The Holy Thief

by Ellis Peters

  Prior Robert on his own ground had taken charge of all. The excited brothers raised the reliquary, and bore it away into the church, to its own altar, and Tutilo followed devotedly. The grooms and novices led away the horses, and wheeled away the light carriage into the grange court for housing. Robert, Herluin, Hugh and the stranger departed in the direction of the abbot’s lodging, where Radulfus had already come out to greet them.

  Stranger this new guest might be, certainly Cadfael had never seen him before, but it was no particular problem to work out who he must be, even if that left his presence here as a mystery. Not far from Leicester the ambush had taken place. Here was clearly a magnate of considerable power and status, why look further afield for his name? And Cadfael had not missed the heave of the misshapen shoulder, visible now in this rear view as a distinct hump, though not grave enough to disfigure an otherwise finely proportioned body. It was well known that the younger Beaumont twin was a marked man. Robert Bossu they called him, Robert the Hunchback, and reputedly he made no objection to the title.

  So what was Robert Bossu doing here? They had all disappeared into the abbot’s hall now, whatever chance had brought him visiting would soon be known. And what Hugh had to say to Abbot Radulfus would soon be talked over again with Brother Cadfael. He had only to wait until this conference of sacred and secular powers was over.

  Meantime, he reminded himself, since the entire company was now assembled, he had better be about sending off Father Boniface’s errand-boy to find Aldhelm at Upton among his sheep, and ask him to come down to the abbey when his work for the day was over, and pick out his shadowy Benedictine from among a number now complete.

  There was a silence in Cadfael’s workshop in the herb garden, once Hugh had told the full story of Saint Winifred’s odyssey, and how, and in what mood, Robert Beaumont had entered the contest to possess her.

  “Is he in earnest?” asked Cadfael then.

  “Halfway. He is playing, passing the tedious time while there’s virtually no fighting and very little maneuvering —and while he wants none, but is uneasy being still. Short of employment, barring a difficult business of protecting his brother’s interests here, as Waleran is protecting Robert’s over in Normandy, as well as he can, this one enjoys putting the fox among the fowls, especially two such spurred and hackled cockerels as your prior and Ramsey’s Herluin. There’s no malice in it,” said Hugh tolerantly. “Should I grudge him his sport? I’ve done the like in my time.”

  “But he’ll hold to it he has a claim?”

  “As long as it amuses him, and he has nothing better to do. Good God, they put the notion into his head themselves! One might almost think, says Robert—our Robert, must I call him?—that she has been directing affairs herself! Almost one might, says the other Robert, and I saw the seed fall on fertile ground, and there he’s tended it ever since. But never fret about him, he’ll never push it to the length of humiliating either of them, let alone Abbot Radulfus, whom he recognizes as his match.”

  “It hardly shows,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, going off at a surprising tangent.

  “What does?”

  “The hump. Robert Bossu! I’d heard the name, who has not? Robert and Waleran of Beaumont seem to have parted company these last years, twins or no. The elder has been in Normandy for four years now, Stephen can hardly count him as the staunch supporter he used to be.”

  “Nor does he,” agreed Hugh dryly. “Stephen knows when he’s lost a sound man. More than likely he fully understands the reason, and it can hardly be accounted any man’s fault. The pair of them have lands both here in England and over in Normandy, and since Geoffrey of Anjou has made himself master of Normandy, on his son’s behalf, every man in Stephen’s backing fears for his lands over there, and must be tempted to change sides to keep Anjou’s favor. The French and Norman lands matter most to Waleran, who can wonder that he’s gone over there and made himself at least acceptable to Geoffrey, rather than risk being dispossessed. It’s more than the lands. He got the French possessions, the heart of the honor, when their father died, he’s count of Meulan, and his line is bound up in the title. Without Meulan he’d be nameless. Robert’s inheritance was the English lands. Breteuil came only by marriage, this is where he belongs. So Waleran goes where his roots are, to keep them safe from being torn up, even if he must do homage to Anjou for the soil they’ve been firm in for generations. Where his heart is I am not sure. He owes allegiance to Geoffrey now, but does as little to aid him and as little to harm Stephen as possible, protecting both his own and his brother’s interests there, while Robert does as much for him here. They both hold off from what action there is. Small wonder!” said Hugh. “There is also a matter of sheer weariness. This chaos has gone on too long.”

  “It is never easy,” said Cadfael sententiously, “to serve two masters—even when there are two brothers to share the labor.”

  “There are others with the same anxieties,” said Hugh.

  “There will be more now, with one cause in the ascendant here and the other there. But we have a problem of our own here, Hugh, and even if the earl is only diverting himself, be sure Herluin is not. If I’d known,” said Cadfael dubiously, “that you were going to bring her back safely, and no great harm done, I might not have been so busy about worrying out how she ever went astray.”

  “I doubt if you’d have had any choice,” said Hugh with sympathy, “and certainly you have none now.”

  “None! I’ve sent for the lad from the Upton manor, as I told Radulfus I would, and before Compline he’ll be here, and the truth will surely be out. Every man of us knows now how the reliquary was filched and borne away, it wants only this boy’s testimony to give the thief a face and a name. A small figure and a young voice, says Aldhelm, who was tricked into helping him, and saw his face close. It hardly needs confirming,” admitted Cadfael, “except that justice must be seen to proceed on absolute certainty. Herluin is neither small nor young. And why should any brother of Shrewsbury want to see our best patroness carted away to Ramsey? Once the method was out, as today it is, who could it be but Tutilo?”

  “A bold lad!” remarked Hugh, unable to suppress an appreciative grin. “He’ll be wasted in a cowl. And do you know, I very much doubt whether Herluin would have raised any objection to a successful theft, but he’ll have the youngster’s hide now it’s proved a failure.” He rose to leave, stretching limbs still a little stiff from the long ride. “I’m away home. I’m not needed here until this Aldhelm has played his part and pointed the finger at your Tutilo, as I take it you’re certain he will before the night’s out. I’d as soon not be here. If there’s a part for me, let it be left until tomorrow.”

  Cadfael went out with him only into the herb garden, for he still had work to do here. Brother Winfrid, big and young and wholesome, was leaning on his spade at the edge of the vegetable patch beyond, and gazing after a diminutive figure that was just scuttling away round the corner of the box hedge towards the great court.

  “What was Brother Jerome doing, lurking around your workshop?” asked Brother Winfrid, coming to put away his tools when the light began to fail.

  “Was he?” said Cadfael abstractedly, pounding herbs in a mortar for a linctus. “He never showed himself.”

  “No, nor never intended to,” said Winfrid in his usual forthright fashion. “Wanting to know what the sheriff had to say to you, I suppose. He was some minutes there outside the door, until he heard you stirring to come out, then he was off in a hurry. I doubt he heard any good of himself.”

  “He can have heard nothing of himself at all,” said Cadfael contentedly. “And nothing that can do him any good, either.”

  Rémy of Pertuis had as good as made up his mind to leave that day, but the arrival of the earl of Leicester caused him to think again, and countermand his orders to Bénezet and Daalny to begin packing. The lame horse was fit and ready for action. But now might it not be wise to wait a few days, and examine the possibilities suggested
by this magnate who had appeared so providentially? Rémy had no personal knowledge of Ranulf, earl of Chester, and could not be sure what kind of welcome he would get in the north. Whereas rumor led him to believe that Robert Beaumont was a cultivated man, likely to appreciate music. At least he was here, lodged in the same guesthall, dining at the same table. Why abandon an opportunity present and promising, to go after a distant and unproven one?

  So Rémy set out to explore the situation, and laid himself out to please, and his gifts and graces, when he tried, were considerable. Bénezet had been in his service long enough to understand his own part in the operation in hand without having to be told. He made himself agreeable to the earl’s squires in the stableyard, and kept his ears open for any revealing mentions of Robert Bossu’s tastes, temperament and interests, and what he garnered was encouraging. Such a patron would be a complete protection, a life of comparative luxury, and a very congenial employment. Bénezet was sauntering back to the guesthall with his gleanings, when he observed Brother Jerome rounding the box hedge from the garden, head-down and in a hurry. Also, it seemed to Bénezet, in some excitement, and in haste to unburden himself to someone about whatever was on his mind. There was only one person to whom Jerome would be reporting with so much fervor; Bénezet, naturally curious about anything that might serve his turn or redound to his profit, was not averse to picking up a few crumbs of useful information by the way. He slowed his pace to observe where Jerome went, and followed him without haste into the cloister.

  Prior Robert was replacing a book in the aumbry cupboard at the end of the scriptorium. Jerome made for him, heavy and urgent with news. Bénezet slipped into a carrel as near as he could approach unnoticed, and made himself invisible in the shadows. A convenient time, with the light fading, for all the brothers who were engaged in copying or reading had abandoned their books for the evening, leaving the prior to ensure that everything was decently replaced exactly where it should be. In the twilit quietness voices carried, and Jerome was excited, and Robert never one to subdue a voice he was fond of hearing. Crumbs of advantage, Bénezet had found, may be picked up in the most unexpected places.

  “Father Prior,” said Brother Jerome, between outrage and satisfaction, “something has come to my notice that you should know. It seems that there is one man who helped to carry Saint Winifred’s reliquary to the cart for Ramsey, in all innocence, being asked by a habited brother of the Order. He has said he can recognize the man, and is coming here tonight to make the assay. Father, why has no word been said to us of this matter?”

  “I do know of it,” said the prior, and closed the door of the aumbry upon the piety and wisdom within. “The lord abbot told me. It was not made public because that would have been to give warning to the culprit.”

  “But, Father, do you see what this means? It was the wickedness of men that removed her from our care. And I have heard a name given already to the impious thief who dared disturb her. I heard Brother Cadfael name him. The seeming innocent, the novice from Ramsey, Tutilo.”

  “That was not said to me,” reflected Robert with slightly affronted dignity. “No doubt because the abbot would not accuse a man until a witness gives proof positive of the felon’s guilt. We have only to wait until tonight, and we shall have that proof.”

  “But, Father, can one believe such wickedness of any man? What penance can possibly atone? Surely the lightning stroke of heaven should have fallen upon him and destroyed him in the very deed.”

  “Retribution may be delayed,” said Prior Robert, and turned to lead the way out from the scriptorium, his agitated shadow at his heels. “But it will be certain. A few hours only, and the illdoer will get his due penalty.”

  Brother Jerome’s vengeful and unsatisfied mutterings trailed away to the south door, and out into the chill of the evening. Bénezet let him go, and sat for some moments considering what he had heard, before he rose at leisure, and walked back thoughtfully to the guesthall. An easy evening awaited him; both he and Daalny were excused all service, for Rémy was to dine with the abbot and the earl, the first fruits of his campaign in search of place and status. No servant need attend him, and though there might well be music made before the evening ended, a girl singer could not fittingly be a part of the entertainment in the abbot’s lodging. They were both free to do whatever they wished, for once.

  “I have a thing to tell you,” he said, finding Daalny frowning over the tuning of a rebec under one of the torches in the hall. “There’s a hunt afoot tonight that I think your Tutilo would be well advised to avoid.” And he told her what was in the wind. “Get the good word to him if you so please,” he said amiably, “and let him make himself scarce. It might only postpone the day, but even one day is breathing space, and I fancy he’s sharp enough to make up a plausible story, once he knows the odds, or to persuade this witness to a different tale. Why should I wish the lad any worse harm than he’s let himself in for already?”

  “He is not my Tutilo,” said Daalny. But she laid down the rebec on her knees, and looked up at Bénezet with a fiercely thoughtful face. “This is truth you’re telling me?”

  “What else? You’ve heard all the to-ing and fro-ing there’s been, this is the latter end of it. And here you are free as a bird, for once, provided you come back to your cage in time. You do as you please, but I would let him know what’s threatening. And as for me, I’m going to stretch my legs in the town, while I can. I’ll say nothing, and know nothing.”

  “He is not my Tutilo,” she repeated, almost absently, still pondering.

  “By the way he avoids looking at you, he easily could be, if you wanted him,” said Bénezet, grinning. “But leave him to stew, if that’s your humor.”

  It was not her humor, and he knew it very well. Tutilo would be warned of what was in store for him by the end of Vespers, if not before.

  Sub-Prior Herluin, on his way to dine with Abbot Radulfus and the distinguished company at his lodging, and pleasantly gratified at the invitation, was confronted in mid-court with a meek petitioner in the shape of Tutilo, all duty and service, asking leave of absence to visit the Lady Donata at Longner.

  “Father, the lady asks that I will go and play to her, as I have done before. Have I your permission to go?”

  Herluin’s mind was rather on his forthcoming dinner, and the marshalling of his arguments in the matter of Saint Winifred. Not a word had been said to him of any untoward suspicions, or of the threat of an eyewitness coming to judgment this very night. Tutilo got his permission with almost dismissive ease. He left by the gatehouse, openly, and took the road along the Foregate, in case anyone happened to notice and check that he set off in the appropriate direction. He was not going far, by no means as far as Longner, but far enough to be absent when the immediate danger threatened. He was not so simple as to believe that the danger would be over when Aldhelm went home frustrated, but what followed he would have to encounter and parry when it came. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, and he had considerable confidence in his own ingenuity.

  The news worked its way round by devious stages to the ears of Brother Jerome, that the bird he desired with all his narrow might to ensnare had taken flight to a safe distance. He was sick and sour with rage. Clearly there was no justice to be had, even from heaven. The devil was all too efficiently looking after his own.

  He must have sickened on his own gall, for he disappeared for the rest of the evening. It cannot be said that he was missed. Prior Robert was conscious of his shadow only when he had an errand for him to run, or need of his obsequious presence to restore a balance when someone had managed to scar the priorial dignity. Most of the brothers were all too well aware of him, but in his absence relaxed, gave thanks and forgot him; and the novices and schoolboys evaded being in his proximity at all, so far as was possible. It was not until Compline that his non-appearance provoked wonder, comment and finally uneasiness, for he was unrelenting in observance, whatever else might be said of him. Sub-Prior R
ichard, a kindly soul even to those for whom he had no particular liking, grew anxious, and went to look for the stray, and found him on his bed in the dortoir, pallid and shivering, pleading sickness and looking pinched, grey and cold.

  Since he was inclined to be dyspeptic at the best of times, no one was greatly surprised, unless perhaps at the severity of this attack. Brother Cadfael brought him a warming drink, and a draught to settle his stomach, and they left him to sleep it off.

  That was the last mild sensation of the evening, for the final one, still to come, certainly could not be described as mild, and occurred somewhat after midnight. The half hour after Compline seemed to be declining into total anticlimax. For the young man from the Upton manor, the anxiously awaited witness who was to uncover truth at last, did not come.

  The abbot’s guests had dispersed decorously, Rémy and Earl Robert in amicable company to the guesthall, where Bénezet was already returned from his evening in the town, in good time to attend his lord, as the earl’s two squires stood ready and waiting for theirs. Daalny was shaking out and combing her long black hair in the women’s rooms, and listening to the chatter of a merchant’s widow from Wem, who had availed herself of a night’s lodging here on her way to Wenlock for her daughter’s lying-in. Everything within the walls was preparing for sleep.

  But Aldhelm did not come. And neither did Tutilo return from his visit to the lady of Longner.

  The order of the day’s observances being immutable, whoever fell ill and whoever defaulted, the bell for Matins sounded in the dortoir as it did every midnight, and the brothers arose and went sleepily down the night stairs into the church. Cadfael, who could sleep or wake virtually at will, always felt the particular solemnity of the night offices, and the charged vastness of the darkened vault above, where the candle-light ebbed out and died into lofty distances that might or might not stretch into infinity. The silence, also, had an added dimension of cosmic silence in the midnight hours, and every smallest sound that disrupted the ordained sounds of worship seemed to jar the foundations of the earth. Such, he thought, in the pause for meditation and prayer between Matins and Lauds, as the faint, brief creak of the hinges of the south door from the cloister. His hearing was sharper than most, and as yet unmarred by the years; probably few of the others heard it. Yet someone had come in by that door, very softly, and was now motionless just within it, hesitating to advance into the choir and interrupt the second office of the day. And in a few moments a voice from that quarter, low and breathy, joined very softly in the responses.