by Ellis Peters
“No,” said Cadfael, low to himself, “this I never expected. That we should find a mind of such devious ways.”
“This?” said Hugh, staring closely upon the stone. It was large and heavy, a weighty double handful, smoothed above by exposure, beneath its dappling of lichen and moss; but when Cadfael turned it over it showed rough and pale, with some jagged edges that were tipped with a dark crust, not yet dried out. That is blood,” said Hugh with certainty.
“That is blood,” said Cadfael. “When the thing was done, there was no longer any haste. He had time to think, and reason. All cold, cold and deliberate. He put back the stone as he found it, carefully aligned. The small, severed roots that had held it he could not repair, but who was to notice them? Now we have done all we can do here, Hugh. What remains is to put all together and consider what manner of man this could be.”
“We may move the poor wretch?” said Hugh.
“May I have him home to the abbey? I would like to look yet again, and more carefully. I think he lived alone, without family. We shall confer with his own priest at Upton. And this stone…” It was heavy for him, he was glad to set it down for a while. “Bring this with him.”
And all this time the boy had stood close by, wordless himself, but listening to every word spoken around him. The brief dew on his lashes, that had caught the thin early rays of the risen sun, was dry enough now, his mouth was set in a rigid line. When Hugh’s men had lifted Aldhelm’s body on to the litter, and set off down the path with it towards the Foregate, Tutilo fell in behind the sorry little procession like a mourner, and went silently step for step with them, his eyes still upon the shrouded body.
“He’ll not be leaving?” said Hugh in Cadfael’s ear, as they followed.
“He’ll not be leaving. I will see to that. He has a hard master to satisfy, and nowhere else to go.”
“And what do you make of him?”
“I would not presume to assay,” said Cadfael. “He slips through my fingers. But time was when I would have said the same of you,” he added wryly, and took heart at hearing Hugh laugh, if only briefly and softly. “I know! That was mutual. But see how it turned out in the end.”
“He came straight to me with the tale,” said Hugh, reckoning up in a low voice for Cadfael’s ear alone. “He showed very shaken and shocked, but clear of head. He had wasted no time, the body was almost warm as life, only no breath in him, so we let all alone until morning. This lad behaved every way as a man would who had happened unawares on murder. Only, perhaps, better than most would have managed.”
“Which may be the measure of his quality,” said Cadfael firmly, “or of his cunning. As well the one as the other. And who’s to tell?”
“It is not often,” said Hugh with a rueful smile, “that I must listen to you as the devil’s advocate, where a youngster in trouble is concerned. Well, keep him in your custody, and we’ll take time over either condemning or absolving.”
In the mortuary chapel Aldhelm’s body lay on its bier, limbs straightened, body composed, eyes closed, enshrined and indifferent, having told all Cadfael could induce it to tell. Not all the specks of pallor in the shattered brow had proved to be splinters of bone. There were enough fragments of limestone and specklings of dust to prove over again the use to which the stone had been put. A linen cloth was draped over the young man’s face. Across his breast Cadfael and Tutilo confronted each other.
The boy was very pale, and drawn and grey with exhaustion. Cadfael had kept him with him of design, when Hugh departed to report to Abbot Radulfus what had been found and what had been done. Mutely Tutilo had fetched and carried, brought water and cloths, fetched candles and lit them, willingly sustaining the presence of death. Now there was no more to be done, and he was still.
“You do understand,” said Cadfael, meeting the tired eyes, dulled gold even in the candle-light, “why this man was on his way here? You do know what he might—what he said he would—be able to tell, when he saw all the brothers of the Order, here in this house?”
Tutilo’s lips moved, saying almost soundlessly: “Yes, I do know.”
“You know in what manner Saint Winifred’s reliquary was taken away from here. That is known now to all men. You know there was a brother of the Order who so contrived her departure and asked Aldhelm to help him. And that she was meant to reach Ramsey, not to be lost on the way. Do you think justice will look among the brothers of Shrewsbury, from whom she was stolen? Or rather at two from the house that stood to gain? And one in particular?”
Tutilo fronted him with unwavering eyes, but said nothing.
“And here lies Aldhelm, who could have given that brother a face and a name, beyond any question. Except that he no longer has a voice with which to speak. And you were away, along the same road, the road to the ferry, to Preston from which he would be coming, to Longner, where you were bound, when he died.”
Tutilo neither affirmed nor denied.
“Son,” said Cadfael, “you know, do you not, what will be said?”
“Yes,” said Tutilo, unlocking his lips at last, “I do know.”
“It will be said and believed that you lay in wait for Aldhelm and killed him, so that he could never point the finger at you.”
Tutilo made no protest that he had been the one to cry murder, to invoke the law, to unloose the hunt after the murderer. He averted his eyes for a moment to Aldhelm’s covered face, and raised them again to meet Cadfael’s eyes squarely. “Except,” he said at last, “that it shall not be said. They shall not be able to say it. For I will go to the lord abbot and Father Herluin, and myself tell what I have done. There shall not need anyone but myself to point the finger at me. For what I have done I will answer, but not for murder which I have not done.”
“Child,” said Cadfael, after a long and thoughtful silence, “do not deceive yourself that even that would still every tongue. There will not be wanting those who will say that you have weighed the odds, knowing yourself already suspect, and of two evils chosen the lesser. Who would not rather own to theft and deception within the Church’s writ, rather than put his neck into the sheriff’s noose for murder? Speak or keep silence, there will be no easy course for you.”
“No matter!” said Tutilo. “If I deserve penance, let it fall on me. Whether I pay or go free, whatever the cost, I will not let it be said I killed a decent man to keep him from accusing me. And if they twist things still to my disgrace in both counts, what more is there I can do? Brother Cadfael, help me to the lord abbot’s presence! If you ask audience for me, he will hear me. Ask if Father Herluin may be present also, now, while the sheriff is there. It cannot wait until chapter tomorrow.”
He had made up his mind, and all at once was on fire to have it done: and for all Cadfael could see, it was his best course. The truth, if truth could be anticipated from this subtle creature, even in circumstances of desperation, might shed light in more than one direction.
“If that is truly what you want,” he said. “But beware of defending yourself before you are accused. Tell what you have to tell, with no exclaiming, and Abbot Radulfus will listen, that I can promise you.”
He wished he could heartily have said as much for Sub-Prior Herluin. So, perhaps, Tutilo was wishing, too, for suddenly in the midst of his most solemn determination his set mouth twisted into a wry and apprehensive smile, gone in an instant. “Come with me now,” he said.
In the abbot’s parlor Tutilo had a larger audience than Cadfael had bargained for, but welcomed it, or so it seemed, perhaps as leavening further the bleak reception he could expect from Herluin. Hugh was still there, and it was natural enough that Earl Robert should be called into conference as a matter of courtesy where the law of the land and King Stephen’s writ were concerned. Herluin was there at Tutilo’s own request, since there was ultimately no help for it, and Prior Robert was not to be left out where Herluin was admitted. Better far to confront them all, and let them make of it what they would.
“Fath
er Abbot… Father Herluin… my lords…” He took his stand sturdily, folded his hands, and looked round them all in turn, as at a panel of his judges. “I have that to tell you that I should have told before this, since it has to do with the issue that is now in dispute among all here. It is known that the reliquary of Saint Winifred was taken away on the wagon that was loaded with timber for Ramsey, but no one has shown how this came about. This thing was my doing. I avow it. I moved the reliquary from its altar, after it had been swathed well for safety in moving it to a higher place. I put a trimmed log in its place, to be taken up by the stair. And at night I asked one of the young men who was helping us, one who had come with the carters, to help me load the saint on to the wagon, to go to Ramsey to the aid and succor of our misused house. This is all the truth. There was none had any part in it but I. Enquire no further, for I stand here to declare what I have done, and to defend it.”
Herluin had opened his mouth and drawn breath to ride over his presumptuous novice with a torrent of indignant words, but then held his breath even before the abbot had cautioned him with a peremptory hand. For to revile this troublesome boy at this moment was to damage whatever claim Ramsey had to the stake for which the bold wretch had made so perilous a bid. What could not a miracle-working saint achieve for the future glory of Ramsey? And the issue was still very much alive, for here beside him, listening alertly and with a dry little smile, was the earl of Leicester, who, whether in earnest or in mischief, was urging a plea of his own for the same prize. No, say nothing yet, not until things become clearer. Leave the options open. Bow gracefully to Abbot Radulfus’s gesture of restraint, and keep your mouth shut.
“You do right, at least, in confession,” said Radulfus mildly. “As you yourself informed us last night, and the lord sheriff has since confirmed, to our endless regret, and surely to yours, the young man you so beguiled is now dead, here within our walls, and shall be at our charge for the rites due to him. It would have been better, would it not, if you had spoken earlier, and spared him the journey that was his death?”
Such color as there was in Tutilo’s weary face slowly drained away to leave him grey and mute. When he could wring the tight cords of his throat into speech he said in a throttled whisper: “Father, it is my shame. But I could not know! Even now I do not understand!”
Cadfael considered, when he came to think it out afterwards, that that was the moment when he became certain that Tutilo had not killed, had not ever imagined that his deceit was putting another soul in danger of death.
“What is done, is done,” said the abbot neutrally. “You speak of defending it. If you think it defensible, go on. We will hear you out.”
Tutilo swallowed, and rallied, straightening his shapely shoulders. “Father, what I cannot sufficiently justify I can at least explain. I came here with Father Herluin, grieving for Ramsey’s wrongs, and longing to do something great to benefit the restoration of our house. I heard of the miracles of Saint Winifred, and the many pilgrims and rich gifts she has brought to Shrewsbury, and I dreamed of finding such a patroness to give new life to Ramsey. I prayed that she would intercede for us, and show us her grace, and it came to me that she heard me, and that she willed to do us good. It seemed to me, Father, that she inclined to us, and willed to visit us. And I began to feel it heavy upon me, that I must do her will.”
Color had come back into his cheeks, burning on the notable bones, a little hectic, a little fevered. Cadfael watched him and was in doubt. Had he convinced himself, or could he produce at will this rapture to convince others? Or, like any fallible human sinner, was he desperately constructing an armor of simplicity about his devious shiftings? Sin detected can contrive all manner of veils to cover its nakedness.
“I planned and did what I have already told you,” said Tutilo, suddenly brief and dry. “I felt that I was doing no wrong. I believed I was instructed, and faithfully I obeyed. But bitterly I regret that I needed another man’s hands to help me, and he in ignorance.”
“In innocence,” said the abbot, “to his peril.”
“I acknowledge it,” said Tutilo, erect and wide-eyed. “I regret it. God forgive me for it!”
“In due time,” said Radulfus with unremitting detachment, “so he may. That is not for us to meddle with. As for us, we have your story, we have a saint who has made her way back to us by strange ways, and we have those who have been friends to her on that journey, and may well believe, as you believe, that the lady has been in control of her own destiny, and choosing her own friends and her own dependants. But before ever we come to that issue, we have here a murdered man. Neither God nor his saints will tolerate murder. This young man Aldhelm cries to us for justice. If there is anything you can tell us that may shed light on his death, speak now.”
“Father,” said Tutilo, burning into startling whiteness, “I pledge you my faith I never did nor never would have done him any harm, nor do I know of any who might need to wish him ill. It is true he could have told you of me what now I have told you. It never was matter for such fear to me that I must have tried to silence him. He helped me! He helped her! I would have said yes to him when he pointed at me. Granted I was a little afraid, I tried to be secret. But there are no secrets now.”
“Yet you are the only man,” insisted the abbot mercilessly, but without pressing the suggestion to an accusation, “who is known to have had reason to fear his coming here with what he could tell. What you yourself have now chosen to tell us can neither undo that truth, nor absolve you from it. Until more is known concerning his death, I judge that you must be held in confinement within my custody. The only charge that can be made against you at this moment is of theft from our house, however that may be read hereafter. That leaves you within my writ. I think the lord sheriff may have somewhat to say to that disposition.”
“I have nothing to object to it,” said Hugh promptly. “I trust him to your charge, Father Abbot.”
Herluin had said not a word for or against. He was nursing in silence the options left to him, and so far they did not appear to him totally unpromising. The silly boy might have made potentially disastrous mistakes, but he had preserved the basis of his claim. The saint had willed it! How does the incumbent house prove otherwise? She did set out, only the wickedness of men frustrated her journey.
“Ask Brother Vitalis to call the porters to take him away,” said the abbot. “And, Brother Cadfael, see him into his cell, and if you will, come back to us.”
Chapter Seven
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It was apparent to Cadfael, when he reentered the abbot’s parlor, that if battle had not actually been joined, war trumpets were certainly being tuned for the onset. Radulfus maintained his judicial calm, and the earl’s broad brow was suave and benign, though there was no guessing what went on in the highly intelligent mind behind it; but Prior Robert and Sub-Prior Herluin sat very erect, stiff in the spine and with long, refined faces sharpened into steel, studiously not looking straight at each other, but maintaining each a bright gaze on distance, and the appearance of considering with magisterial detachment the situation that confronted them.
“Setting aside the issue of murder,” said Herluin, “for which as yet we lack any kind of proof, surely his story is to be believed. This was a holy theft. He was doing what the saint willed.”
“I do not find it easy,” said Abbot Radulfus, with a distinct chill in his voice, “to set aside the issue of murder. It takes precedence of any other matter. Hugh, what can you say of this boy? He has told us now what he might well have feared the dead man could tell us. That leaves him with no cause to kill.”
“No,” said Hugh. “He had cause, by his own admission, and we know of no other who had. It is possible that he did kill, but having killed, took thought to cover what he had done. Possible… I say no more than that. He came straight to us at the castle, and told us how he had found the body, and no question but he was greatly shaken and agitated, as well he might be, guilty or innocent. Today I
must say he has behaved wholly in accordance with innocence, moved, pitying, patient in attendance. If all that was put on of design, to disguise guilt, then he is beyond his years bold, sharp-witted and devious. But,” he added wryly, “I have it in mind that so he is, and may very well have had the hardihood to play it so.”
“But then,” said Radulfus, thoughtfully frowning, “why come to me now, and confess the very thing of which the witness could have accused him?”
“Because he had not fully realized that suspicion would still follow him, and now it would be suspicion of murder. In such a case better to accept whatever penalties the Church might impose, however harsh, for theft and deceit, rather than fall into the hands of the secular law, my law,” said Hugh firmly, “where murder is a hanging matter. If by submitting to the one guilt he could evade all suspicion upon the worse count… he is quite shrewd enough, I fancy, to make the choice and quite durable enough to abide it. Father Herluin should know him better than we.”
But Cadfael was certain by then that Herluin did not know his Tutilo at all, probably never had any clear idea what went on in the minds of any of his novices, because he paid no regard to them. Hugh’s prompting, perhaps intentionally, had put him into a difficult position. He would want to distance himself and Ramsey in horror from any possibility of having harbored a murderer, but while the possibility still remained of profiting by a theft, holy or unholy, he would want to retain the appearance of valuing and believing in the thief.
“Brother Tutilo has not been in my especial care until this journey,” he said carefully, “but I have always found him truly devoted to our house of Ramsey. He says that he had his directions in prayer and reverence from the saint, and I have every reason to believe him. Such saintly inspirations have been known. It would be presumptuous to flout them.”
