by Ellis Peters
That was sheer blank bewilderment to mother and son, and to Walter, who had just come into the room at Hugh’s back, but it was plain enough vernacular to Adam Heriet. He froze where he stood, half-risen from the bench, leaning on the trestle table, and hung there staring into Hugh’s face, his own countenance wary and still. He knew the name, it had flung him back through the years, every detail of that journey he was recalling now, threading them frantically through his mind like the beads of a rosary in the hands of a terrified man. But he was not terrified, only alerted to danger, to the pains of memory, to the necessity to think fast, and perhaps select between truth, partial truth and lying. Behind that firm, impenetrable face he might have been thinking anything.
“My lord,” said Adam, stirring slowly out of his stillness, “yes, of her certainly I know. I rode with her, I and three others from her father’s household, when she went to take the veil at Wherwell. And I do know, seeing I serve in those parts, I do know how the nunnery there was burned out. But vanished three years since? How is that possible, seeing it was well known to her kin where she was living? Vanished now — yes, all too certainly, for I’ve been asking in vain since the fire. If you know more of my lady Julian since then than I, I beg you tell me. I could get no word whether she’s living or dead.”
It had all the ring of truth, if he had not so strongly contained himself in those few moments of silence. It might be more than half truth, even so. If he was honest, he would have looked for her there, after the holocaust. If dishonest — well, he knew and could use the recent circumstances.
“You went with her to Wherwell,” said Hugh, answering nothing and volunteering nothing. “Did you then see her safe within the convent gates there?”
This silence was brief indeed, but pregnant. If he said yes, boldly, he lied. If not, at least he might be telling truth.
“No, my lord, I did not,” said Adam heavily. “I wish I had, but she would not have it so. We lay the last night at Andover, and then I went on with her the last few miles. When we came within a mile — but it was not within sight yet, and there were small woodlands between — she sent me back, and said she would go the end of the way alone. I did what she wished. I had done what she wished since I carried her in my arms, barely a year old,” he said, with the first flash of fire out of his dark composure, like brief lightning out of banked clouds.
“And the other three?” asked Hugh mildly.
“We left them in Andover. When I returned we set out for home all together.”
Hugh said nothing yet about the discrepancy in time. That might well be held in reserve, to be sprung on him when he was away from this family solidarity, and less sure of himself.
“And you know nothing of Julian Cruce since that day?”
“No, my lord, nothing. And if you do, for God’s sake let me know of it, worst or best!”
“You were devoted to this lady?”
“I would have died for her. I would die for her now.”
Well, so you may yet, thought Hugh, if you turn out to be the best player of a part that ever put on a false face. He was in two minds about this man, whose brief flashes of passion had all the force of truth, and yet who picked his way among words with a rare subtlety.
Why, if he had nothing to hide?
“You have a horse here, Adam?”
The man lifted upon him a long, calculating stare, from eyes deep-set beneath bushy brows. “I have, my lord.”
“Then I must ask you to saddle and ride with me.”
It was an asking that could not be refused, and Adam Heriet was well aware of it, but at least it was put in a fashion which enabled him to rise and go with composed dignity. He pushed back the bench and stood clear.
“Ride where, my lord?” And to the freckled boy, watching dubiously from the shadows, he said: “Go and saddle for me, lad, make yourself useful.”
Adam the younger went, though not willingly, and with a long backward glance over his shoulder, and in a moment or two hooves thudded on the hard-beaten earth of the yard.
“You must know,” said Hugh, “all the circumstances of the lady’s decision to enter a convent. You know she was betrothed as a child to Godfrid Marescot, and that he broke off the match to become a monk at Hyde Mead.”
“Yes, I do know.”
“After the burning of Hyde, Godfrid Marescot came to Shrewsbury in the dispersal that followed. Since the sack of Wherwell, he frets for news of the girl, and whether you can bring him any or no, Adam, I would have you come with me and visit him.” Not a word yet of the small matter of her non-arrival at the refuge she had chosen. Nor was there any way of knowing from this experienced and well-regulated face whether Adam knew of it or no. “If you cannot shed light,” said Hugh amiably, “at least you can speak to him of her, share a remembrance heavy enough, as things are now, to carry alone.”
Adam drew a long, slow, cautious breath. “I will well, my lord. He was a fine man, so everyone reports of him. Old for her, but a fine man. It was great pity. She used to prattle about him, proud as if he was making a queen of her. Pity such a lass should ever take to the cloister. She would have been his fair match. I knew her. I’ll ride with you in goodwill.” And to the husband and wife who stood close together, wondering and distrustful, he said calmly: “Shrewsbury is not far. You’ll see me back again before you know it.”
*
It was a strange and yet an everyday ride back to Shrewsbury. All the way this hardened and resilient man-at-arms conducted himself as though he did not know he was a prisoner, and suspect of something not yet revealed, while very well knowing that two sergeants rode one at either quarter behind him, in case he should make a break for freedom. He rode well, and had a very decent horse beneath him, and must be a man held in good repute and trusted by his commander to be loosed as he pleased, and thus well provided. Concerning his own situation he asked nothing, and betrayed no anxiety; but three times at least before they came in sight of Saint Giles he asked: “My lord, did you ever hear word of her at all, after the troubles fell on Winchester?”
“Sir, if you have made enquiries round Wherwell, did you come upon any trace? There must have been many nuns scattered there.”
And last, in abrupt pleading: “My lord, if you do know, is she living or dead?”
To none of which could he get a direct answer, since there was none to give him. Last, as they passed the low hillock of Saint Giles, with its squat roofs and modest little turret, he said reflectively: “That must have been a hard journey for a sick and ageing man, all this way from Hyde alone. I marvel how the lord Godfrid bore it.”
“He was not alone,” said Hugh almost absently. “They were two who came here from Hyde Mead.”
“As well,” said Adam, nodding approval, “for they said he was a sorely wounded man. He might have foundered on the way, without a helper.” And he drew a slow, cautious breath.
After that he went in silence, perhaps because of the looming shadow of the abbey wall on his left, that cut off the afternoon sun with a sharp black knife-stroke along the dusty road.
*
They rode in under the arch of the gatehouse to the usual stir of afternoon, following the half-hour or so allowed for the younger brothers to play, and the older ones to sleep after dinner. Now they were rousing and going forth to their various occupations, to their desks in the scriptorium, or their labours in the gardens along the Gaye, or at the mill or the hatcheries of the fishponds. Brother Porter came out from his lodge at sight of Hugh’s gangling grey horse, observed the attendant officers, and looked with some natural curiosity at the unknown who rode with them.
“Brother Humilis? No, you won’t find him in the scriptorium, nor in the dortoir, either. After Mass this morning he swooned, here crossing the court, and though the fall did him no great harm, the young one catching him in his arms and bringing him down gently, it took some time to bring him round afterwards. They’ve carried him to the infirmary. Brother Cadfael is there with him
now.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Hugh, checking in dismayed concern. “Then I can hardly trouble him now…” And yet, if this was one more step towards the end which Cadfael said was inevitable and daily drawing nearer, Hugh could not afford to delay any enquiry which might shed light on the fate of Julian Cruce. Humilis himself most urgently desired knowledge.
“Oh, he’s come to himself now,” said the porter, “and as much his own master — under God, the master of us all! — as ever he was. He wants to come back to his own cell in the dortoir, and says he can still fulfil all his duties a while longer here, but they’ll keep him where he is. He’s in his full wits, and has all his will. If you have word for him of any import, I would at least go and see if they’ll let you in to him.”
“They”, when it came to authority in the infirmary, meant Brother Edmund and Brother Cadfael, and their judgement would be decisive.
“Wait here!” said Hugh, making up his mind, and swung down from the saddle to stride across the court to its northwestern corner, where the infirmary stood withdrawn into the angle of the precinct wall. The two sergeants also dismounted, and stood in close and watchful attendance on their charge, though it seemed that Adam was quite prepared to brazen out whatever there was to be answered, for he sat his horse stolidly for a few moments, and then lit down and freely surrendered his bridle to the groom who had come to see to Hugh’s mount. They waited in silence, while Adam looked about the clustered buildings round the court with wary interest.
Hugh encountered Brother Edmund just emerging from the doorway of the infirmary, and put his question to him briskly. “I hear you have Brother Humilis within. Is he fit to have visitors? I have the one missing man here under guard, with luck we may start something out of him between us, before he has too much time to think out his cover and make it impregnable.”
Edmund blinked at him for a moment, hard put to it to leave his own preoccupations for another man’s. Then he said, after some hesitation: “He grows daily feebler, but he’s resting well now, and he has been fretting over this matter of the girl, feeling his own acts brought her to this. His mind is strong and determined. I think he would certainly wish to see you. Cadfael is there with him — his wound broke again when he fell, where it was newly healed, but it’s clean. Yes, go in to him.” His face said, though his lips did not utter it: “Who knows how long his time may be? An easy mind could lengthen it.”
Hugh went back to his men. “Come, we may go in.” And to the two sergeants he said: “Wait outside the door.”
He heard the familiar tones of Cadfael’s voice as soon as he entered the infirmary with Adam docile at his heels. They had not taken Brother Humilis into the open ward, but into one of the small, quiet cells apart, and the door stood open between. A cot, a stool and a small desk to support book or candle were all the furnishings, and wide-open door and small, unshuttered window let in light and air. Brother Fidelis was on his knees by the bed, supporting the sick man in his arm while Cadfael completed the bandaging of hip and groin where the frail new scar tissue had split slightly when Humilis fell. They had stripped him naked, and the cover was drawn back, but Cadfael’s solid body blocked the view of the bed from the doorway, and at the sound of feet entering Fidelis quickly drew up the sheet to the patient’s waist. So emaciated was the long body that the young man could lift it briefly on one arm, but the gaunt face showed clear and firm as ever, and the hollow eyes were bright. He submitted to being handled with a wry and patient smile, as to a salutary discipline. It was the boy who so jealously reached to conceal the ruined body from uninitiated eyes. Having drawn up the sheet, he turned to take up and shake out the clean linen shirt that lay ready, lifted it over Humilis’s head, and very adroitly helped his thin arms into the sleeves, and lifted him to smooth the folds comfortably under him. Only then did he turn and look towards the doorway.
Hugh was known and accepted, even welcomed. Humilis and Fidelis as one looked beyond him to see who followed.
From behind Hugh’s shoulder the taller stranger looked quickly from face to face, the mere flicker of a sharp glance that touched and took flight, a lightning assessment by way of taking stock of what he might have to deal with. Brother Cadfael, clearly, belonged here and was no threat, the sick man in the bed was known by repute, but the third brother, who stood close by the cot utterly still, wide eyes gleaming within the shadow of the cowl, was perhaps not so easily placed. Adam Heriet looked last and longest at Fidelis, before he lowered his eyes and composed his face into a closed book.
“Brother Edmund said we might come in,” said Hugh, “but if we tire you, turn us out. I am sorry to hear you are not so well.”
“It will be the best of medicines,” said Humilis, “if you have any better news for me. Brother Cadfael will not grudge another doctor having a say. I am not so sick, it was only a faintness — the heat gets ever more oppressive.” His voice was a little less steady than usual, and slower in utterance, but he breathed evenly, and his eyes were clear and calm. “Who is this you have brought with you?”
“Nicholas will have told you, before he left,” said Hugh,”that we have already questioned three of the four who rode as escort to the lady Julian when she left for Wherwell. This is the fourth — Adam Heriet, who went the last part of the way with her, leaving his fellows in Andover to wait for his return.”
Brother Humilis stiffened his frail body and sat upright to gaze, and Brother Fidelis kneeled and braced an arm about him, behind the supporting pillow, stooping his head into shadow behind his lord’s lean shoulder.
“Is it so? Then we know all those who guarded her now. So you,” said Humilis, urgently studying the stalwart figure and blunt, brow-bent face that stooped a sunburned forehead to him, like a challenged bull, “you must be that one they said loved her from a child.”
“So I did,” said Adam Heriet firmly.
“Tell him,” said Hugh, “how and when you last parted from the lady. Speak up, it is your story.”
Heriet drew breath long and deeply, but without any evidence of fear or stress, and told it again as he had told it to Hugh at Brigge. “She bade me go and leave her. And so I did. She was my lady, to command me as she chose. What she asked of me, that I did.”
“And returned to Andover?” asked Hugh mildly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Scarcely in haste,” said Hugh with the same deceptive gentleness. “From Andover to Wherwell is but a few short miles, and you say you were dismissed a mile short of that. Yet you returned to Andover in the dusk, many hours later. Where were you all that time?”
There was no mistaking the icy shock that went through Adam, stopping his breath for an instant. His carefully hooded eyes rolled wide and flashed one wild glance at Hugh, then were again lowered. It took him a brief and perceptible struggle to master voice and thoughts, but he did it with heroic smoothness, and even the pause seemed too brief for the inspired concoction of lies.
“My lord, I had never been so far south before, and reckoned at that time I never should again. She dismissed me, and the city of Winchester was there close. I had heard tell of it, but never thought to see it. I know I had no right so to borrow time, but I did it. I rode into the town, and there I stayed all that day. It was peace there, then, a man could walk abroad, view the great church, eat at an alehouse, all without fear. And so I did, and went back to Andover only late in the evening. If they have told you so, they tell truth. We never set out for home until next morning.”
It was Humilis, who knew the city of Winchester like his own palm, who took up the interrogation there, drily and calmly, eyes and voice again alert and vigorous. “Who could blame you for taking a few hours to yourself, with your errand done? And what did you see and do in Winchester?”
Adam’s wary breathing eased again readily. This was no problem for him. He launched into a very full and detailed account of Bishop Henry’s city, from the north gate, where he had entered, to the meadows of St Cross, and f
rom the cathedral and the castle of Wolvesey to the north-western fields of Hyde Mead. He could describe in detail the frontages of the steep High Street, the golden shrine of Saint Swithun, and the magnificent cross presented by Bishop Henry to his predecessor Bishop Walkelin’s cathedral. No doubt but he had seen all he claimed to have seen. Humilis exchanged glances with Hugh and assured him of that. Neither Hugh nor Cadfael, who stood a little apart, taking note of all, had ever been in Winchester.
“So that is all you know of Julian Cruce’s fate,” said Hugh at length.
“Never word of her, my lord, since we parted that day,” said Adam, with every appearance of truth. “Unless there is something you can tell me now, as you know I have asked and asked.” But he was asking no longer, even this repetition had lost all its former urgency.
“Something I can and will tell you,” said Hugh abruptly and harshly. “Julian Cruce never entered Wherwell. The prioress of Wherwell never heard of her. From that day she has vanished, and you were the last ever to see her. What’s your answer to that?”
Adam stood mute, staring, a long minute. “Do you tell me this is true?” he said slowly.
“I do tell you so though I think there never was any need to tell you, for you knew it, none better. As you are now left, the only one who may, who must, know where she did go, since she never reached Wherwell. Where she went and what befell her, and whether she is now on this earth or under it.”
“I swear to God,” said Adam slowly, “that when I parted from my lady at her wish, I left her whole and well, and I pray she is now, wherever she may be.”
“You knew, did you not, what valuables she carried with her? Was that enough to tempt you? Did you, I ask you now in due form, did you rob your mistress and do her violence when she was left alone with you, and no witness by?”
Fidelis laid Humilis gently back against his pillows, and stood up tall and straight beside him. The movement drew Adam’s gaze, and for a moment held it. He said loudly and clearly: “So far from that, I would have died for her then, and so I would, gladly, now, rather than she should suffer even one moment’s grief.”
