by Ellis Peters
“And you’ll keep him in hold?” asked Cadfael.
“Very surely! And go on following his traces wherever he’s been since that time, and picking the brains of every innkeeper or potman or village customer who’s had to deal with him. There must be someone somewhere who can fill in an hour or two of his life—and hers. Now I have him I’ll keep him until I know truth, one way or the other. Why? Have you a thing to add that has passed me by? I would not refuse any detail you may have in mind.”
“A mere thought,” said Cadfael abstractedly. “Let it grow a day or two. Who knows, you may not have to wait too long for the truth.”
*
On the following morning, which was Sunday, Sulien Blount came riding in from Longner to attend Mass in the abbey church, and brought with him, shaken and brushed and carefully folded, the habit in which he had made his way home after the abbot dismissed him. In his own cotte and hose, linen shirt and good leather shoes, he looked, if anything, slightly less at ease than in the habit, so new was his release after more than a year of the novitiate. He had not yet regained the freedom of a young man’s easy stride, unhampered by monastic skirts. Nor, strangely, did he look any the happier or more carefree for having made up his mind. There was a solemn set to his admirable jaw, and a silent crease of serious thought between his straight brows. The ring of hair that had grown over-long on his journey from Ramsey had been trimmed into tidiness, and the down of dark gold curls within it had grown into a respectable length to blend with the brown. He attended Mass with the same grave concentration he had shown when within the Order, delivered up the clothing he had abandoned, paid his reverences to Abbot Radulfus and Prior Robert, and went to find Brother Cadfael in the herb garden.
“Well, well!” said Cadfael. “I thought you might be looking in on us soon. And how do you find things out in the world? You’ve seen no reason to change your mind?”
“No,” said the boy starkly, and for the moment had nothing more to say. He looked round the high-walled garden, its neat, patterned beds now growing a little leggy and bare with the loss of leaves, the bushy stems of thyme dark as wire. “I liked it here, with you. But no, I wouldn’t turn back. I was wrong to run away. I shall not make the same mistake again.”
“How is your mother faring?” asked Cadfael, divining that she might well be the insoluble grief from which Sulien had attempted flight. For the young man to live with the inescapable contemplation of perpetual pain and the infinitely and cruelly slow approach of lingering death might well be unendurable. For Hugh had reported her present condition very clearly. If that was the heart of it, the boy had braced himself now to make reparation, and carry his part of the load in the house, thereby surely lightening hers.
“Poorly,” said Sulien bluntly. “Never anything else. But she never complains. It’s as if she had some hungry beast for ever gnawing at her body from within. Some days are a little better than others.”
“I have herbs that might do something against the pain,” said Cadfael. “Some time ago she did use them for a while.”
“I know. We have all told her so, but she refuses them now. She says she doesn’t need them. All the same,” he said, warming, “give me some, perhaps I may persuade her.”
He followed Cadfael into the workshop, under the rustling bunches of dried herbs hanging from the roof beams, and sat down on the wooden bench within while Cadfael filled a flask from his supply of the syrup he made from his eastern poppies, calmer of pain and inducer of sleep.
“You may not have heard yet,” said Cadfael, with his back turned, “that the sheriff has a man in prison for the murder of the woman we thought was Generys, until you showed us that was impossible. A fellow named Britric, a pedlar who works the border villages, and bedded down in Ruald’s croft last year, through Saint Peter’s Fair.”
He heard a soft stir of movement at his back, as Sulien’s shoulders shifted against the timber wall. But no word was said.
“He had a woman there with him, it seems, one Gunnild, a tumbler and singer entertaining at the fairground. And no one has seen her since last year’s fair ended. A black-haired woman, they report her. She could very well be the poor soul we found. Hugh Beringar thinks so.”
Sulien’s voice, a little clipped and quiet, asked: “What does Britric say to that? He will not have admitted to it?”
“He said what he would say, that he left the woman there the morning after the fair, safe and well, and has not seen her since.”
“So he may have done,” said Sulien reasonably.
“It is possible. But no one has seen the woman since. She did not come to this year’s fair, no one knows anything of her. And as I heard it, they were known to quarrel, even to come to blows. And he is a powerful man, with a hot temper, who might easily go too far. I would not like,” said Cadfael with intent, “to be in his shoes, for I think the charge against him will be made good. His life is hardly worth the purchase.”
He had not turned until then. The boy was sitting very still, his eyes steady upon Cadfael’s countenance. In a voice of detached pity, not greatly moved, he said: “Poor wretch! I daresay he never meant to kill her. What did you say her name was, this tumbler girl?”
“Gunnild. They called her Gunnild.”
“A hard life that must be, tramping the roads,” said Sulien reflectively, “especially for a woman. Not so ill in the summer, perhaps, but what must they do in the winter?”
“What all the jongleurs do,” said Cadfael, practically. “About this time of year they begin thinking of what manor is most likely to take them in for their singing and playing, over the worst of the weather. And with the Spring they’ll be off again.”
“Yes, I suppose a corner by the fire and a dinner at the lowest table must be more than welcome once the snow falls,” Sulien agreed indifferently, and rose to accept the small flask Cadfael had stoppered for him. “I’ll be getting back now, Eudo can do with a hand about the stable. And I do thank you, Cadfael. For this and for everything.”
Chapter 8
IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER that a groom came riding in at the gatehouse of the castle, with a woman pillion behind him, and set her down in the outer court to speak with the guards. Modestly but with every confidence she asked for the lord sheriff, and made it known that her business was important, and would be considered so by the personage she sought.
Hugh came up from the armoury in his shirt-sleeves and a leather jerkin, with the flush and smokiness of the smith’s furnace about him. The woman looked at him with as much curiosity as he was feeling about her, so young and so unexpected was his appearance. She had never seen the sheriff of the shore before, and had looked for someone older and more defensive of his own dignity than this neat, lightly built young fellow in his twenties still, black-haired and black-browed, who looked more like one of the apprentice armourers than the king’s officer.
“You asked to speak with me, mistress?” said Hugh. “Come within, and tell me what you need of me.”
She followed him composedly into the small anteroom in the gatehouse, but hesitated for a moment when he invited her to be seated, as though her business must first be declared and accounted for, before she could be at ease.
“My lord, I think it is you who have need of me, if what I have heard is true.” Her voice had the cadences of the countrywoman, and a slight roughness and rawness, as though in its time it had been abused by over-use or use under strain. And she was not as young as he had first thought her, perhaps around thirty-five years old, but handsome and erect of carriage, and moved with decorous grace. She wore a good dark gown, matronly and sober, and her hair was drawn back and hidden under a white wimple. The perfect image of a decent burgess’s wife, or a gentlewoman’s attendant. Hugh could not immediately guess where and how she fitted into his present preoccupations, but was willing to wait for enlightenment.
“And what is it you have heard?” he asked.
“They are saying about the market that you have taken
a man called Britric into hold, a pedlar, for killing a woman who kept company with him for some while last year. Is it true?”
“True enough,” said Hugh. “You have something to say to the matter?”
“I have, my lord!” Her eyes she kept half-veiled by heavy, long lashes, looking up directly into his face only rarely and briefly. “I bear Britric no particular goodwill, for reasons enough, but no ill will, either. He was a good companion for a while, and even if we did fall out, I don’t want him hung for a murder that was never committed. So here I am in the flesh, to prove I’m well alive. And my name is Gunnild.”
*
“And, by God, so it proved!” said Hugh, pouring out the whole unlikely story some hours later, in the leisure hour of the monastic afternoon in Cadfael’s workshop. “No question, Gunnild she is. You should have seen the pedlar’s face when I brought her into his cell, and he took one long look at the decent, respectable shape of her, and then at her face closely, and his mouth fell open, he found her so hard to believe. But: “Gunnild!” he screeches, as soon as he gets his breath back. Oh, she’s the same woman, not a doubt of it, but so changed it took him a while to trust his own eyes. And there was more than he ever told us to that early morning flight of his. No wonder he crept off and left her sleeping. He took every penny of her earnings with him as well as his own. I said he had something on his conscience, and something to do with the woman. So he had, he robbed her of everything she had of value, and a hard time she must have had of it through the autumn and into the winter, last year.”
“It sounds,” said Cadfael, attentive but unsurprised, “as if their meeting today might well be another stormy one.”
“Well, he was so glad of her coming, he was all thanks and promises of redress, and fawning flattery. And she refuses to press the theft against him. I do believe he had thoughts of trying to woo her back to the wandering life, but she’s having none of that. Not she! She calls up her groom, and he hoists her to the pillion, and away they go.”
“And Britric?” Cadfael reached to give a thoughtful stir to the pot he had gently simmering on the grid that covered one side of his brazier. The sharp, warm, steamy smell of horehound stung their nostrils. There were already a few coughs and colds among the old, frail brothers in Edmund’s infirmary.
“He’s loosed and away, very subdued, though how long that will last there’s no knowing. No reason to hold him longer. We’ll keep a weather eye on his dealings, but if he’s beginning to prosper honestly—well, almost honestly!—he may have got enough wisdom this time to stay within the law. Even the abbey may get its tolls if he comes to next year’s fair. But here are we, Cadfael, left with a history repeating itself very neatly and plausibly, to let loose not one possible murderer, but the second one also. Is that believable?”
“Such things have been known,” said Cadfael cautiously, “but not often.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I believe it has happened. But that it has happened by chance, that has me in two minds. No,” Cadfael amended emphatically, “more than two minds.”
“That one supposedly dead woman should come back to life, well and good. But the second also? And are we now to expect a third, if we can find a third to die or rise again? And yet we still have this one poor, offended soul waiting for justice, if not by another’s death, at least by the grace and remembrance of a name. She is dead, and requires an accounting.”
Cadfael had listened with respect and affection to a speech which might as well have come from Abbot Radulfus, but delivered with a youthful and secular passion. Hugh did not often commit himself to indignation, at least not aloud.
“Hugh, did she tell you how and where she heard of Britric’s being in your prison?”
“No more than vaguely. Rumoured about in the market, she said. I never thought,” said Hugh, vexed, “to question more nearly.”
“And it’s barely three days since you let it be known what he was suspected of, and put out her name. News travels fast, but how far it should have reached in the time may be much to the point. I take it Gunnild has accounted for herself? For the change in fortunes? You have not told me, yet, where she lives and serves now.”
“Why, it seems that after a fashion Britric did her a favour when he left her penniless, there in Ruald’s croft. It was August then, the end of the fair, no very easy way to pick up a profit, and she barely managed to keep herself through the autumn months, fed but with nothing saved, and you’ll remember—God knows you should!—that the winter came early and hard. She did what the wandering players do, started early looking for a manor where there might be a place for a good minstrel through the worst of the winter. Common practice, but you gamble, and may win or do poorly!”
“Yes,” agreed Cadfael, rather to himself than to his friend, “so I told him.”
“She did well for herself. She happened into the manor of Withington in the December snows. Giles Otmere holds it, a crown tenant these days, since FitzAlan’s lands were seized, and he has a young family who welcome a minstrel over the Christmas feast, so they took her in. But better still, the young daughter is eighteen just turned, and took a liking to her, and according to Gunnild she has a neat hand with dressing hair, and is good with her needle, and the girl has taken her on as tirewoman. You should see the delicate pace of her now, and the maidenly manners. She’s been profitable to her lady, and thinks the world of her. Gunnild will never go back to the roads and the fairgrounds now, she has too much good sense. Truly, Cadfael, you should see her for yourself.”
“Truly,” said Cadfael musingly, “I think I should. Well, Withington is not far, not much beyond Upton, but unless Mistress Gunnild came into town for yesterday’s market, or someone happened in at Withington with the day’s news, rumour seems to have run through the grasses and across the river of its own accord. Granted it does fly faster than the birds at times, at least in town and Foregate, it takes a day or so to reach the outlying villages. Unless someone sets out in haste to carry it.”
“Brought home from market or blown on the wind,” said Hugh, “it travelled as far as Withington, it seems. As well for Britric. I am left with no notion which way to look now, but better that than hound an innocent man. But I would be loath to give up, and let the thing go by default.”
“No need,” said Cadfael, “to think in such terms yet. Wait but a few more days, and give your mind to the king’s business meantime, and we may have one thread left to us yet.”
*
Cadfael made his way to the abbot’s lodging before Vespers, and asked for an audience. He was a little deprecating in advancing his request, well aware of the license often granted to him beyond what the Rule would normally countenance, but for once none too certain of what he was about. The reliance the abbot had come to place in him was in itself something of a burden.
“Father, I think Hugh Beringar will have been with you this afternoon, and told you what has happened concerning the man Britric. The woman who is known to have been in his company a year and more ago did indeed vanish from her usual haunts, but not by death. She has come forward to show that he has not harmed her, and the man is set free.”
“Yes,” said Radulfus, “this I know. Hugh was with me an hour since. I cannot but be glad the man is innocent of murder, and can go his ways freely. But our responsibility for the dead continues, and our quest must go on.”
“Father, I came to ask leave to make a journey tomorrow. A few hours would suffice. There is an aspect of this deliverance that raises certain questions that need to be answered. I did not suggest to Hugh Beringar that he should undertake such an enquiry, partly because he has the king’s business very much on his mind, but also because I may be wrong in what I believe, and if it proves so, no need to trouble him with it. And if it proves there is ground for my doubts,” said Cadfael very soberly, “then I must lay the matter in his hands, and there leave it.”
“And am I permitted,” asked the abbot after a moment’s thought,
and with a shadowy and wry smile touching his lips briefly, “to ask what these doubts may be?”
“I would as lief say nothing,” said Cadfael frankly, “until I have the answers myself, yes or no. For if I am become a mere subtle, suspicious old man, too prone to see devious practices where none are, then I would rather not draw any other man into the same unworthy quagmire, nor levy false charges easier to publish than to suppress. Bear with me until tomorrow.”
“Then tell me one thing only,” said Radulfus. “There is no cause, I trust, in this course you have in mind, to point again at Brother Ruald?”
“No, Father. It points away from him.”
“Good! I cannot believe any ill of the man.”
“I am sure he has done none,” said Cadfael firmly.
“So he at least can be at peace.”
“That I have not said.” And at the sharp and penetrating glance the abbot fixed upon him he went on steadily: “All we within this house share the concern and grief for a creature laid astray in abbey land without a name or the proper rites of death and absolution. To that extent, until this is resolved, none of us can be at peace.”
Radulfus was still for a long moment, eyeing Cadfael closely; then he stirred abruptly out of his stillness, and said practically: “Then the sooner you advance this argument the better. Take a mule from the stables, if the journey is somewhat long for going and returning in a day. Where is it you are bound? May I ask even so far?”
“No great distance,” said Cadfael, “but it will save time if I ride. It is only to the manor of Withington.”
*
Cadfael set out next morning, immediately after Prime, on the six-mile ride to the manor where Gunnild had found her refuge from the chances and mischances of the road. He crossed by the ferry upstream from the Longner lands, and on the further side followed the little brook that entered the Severn there, with rising fields on either side. For a quarter of a mile he could see on his right the long crest of trees and bushes, on the far side of which lay the Potter’s Field, transformed now into a plateau of new ploughland above, and the gentle slope of meadow below. What remained of the cottage would have been dismantled by now, the garden cleared, the site levelled. Cadfael had not been back to see.
