by Ellis Peters
A faint grey smile passed slowly over the sick man’s face, and left him grave again. “I am the marsh out of which Fidelis must find safe passage. I should have Englished that name of mine, it would have been more fitting, with more than half my blood Saxon-Godfrid of the Marsh for Godfrid de Marisco. My father and my grandfather thought best to turn fully Norman. Now it’s all one, we leave here all by the same gate.” He lay still and silent for a while, visibly gathering his thoughts and such strength as he had. “There is one other longing I have, before I die. I should like to see again the manor of Salton, where I was born. I should like to take Fidelis there, just once to be with him outside the monastery walls, in the place that saw my beginning. I ought to have asked permission earlier, but there is still time. It’s only a few miles up-river from us. Will you speak for me to the lord abbot, and ask this one kindness?”
Cadfael eyed him in doubt and consternation. “You cannot ride, that’s certain. Whatever means we might take to get you there, it would be asking too much of such strength as you have left.”
“No effort on my part can now alter by more than hours what is left of my life, but it would be a happiness to exchange some part of my time remaining for a glimpse of the place where I was a child. Ask it for me, Cadfael.”
“There is the river,” said Cadfael dubiously, “but such twists and turns, it adds double to the journey. And such low water, you’d need a boatman who knows every shoal and current.”
“You must know of such a one. I remember how we used to swim and fish off our own shore. Shrewsbury lads were watermen from birth, I could swim before I could walk. There must be many such adepts along this riverside.”
And so there were, and Cadfael knew the best of them, whose knowledge of the Severn spanned every islet, every bend and shallow, and who at any season could judge accurately where anything cast into the water would again be cast ashore. Madog of the Dead Boat had earned his title through the many sad services he had rendered in his time to distracted families who had lost sons or brothers into the flood after the melting of the Welsh snows far up-river, or too venturesome infants left unguarded for a moment while their mothers spread the washing on the bushes of the shore, or fishermen fathers putting out in their coracles with too much ale already under their belts. He did not resent his title, though his preferred trade was fishing and ferrying. What he did for the dead someone had to do, in grace, and since he could do it better than any other, why should he not take pride in it? Cadfael had known him many years, an elderly Welshman like himself, and had several times had occasion to seek his help, which was never grudged.
“Even in this low water,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, “Madog could get a coracle up the brook from the river, but a coracle wouldn’t carry you and Fidelis besides. But his light skiff draws very little water, I daresay he could bring it into the mill pond, there’s still depth enough that far up the brook, with the mill race fed back into it. We could carry you out by the wicket to the mill, and see you bestowed…”
“That far I could walk,” said Humilis resolutely.
“You’d be wise to save your energy for Salton. Who knows?” marvelled Cadfael, noting the slight flush of blood that warmed the thin grey face at the very prospect of returning to the first remembered home of his childhood-perhaps to end where he began. “Who knows, it may yet do you a world of good!”
“And you will ask the lord abbot?”
“I will,” said Cadfael. “When Fidelis returns, I’ll go to him.”
“Tell him there may be need for haste,” said Humilis, and smiled.
Abbot Radulfus listened with his usual shrewd gravity, and considered for a while in silence before making any comment. Outside the dim, wood-panelled parlour in his lodging the hot sun climbed, still veiled with a thin haze that turned it copper-colour, and made it seem to burn even more fiercely. The roses budded, flowered and fell all in one day.
“Is he strong enough to bear it?” asked the abbot at length. “And is it not too great a load to lay upon Brother Fidelis, to bear responsibility for him all that time.”
“It’s the passing of his strength that makes him ask so urgently,” said Cadfael. “If his wish is to be granted at all, it must be now, quickly. And he says rightly, it can make very little difference to the tale of his remaining days, whether they end tomorrow or after another week. But to his peace of mind this visit might make all the difference. As for Brother Fidelis, he has never yet shrunk from any burden laid upon him for love, and will not now. And if Madog takes them, they’ll be in the best of hands. No one knows the river as he does. And he is to be trusted utterly.”
“For that I take your word,” said Radulfus equably. “But it is a desperate enterprise for so frail a man. Granted it is his heart’s wish, and he has every right to advance it. But how will you get him to the boat? And at the other end, is he sure of his welcome at Salton? Will there be willing attendants there to care for him?”
“Salton is a part of the honour he has relinquished now to a cousin he hardly knows, Father, but tenant and servants there will remember him. We can make a sling chair for him and carry him down to the mill. The infirmary lies close to the wall there, it’s no distance to the mill wicket.”
“Very well,” said the abbot. “It had better be very soon. If you know where to find this Madog, I give you leave, seek him out today, and if he’s willing this journey had better be made tomorrow.”
Cadfael thanked him and departed, well pleased on his own account. He was no longer quite as ready as he would once have been to take leave of absence without asking, unless for a life-or-death reason, but he had no objection to making the very most of official leave when it was given. The prospect of a meal with Hugh and Aline in the town, instead of the hushed austerity of the refectory, and then a leisurely hunt along the waterside for Madog or news of him, and a comradely gossip when he was found, had all the attractions of a feast-day. But he looked in again on Humilis before he left the enclave, and told him how he had fared. Fidelis was again in careful attendance at the bedside, withdrawn and unobtrusive as ever.
“Abbot Radulfus grants your wish,” said Cadfael, “and gives me leave to go and find Madog for you this very day. If he’s agreeable, you can go to Salton tomorrow.”
Hugh’s house by Saint Mary’s church had an enclosed garden behind it, a small central herber with grassed benches round it, and fruit trees to give shade. There Aline Beringar was sitting on the clipped seat sown with close-growing, fragrant herbs, with her son playing beside her. Not two years old until Christmas, Giles stood tall and sturdy and firm on his feet, made on a bigger scale than either his dark, trim father or his slender, fair mother. He had a rich colouring somewhere between the two, light bronze hair and round brown eyes, and a will of steel inherited, perhaps, from both, but not yet disciplined. He was wearing, in this hot summer, nothing at all, and was brown as a hazel-nut from brow to toes.
He had a pair of cut-out wooden knights, garishly painted and strung by two strings through their middles, their feet weighted with little blobs of lead, their legs and sword-arms jointed so that when the cords were tweaked from both ends they flourished their weapons and danced and slashed at each other in a very bloodthirsty manner. Constance, his willing slave, had forsaken him to go and supervise the preparations for dinner, and he clamoured imperiously for his godfather to supply the vacated place. Cadfael kneeled in the turf, only mildly complaining of the creaks in his joints, and manned the cords doughtily. In these arts he was well practised since the birth of Giles. Moreover, he must be careful not to be seen to give his opponent the better of the exchange by design, or there would be a shriek of knightly outrage. The heir and pride of the Beringars knew when he was being condescended to, and wholeheartedly resented it, convinced he was any man’s equal. But he was none too pleased when he was defeated, either. It was necessary to walk a mountebank’s tightrope to avoid his displeasure.
“You’ll be wanting Hugh,” said Al
ine serenely through her son’s squeals of delight, and drew in her feet to give them full play for their strings. “He’ll be home for dinner in a little while. There’s venison-they’ve started the cull.”
“So have a few other law-abiding citizens of the town, I daresay,” said Cadfael, energetically manipulating the cords to make the twin wooden swords flail like windmills.
“One here and there, what does it matter? Hugh knows how long to turn a blind eye. Good meat, and enough of it-and the king with little use for it, as things are! But it may not be long now,” said Aline, and smiled over her needlework, inclining her pale gold head and fair face above her naked son, sprawled on the grass tugging his strings in two plump brown fists. “His own friends are beginning to work upon Robert of Gloucester, urging him to agree to the exchange. He knows she can do nothing without him. He must give way.”
Cadfael sat back on his heels, letting the cords fall slack. The two wooden warriors fell flat in one embrace, both slain, and Giles tugged indignantly to bring them to life again, and was left to struggle in vain for a while.
“Aline,” said Cadfael earnestly, looking up into her gentle face, “if ever I should have need of you suddenly, and come to fetch you, or send you word to come-would you come? Wherever it was? And bring whatever I asked you to bring?”
“Short of the sun or the moon,” said Aline, smiling, “whatever you asked, I would bring, and wherever you wanted me, I would come. Why? What’s in your mind? Is it secret?”
“As yet,” said Cadfael ruefully, “it is. For I’m almost as blind as I must leave you, girl dear, until I see my way, if ever I do. But indeed, some day soon I might need you.”
The imp Giles, distracted from his game and losing interest in the inexplicable conversation of his elders, hoisted his fallen knights, and went off hopefully after the floating savour of his dinner.
Hugh came hungry and in haste from the castle, and listened to Cadfael’s account of developments at the abbey with meditative interest, over the venison Aline brought to the board.
“I remember it was said when they came here-was it you who told me so? It might well be!-that Marescot was born at Salton, and had a hankering to see it again. A pity he’s brought so low. It seems this matter of the girl may not be solved for him this side of death. Why should he not have what can best make his going pleasant and endurable? It can cost him nothing but a few hours or days of surely burdensome living. But I wish we could have done better for him over the girl.”
“We may yet,” said Cadfael, “if God wills. You’ve had no further word from Nicholas in Winchester?”
“Nothing as yet. And small wonder, in a town and a countryside torn to pieces by fire and war. Hard to find anything among the ashes.”
“And how is it with your prisoner? He has not conveniently remembered anything more from his journey to Winchester?”
Hugh laughed. “Heriet has the good sense to know where he’s safe, and sits very contentedly in his cell, well fed, well housed and well bedded. Solitude is no hardship to him. Question him, and he says again what he has already said, and never falls foul of a detail, either, no matter how you try to trip him. Not all the king’s lawyers would get anything more out of him. Besides, I took care to let him know that Cruce has been here twice, thirsty for his blood. It may be necessary to put a guard on his prison to keep Cruce out, but certainly not to keep Heriet in. He sits quietly and bides his time, sure we must loose him at last for want of proof.”
“Do you believe he ever harmed the girl?” said Cadfael.
“Do you?”
“No. But he is the one man who knows what did happen to her, and if he but knew it, he would be wise to speak, but to you only. No need for any witness besides. Do you think you could bring him to speak, by giving him to understand it was between you two only?”
“No,” said Hugh simply. “What cause has he to trust me so far, if he has gone three years without trusting any other, and keeps his mouth shut still, even to his own peril? No, I think I know his mettle. He’ll continue secret as the grave.”
And indeed, thought Cadfael, there are secrets which should be buried beyond discovery, things, even people, lost beyond finding, for their own sake, for all our sakes.
He took his leave, and went on through the town, and down to the waterside under the western bridge that led out towards Wales, and there was Madog of the Dead Boat working at his usual small enclosure, weaving the rim of a new coracle with intertwined hazel withies, peeled and soaked in the shallows under the bridge. A squat, square, hairy, bandy-legged Welshman of unknown age, though apparently made to last for ever, since no one could remember a time when he had looked any younger, and the turning of the years did not seem to make him look any older. He squinted up at Cadfael from under thick, jutting eyebrows that had turned grey while his hair was still black, and gave leisurely greeting, his brown hands still plaiting at the wands with practised dexterity.
“Well, old friend, you’ve become almost a stranger this summer. What’s the word with you, to bring you here looking for me-for I take it that was your purpose, this side the town? Sit down and be neighbourly for a while.”
Cadfael sat down beside him in the bleached grass, and measured the diminished level of the Severn with a considering eye.
“You’ll be saying I never come near but when I want something of you. But indeed we’ve had a crowded year, what with one thing and another. How do you find working the water now, in this drought? There must be a deal of tricky shallows upstream, after so long without rain.”
“None that I don’t know,” said Madog comfortably. “True, the fishing’s profitless, and I wouldn’t say you could get a loaded barge up as far as Pool, but I can get where I want to go. Why? Have you work for me? I could do with a day’s pay, easy come by.”
“Easy enough, if you can get yourself and two more up as far as Salton. Lightweights both, for the one’s skin and bone, and the other young and slender.”
Madog leaned back from his work, interested, and asked simply: “When?”
“Tomorrow, if nothing prevents.”
“It would be far shorter to ride,” Madog observed, studying his friend with kindling curiosity.
“Too late for one of these ever to ride again. He’s a dying man, and wants to see again the place where he was born.”
“Salton?” Shrewd dark eyes blinked through their thick silver brows. “That should be a de Marisco. We heard you had the last of them in your house.”
“Marescot, they’re calling it now. Of the Marsh, Godfrid says it should better have been, his line being Saxon. Yes, the same. His time is not long. He wants to complete the circle of birth to death before he goes.”
“Tell me,” said Madog simply, and listened with still and serene attention as Cadfael told him the nature of his cargo, and all that was required of him.
“Now,” he said, when all was told, “I’ll tell what I think. This weather will not hold much longer, but for all that, it may still tarry a week or so. If your paladin is as set on his pilgrimage as you say, if he’s willing to venture whatever comes, then I’ll bring my boat into the mill-pool tomorrow after Prime. I’ll have something aboard to shelter him if the rain does come. I keep a waxed sheet to cover goods that will as well cover a knight or a brother of the Benedictines at need.”
“Such a cerecloth,” said Brother Cadfael very soberly, “may be only too fitting for Brother Humilis. And he will not despise it.”
Chapter Eleven.
IN THE STREETS OF WINCHESTER THE STINKING, BLACKENED DEBRIS of fire was beginning to give place to the timid sparks of new hope, as those who had fled returned to pick over the remnants of their shops and households, and those who had stayed set to work briskly clearing the wreckage and carting timber to rebuild. The merchant classes of England were a tough and resilient breed, after every reverse they came back with fresh vigour, grimly determined upon restoration and willing to retrench until a profit was again possible.
Warehouses were swept clear of what was spoiled, and made ready within to receive new merchandise. Shops collected what was still saleable, cleaned out ravaged rooms and set up temporary stalls. Life resumed, with astonishing speed and energy, its accustomed rhythms, with an additional beat in defiance of misfortune. As often as you fell us, said the tradesmen of the town, we will get up again and take up where we left off, and you will tire of it first. The armies of the queen, secure in possession here and well to westward, as well as through the south-east, went leisurely about their business, consolidating what they held, and secure in the knowledge that they had only to sit still and wait, and King Stephen must now be restored to them. There must have been a few shrewd captains, both English and Flemish, who saw no great reason to rejoice at the exchange of generals, for however vital Stephen might be as a figurehead to be prized and protected at all costs, and however doughty a fighter, he was no match for his valiant wife as a strategist in war. Still, his release was essential. They sat stolidly on their winnings, and waited for the enemy to surrender him, as sooner or later they must. There was a degree of boredom to be endured, while the negotiators parleyed and wrangled. The end was assured.
Nicholas Harnage, with the list of Julian Cruce’s valuables in his pouch, went doggedly about the city of Winchester, enquiring wherever such articles might have surfaced, whether stolen, sold or given in reverence. And he had begun with the highest, the Holy Father’s representative in England, the Prince-Bishop of Winchester, Henry of Blois, just shaking together his violated dignity and emerging with formidable resolution into the field of discussion, as if he had never changed and rechanged his coat, nor been shut up fast in his own castle in his own city, in peril of his life. It took a deal of persistence to get admission to his lordship’s presence, but Nicholas, in his present cause, had persistence enough to force his way through even these prickly defences.
