to the scene that confronted brothers and guests when the
office was over, and they emerged by the south door and passed along the west
range of the cloister into the great court, to disperse there to their various
preparations for supper. Abbot Radulfus was just stepping out into the court,
with Prior Robert and the whole procession of the brothers following, when the
evening quiet was broken by the headlong thud of hooves along the beaten earth
of the roadway outside the gatehouse, turning abruptly to a steely clatter on
the cobbles within, as a stout black pony hurtled in past the gatehouse without
stopping, slithering and stamping on the stones, closely followed by a tall
grey horse. The rider on the grey was a big, fleshy, bearded man, crimson-faced
with anger or haste, or both together, leaning forward to snatch at the bridle
of the boy who rode the pony. The two of them had shot a matter of twenty yards
or so into the centre of the court when his outstretched hand reached the rein,
and hauled both mounts to a sliding, snorting halt, lathered and trembling. He
had secured the pony, but not the boy, who let out a yell of alarm, and
abandoning his reins, rather fell than dismounted on the other side, and fled
like a homing bird to the abbot’s feet, where he stumbled and fell flat on his
face, and winding his arms desperately round the abbot’s ankles, wailed out an
indistinguishable appeal into the skirts of the black habit and hung on
tightly, half expecting to be plucked away by force, and certain no one could
prevent it, if the attempt was made, except for this erect and stable rock to
which he clung. The quiet which had been so roughly
shattered had settled again with startling suddenness on the great court.
Radulfus raised his intent and austere stare from the small figure hugging his
ankles to the stout and confident man who had left the quivering horses
sweating side by side, and advanced some paces to meet him, by no means abashed
before the monastic authority. “My lord, this is somewhat unceremonious. We are
not accustomed to such abrupt visitations,” said Radulfus. “My lord abbot, I regret being forced to
disturb you. If our entry was unmannerly, I ask your pardon. For Richard rather
than for myself,” said Fulke with conscious and confident challenge. “His
foolishness is the cause. I hoped to spare you this silly upheaval by overtaking
him earlier and seeing him safely back home. Where I will take him now, and see that he
does not trouble you so again.” It seemed that he was quite sure of himself,
though he did not advance another step or reach out a hand to grasp the boy by
the collar. He met the abbot’s gaze eye to eye, unblinking. Behind Prior
Robert’s back the brothers broke ranks to come forth into the open and gather
round in a discreet half-circle, to peer in awe at the crouching boy, who had
begun to gasp out muffled protests and pleas, still incoherent, since he would
not raise his head or relax the frantic grasp of his arms. After the brothers
came the guests, no less interested in so unusual a spectacle. Cadfael, moving
methodically round to a position from which he had a clear view, caught the
detached but attentive eye of Rafe of Coventry, and saw the fleeting passage of
a smile brush the falconer’s bearded lips. Instead of answering Astley, the
abbot looked down again with a frowning face at the boy at his feet, and said
crisply: “Stop your noise, child, and leave go of me. You are in no danger. Get
up!” Richard slackened his hold reluctantly,
and raised a face smudged with mud and the green of leaves from his falls, the
sweat of his haste and fear, and a few frantic tears of relief from a terror
seen now to be none too reasonable. “Father, don’t let him take me! I don’t
want to go back, I want to be here, I want to stay with Brother Paul, I want to
learn. Don’t send me away! I never meant to stay away, never! I was on my way
back when they stopped me. I was on my way home, truly I was!” “It would seem,” said the abbot drily,
“that there is some dispute here as to where your home is, since the lord Fulke
is offering you safe-conduct there, whereas you are of the opinion that you are
already arrived. What account you have to give of yourself can wait another
occasion. Where you belong, it seems, cannot. Get up, Richard, at once, and
stand erect as you should.” And he reached down a lean and muscular hand to
take Richard by the forearm and hoist him briskly to his feet. For the first time Richard looked about
him, uncomfortably aware of many eyes upon him, and a little galled at having
to cut so dishevelled and soiled a figure before all the assembled brothers,
let alone the indignant shame he felt at the stiffening snail-trails of tears
on his cheeks. He straightened his back, and scrubbed hurriedly with a sleeve
at his dirty face. He looked briefly for Brother Paul among the habited circle,
and found him, and was a little comforted. And Brother Paul, who had been hard
put to it not to run to his strayed lamb, put his trust in Abbot Radulfus, and
kept his mouth shut. “You have heard, sir,” said the abbot, “what Richard’s
preference is. No doubt you know that his father placed him here in my care,
and wished him to remain here and study until he came of age. I have a claim to
the custody of this boy by charter, duly witnessed, and it was from my care he
disappeared some days ago. I have not so far heard what substance there may be
in your claim on him.” “Richard changes his mind daily,” said
Fulke, confidently loud, “for only last night he went willingly in quite
another direction. Nor do I hold that such a child should be left to choose by
his own liking, when his elders are better judges of what’s good for him. And
as for my claim on the charge of him, you shall know it. Richard is my son by
law, with his grandmother’s full knowledge and consent. Last night he was
married to my daughter.” The shiver of consternation that went round the circle
of awestricken watchers subsided into absolute stillness. Abbot Radulfus was
not shaken outwardly, but Cadfael saw the lines of his gaunt face tighten, and
knew that the shaft had gone home. Such a consummation had been plotted long
since by Dionisia, this self-important neighbour was little more than her
instrument in the affair. What he announced could very well be true, if they
had had the boy in their hands all this time that he had been missing. And
Richard, who had stiffened and jerked up his head, open-mouthed to cry that it
was false, met the abbot’s stern eyes fixed steadily upon him, and was utterly
confounded. He was afraid to lie to that judicial countenance, indeed he
admired as much as he feared, and he did not wish to lie, and confronted with
this flat declaration he found himself at a loss to know what was truth. For
they had married him to Hiltrude, and simple denial was not enough. A last bolt
of fright went through him and took his breath away, for how if Hyacinth was
himself deceived, and the vows he had tamely repeated had bound him for life? “Is this true, Richard?” asked Radulfus. His voice was level and quiet, but in the
circumstances seemed to Richard terrible. He gulped down words that would not
do, and Fulke, impatient, answered for him: “It is true, and he cannot deny it.
Do you doubt my word, my lord?” “Silence!” said the abbot peremptorily,
but still quietly. “I require Richard’s answer. Speak up, boy! Did this
marriage indeed take place?” “Yes, Father,” faltered Richard, “but it
is not—” “Where? With what other witnesses?” “At Leighton, Father, last night, that is
true, but still I am not—” He was cut off again, and submitted with a sob,
frustrated and growing indignant. “And you spoke the words of the sacrament
freely, of your own will? You were not forced? Beaten? Threatened?” “No, Father, not beaten, but I was afraid.
They did so hammer at me—” “He has been reasoned with, and he was
persuaded,” said Fulke shortly. “Now he takes back what he granted yesterday.
He spoke his part without hand being laid on him. Of his own will!” “And your priest undertook this marriage
willingly? Assured that the consent of both was freely given? A good man, of
honest repute?” “A man of known holiness, my lord abbot,”
said Fulke triumphantly. “The country folk call him a saint. The holy hermit
Cuthred!” “But, Father,” Richard cried with the
courage of desperation, determined to get out at last the plain, untangled
truth of it, “I did what I did so that they’d let me go free, and I could get
back to you. I did say the vows, but only because I knew they could not be
binding. I am not married! It was not a marriage, because—” Both the abbot and
Fulke broke into speech, sternly overriding his outburst and ordering his
silence, but Richard’s blood was up. If it must out here before everyone, then
it must. He clenched his fists, and shouted loudly enough to fetch a stony echo
from the walls of the cloister: “—because Cuthred is not a priest!” Chapter Twelve IN THE GENERAL RIPPLE AND STIR OF ASTONISHMENT,
doubt and outrage that passed like a sudden gust of wind through the entire
assembly, from Prior Robert’s indignant snort to the inquisitive and
half-gleeful whisperings and shiftings among the novices, the thing that was
clearest of all to Cadfael was that Fulke Astley stood utterly confounded.
Never had he had the least notion what was coming, it had taken his breath
away. He stood dangling his arms in curious helplessness, as though something
of his own being had slipped from his grasp and left him lame and mute. When he
had recovered breath enough to speak at all he said what would have been
expected of him, but without the confidence of conviction, rather forcibly
thrusting the very suggestion away from him in panic. “My lord abbot, this is madness! The boy
is lying. He’ll say anything to serve his turn. Of course Father Cuthred is a
priest! The brothers of Savigny from Buildwas brought him to us, ask them, they
have no doubts. There has never been any question. This is wickedness, so to slander
a holy man.” “Such slander would indeed be wickedness,”
agreed Radulfus, fixing his deep-set eyes and lowered brows formidably upon
Richard. “Think well, sir, before you repeat it. If this is a device to get
your way and remain here with us, think better of it now and confess it. You
shall not be punished for it. Whatever else, it would seem that you have been
misused, abducted and intimidated, and that shall excuse you. I would remind
Sir Fulke of these circumstances. But if you do not tell truth now, Richard,
then you do incur punishment.” “I have told truth,” said Richard stoutly,
jutting his very respectable chin and meeting the awesome eyes without
blinking. “I am telling truth. I swear it! I did what they demanded of me
because I knew then that the hermit is not a priest, and a marriage made by him
would be no marriage.” “How did you know?” cried Fulke furiously,
stirring out of his confusion. “Who told you so? My lord, this is all a
childish ruse, and a spiteful one. He is lying!” “Well? You may answer those questions,”
said Radulfus, never taking his eyes from Richard’s. “How did you know? Who
told you?” But these were the very questions Richard could not answer without
betraying Hyacinth, and bringing the hunt on to his trail with renewed vigour.
He said with wincing gallantry: “Father, I will tell you, but not here, only to
you. Please believe me, I am not lying.” “I do believe you,” said the abbot,
abruptly releasing him from the scrutiny which had made him tremble. “I believe
you are saying what you have been told, and what you believe to be true. But
this is a more serious matter than you can understand, and it must be cleared
up. A man against whom such an accusation has been made has the right to speak
up for himself, and prove his good faith. I shall go myself, tomorrow early,
and ask the hermit whether he is or is not a priest, and who ordained him, and
where, and when. These things can be proven, and should be. You will surely
have an equal interest, my lord, in finding out, once for all, whether this was
indeed a marriage. Though I must warn you,” he added firmly, “that even if it
is it can be annulled, seeing it cannot have been consummated.” “Make the attempt,” retorted Astley,
somewhat recovering his composure, “and it will be contested to the limit. But
I acknowledge that truth must come out. We cannot have such doubts lingering.” “Then will you not meet with me at the
hermitage, as early as may be after Prime? It is fair we should both hear what
Cuthred has to say. I am well sure,” he said with truth, having seen the effect
of Richard’s outburst, “that you believed implicitly the man was a priest, with
full rights to marry and bury. That is not in dispute. Richard has cause to
hold to the contrary. Let us put it to the test.” There was nothing Astley could object to
in that, nor, thought Cadfael, had he any wish to avoid the issue. He had
certainly been profoundly shocked by the suggestion of deceit, and wanted the
damaging doubt removed. But he did make one more attempt to regain his hold
meantime on the boy. He advanced a hand to Richard’s shoulder. “I will come to
that meeting,” he said, “and see this deluded child proved wrong. But for this
night I still hold he stands as my son, and should go with me.” The hand closed on Richard’s arm, and the
boy started and tore himself away. Brother Paul could no longer restrain
himself, he hurried forward out of the staring ranks and drew the truant close
to his side. “Richard stays here,” said Radulfus firmly. “His father entrusted
him to me, and I set no limit on his stay with us. But whose son by law and
whose husband the child is we must and will examine.” Fulke was growing purple in the face again
with suppressed anger. He had come so near to capturing the imp, and now to be
thwarted, and the whole structure of his and Dionisia’s territorial plans put
in jeopardy. He would not give up so easily. “You take much upon yourself, my lord
abbot,” he began, “in denying rights to his kin, you who have no blood claim
upon him. And I think you are not without designs upon his lands and goods in
keeping him here. You want no marriage for the boy, but rather to school him
here until he knows no other world, and will enter tamely into his novitiate,
and your house into his inheritance…” He was so intent on his accusations, and
all those about him so stricken into wonder at his daring, that no one had yet
observed the new arrival at the gatehouse. All eyes were on Astley, and all
mouths agape in amazement, and Hugh had tethered his horse at the gate and
entered on foot, making no noise. He had taken but ten paces into the court
when his eye fell first on the grey horse and the black pony, crusted with the
drying lather of their hasty ride, and held now by a groom, who stood gaping at
the group framed in the archway of the cloister. Hugh followed the man’s
fascinated stare, and took in at a glance the same arresting spectacle, the
abbot and Fulke Astley face to face in obvious confrontation, and Brother Paul
with an arm protectively about the shoulders of a small, wiry, grubby and
dishevelled boy, who lifted to the evening light the wide-eyed face,
half-frightened, half-defiant, of Richard Ludel. Radulfus, standing
disdainfully silent under abuse, was the first to notice the new arrival on the
scene. Looking clean over his adversary’s head, as with his height he could
very well do, he said distinctly: “No doubt the lord sheriff will pay the
attention due to your charges. As he may also be interested in how Richard came
to be in your care at Leighton as late as last night. You should address your
complaints to him.” Fulke span upon one heel so precipitately that he all but
lost his balance; and there was Hugh coming briskly down the court to join
them, one quirky eyebrow tilted into his black hair, and the eye beneath it
bright and sharply knowing, and levelled upon Fulke. “Well, well, my lord!”
said Hugh amiably. “I see you have made shift to discover and restore the
truant I have just failed to find in your manor of Leighton. Here am I newly
come from there to report failure to the lord abbot as Richard’s guardian, and
here I find you have been doing my work for me while I was wild-goose chasing.
I take that very kindly of you. I’ll bear it in mind when it comes to
considering the little matter of abduction and forcible imprisonment. It seems
the woodland bird that whispered in my ear Richard was at Leighton told simple
truth, for all I found no trace of him when I put it to the proof, and no one
to admit he’d ever been there. You can have been out of the house barely half
an hour by some other path when I reached it by the road.” His observant eye
roved over Richard’s taut figure and wary face, and came to rest on the abbot.
“Do you find him in good heart, and none the worse for being caged, my lord?
He’s come to no harm?” “None to his body, certainly,” said
Radulfus. “But there is another matter unresolved. It seems a form of marriage
took place last night at Leighton between Richard and Sir Fulke’s daughter. To
that Richard agrees, but he says that it was no real marriage, since the hermit
Cuthred, who conducted it, is not a priest.” “Do you tell me so?” Hugh pursed his lips
in a soundless whistle, and swung round upon Fulke, who stood mute but
watchful, all too aware of the need to step warily, and think now before he
spoke. “And what do you say to that, my lord?” “I say it is an absurd charge that will
never stand. He came to us with the good will of the brothers of Buildwas. I
never heard word against him, and do not believe it now. We have dealt with him
in good faith.” “That, I am sure, is true,” said the abbot
fairly. “If there is anything in this charge, those who desired this marriage
did not know of it.” “But Richard, I think, did not desire it,”
said Hugh, with a somewhat grim smile. “This cannot rest so, we must have out
the truth.” “So we are all agreed,” said Radulfus,
“and Sir Fulke has contracted to meet with me tomorrow after Prime at the
hermitage, and hear what the man himself has to say. I was about to send to
you, my lord sheriff, and tell you how this thing stands, and ask you to ride
with me tomorrow. This scene,” he said, casting an authoritative glance round
at his all too attentive flock, “need not be prolonged, I think. If you will
sup with me, Hugh, you shall hear all that has happened. Robert, have the
brothers proceed. I am sorry our evening should have been so rudely disrupted.
And, Paul…” He looked down at Richard, who had one fist tightly clenched on a
fold of Paul’s habit, ready to hold fast had his tenure been threatened. “Take
him away, Paul, clean him up, feed him, and bring him to me after supper. He
has a great deal to tell us that has not been told yet. There, you may
disperse, all, there is no more here to see.” The brothers edged aside
obediently, and moved away somewhat raggedly to resume the interrupted order of
the evening, though there would be furtive whispering even in the frater, and a
great deal of excited talk afterwards in the leisured hour before Collations.
Brother Paul marched his restored lamb away to be washed and made presentable
before abbot and sheriff after supper. Aymer Bosiet, who had looked on with a
certain malevolent satisfaction at someone else’s crisis and confusion as a
relief from his own, detached himself moodily and went across the court to the
guest hall. But Cadfael, suddenly moved to look back, missed the one figure he
was seeking. Rafe of Coventry was no where to be seen, and now that Cadfael
came to think of it, he must have taken himself off quietly some time before
the intriguing scene ended. Because he had no interest in it, and was quite
capable of detaching himself from a spectacle which held most men spellbound?
Or because he had found something in it that interested him deeply and
urgently? Fulke Astley was left hesitant, eye to eye
with Hugh, and unsure whether it would serve him better to attempt explanations
and justification, or to withdraw—if he was allowed to withdraw—in dignified
silence, or at least with as few words as possible, and no concessions. “Tomorrow, then, my lord,” he said, settling
upon brevity, “I shall be at Cuthred’s hermitage as I have promised.” “Good! And you might do well,” said Hugh,
“to acquaint the hermit’s patroness with what’s mooted against him. She may
wish to be present herself. As at this time, my lord, I have no more immediate
need of you. And should I have need in the future, I know where to find you.
You may have good reason to be glad that Richard slipped his collar. Mischief
undone is best forgotten. Provided, of course, there’s no further mischief in
contemplation.” Of that Fulke made the best he could. With a curt reverence to
the abbot he turned to reclaim his horse, mounted, and rode out at the
gatehouse at a deliberate and stately walking pace. Brother Cadfael, summoned to join the
colloquy in the abbot’s lodging after supper, turned aside on his way, on a
sudden impulse, and went into the stable yard. Richard’s black pony was
contented and easy in his stall after his strenuous ride, groomed and watered
and placidly feeding. But the big chestnut with the white blaze down his
forehead was gone from his place, saddle and harness and all. Whatever the
occasion for his silent departure, Rafe of Coventry had ridden forth on some
local errand of his own. Richard sat on a low stool at the abbot’s knee, washed
and brushed and meekly grateful to be home, and told his story, or as much of
it as he felt justified in telling. He had an interested audience. There were
present, besides the abbot, Hugh Beringar, Brother Cadfael at Hugh’s accepted
request, and Brother Paul, still reluctant to let the returned prodigal out of
his sight. Richard had tolerated, even enjoyed, being shaken, slapped, scrubbed
and made much of, the whole chaotic process which had produced this neat,
shining schoolboy for the abbot’s inspection. There were gaps in his story, and
he knew they would be questioned, but Radulfus was of noble family, and would
understand that a nobleman cannot betray those who have helped him, or even
certain underlings who at the instance of their masters have injured him.
“Would you know them again, the two who captured you and took you into
Wroxeter?” asked Hugh. Richard considered the tempting prospect
of revenge on the strapping young fellow who had laughed at his struggles and
hindered him at the ford, but rejected it reluctantly as unworthy of his
nobility. “I couldn’t be sure of them. It was getting dark.” They did not press
him. Instead, the abbot asked: “Had you help in escaping from Leighton? You
could hardly have broken out on your own, or you would have done it earlier.” Answering that presented something of a
problem. If he told the truth it would certainly do Hiltrude no harm here among
his friends, but if ever it reached her father it could do her harm enough.
Better stick to the story as she must have told it, that the door had been
mistakenly left unbolted, and he had made his own way out. Cadfael observed the
slight flush that mantled in the boy’s well-scrubbed cheeks as he recounted
that part of his adventures, with notable brevity and modesty. If it had been
true he would have been exulting in it. “He should have known what a slippery
fish he had caught,” said Hugh, smiling. “But you still have not told us why
you rode out from the abbey in the first place, nor who told you that the
hermit is not the priest he purports to be.” This was the crux, and Richard had
been thinking about it with unaccustomed labour and pain while he submitted to
Brother Paul’s affectionate homily on obedience and order, and the evil
consequences to be expected from transgressing their rules. He looked up warily
into the abbot’s face, shot an uneasy glance at Hugh, whose reactions as the
secular authority were less calculable, and said earnestly: “Father, I said I
would tell you, but I did not say I would tell any other. There is someone who
might be harmed if I told what I know of him, and I know he has not deserved
it. I can’t bring him into danger.” “I would not wish to make you break faith
with any man,” said Radulfus gravely. “Tomorrow I’ll hear your confession
myself, and you shall tell me then, and rest happy that you’ve done right, and
your confidence is sacred. Now you’d best get to your bed, for I fancy you need
it. Take him away, Paul!” Richard made his ceremonial reverences, glad to have
got off so lightly; but as he passed where Hugh sat he hesitated and stopped,
plainly with something still on his mind. “My lord, you said everyone at Leighton
said I had never been there, of course they’d be afraid to say anything else.
But did Hiltrude say so?” Hugh could make connections perhaps faster than most
men, but if he instantly made this one he gave no sign of it. With respectful
gravity and a blank countenance he said: “That’s Astley’s daughter? I never
spoke with her, she was not in the house.” Not there! So she did not have to lie. She
must have slipped out discreetly as soon as her father was gone. Richard said a
relieved and grateful goodnight, and went away to his bed with a lightened
heart. “She let him out, of course,” said Hugh as
soon as the door had closed after the boy. “She was a victim no less than he.
Now I begin to see a pattern. Richard is seized as he rides back through Eyton
forest, and what is there in Eyton forest and along that path but Eilmund’s
cottage and the hermitage? And to the hermitage we know he did not go. And who
should walk into Shrewsbury about noon this day and send me off hotfoot to
Leighton, which otherwise I should not have reached before tomorrow, but
Eilmund’s girl? And where she got the news she never clearly said, but some
passing villager had said he’d seen a boy there who might well be Richard. And
Richard, more forthrightly, will not say why he went off there alone, nor who
told him the hermit is no true priest. Father, it seems to me that
someone—let’s not go so far as to name him!—has very good friends among our
acquaintance. I hope they are as good judges! Well, tomorrow, at any rate,
there’ll be no hunting. Richard is safely home with you. And to tell truth, I
doubt the other quarry will ever be flushed out of cover. Tomorrow our morning
business is laid down for us. Let’s first see that resolved.” As soon as Prime was over they mounted and
rode, Abbot Radulfus, Hugh Beringar and Brother Cadfael, who in any case was
bound for Eilmund’s cottage that day, to see how the forester was progressing.
It was by no means the first time he had adjusted his legitimate visits to
accommodate his reasoned curiosity. That he could count on Hugh to abet his
plans was an added advantage, and an additional witness with a sharp eye for
the infinitesimal changes by which the human countenance betrays itself might
be invaluable in this encounter. The morning was clearer of mist than in recent
days, there had arisen a steady, drying wind that was crisping the fallen
leaves in the forest rides, and colouring in muted gold those that still hung
on the trees. The first frost would set the crowns of the forest blazing in
russets and browns and flame. Another week or two, thought Cadfael, and there’d
be no shelter for Hyacinth in the trees when inconvenient visitors came to the
cottage, even the oaks would be half-naked. But in a few more days, God
willing, Aymer would have abandoned his revenge, cut his losses, and made off
in haste to secure his gains at home. His father’s body was safely coffined,
and though he had only two grooms with him, there was also Drogo’s good horse
as a remount for a new master in a hurry, and he would find no difficulty in
hiring litter bearers at every way-stage on his journey. He had already scoured
the whole region without success, and showed distinct signs of fretting between
two desired ends, of which surely the more profitable would win in the end.
Hyacinth’s freedom might be nearer than he knew. And he had already served and
deserved well, for who else could have got word to Richard that the hermit was
not all he claimed to be? Hyacinth had travelled with him, known him well
before he ever set foot in Buildwas. Hyacinth might well know things about his
reverend master that were known to no one else. The thick woodland hid the hermitage from
them until they were very near. The sudden parting of the trees before them
came always as a mild surprise, unveiling in an instant the small green
clearing, the low pales that made a mere token fence about the garden, and the
squat cell of grey stone, patched with the newer and paler grey of its recent
repairs. The door of the house was open, as Cuthred had said it always was, to
all who came. There was no one at work in the half-cleared garden, no sound
from the interior of the cell, as they dismounted at the gateless gateway and
tethered their horses. Cuthred must be within, by the silence perhaps at his
prayers. “Go first, Father,” said Hugh. “This is
more within your writ than mine.” The abbot had to stoop his head to pass
through the stone doorway, and stood motionless for a moment within, until his
eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The single narrow window let in a subdued
light at this hour by reason of the overhanging trees, and the shapes within
the bare room took on substance only gradually, the narrow pallet against the
wall, the small table and bench, the few vessels, plate and cup and pottery
bowl. The doorless opening into the chapel revealed the stone block of the
altar by the tiny glow of the lamp on it, but left all below in obscurity. The
lamp had burned very low, was no more than a spark. “Cuthred!” called Radulfus into the
silence. “Are you within? The abbot of Shrewsbury greets you in the name and
grace of God!” There was no answer but the small, stony echo. Hugh stepped past
and advanced into the chapel doorway, and there halted abruptly, drawing in
hissing breath. Cuthred was indeed within, but not at his prayers. He lay
sprawled on his back beneath the altar, head and shoulders propped against the
stone, as though he had fallen or been hurled backwards while facing the
doorway. His habit billowed in dark folds round him, exposing sinewy feet and
ankles, and the breast of the gown was matted and blackened by a long stain,
where he had bled from the stab that killed him. His face, between the tangled
dark fell of hair and beard, was contorted in a grimace which might have been
of agony or of rage, the lips drawn back from strong teeth, the eyes glaring
half-open. His arms were flung wide, and beside his right hand, as though released
in the moment of falling, a long dagger lay spilled on the stone floor. Priest or no, Cuthred was never going to
testify in his own defence. There was no need to question or touch to see that
he was some hours dead, and dead by violence. “Christ aid!” said the abbot in a harsh
whisper, and stood like stone over the body. “God have mercy on a murdered man!
Who can have done this thing?” Hugh was on his knees beside the dead man,
touching flesh already grown chill and waxen in texture. There was nothing to
be demanded now of the hermit Cuthred, and nothing to be done for him in this
world, short of the final balance of justice. “Dead some hours at least. A second man
struck down within my shire, and no requital yet for the first! For God’s sake,
what is it let loose in these woods to such devilish effect?” “Can this possibly have any bearing,”
wondered the abbot heavily, “on what the boy has told us? Has someone struck
first to prevent him ever answering in his own defence? To bury the proof with
the man? There has been such resolute plotting over this marriage, all for
greed of land, but surely it could not be carried so far as murder?” “If this is murder,” said Brother Cadfael,
rather to himself than to any other, but aloud. He had remained still and silent
in the doorway all this time, looking round him intently at the room he
remembered well from a single visit, a room so sparsely furnished that every
detail was memorable. The chapel was larger than the living room of the cell,
there was room here for free movement, even for a struggle. Only the eastern
wall was built up beneath its tiny square window with the great fashioned stone
of the altar, and atop that the small carved reliquary on which stood the
silver cross, and on either side a silver candlestick holding a tall candle,
unlighted. On the stone before the reliquary, the lamp, and laid neatly in
front of it—But there was nothing laid in front of it. Strange to have the man
thrown down in disordered and disregarded death, but the altar so trim and
undisturbed. And only one thing missing from the picture Cadfael carried in his
mind’s eye. The breviary in the leather binding fit for a prince, tooled in
intricate scrolls and leaves and gilded ornament, was gone. Hugh rose from his knees and stood back to
view the room as Cadfael was viewing it. They had seen it together, by rights
their memories should match. He shot a sharp glance at Cadfael. “You see cause
to doubt it?” “I see that he was armed.” Hugh was already looking down at the long
dagger that lay so close to Cuthred’s half-open hand. He had not touched it. He
stood back and touched nothing, now that he knew the discarded flesh before him
was cold. “He loosed his hold as he fell. That dagger is his. It was used.
There is blood on it—not his blood. Whatever happened here, it was no furtive
stabbing in the back.” That was certain. The wound was over his
heart, the stiffening patch of blood from it had reached his middle. The dagger
that killed this man had been withdrawn and let out his lifeblood. Its fellow
here on the floor was stained for only a thumb’s length from its tip, and had
barely shed one drop upon the stone where it lay. “You are saying,” said the abbot, stirring
out of his horrified stillness, “that this was a fight? But how should a holy
hermit keep sword or dagger about him? Even for his own defence against thieves
and vagabonds such a man should not resort to arms, but put his trust in God.” “And if this was a thief,” said Cadfael,
“he was a most strange one. Here are cross and candlesticks of silver, and they
are not taken, not even shaken from their places in the struggle. Or else they
were set right afterwards.” “That is truth,” said the abbot, and shook
his head over so inexplicable a mystery. “This was not done for robbery. But
what, then? Why should any man attack a solitary religious, one without
possessions by choice, one whose only valuables are the furnishings of his
altar? He has lived unmolested and serviceable among us, by all accounts open
and accessible to all who came with their needs and troubles. Why should anyone
wish to harm him? Can this be the same hand that killed the lord of Bosiet,
Hugh? Or must we fear we have two murderers loose among us?” “There is still this lad of his,” said
Hugh, frowning over the thought but unable quite to discard it. “We have not
found him, and I had begun to think that he had made off westward and got clean
away into Wales. But it’s still possible that he has remained close here. There
may well be those who are sheltering him and believe in him. We have grounds
for thinking so. If he is indeed the villein who ran from Bosiet, he had some
cause to rid himself of his master. And say that Cuthred, who disowned him on
hearing he had been deceived in him, found out his hiding place now—yes, then
he might also have cause to kill Cuthred. All of which is mere matter for
conjecture. And yet cannot be quite rejected.” No, thought Cadfael, not until Aymer
Bosiet has gone his way back to Northamptonshire, and Hyacinth can come out of
hiding and speak for himself, and Eilmund and Annet, yes, and Richard, can
speak for him. For between the three of them I’m sure it can be proved exactly
where Hyacinth has been at all times, and he has not been here. No, we need not
trouble about Hyacinth. But I wish, he thought regretfully, I wish they had let
me confide in Hugh long ago. The sun was higher in the sky by now, and
found a better angle through the leafage of the trees, to shed more light upon
the distorted and lamentable body. The skirts of the rusty black habit were
gathered together at one side, as if a large fist had drawn them into its
grasp, and there the woollen cloth was clotted with a sticky dark stain.
Cadfael kneeled and drew the folds apart, and they separated with a faint,
rustling reluctance. “Here he wiped his dagger,” said Cadfael, “before
sheathing it again.” “Twice,” said Hugh, peering, for there was
a second such smear, barely perceptible. Coolly and efficiently, a methodical
man cleaning his tools after finishing his work! “And see here, this casket on
the altar.” He had stepped carefully round the body to look closely at the
carved wooden box, and draw a finger along the edge of the lid, above the lock.
The flaw was no longer than a thumbnail, but showed where the point of a dagger
had been thrust in to prise the box open. He lifted down the cross and raised
the lid, which gave readily. The lock was sprung and broken, and the casket was
empty. Only the faint aromatic scent of the wood stirred upon the air. There
was not even a filming of dust within; the box had been well made. “So something was taken, after all,” said
Cadfael. He did not mention the breviary, though he could not doubt that Hugh
had noticed its absence as readily as he. “But not the silver. What could a hermit
have about him of greater value than Dame Dionisia’s silver? He came to
Buildwas on foot, carrying only a scrip like any other pilgrim, though to be
sure his boy Hyacinth also carried a pack for him. Now I wonder,” said Hugh,
“whether this casket was also the lady’s gift, or whether he brought it with
him?” They had been so intent on what they were
observing within that they had failed to pay attention to what was happening
without, and there had been no sound to warn them. And in the shock of what
they had discovered they had almost forgotten that at least one more witness
was expected at this meeting. But it was a woman’s voice, not Fulke’s, that
suddenly spoke in the doorway behind them, high and confidently, and with
arrogant disapproval in its tone. “No need to wonder, my lord. It would be
simple and civil to ask me.” All three of them swung round in dismayed alarm to
stare at Dame Dionisia, tall and erect and defiant between them and the
brightening daylight from which she had come, and which left her half-blind at
stepping into this relative obscurity. They were between her and the body, and
there was nothing else to startle or alarm her but the very fact that Hugh
stood with his hand on the open casket, and the cross had been lifted down.
This she saw clearly, while the dying lamp lit nothing else so well. And she
was outraged. “My lord, what is this? What are you doing with these sacred
things? And where is Cuthred? Have you dared to meddle in his absence?” The
abbot moved to place himself more solidly between her and the dead man, and
advanced to persuade her out of the chapel. “Madam, you shall know all, but I beg you,
come out into the other room and be seated, and wait but a moment until we set
all in order here. Here is no irreverence, I promise you.” The light from without was still further
darkened by the bulk of Astley looming at her shoulder, blocking the retreat
the abbot was urging. She stood her ground, imperious and indignant. “Where is Cuthred? Does he know you are
here? How is it he has left his cell? He never does so—” The lie ended on her
lips in a sharp indrawn breath. Beyond the abbot’s robe she had seen one small
pallor jutting from the huddle of dark skirts, a foot that had shaken loose its
sandal. Her vision was clearer now. She evaded the abbot’s restraining hand and
thrust strongly past him. All her questions were answered in one shattering
glance. Cuthred was indeed there, and on this occasion at least had not left
his cell. The long, patrician composure of her face turned waxen grey and seemed
to disintegrate, its sharp lines fallen slack. She uttered a great wail, rather
of terror than of grief, and half-sprang, half-fell backwards into the arms of
Fulke Astley. Chapter Thirteen SHE NEITHER SWOONED NOR WEPT. She was a
woman who did not lightly do either. But she sat for a long while bolt upright
on Cuthred’s bed in the living room, rigid and pale and staring straight before
her, clean through the stone wall before her face, and a long way beyond. It
was doubtful if she heard any of the abbot’s carefully measured words, or the
uneasy blusterings of Astley, alternately offering her gallantries of comfort
she did not value or need, and recalling feverishly that this crime left all
questions unanswered, and in some none too logical way went to prove that the
hermit had indeed been a priest, and the marriage he had solemnized still a
marriage. At least she paid no attention to either. She had gone far beyond any
such considerations. All her old plans had become irrelevant. She had looked
closely on sudden death, unconfessed, unshriven, and she wanted no part of it.
Cadfael saw it in her eyes as he came out from the chapel, having done what he
could to lay Cuthred’s body straight and seemly, now that he had read all it
had to tell him. Through that death she was confronting her own, and she had no
intention of meeting it with all her sins upon her. Or for many years yet, but
she had had warning that if she was willing to wait, death might not be. At last she asked, in a perfectly ordinary
voice, perhaps milder than any she normally used to her household or tenants,
but without moving, or withdrawing her eyes from her ultimate enemy: “Where is
the lord sheriff?” “He’s gone to get hold of a party to carry
the hermit away from here,” said the abbot. “To Eaton, if you so wish, to be
cared for there, since you were his patroness. Or, if it will spare you painful
reminders, to the abbey. He shall be properly received there.” “It would be a kindness,” she said slowly,
“if you would take him. I no longer know what to think. Fulke has told me what
my grandson says. The hermit cannot answer for himself now, nor can I for him.
I believed without question that he was a priest.” “That, madam,” said Radulfus, “I never
doubted.” The focus of her stare had shortened, a little colour had come back
into her waxen face. She was on her way back, soon she would stir and brace
herself, and turn to look at the real world about her, instead of the bleak
distances of judgement day. And she would face whatever she had to face with
the same ferocious courage and obstinacy with which she had formerly conducted
her battles. “Father,” she said, turning towards him
with abrupt resolution, “if I come to the abbey tonight, will you yourself hear
my confession? I shall sleep the better when I have shed my sins.” “I will,” said the abbot. She was ready then to be taken home, and
Fulke was all too anxious to escort her. No doubt he, who had very little to
say here in company, would be voluble enough in private with her. He had not
her intelligence, nor nearly so acute an imagination. If Cuthred’s death had
cast any shadow on him, it was merely the vexation of not being able to claim
proof of his daughter’s marriage, not at all a bony hand on his shoulder. So at
any rate thought Brother Cadfael, watching him arm Dionisia to where her jennet
was tethered, in haste to have her away and be free of the abbot’s daunting
presence. At the last moment, with the reins
gathered in her hand, she suddenly turned back. Her face had regained all its
proud tension and force, she was herself again. “I have only now remembered,”
she said, “that the lord sheriff was wondering about the casket in there on the
altar. That was Cuthred’s. He brought it with him.” When the abbot and the litter-bearers and
Hugh were all on their slow and sombre way back to the abbey, Cadfael took a
last look round the deserted chapel, the more attentively because he was alone
and without distractions. There was not a single stain of blood on the flags of
the floor where the body had lain, only the drop or two left by the point of
Cuthred’s own dagger. He had certainly wounded his adversary, though the wound
could not be deep. Cadfael sighted a course from the altar to the doorway, and
followed it with a newly lighted candle in his hand. In the chapel he found
nothing more, and in the outer room the floor was of beaten earth, and such
faint traces would be hard to find after the passage of hours. But on the
doorstone he found three drops shaken, dried now but plain to be seen, and on the
new and unstained timber with which the left jamb of the doorway had been
repaired there was a blurred smear of blood at the level of his own shoulder,
where a gashed and bloodied sleeve had brushed past. A man no taller than himself, then, and
Cuthred’s dagger had taken him in the shoulder or upper arm on the left side,
as a stroke aimed at his heart might well do. Cadfael had intended to ride on to
Eilmund’s cottage, but on impulse he changed his mind, for it seemed to him
that after all he could not afford to miss whatever might follow when Cuthred’s
body was brought into the court at the abbey, to the consternation of most, the
relief, perhaps, of some, and the possible peril of one in particular. Instead
of cutting through the forest rides, he mounted and rode back in haste towards
Shrewsbury, to overtake the funeral procession. They had a curious audience as soon as
they entered the Foregate, and the camp-following of inquisitive boys and
attendant dogs followed at their heels all along the highroad, and even the
respectable citizens came after them at a more discreet distance, wary of abbot
and sheriff but avid for information, and breeding rumours as fast as flies
breed on summer middens. Even when the cortege turned in at the gatehouse the
good folk from market and smithy and tavern gathered outside to peer
expectantly within, and continued their speculations with relish. And there in the great court, as they
carried one bier in from the world, was another funeral party busy assembling
to leave. Drogo Bosiet’s sealed coffin was mounted on a low, light cart, hired
in the town with its driver for this first day’s travelling, which would be on
a good road. Warin stood holding two of the saddled horses, while the younger
groom was busy adjusting a full saddle-roll to get the weight properly balanced
before loading it. At sight of all this activity Cadfael drew a deep breath of
gratitude, sensible that one danger, at least, was being lifted away even
earlier than he had dared to hope. Aymer had finally made up his mind. He was
bound for home, to make sure of his inheritance. The attendants on one death could not
forbear from stopping what they were doing to stare at the attendants on the
other. And Aymer, coming out from the guest hall with Brother Denis beside him
to wish the departing train godspeed, halted at the top of the steps to take in
the scene with surprise and sharp speculation, his eyes dwelling longest on the
covered form and face. He came striding down to cross purposefully to where
Hugh was just dismounting. “What’s this, my lord? Another death? Has your hunt
brought down my quarry at last? But dead?” He hardly knew whether to be glad or
sorry if the corpse was that of his lost villein. The money and favour
Hyacinth’s skills brought in were valuable, but revenge would also be a
satisfying gain, and just when he had despaired of winning either, and made up
his mind to go home. Abbot Radulfus, too, had dismounted, and
stood looking on with an uncommunicative face, for the two groups carried a
curious and disturbing suggestion of a mirror image, gathered about the
arriving and departing dead. The abbey grooms who had come to take the bridles
of abbot and sheriff hung upon the fringes of the assembly, reluctant to move
away. “No,” said Hugh, “this is no man of yours. If the boy we’ve been hunting
is yours. Of him we’ve seen no sign, whether he is or no. You’re bound for
home, then?” “I’ve wasted time and effort enough, I’ll
waste no more, though I grudge letting him go free. Yes, we’re away now. I’m needed
at home, there’s work waiting for me. Who is this one you’ve brought back?” “The hermit who was set up no long time
ago in Eyton forest. Your father went to visit him,” said Hugh, “thinking the
servant he kept might be the fellow you were looking for, but the youngster had
already taken to his heels, so it’s never been put to the test.” “I remember, soothe lord abbot told me. So
this is the man! I never went to him again, what use if the lad he kept was
gone?” He looked curiously down at the shrouded figure. The bearers had laid
down their burden, awaiting orders where to take the dead. Aymer stooped and
turned back the brychan from Cuthred’s face. They had drawn back the wild fell
of hair from his temples, and brushed down his bushy beard into order, and the
full light of noon shone over the lean countenance, the deep-set eyes, the
lofty lids a little bruised and bluish now, the long, straight, patrician nose
and full lips within the dark beard. The glare of the half-open eyes was now
veiled, the snarl on the drawn-back lips carefully smoothed out to restore his
harsh comeliness. Aymer leaned closer, startled and disbelieving. “But I know this man! No, that’s to say
too much, he never said his name. But I’ve seen him and talked with him. A
hermit—he? I never saw sign of it then! He wore his hair trimmed Norman
fashion, and had a short, clipped beard, not this untended bush, and he was
well clothed in good riding gear, boots and all, not this drab habit and
sandals. And he wore sword and dagger into the bargain,” said Aymer positively,
“and as if he was well accustomed to the use of them, too.” Until he looked up again he was not fully
aware of the significance of what he had said, but Hugh’s intent face and
instant question made it plain he had touched on something more vital than he
knew. “You are sure?” said Hugh. “Certain, my lord. It was only one night’s
lodging, but I diced with him for the dinner, and watched my father play a game
of chess with him. I’m certain!” “Where was this? And when?” “At Thame, when we were looking towards
London for Brand. We lodged overnight with the white monks at their new abbey
there. This man was there before us, we came well into the evening, and went on
south next day. I can’t say the exact day, but it was towards the end of
September.” “Then if you know him again,” said Hugh,
“changed as his condition is, would your father also have recognised him at
sight?” “Surely he would, my lord. His eyes were
sharper than mine. He’d sat over a chessboard with the man, eye to eye. He’d
know him again.” And so he had, thought Cadfael, when he went man-hunting to
the cell in the forest, and came face to face with the hermit Cuthred who had
been no hermit a month or so earlier. And he had not lived to return to the
abbey and let out to any man what he knew. And what if he knew no great evil of
this transformed being? He might still let fall to other ears the casual word
that would mean more to them than ever it had to him, and bring to the cell in
Eyton forest someone in search of more than a runaway villein, and worse,
surely, than a spurious priest. But he had not lived to get further on his
return journey than a close forest thicket, sufficiently far from the hermitage
to remove suspicion from a local saint reputed never to leave his cell. The
evidence of circumstances is not positive proof, yet Cadfael had no doubts
left. There before them the coffined body and the new corpse rested for a few
moments side by side, before Prior Robert directed the bearers to the mortuary
chapel, and Aymer Bosiet covered Cuthred’s face again, and turned afresh to his
own preparations for departure. His mind was on other things, why distract and
detain him now? But Cadfael did suddenly take thought to ask one curious
question. “What manner of horse was he riding when
he halted overnight at Thame?” Aymer turned from fastening the straps of his
saddlebags in detached surprise, opened his mouth to answer, and found himself
at a loss, frowning thoughtfully over his recollections of that night. “He was there before us. There were two
horses in the priory stables when we came. And he’d left before us next
morning. But now you come to ask, when we got to horse, the same two beasts we
saw there the night before were still in their stalls. That’s strange! What
would such a well-found man, knightly by the look of him and his arms—what
would he be doing without a horse?” “Ah, well, he may have stabled it
somewhere else,” said Cadfael, abandoning the puzzle as trivial. But it was not trivial, it was the key to
open a very strange door in the mind. There before so many eyes lay the slayer
and the slain, side by side, justice already done. But who, then, had slain the
slayer? They were gone, all of them, Aymer on his father’s handsome light roan
horse, Warin with the horse Aymer had ridden on the outward journey now on a
leading rein, the young groom with the carter and the cart. After the first
day-stages Aymer would probably be off at speed, leaving the grooms to bring
the coffin after at their slower pace, and most likely sending other retainers
back along the way to relieve them, once he reached home. In the mortuary chapel Cadfael had seen
Cuthred’s body laid out in seemly fashion, hair and beard trimmed, not,
perhaps, so closely as the knight at Thame had worn them, but enough to
display, in the fixed and austere tranquillity of death, a face appropriate
enough to a dignified religious. Unfair that a murderer should look as noble in
death as any of the empress’s paladins. Hugh was closeted with the abbot, and as
yet had said no word to Cadfael of what he made of Aymer’s witness, but by the
very questions he had asked it was clear he had made the same connections
Cadfael had made, and could not have failed to arrive at the same conclusion.
He would speak of it first with Radulfus. My part now, thought Cadfael, is to
bring Hyacinth out of hiding, and let him shake himself loose from all
suspicion of wrongdoing. Barring, of course, the occasional theft to fill his
belly while he lived wild, and a lie or two by way of preserving himself alive
at all. And Hugh won’t grudge him those. And that should settle the matter of
Cuthred’s ordination once for all, if there’s still any lingering question
about it. A sudden conversion can turn a soldier into a hermit, yes, but it
takes much longer than that to make a priest. He waited for Hugh in his
workshop in the herb garden, where Hugh would certainly come looking for him as
soon as he left the abbot. It was quiet and aromatic and homely within there,
and Cadfael had been too much away from it of late. He would have to be
thinking of replenishing his stocks of the regular winter needs very soon,
before the coughs and colds began, and the elder joints started to creak and
groan. Brother Winfrid could be trusted to take excellent care of all the work
in the garden, the digging and weeding and planting, but here within he had
much to learn. One more ride, thought Cadfael, to see how Eilmund does, and let
Hyacinth know he can and should come forward and speak up for himself, and then
I shall be glad to settle down to work here at home. Hugh came in through the gardens and sat
down beside his friend with a brief, preoccupied smile, and was silent for some
moments. “What I do not understand,” he said then, “is why? Whatever he was,
whatever he has done, aforetime, here he seems to have lived blameless. What
can there have been, perilous enough to make him want to stop Bosiet’s mouth?
It may be a suspect thing to change one’s dress and appearance and way of life,
but it is not a crime. What was there, more than that, to justify murder? What
is there of that enormity, except murder itself?” “Ah!” said Cadfael with a relieved sigh.
“Yes, I thought you had seen it all as I saw it. But no, I do not think it was
murder he had to hide in the obscurity of a hermit’s gown and a forest cell.
That was my first thought. But it is not so simple.” “As so often,” said Hugh with his sudden,
crooked smile, “I think you know something that I do not. And what was that
about his horse, down there in Thame? What has his horse to do with it?” “Not his horse, but the fact that he had
none. What’s a soldier or a knight doing travelling on foot? But a pilgrim may,
and never be noticed. But as to knowing something I would have told you long
ago if I had been let—yes, Hugh, I do. I know where Hyacinth is. Against my
will I promised to say nothing until Aymer Bosiet had given up the pursuit and
taken himself off home. As now he has, and now the boy can come forward and
speak for himself, as, trust me, he’s well able to do.” “So that’s it,” said Hugh, eyeing his
friend without any great surprise. “Well, who can blame him for being wary,
what does he know of me? And for all that I knew, he could well have been
Bosiet’s murderer, we knew of no other with as good a cause. Now he need say no
word on that score, the debt is known and paid. And as for his freedom, he need
fear nothing from me on that head. I have enough to do without playing the
errand boy for Northamptonshire. Bring him forth whenever you like, he may yet
shed light on some things we do not know.” So Cadfael thought, too, reflecting how
little Hyacinth had had to say about his relations with his sometime master.
Candid enough, among friends, about his own vagabondage and the mischief done
in Eilmund’s coppice, he had scrupulously refrained from casting any aspersions
against Cuthred. But now that Cuthred was dead and known for a murderer
Hyacinth might be willing to extend his candour, though surely he had known no
great harm of his fellow traveller, and certainly nothing of murder. “Where is he?” asked Hugh. “Not far, I
fancy, if it was he who got word to young Richard that he could safely go
through that marriage service. Who would be more likely to know Cuthred for an
impostor?” “No further,” said Cadfael, “than Eilmund’s
cottage, and welcome there to father and daughter alike. And I’m bound there
now to see how Eilmund’s faring. Shall I bring the boy back with me?” “Better than that,” said Hugh heartily,
“I’ll ride with you. Better not hale him out of cover until I’ve called off the
hunt by official order, and made it known he has nothing to answer, and is free
to walk the town and look for work like any other man.” In the stable yard, when he went to saddle
up, Cadfael found the bright chestnut horse with the white brow standing like a
glossy statue under his master’s affectionate hands, content and trusting after
easy exercise, and being polished to a rippling copper sheen. Rafe of Coventry
turned to see who came, and smiled the guarded, calm smile with which Cadfael
was becoming familiar. “Bound out again, Brother? This must be a wearing day
you’ve had.” “For all of us,” said Cadfael, hoisting
down his saddle, “but we may hope the worst is over. And you? Have you
prospered in your errand?” “Well, I thank you! Very well! Tomorrow
morning, after Prime,” he said, turning to face Cadfael fully, and his voice as
always measured and composed, “I shall be leaving. I have already told Brother
Denis so.” Cadfael went on with his preparations for a minute or two in
silence. Converse with Rafe of Coventry found silences acceptable. “If you’ll be riding far the first day,”
he said then simply, “I think you may need my services before you set out. He
drew blood,” he said briefly, by way of adequate explanation. And when Rafe was
slow to answer: “A part of my function is to tend illness and injury. There is
no seal of confession in my art, but there is a decent reticence.” “I have bled before,” said Rafe, but he
smiled, a degree beyond his common smile. “As you choose. But I am here. If you need
me, come to me. It is not wise to neglect a wound, nor to try it too far in the
saddle.” He tested the girth, and gathered the reins to mount. The horse sidled
and shifted playfully, eager for action. “I’ll bear it in mind,” said Rafe, “and I
thank you. You will not stop me leaving,” he said in amiable but solemn
warning. “Have I tried?” said Cadfael, and swung
himself up into the saddle and rode out into the court. “I never told all the truth,” said
Hyacinth, seated beside the hearth in Eilmund’s cottage, with the firelight
like a copper gloss on cheekbones and jaw and brow, “not even here to Annet. As
to myself I did, she knows the worst I could tell. But not of Cuthred. I knew
he was a rogue and a vagabond, but so was I, and I knew nothing worse of him
than that, so I kept my mouth shut. One rogue in hiding doesn’t betray another.
But now you tell me he’s a murderer. And dead!” “And out of further harm,” said Hugh
reasonably, “at least in this world. I need to know all you can tell. Where did
you join fortunes with him?” “At Northampton, at the Cluniac priory, as
I told Annet and Eilmund, though not quite as I told it. He was no habited
pilgrim then, he was in good dark clothes, with cloak and capuchon, and armed,
though he kept his sword out of sight. It was almost by chance we got into
talk, or I thought so. But I fancy he guessed I was running from something, and
he made no secret he was, too, and suggested we might be safer and pass
unnoticed together. We were both heading north and west. The pilgrim was his
notion, he had the face and bearing for it. Well, you’ve seen him, you know. I
stole the habit for him from the priory store. The scallop shell came easy. The
medal of Saint James he had—it may even have been his by right, who knows? By
the time we got to Buildwas he had his part by rote, and his hair and beard
were well grown. And he came very apt to the dame at Eaton, for her own ends.
Oh, she knew no worse of him than that he was willing to earn his keep with
her. He said he was a priest, and she believed it. I knew he was none, he owned
as much when we were alone. He laughed about it. But he had the gift of
tongues, he could carry it off. She gave him the hermitage, so close and handy
to the abbey’s woods, to do all the mischief he could in the abbot’s despite. I
said that was my part, and he knew nothing of it, but I lied for him. He’d
never blabbed on me, no more would I on him.” “He abandoned you,” said Hugh flatly, “as
soon as he knew the hunt was up for you. You need not scruple to speak out on
his account.” “Well—I live, and he’s dead,” said
Hyacinth. “No call now for me to bear him any grudge. You know about Richard?
I’d talked with him only once, but he took me so for a true man he’d hear no
wrong of me, nor have me run to earth and dragged back into villeinage. That
set me up again in my own respect. I never knew till afterwards that he’d been
seized like that on his way back, but I was forced to run or hide, and chose to
hide till I could make shift to find him. If it hadn’t been for Eilmund’s
goodness to me, and after I’d been a thorn in his flesh, too, your men might
have had me a dozen times over. But now you know I never laid hand on Bosiet.
And Eilmund and Annet can tell you I’ve not been a step away from here since I
came back from Leighton. What can have happened to Cuthred I know no more than
you.” “Less, I daresay,” said Hugh mildly, and
looked across the fire at Cadfael, smiling. “Well, after all you may call
yourself a lucky lad. From tomorrow you’ll be in no peril at the hands of any
of my people, you can be off into the town and find yourself a master. And
which of your names do you choose to keep for a new life? Best have but one,
that we may all know with whom we have to deal.” “Whichever is pleasing to Annet,” said
Hyacinth. “It’s she will be calling me by it from this on lifelong.” “I might have something to say to that,”
grunted Eilmund from his corner on the other side of the hearth. “You mind your
impudence, or I’ll make you sweat for my good will.” But he sounded remarkably
complacent about it, as though they had already arrived at an understanding to
which this admonitory growl was merely a gruff counterpoint. “It was Hyacinth first pleased me,” said
Annet. She had kept herself out of the circle until now, like a dutiful
daughter, attentive with cup and pitcher, but wanting and needing no voice in
the men’s affairs. Not from modesty or submission Cadfael judged, but because
she already had what she wanted, and was assured no one, sheriff nor father nor
overlord, had either the power or the will to wrest it from her. “You stay
Hyacinth,” she said serenely, “and let Brand go.” She was wise, there was no sense in going
back, none even in looking back. Brand had been a villein and landless in
Northamptonshire, Hyacinth would be a craftsman and free in Shrewsbury. “In a year and a day,” said Hyacinth,
“from the day I find a master to take me, I’ll come and ask for your good will,
Master Eilmund. Not before!” “And if I think you’ve earned it,” said
Eilmund, “you shall have it.” They rode home together in the deepening
dusk, as they had so often ridden together since first they encountered in wary
contention, wit against wit, and came to a gratifying stand at the end of the
match, fast friends. The night was still and mild, the morning would be misty
again, the lush valley fields a translucent blue sea. The forest smelled of
autumn, ripe, moist earth, bursting fungus, the sweet, rich rot of leaves. “I have transgressed against my vocation,”
said Cadfael, at once solaced and saddened by the season and the hour. “I know
it. I undertook the monastic life, but now I am not sure I could support it
without you, without these stolen excursions outside the walls. For so they
are. True, I am often sent upon legitimate labours here without, but also I
steal, I take more than is my due by right. Worse, Hugh, I do not repent me! Do
you suppose there is room within the bounds of grace for one who has set his
hand to the plough, and every little while abandons his furrow to turn back among
the sheep and lambs?” “I think the sheep and lambs might think
so,” said Hugh, gravely smiling. “He would have their prayers. Even the black
sheep and the grey, like some you’ve argued for against God and me in your
time.” “There are very few all black,” said
Cadfael. “Dappled, perhaps, like this great rangy beast you choose to ride.
Most of us have a few mottles about us. As well, maybe, it makes for a more
tolerant judgement of the rest of God’s creatures. But I have sinned, and most
of all in relishing my sin. I shall do penance by biding dutifully within the
walls through the winter, unless I’m sent forth, and then I’ll make haste with
my task and hurry back.” “Until the next waif stumbles across your
path. And when is this penance to begin?” “As soon as this matter is fittingly
ended.” “Why, these are oracular utterances!” said
Hugh, laughing. “And when will that be?” “Tomorrow,” said Cadfael. “If God wills,
tomorrow.” Chapter Fourteen ON HIS WAY DOWN THE COURT TO THE STABLES,
leading his horse, and with the better part of an hour left before Compline,
Cadfael saw Dame Dionisia coming from the abbot’s lodging, and walking with
sober step and decorously covered head towards the guest hall. Her back was as
erect as ever, her gait as firm and proud, but somewhat slower than was her
wont, and the draped head was lowered, with eyes on the ground rather than
fixed challengingly into the distance before her. Not a word would ever be said
concerning her confession, but Cadfael doubted if she had left anything out.
She was not one to do things by halves. There would be no more attempts to
extract Richard from the abbot’s care. Dionisia had suffered too profound a
reverse to take any such risks again until time had dimmed the recollection of
sudden unshriven death coming to meet her. It seemed she meant to stay
overnight, perhaps to make her peace tomorrow, in her own arbitrary fashion,
with a grandson by this time fast asleep in his bed, blessedly unmarried still,
and back where he preferred to be. The boys would sleep well tonight, absolved
of their sins and with their lost member restored. Matter for devout
thanksgiving. And as for the dead man in the mortuary chapel, bearing a name
which it seemed could hardly be his name, he cast no shadow on the world of the
children. Cadfael led his horse into the stable
yard, lighted by two torches at the gate, unsaddled him and rubbed him down.
There was no sound within there but a small sighing of the breeze that had
sprung up with evening, and the occasional easy shift and stir of hooves in the
stalls. He stabled his beast and hung up his harness, and turned to depart. There was someone standing in the gateway,
compact and still. “Good even, Brother!” said Rafe of Coventry. “Is it you?” said Cadfael. “And were you
looking for me? I’m sorry to have kept you up late, and you with a journey to
make in the morning.” “I saw you come down the court. You made
an offer,” said the quiet voice. “If it is still open I should like to take
advantage of it. I find it is not so easy to dress a wound neatly with one
hand.” “Come!” said Cadfael. “Let’s go to my hut
in the garden, we can be private there.” It was deep dusk, but not yet dark. The
late roses in the garden loomed spikily on overgrown stems, half their leaves
shed, ghostly floating pallors in the dimness. Within the walls of the herb
garden, high and sheltering, warmth lingered. “Wait,” said Cadfael, “till I
make light.” It took him a few minutes to get a spark he could blow gently into
flame, and set to the wick of his lamp. Rafe waited without murmur or movement
until the light burned up steadily, and then came into the hut and looked about
him with interest at the array of jars and flasks, the scales and mortars, and
the rustling bunches of herbs overhead, stirring headily in the draught from
the doorway. Silently he stripped off his coat, and drew down his shirt from
the shoulder until he could withdraw his arm from the sleeve. Cadfael brought
the lamp, and set it where the light would best illuminate the stained and
crumpled bandage that covered the wound. Rafe sat patient and attentive on the
bench against the wall, steadily eyeing the weathered face that stooped over
him. “Brother,” he said deliberately, “I think I owe you a name.” “I have a name for you,” said Cadfael.
“Rafe is enough.” “For you, perhaps. Not for me. Where I
take help, generously given, there I repay with truth. My name is Rafe de
Genville…” “Hold still now,” said Cadfael. “This is
stuck fast, and will hurt.” The soiled dressing came away with a wrench, but if
it did indeed hurt, de Genville suffered it as indifferently as he did the
foregoing pain. The gash was long, running down from the shoulder into the
upper arm, but not deep; but the flesh was so sliced that the lips gaped, and a
single hand had not been able to clamp them together. “Keep still! We can
better this, you’ll have an ugly scar else. But you’ll need help when it’s
dressed again.” “Once away from here I can get help, and
who’s to know how I got the gash? But you do know, Brother. He drew blood, you
said. There is not very much you do not know, but perhaps a little I can still
tell you. My name is Rafe de Genville, I am a vassal, and God knows a friend to
Brian FitzCount, and a liege man to my overlord’s lady, the empress. I will not
suffer gross wrong to be done to either, while I have my life. Well, he’ll draw
no more blood, neither from any of the king’s party nor oversea, in the service
of Geoffrey of Anjou—which I think was his final intent, when the time seemed
right.” Cadfael folded a new dressing closely about the long gash. “Lend your right hand here, and hold this
firmly, it shuts the wound fast. You’ll get no more bleeding, or very little,
and it should heal closed. But rest it as best you can on the road.” “I will so.” The bandage rolled firmly
over the shoulder and round the arm, flat and neat. “You have a skilled hand,
Brother. If I could I would take you with me as a prize of war.” “They’ll have need of all the surgeons and
physicians they can get in Oxford, I fear,” Cadfael acknowledged ruefully. “Ah, not there, not this tide. There’ll be
no breaking into Oxford until the earl brings up his army. I doubt it even
then. No, I go back to Brian at Wallingford first, to restore him what is his.”
Cadfael secured the bandage above the elbow, and held the sleeve of the shirt
carefully as Rafe thrust his arm back into it. It was done. Cadfael sat down
beside him, face to face, eye to eye. The silence that came down upon them was
like the night, mild, tranquil, gently melancholy. “It was a fair fight,” said
Rafe after a long pause, looking into and through Cadfael’s eyes to see again
the bare stony chapel in the forest. “I laid by my sword, seeing he had none.
His dagger he’d kept.” “And used,” said Cadfael, “on the man who
had seen him in his own shape at Thame, and might have called his vocation in
question. As the son did, after Cuthred was dead, and never knew he was looking
at his father’s murderer.” “Ah, so that was it! I wondered.” “And did you find what you came for?” “I came for him,” said Rafe grimly. “But,
yes, I understand you. Yes, I found it, in the reliquary on the altar. Not all
in coin. Gems go into a small compass, and are easily carried. Her own jewels,
that she valued. And valued even more the man to whom she sent them.” “They said that there was also a letter.” “There is a letter. I have it. You saw the
breviary?” “I saw it. A prince’s book.” “An empress’s. There is a secret fold in
the binding, where a fine, small leaf can be hidden. When they were apart, the
breviary went back and forth between them by trusted messenger. God he knows
what she may not have written to him now, at the lowest ebb of fortune,
separated from him by a few miles that might as well be the width of the world,
and with the king’s army gripping her and her few to strangulation. In the
extreme of despair, who regards wisdom, who puts a guard on tongue or pen? I
have not sought to know. He shall have it and read it for whose heart’s
consolation it was meant. One other has read it, and might have made use of
it,” said Rafe harshly, “but he is of no account now.” His voice had gathered a
great tide of passion that yet could not disrupt its steely control, though it
caused his disciplined body to quiver like an arrow in flight, vibrating to the
force of his devoted love and implacable hate. The letter he carried, with its
broken seal as testimony to a cold and loathsome treachery, he would never
unfold, the matter within was sacred as the confessional, between the woman who
had written and the man to whom it was written. Cuthred had trespassed even
into this holy ground, but Cuthred was dead. It did not seem to Cadfael that
the penalty was too great for the wrong committed. “Tell me, Brother,” said Rafe de Genville,
the wave of passion subsiding into his customary calm, “was this sin?” “What do you need from me?” said Cadfael.
“Ask your confessor when you come safely to Wallingford. All I know is, time
has been when I would have done as you have done.” Whether de Genville’s secret would be
preserved inviolate was a question never asked, the answer being already
clearly understood between them. “This is better than by morning,” said Rafe,
rising. “Your order of hours tomorrow need not be broken, and I can be away
early, and leave my place cleansed and furbished and ready for another guest,
and travel the lighter because I do not go without a fair witness. I’ll say my
farewell here. God be with you, Brother!” “And go with you,” said Cadfael. He was gone, out into the gathering
darkness, his step firm and even on the gravel path, silent when he reached the
grass beyond. And sharp upon the last slight sound of his going, the bell rang
distantly for Compline. Cadfael went down into the stables before
Prime, in a morning dry and sunny but chill, a good day for riding. The bright
chestnut with the white brow was gone from his stall. It seemed empty and quiet
there, but for the cheerful chirpings of chatter and laughter from the last
stall, where Richard had come down early to pet and make much of his pony for
carrying him so bravely, with Edwin, happily restored to grace and to the
company of his playmate, in loyal attendance. They were making a merry noise
like a brood of young swallows, until they heard Cadfael come, and then they
fell to a very prim and seemly quietness until they peeped out and saw that he
was neither Brother Jerome nor Prior Robert. By way of apology they favoured
him with broad and bountiful smiles, and went back to the pony’s stall to
caress and admire him. Cadfael could not but wonder if Dame Dionisia had
already visited her grandson, and gone as far as such a matriarch could be
expected to go to reestablish her standing with him. There would certainly be
no self-abasement. Something of a self-justifying homily, rather: “Richard, I
have been considering your future with the abbot, and I have consented to leave
you in his care for the present. I was grossly deceived in Cuthred, he was not
a priest, as he pretended. That episode is over, we had all better forget it.”
And she would surely end with something like: “If I let you remain here, sir,
take care that I get good reports of you. Be obedient to your masters and
attend to your books…” And on leaving him, a kiss perhaps a little kinder than
usual, or at least a little more warily respectful, seeing all he could relate
against her if he cared to. But Richard triumphant, released from all anxieties
for himself and others who mattered to him, bore no grudge against anyone in
the world. By this hour Rafe de Genville, vassal and friend of Brian FitzCount
and loyal servitor of the Empress Maud, must be well away from Shrewsbury on
his long ride south. So quiet, unobtrusive and unremarkable a man, he had
hardly been noticed even while he remained here, his stay would soon be
forgotten. “He is gone,” said Cadfael. “I would not
slough off the burden of choice on to you, though I think I know what you would
have done. But I have done it for you. He is gone, and I let him go.” They were sitting together, as so often
they had sat at the last ebb of a crisis, weary but eased, on the seat against
the north wall of the herbarium, where the warmth of noonday lingered and the
light wind was shut out. In another week or two it would be too cold and bleak
for comfort here. This prolonged mild autumn could not last much longer, the
weather-wise were beginning to sniff the air and foretell the first hard frost,
and plentiful snow to come in December. “I have not forgotten,” said Hugh,
“that this is the tomorrow when you promised me a fitting ending. So he is
gone! And you let him go! Another he, not Bosiet. You were aching for him to
tire of his vengeance and depart, more likely to urge him away than try to
prevent. Say on, I’m listening.” He was always a good listener, not given to
exclamation or needless questions, he could sit gazing meditatively across the
dishevelled garden in receptive silence, and never trouble his companion with a
glance, and never miss a word, nor need many of them for understanding. “I am in need of the confessional, if you
will be my priest,” said Cadfael. “And keep your confidences as tightly
sealed—I know! My answer is yes. I never yet found you in need of absolution
from me. Who is this he who is gone?” “His name,” said Cadfael, “is Rafe de
Genville, though here he called himself Rafe of Coventry, a falconer to the
earl of Warwick.” “The quiet elder with the chestnut horse?
I never saw him but the once, I think,” said Hugh. “He was one guest here who
had nothing to ask of me, and I was grateful for it, having my hands full of
Bosiets. And what had Rafe of Coventry done, that either you or I should
hesitate to let him go?” “He had killed Cuthred. In fair fight. He
laid his sword by, because Cuthred had none. Dagger against dagger he fought
and killed him.” Hugh had said no word, only turned his head towards his friend
for a moment, studied with penetrating attention the set of Cadfael’s face, and
waited. “For good reason,” said Cadfael. “You’ll not have forgotten the tale we
heard of the empress’s messenger sent out of Oxford, just as King Stephen shut his
iron ring round the castle. Sent forth with money and jewels and a letter for
Brian FitzCount, cut off from her in Wallingford. And how they found his horse
straying in the woods along the road, with blood-stained harness and empty
saddlebags. The body they never found. The Thames runs close. There’s room in
the woods for a grave. So the lord of Wallingford was robbed of the empress’s
treasure. He has beggared himself for her long ago, ungrudging, and his
garrison must eat. And the letter meant for him was stolen along with all the
rest. And Rafe de Genville is vassal and devoted friend to Brian FitzCount, and
loyal liegeman to the empress, and was not minded to let that crime go
unavenged. “What traces he found along the way to
bring him into these parts I never asked, and he never told me, but bring him
they did. The day he came I met with him in the stables, and by chance it came
out that we had Drogo Bosiet lying dead in the mortuary chapel. I recall that I
had not mentioned the name, but perhaps if I had he would still have done what
he did, since names can be changed. He went straightway to look at this dead
man, but at a glance he lost all interest in him. He was looking for someone, a
guest here, a stranger, a traveller, but it was not Bosiet. In a young fellow
of twenty, like Hyacinth, he had no interest at all. It was a man of his own
years and estate he was seeking. Dame Dionisia’s holy man he must surely have
heard about, but dismissed him as priest and pilgrim, vouched for and above
suspicion. Until he heard, as we all did, young Richard bellow that the hermit
was no priest but a cheat. I looked for Rafe afterwards, and he and his horse
were gone. It was an impostor and cheat he was looking for. And he found him,
Hugh, that night at the hermitage. Found him, fought him, killed him. And took
back all that he had stolen, jewels and coin from the casket on the altar, and
the breviary that belonged to the empress, and was used to carry letters
between her and FitzCount when they were apart. You’ll recall that Cuthred’s
dagger was bloodied. I have dressed Rafe de Genville’s wound, I have received
his confidence as I have now delivered you mine, and I have wished him godspeed
back to Wallingford.” Cadfael sat back with a deep and grateful
sigh, and leaned his head against the rough stones of the wall, and there was a
long but tranquil silence between them. Hugh stirred at last, and asked: “How
did you come to know what he was about? There must have been more than that
first encounter, to draw you into his secrets. He said little, he hunted alone.
What more happened, to bring you so close to him?” “I was with him when he dropped some coins
into our alms box. One of them fell to the flags, and I picked it up. A silver
penny of the empress, minted recently in Oxford. He made no secret of it. Did I
not wonder, he said, what the empress’s liegeman was doing so far from the
battle? And I drew a bow at a very long venture, and said he might well be
looking for the murderer who robbed and slew Renaud Bourchier on the road to
Wallingford.” “And he owned it?” said Hugh. “No. He said no, it was not so. It was a
good thought, he said, almost he wished it had been true, but it was not so.
And he told truth. Every word he ever said to me was truth, and I knew it. No,
Cuthred was not a murderer, not then, never until Drogo Bosiet walked into his
cell to enquire after a runaway villein, and came face to face with a man he
had seen, talked with, played chess with, at Thame some weeks before, in a very
different guise. A man who bore arms and showed knightly, but went the roads on
foot, for there was no horse belonging to him in the stable at Thame, none that
came with him, none that departed with him. And this was early in October. All
this Aymer told us, after his father had been silenced.” “I begin,” said Hugh slowly, “to read your
riddle.” He narrowed his eyes upon distance, through the half-naked branches of
the trees that showed above the southern wall of the garden. “When did you ever
question so far astray without a purpose? I should have known when you asked
about the horse. A rider without a horse at Thame and a horse without a rider
wandering the woods by the Wallingford road make sense when put together. No!”
he said in shocked and outraged protest, staring aghast at the image he had
raised. “Where have you brought me? Is this truth, or have I shot wild?
Bourchier himself?” The first tremor of the evening chill shook the harvested
and sleepy herbs with a colder wind, and Hugh shook with them in a convulsion
of incredulous distaste. “What could be worth so monstrous a treason? This was
fouler than murder.” “So thought Rafe de Genville. And he has
taken vengeance for it in measure accordingly. And he is gone, and I wished him
godspeed in his going.” “So would I have done. So I do!” said
Hugh, and stared across the garden with lips curled in fastidious disdain,
contemplating the enormity of the chosen and deliberate dishonour. “There is
nothing, there can be nothing, worth purchasing at such a price.” “Renaud Bourchier thought otherwise,
having other values. He gained his life and liberty first,” said Cadfael,
checking off the score on his fingers, and shaking his head over every item.
“By sending him out of Oxford before the ring of steel shut fast, she released
him to make off into safer pastures. Not that I believe he had even the excuse
of being a simple coward. Quite coldly, I fancy, he preferred to remove himself
from the risk of death or capture, which have come closer to her armies there
in Oxford than ever they came before. Coldly and practically he severed all his
ties of fealty, and retired into obscurity to look round for the next
opportunity. Second, with the theft of the treasure she entrusted to him he had
ample means to live, wherever he might go. And third, and worst of all, he had
a powerful weapon, one which could be used to secure him new soldier service,
and lands, and favour, a new and profitable career to replace the one he had
discarded. The letter the empress had written to Brian FitzCount.” “In the breviary that vanished,” said
Hugh. “I knew no way of accounting for that, though the book had a value even
for itself.” “It had a greater value for what was in
it. Rafe told me. A fine leaf of vellum can be folded into the binding. Only
consider, Hugh, her situation when she wrote. The town lost, only the castle
left, and the king’s armies closing round her. And Brian who had been her right
hand, her shield and sword, second only to her brother, separated from her by
those few miles that could as well have been an ocean. God knows if those
gossips are right,” said Cadfael, “who declare that those two are lovers, but
surely it is truth that they love! And now at this extreme, in peril of
starvation, failure, imprisonment, loss, even death, perhaps never to meet
again, may she not have cried out to him the last truth, without conceal,
things that should not be set down, things no other on earth should ever see?
Such a letter might be of immense value to a man without scruples, who had a
new career to make, and needed the favour of princes. She has a husband years
younger than herself, who has no great love for her, nor she for him, one who
would not spare a man to come to her aid this summer. Suppose that some day it
should be convenient to Geoffrey to repudiate his older wife, and make a second
profitable marriage? In the hands of such as Bourchier her letter, her own
hand, might provide him the pretext, and for princes the means can always be
found. The informer might stand to gain place, command, even lands in Normandy.
Geoffrey has castles newly conquered there to bestow on those who prove useful
to him. I don’t say the count of Anjou is such a man, but I do say so
calculating a traitor as Bourchier would reckon it a possibility, and keep the
letter to be used as chance offered. What knowledge, what suspicion, brought
Rafe de Genville to doubt that death by the Wallingford road I do not know, I
never asked. Certain it is that once the spark was lit, nothing would have
prevented him from pursuing and exacting the penalty due, not from some
supposed murderer—he told me truth there—but from the thief and traitor, Renaud
Bourchier himself.” The wind was rising now, the sky clearing,
the broken fragments of cloud that remained scudding away before the wind. For
the first time the prolonged autumn hinted at winter. “I would have done as Rafe did,” said Hugh
with finality, and rose abruptly to shake off the residue of loathing. “When I bore arms, so would I. It grows
chilly,” said Cadfael, rising after him. “Shall we go in?” Late November would soon be tearing away
with frost and gales the rest of the quivering leaves. The deserted hermitage
in the woods of Eyton would provide winter cover for the small beasts of the
forest, and the garden, running wild again, would shelter the slumbering
urchins in their nests through the winter sleep. Doubtful if Dame Dionisia
would ever set up another hermit in that cell. The wild things would occupy it
in innocence. “Well,” said Cadfael, leading the way into
his workshop, “that’s over. Late but at last, whatever she may have written to
him, her letter is on the way to the man for whose heart’s comfort it was
intended. And I am glad! Whatever the rights or wrongs of their affection, in
the teeth of danger and despair love is entitled to speak its mind, and all
others should be blind and deaf. Except God, who can read both the lines and
between the lines, and who in the end, in matters of passion as in matters of
justice, will have the last word.” 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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