by Ellis Peters
After Mass Cadfael looked for them again, but they were hidden among the mass of people gathering slowly to leave by the west door. He went out by the south door and the cloisters, and emerged into the court to find her waiting quietly there for the procession of the brothers to separate to their various duties. It did not surprise him when at sight of him her face sharpened and her eyes brightened, and she took a single step towards him, enough to arrest him.
“Brother, may I speak with you? I have asked leave of the lord abbot.” She sounded practical and resolute, but she had not risked the least indiscretion, it seemed. “I made so bold as to accost him just now, when he left,” she said. “It seems that he already knew my name and family. That can only have been from you, I think.”
“Father Abbot is fully informed,” said Cadfael, “with all the matter that brought me to visit you. He is concerned for justice, as we are. To the dead and to the living. He will not stand in the way of any converse that may serve that end.”
“He was kind,” she said, and suddenly warmed and smiled. “And now we have observed all the proper forms, and I can breathe again. Where may we talk?”
He took them to his workshop in the herb garden. It was becoming too chilly to linger and converse outdoors, his brazier was alight but damped down within, and with the timber doors wide open, Brother Winfrid returning to the remaining patch of rough pre-winter digging just outside the enclosure wall, and Gunnild standing at a discreet distance within, not even Prior Robert could have raised his brows at the propriety of this conference. Pernel had been wise in applying directly to the superior, who already knew of the role she had played, and certainly had no reason to disapprove of it. Had she not gone far to save both a body and a soul? And she had brought the one, if not visibly the other, to show to him.
“Now,” said Cadfael, tickling the brazier to show a gleam of red through its controlling turves, “sit down and be easy, the both of you. And tell me what you have in mind, to bring you here to worship, when, as I know, you have a church and a priest of your own. I know, for it belongs, like Upton, to this house of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. And your priest is a rare man and a scholar, as I know from Brother Anselm, who is his friend.”
“So he is,” said Pernel warmly, “and you must not think I have not talked with him, very earnestly, about this matter.” She had settled herself decorously at one end of the bench against the wall of the hut, composed and erect, her face bright against the dark timber, her hood fallen back on her shoulders. Gunnild, invited by a smile and a gesture, glided out of shadow and sat down on the other end of the bench, leaving a discreet gap between the two of them to mark the difference in their status, but not too wide, to underline the depth of her alliance with her mistress. “It was Father Ambrosius,” said Pernel, “who said the word that brought me here on this day of all days. Father Ambrosius studied for some years in Brittany. You know, Brother, whose day we are celebrating?”
“I should,” said Cadfael, relinquishing the bellows that had raised a red glow in his brazier. “He is as Welsh as I am, and a close neighbour to this shire. What of Saint Tysilio?”
“But did you know that he is said to have gone over to Brittany to fly from a woman’s persecution? And in Brittany they also tell of his life, like the readings you will hear today at Collations. But there they know him by another name. They call him Sulien.”
*
“Oh, no,” she said, seeing how speculatively Cadfael was eyeing her, “I did not take it as a sign from heaven, when Father Ambrosuis told me that. It was just that the name prompted me to act, where before I was only wondering and fretting. Why not on his day? For I think, Brother, that you believe that Sulien Blount is not what he seems, not as open as he seems. I have been thinking and asking about this matter. I think things are so inclining, that he may be suspect of too much knowledge, in this matter of the poor dead woman your plough team found under the headland in the Potter’s Field. Too much knowledge, perhaps even guilt. Is it true?”
“Too much knowledge, certainly,” said Cadfael. “Guilt, that is mere conjecture, yet there is ground for suspicion.” He owed her honesty, and she expected it.
“Will you tell me,” she said, “the whole story? For I know only what is gossiped around. Let me understand whatever danger he may be in. Guilt or no, he would not let another man be blamed unjustly.”
Cadfael told her the whole of it, from the first furrow cut by the abbey plough. She listened attentively and seriously, her round brow furrowed with thought. She could not and did not believe any evil of the young man who had visited her for so generous a purpose, but neither did she ignore the reasons why others might have doubts of him. At the end she drew breath long and softly, and gnawed her lip for a moment, pondering.
“Do you believe him guilty?” she asked then, point-blank.
“I believe he has knowledge which he has not seen fit to reveal. More than that I will not say. All depends on whether he told us the truth about the ring.”
“But Brother Ruald believes him?” she said.
“Without question.”
“And he has known him from a child.”
“And may be partial,” said Cadfael, smiling. “But yes, he has more knowledge of the boy than either you or I, and plainly expects nothing less than truth from him.”
“And so would I. But one thing I wonder at,” said Pernel very earnestly. “You say that you think he knew of this matter before he went to visit his home, though he said he heard of it only there. If you are right, if he heard it from Brother Jerome before he went to ask leave to visit Longner, why did he not bring forth the ring at once, and tell what he had to tell? Why leave it until the next day? Whether he got the ring as he said, or had it in his possession from long before, he could have spared Brother Ruald one more night of wretchedness. So gentle a soul as he seems, why should he leave a man to bear such a burden an hour longer than he need, let alone a day?”
It was the one consideration which Cadfael had had at the back of his mind ever since the occasion itself, but did not yet know what to make of it. If Pernel’s mind was keeping in reserve the same doubt, let her speak for him, and probe beyond where he had yet cared to go. He said simply: “I have not pursued it. It would entail questioning Brother Jerome, which I should be loath to do until I am more sure of my ground. But I can think of only one reason. For some motive of his own, he wished to preserve the appearance of having heard of the case only when he paid his visit to Longner.”
“Why should he want that?” she challenged.
“I suppose that he might well want to talk to his brother before he committed himself to anything. He had been away more than a year, he would want to ensure that his family was in no way threatened by a matter of which he had only just learned. Naturally he would be tender of their interests, all the more because he had not seen them for so long.”
To that she agreed, with a thoughtful and emphatic nod of her head. “Yes, so he would. But I can think of another reason why he delayed, and I am sure you are thinking of it, too.”
“And that is?”
“That he had not got it,” said Pernel firmly, “and could not show it, until he had been home to fetch it.”
She had indeed spoken out bluntly and fearlessly, and Cadfael could not but admire her singlemindedness. Her sole belief was that Sulien was clean of any shadow of guilt, her sole purpose to prove it to the world, but her confidence in the efficacy of truth drove her to go headlong after it, certain that when found it must be on her side.
“I know,” she said, “I am making a case that may seem hurtful to him, but in the end it cannot be, because I am sure he has done no wrong. There is no way but to look at every possibility. I know you said that Sulien grew to love that woman, and said so himself, and if she did give her ring to another man, for spite against her husband, yes, it could have been to Sulien. But equally it could have been to someone else. And though I would not try to lift the curse from one man by
throwing it upon another, Sulien was not the only young man close neighbour to the potter. Just as likely to be drawn to a woman every account claims was beautiful. If Sulien has guilty knowledge he cannot reveal, he could as well be shielding a brother as protecting himself. I cannot believe,” she said vehemently, “that you have not thought of that possibility.”
“I have thought of many possibilities,” agreed Cadfael placidly, “without much by way of fact to support any. Yes, for either himself or his brother he might lie. Or for Ruald. But only if he knows, as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, that our poor dead lady is indeed Generys. And never forget, there is also the possibility, however diminished since his efforts for Britric, that he was not lying, that Generys is alive and well, somewhere there in the eastlands, with the man she chose to follow. And we may never, never know who was the dark-haired woman someone buried with reverence in the Potter’s Field.”
“But you do not believe that,” she said with certainty.
“I think truth, like the burgeoning of a bulb under the soil, however deeply sown, will make its way to the light.”
“And there is nothing we can do to hasten it,” said Pernel, and heaved a resigned sigh.
“At present, nothing but wait.”
“And pray, perhaps?” she said.
*
Cadfael could not choose but wonder, none the less, what she would do next, for inaction would be unbearably irksome to her now that her whole energy was engaged for this young man she had seen only once. Whether Sulien had paid as acute attention to her there was no knowing, but it was in Cadfael’s mind that sooner or later he would have to, for she had no intention of turning back. It was also in his mind that the boy might do a good deal worse. If, that is, he came out of this web of mystery and deceit with a whole skin and a quiet mind, something he certainly did not possess at present.
From Cambridge and the Fens there was no news. No one had yet expected any. But travellers from eastward reported that the weather was turning foul, with heavy rains and the first frosts of the winter. No very attractive prospect for an army floundering in watery reaches unfamiliar to them but known to the elusive enemy. Cadfael bethought him of his promise to Hugh, by this time more than a week absent, and asked leave to go up into the town and visit Aline and his godson. The sky was overclouded, the weather from the east gradually moving in upon Shrewsbury in a very fine rain, hardly more than mist, that clung in the hair and the fibres of clothing, and barely darkened the slate-grey earth of the Foregate. In the Potter’s Field the winter crop was already sown, and there would be cattle grazing the lower strip of pasture. Cadfael had not been back to see it with his own eyes, but with the inner eye he saw it very clearly, dark, rich soil soon to bring forth new life; green, moist turf and tangled briary headland under the ridge of bushes and trees. That it had once held an unblessed grave would soon be forgotten. The grey, soft day made for melancholy. It was pleasure and relief to turn in at the gate of Hugh’s yard, and be met and embraced about the thighs by a small, boisterous boy yelling delighted greetings. Another month or so, and Giles would be four years old. He took a first grip on a fistful of Cadfael’s habit, and towed him gleefully into the house. With Hugh absent, Giles was the man of the house, and well aware of all his duties and privileges. He made Cadfael free of the amenities of his manor with solemn dignity, seated him ceremoniously, and himself made off to the buttery to fetch a beaker of ale, bearing it back cautiously in both still-rounded, infantile hands, overfilled and in danger of spilling, with his primrose hair erect and rumpled, and the tip of his tongue braced in the corner of his mouth. His mother followed him into the hall at a discreet distance, to avoid upsetting either his balance or his dignity. She was smiling at Cadfael over her son’s fair head, and suddenly the radiant likeness between them shone on Cadfael like the sun bursting out of clouds. The round, earnest face with its full childish cheeks, and the pure oval with its wide brow and tapered chin, so different and yet so similar, shared the pale, lustrous colouring and the lily-smooth skin, the refinement of feature and steadiness of gaze. Hugh is indeed a lucky man, Cadfael thought, and then drew in cautious breath on a superstitious prayer that such luck should stand by him still, wherever he might be at this moment.
If Aline had any misgivings, they were not allowed to show themselves. She sat down with him cheerfully as always, and talked of the matters of the household and the affairs at the castle under Alan Herbard, with her usual practical good sense; and Giles, instead of clambering into his godfather’s lap as he might well have done some weeks previously, climbed up to sit beside him on the bench like a man and a contemporary.
“Yes,” said Aline, “there is a bowman of the company has ridden in only this afternoon, the first word we’ve had. He got a graze in one skirmish they had, and Hugh sent him home, seeing he was fit to ride, and they had left changes of horses along the way. He will heal well, Alan says, but it weakens his drawing arm.”
“And how are they faring?” Cadfael asked. “Have they managed to bring Geoffrey into the open?”
She shook her head decisively. “Very little chance of it. The waters are up everywhere, and it’s still raining. All they can do is lie in wait for the raiding parties when they venture out to plunder the villages. Even there the king is at a disadvantage, seeing Geoffrey’s men know every usable path, and can bog them down in the marshes only too easily. But they have picked off a few such small parties. It isn’t what Stephen wants, but it’s all he can get. Ramsey is quite cut off, no one can hope to fetch them out of there.”
“And this tedious business of ambush and waiting,” said Cadfael, “wastes too much time. Stephen cannot afford to keep it up too long. Costly and ineffective as it is, he’ll have to withdraw to try some other measure. If Geoffrey’s numbers have grown so great, he must be getting supplies now from beyond the Fen villages. His supply lines might be vulnerable. And Hugh? He is well?”
“Wet and muddy and cold, I daresay,” said Aline, ruefully smiling, “and probably cursing heartily, but he’s whole and well, or was when his archer left him. That’s one thing to be said for this tedious business, as you called it, such losses as there are have been de Mandeville’s. But too few to do him much harm.”
“Not enough,” Cadfael said consideringly, “to be worth the king’s while for much longer. I think, Aline, you may not have to wait long to have Hugh home again.”
Giles pressed a little closer and more snugly into his godfather’s side, but said nothing. “And you, my lord,” said Cadfael, “will have to hand over your manor again, and give account of your stewardship. I hope you have not let things get out of hand while the lord sheriff’s been away.”
Hugh’s deputy made a brief sound indicative of scorn at the very idea that his strict rule should ever be challenged. “I am good at it,” he stated firmly. “My father says so. He says I keep a tighter rein than he does. And use the spur more.”
“Your father,” said Cadfael gravely, “is always fair and ungrudging even to those who excel him.” He was aware, through some alchemy of proximity and affection, of the smile Aline was not allowing to show in her face.
“Especially with the women,” said Giles complacently.
“Now that,” said Cadfael, “I can well believe.”
*
King Stephen’s tenacity, in any undertaking, had always been precarious. Not want of courage, certainly, not even want of determination, caused him to abandon sieges after a mere few days and rush away to some more promising assault. It was rather impatience, frustrated optimism and detestation of being inactive that made him quit one undertaking for another. On occasion, as at Oxford, he could steel himself to persist, if the situation offered a reasonable hope of final triumph, but where stalemate was obvious he soon wearied and went off to fresh fields. In the wintry rains of the Fens anger and personal hatred kept him constant longer than usual, but his successes were meagre, and it was borne in upon him by the last week of November tha
t he could not hope to finish the work. Floundering in the quagmires of those bleak levels, his forces had certainly closed in with enough method and strength to compress de Mandeville’s territory, and had picked off a fair number of his rogue troops when they ventured out on to drier ground, but it was obvious that the enemy had ample supplies, and could hold off for a while even from raiding. There was no hope of digging them out of their hole. Stephen turned to changed policies with the instant vigour he could find at need. He wanted his feudal levies, especially any from potentially vulnerable regions, such as those neighbour to the Welsh, or to dubious friends like the Earl of Chester, back where they were most useful. Here in the Fens he proposed to marshal an army rather of builders than soldiers, throw up a ring of hasty but well-placed strongpoints to contain the outlaw territory, compress it still further wherever they could, and menace Geoffrey’s outside supply lines when his stores ran low. Manned by the experienced Flemish mercenaries, familiar with fighting in flat lands and among complex waterways, such a ring of forts could hold what had been gained through the winter, until conditions were more favourable to open manoeuvring.
It was nearing the end of November when Hugh found himself and his levy briskly thanked and dismissed. He had lost no men killed, and had only a few minor wounds and grazes to show, and was heartily glad to withdraw his men from wallowing in the quagmires round Cambridge and set out with them north-westward towards Huntingdon, where the royal castle had kept the town relatively secure and the roads open. From there he sent them on due west for Kettering, while he rode north, heading for Peterborough.
*
He had not paused to consider, until he rode over the bridge of the Nene and up into the town, what he expected to find there. Better, perhaps, to approach thus without expectations of any kind. The road from the bridge brought him up into the marketplace, which was alive and busy. The burgesses who had elected to stay were justified, the town had so far proved too formidable to be a temptation to de Mandeville while there were more isolated and defenceless victims to be found. Hugh found stabling for his horse, and went afoot to look for Priestgate.
