Murder Most Medieval

by Martin Greenburg

  So that was the end of one man’s year of triumph, an empty achievement, a ruinous victory, Normandy won, his enemies routed, and now everything swept aside, broken apart upon an obstinate rock, washed away in a malicious sea. His only lawful son, recently married in splendor, now denied even a coffin and a grave, for if ever they found those royal bodies it would be by the relenting grace of God, for the sea seldom put its winnings ashore by Barfleur. Even some of his unlawful sons, of whom there were many, gone down with their royal brother, no one left but the one legal daughter to inherit a barren empire.

  Cadfael walked alone in a corner of the King’s park and considered the foolishness of mortal vainglory, that was paid for with such a bitter price. But also he thought of the affairs of little men, to whom even a luckless King owed justice. For somewhere there was still to be sought the lost prior of Shrewsbury, carried off by masterless men in the forest, a litigant who might still be lost three days hence, when his suit came up again for hearing, unless someone in the meantime knew where to look for him.

  He was in little doubt now. A lawless gang at liberty so close to a royal palace was in any case unlikely enough, and Cadfael was liable to brood on the unlikely. But that there should be two—no, that was impossible. And if one only, then that same one whose ambush he had overheard at some distance, yet close enough, too close for comfort, to Roger Mauduit’s hunting lodge.

  Probably the unhappy brothers from Shrewsbury were off beating the wilds of the forest afresh. Cadfael knew better where to look. No doubt Roger was biting his nails in some anxiety over the delay, but he had no reason to suppose that three days would release the captive to appear against him, nor was he paying much attention to what his Welsh man-at-arms was doing with his time.

  Cadfael took his horse and rode back without haste toward the hunting lodge. He left in the early dusk, as soon as the evening meal was over in Mauduit’s lodging. No one was paying any heed to him by that time of day. All Roger had to do was hold his tongue and keep his wits about him for three days, and the disputed manor would still be adjudged to him. Everything was beautifully in hand, after all.

  Two of the men-at-arms and one groom had been left behind at the hunting lodge. Cadfael doubted if the man they guarded was to be found in the house itself, for unless he was blindfolded he would be able to gather far too much knowledge of his surroundings, and the fable of the masterless men would be tossed into the rubbish heap. No, he would be held in darkness, or dim light at best, even during the day, in straw or the rush flooring of a common hut, fed adequately but plainly and roughly, as wild men might keep a prisoner they were too cautious to kill, or too superstitious, until they turned him loose in some remote place, stripped of everything he had of value. On the other hand, he must be somewhere securely inside the boundary fence, otherwise there would be too high a risk of his being found. Between the gate and the house there were trees enough to obscure the large holding of a man of consequence. Somewhere among the stables and barns, or the now-empty kennels, there he must be held.

  Cadfael tethered his horse in cover well aside from the lodge and found himself a perch in a tall oak tree, from which vantage point he could see over the fence into the courtyard.

  He was in luck. The three within fed themselves at leisure before they fed their prisoner, preferring to wait for dark. By the time the groom emerged from the hall with a pitcher and a bowl in his hands, Cadfael had his night eyes. They were quite easy about their charge, expecting no interference from any man. The groom vanished momentarily between the trees within the enclosure, but appeared again at one of the low buildings tucked under the fence, set down his pitcher for a moment, while he hoisted clear a heavy wooden bar that held the door fast shut, and he vanished within. The door thudded to after him, as though he had slammed it shut with his back braced against it, taking no chances even with an elderly monastic. In a few minutes he emerged again empty-handed, hauled the bar into place again, and returned, whistling, to the hall and the enjoyment of Mauduit’s ale.

  Not the stables nor the kennels, but a small stout hay store built on short wooden piles raised from the ground. At least the prior would have fairly snug lying.

  Cadfael let the last of the light fade before he made a move. The wooden wall was stout and high, but more than one of the old trees outside leaned a branch over it, and it was no great labor to climb without and drop into the deep grass within. He made first for the gate, and quietly unbarred the narrow wicket set into it. Faint threads of torchlight filtered through the chinks in the hall shutters, but nothing else stirred. Cadfael laid hold of the heavy bar of the storehouse door, and eased it silently out of its socket, opening the door by cautious inches, and whispering through the chink: “Father… ?”

  There was a sharp rustling of hay within, but no immediate reply.

  “Father Prior, is it you? Softly… Are you bound?”

  A hesitant and slightly timorous voice said, “No.” And in a moment, with better assurance: “My son, you are not one of these sinful men?”

  “Sinful man I am, but not of their company. Hush, quietly now! I have a horse close by. I came from Woodstock to find you. Reach me your hand, Father, and come forth.”

  A hand came wavering out of the hay-scented darkness to clutch convulsively at Cadfael’s hand. The pale patch of a tonsured crown gleamed faintly, and a small, rounded figure crept forth and stepped into the thick grass. He had the wit to waste no breath then on questions, but stood docile and silent while Cadfael rebarred the door on emptiness and, taking him by the hand, led him softly along the fence to the unfastened wicket in the great gate. Only when the door was closed as softly behind them did he heave a great, thankful sigh.

  They were out, it was done, and no one would be likely to learn of the escape until morning. Cadfael led the way to where he had left his horse tethered. The forest lay serene and quiet about them.

  “You ride, Father, and I’ll walk with you. It’s no more than two miles into Woodstock. We’re safe enough now.”

  Bewildered and confused by so sudden a reversal, the prior confided and obeyed like a child. Not until they were out on the silent high road did he say sadly, “I have failed of my mission. Son, may God bless you for this kindness that is beyond my understanding. For how did you know of me, and how could you divine where to find me? I understand nothing of what has been happening to me. And I am not a very brave man… But my failure is no fault of yours, and my blessing I owe you without stint.”

  “You have not failed, Father,” Cadfael said simply. “The suit is still unheard and will be for three days more. All your companions are safe in Woodstock, except that they fret and search for you. And if you know where they will be lodging, I would recommend that you join them now, by night, and stay well out of sight until the day the case is heard. For if this trap was designed to keep you from appearing in the King’s court, some further attempt might yet be made. Have you your evidences safe? They did not take them?”

  “Brother Orderic, my clerk, was carrying the documents, but he could not conduct the case in court. I only am accredited to represent my abbot. But, my son, how is it that the case still goes unheard? The King keeps strict day and time, it’s well known. How comes it that God and you have saved me from disgrace and loss?”

  “Father, for all too bitter reason, the King could not be present.”

  Cadfael told him the whole of it, how half the young chivalry of England had been wiped out in one blow, and the King left without an heir. Prior Heribert, shocked and dismayed, fell to praying in a grieving whisper for both dead and living, and Cadfael walked beside the horse in silence, for what more was there to be said? Except that King Henry, even in this shattering hour, willed that his justice should still prevail, and that was virtue in any monarch. Only when they came into the sleeping town did Cadfael again interrupt the prior’s fervent prayers with a strange question.

  “Father, was any man of your escort carrying steel? A dagger, or any
such weapon?”

  “No, no, God forbid!” said the prior, shocked. “We have no use for arms. We trust in God’s peace, and after it in the King’s.”

  “So I thought,” Cadfael said, nodding. “It is another discipline, for another venture.”

  BY THE CHANGE IN Mauduit’s countenance, Cadfael knew the hour of the following day when the news reached him that his prisoner was flown. All the rest of that day he went about with nerves at stretch and ears pricked for any sensational rumors being bandied around the town, and eyes roving anxiously in dread of the sight of Prior Heribert in court or street, braced to pour out his complaint to the King’s officers. But as the hours passed and still there was no sign, he began to be a little eased in his mind, and to hope still for a miraculous deliverance. The Benedictine brothers were seen here and there, mute and somber-faced,- surely they could have had no word of their superior. There was nothing to be done but set his teeth, keep his countenance, wait, and hope.

  The second day passed, and the third day came, and Mauduit’s hopes had soared again, for still there was no word. He made his appearance before the King’s judge confidently, his charters in hand. The abbey was the suitor. If all went well, Roger would not even have to state his case, for the plea would fail of itself when the pleader failed to appear.

  It came as a shattering shock when a sudden stir at the door, prompt to the hour appointed, blew into the hall a small, round, unimpressive person in the Benedictine habit, hugging to him an armful of vellum rolls and followed by his black-gowned brothers in close attendance. Cadfael, too, was observing him with interest, for it was the first time he had seen him clearly. A modest man of comfortable figure and amiable countenance, rosy and mild. Not so old as that night journey had suggested, perhaps forty-five, with a shining innocence about him. But to Roger Mauduit it might have been a fire-breathing dragon entering the hall.

  And who would have expected, from that gentle, even deprecating presence, the clarity and expertise with which that small man deployed his original charter, punctiliously identical to Roger’s according to the account Alard had given, and omitting any specific mention of what should follow Arnulf Mauduit’s death—how scrupulously he pointed out the omission and the arguments to which it might give rise, and followed it up with two letters written by that same Arnulf Mauduit to Abbot Fulchered, referring in plain terms to the obligatory return of the manor and village after his death, and pledging his son’s loyal observance of the obligation.

  It might have been want of proofs that caused Roger to make so poor a job of refuting the evidence, or it might have been craven conscience. Whatever the cause, judgment was given for the abbey.

  CADFAEL PRESENTED HIMSELF BEFORE the lord he was leaving, barely an hour after the verdict was given.

  “My lord, your suit is concluded, and my service with it. I have done what I pledged, here I part from you.”

  Roger sat sunk in gloom and rage, and lifted upon him a glare that should have felled him, but failed of its impact.

  “I misdoubt me,” Roger said, smoldering, “how you have observed your loyalty to me. Who else could know…‘ He bit his tongue in time, for as long as it remained unsaid, no accusation had been made, and no rebuttal was needed. He would have liked to ask, How did you know? But he thought better of it. ”Go, then, if you have nothing more to say.“

  “As to that,” Cadfael said meaningly, “nothing more need be said. It’s over.” And that was recognizable as a promise, but with uneasy implications, for plainly on some other matter he still had a thing to say.

  “My lord, give some thought to this, for I was until now in your service and wish you no harm. Of those four who attended Prior Heribert on his way here, not one carried arms. There was neither sword nor dagger nor knife of any kind among the five of them.”

  He saw the significance of that go home, slowly but with bitter force. The masterless men had been nothing but a children’s tale, but until now Roger had thought, as he had been meant to think, that that dagger-stroke in the forest had been a bold attempt by an abbey servant to defend his prior. He blinked and swallowed and stared, and began to sweat, beholding a perilous gulf into which he had all but stumbled.

  “There were none there who bore arms,” said Cadfael, “but your own.”

  A double-edged ambush that had been, to have him out in the forest by night, all unsuspecting. And there were as many miles between Woodstock and Sutton Mauduit returning as coming, and there would be other nights as dark on the way.

  “Who?” asked Roger in a grating whisper. “Which of them? Give him a name!”

  “No,” Cadfael said simply. “Do your own divining. I am no longer in your service, I have said all I mean to say.”

  Roger’s face had turned grey. He was hearing again the plan unfolded so seductively in his ear. “You cannot leave me so! If you know so much, for God’s sake return with me, see me safely home, at least. You I could trust!”

  “No,” said Cadfael again. “You are warned, now guard yourself.”

  It was fair, he considered; it was enough. He turned and went away without another word. He went, just as he was, to Vespers in the parish church, for no better reason—or so he thought then—than that the dimness within the open doorway beckoned him as he turned his back on a duty completed, inviting him to quietness and thought, and the bell was just sounding. The little prior was there, ardent in thanksgiving, one more creature who had fumbled his way to the completion of a task and the turning of a leaf in the book of his life.

  Cadfael watched out the office and stood mute and still for some time after priest and worshippers had departed. The silence after their going was deeper than the ocean and more secure than the earth. Cadfael breathed and consumed it like new bread. It was the light touch of a small hand on the hilt of his sword that startled him out of that profound isolation. He looked down to see a little acolyte, no higher than his elbow, regarding him gravely from great round eyes of blinding blue, intent and challenging, as solemn as ever was angelic messenger.

  “Sir,” said the child in stern treble reproof, tapping the hilt with an infant finger, “should not all weapons of war be laid aside here?”

  “Sir,” said Cadfael hardly less gravely, though he was smiling, “you may very well be right.” And slowly he unbuckled the sword from his belt and went and laid it down, flatlings, on the lowest step under the altar. It looked strangely appropriate and at peace there. The hilt, after all, was a cross.

  PRIOR HERIBERT WAS AT a frugal supper with his happy brothers in the parish priest’s house when Cadfael asked audience with him. The little man came out graciously to welcome a stranger, and knew him for an acquaintance at least and now at a breath certainly a friend.

  “You, my son! And surely it was you at Vespers? I felt that I should know the shape of you. You are the most welcome of guests here, and if there is anything I and mine can do to repay you for what you did for us, you need but name it.”

  “Father,” Cadfael said, briskly Welsh in his asking, “do you ride for home tomorrow?”

  “Surely, my son, we leave after Prime. Abbot Godefrid will be waiting to hear how we have fared.”

  “Then, Father, here am I at the turning of my life, free of one master’s service, and finished with arms. Take me with you!”