by Ellis Peters
“A scratch,” she said indifferently; but she let him draw back her loose sleeve almost to the shoulder, where it was slit for a hand’s-length. The skin was barely broken, there was only a white hair-line, beaded in two or three places with a tiny jewel of blood. “Nothing! It will not fester.”
“You took a heavy fall. I never thought he would drive at you so. You spoke too soon, I meant to spare you the need.”
“I thought he could neither love nor hate,” said Daalny with detached interest. “I never saw him moved till now. Did he get clean away?”
That he could not answer, he had not stopped to see.
“I am very well,” she said firmly, “and all is well with me. You go back and see what is still to do. Ask them… Ask them to leave me here a while alone. I need this place. I need this certainty.”
“You shall have it,” said Cadfael, and left her, for she was in command of herself and all her thoughts, words and acts as perhaps she had never been before. He turned back at the door to look at her one last time, and she sat regal and erect on the steps of the altar, her hands easy on the stone on either side, half-open, as though they held the insignia of sovereignty. There was the faintest curve of a smile on her lips, private and solitary, and yet he had the illusion—if it was an illusion?—that she was not alone.
They had unbuckled the saddlebag from its harness, and carried it into the gatehouse as the nearest place where a solid table offered a hospitable surface on which to spill the contents. There were six of them gathered close about the board when Cadfael joined them to make a seventh: Abbot Radulfus, Prior Robert, Sub-Prior Herluin, Robert Bossu, Rémy of Pertuis and Hugh Beringar, freshly dismounted within the gate, and very briefly appraised of all that had been happening here. It was Hugh, at the earl’s silent invitation, who brought forth from the bag the modest personal equipment of a valued body-servant, folded clothing, razor, brushes, a good belt, a pair of worn but wellmade gloves. At the bottom, but occupying half the space, Hugh grasped by its draw-string neck and hauled forth upon the table a plump, soft leather bag that gave forth an unmistakable chinking of coins settling, as it sagged together and squatted still and enigmatic before their eyes.
One thing at least was no longer secret. Three of them here recognized it at once. At the loud gasp that escaped Herluin even the lower orders, gathered avidly about the doorway, Nicol, and the squires, and the humble layman from Ramsey, drew eager anticipatory breath, and crowded closer.
“Good God!” said Herluin in a marvelling whisper. “This I know! This was in the coffer for Ramsey, on the altar of the Lady Chapel when the flood came. But how is it possible? It was put on the wagon with the load of timber. We found the coffer at Ullesthorpe, ravaged and empty, everything stolen…”
Hugh pulled open the strings of the bag, turned up the soft leather upon the table, and slid out a slithering flood of silver pence, and among the whisper and the glitter, a little bulkier and last to emerge, certain shining ornaments: a gold neckchain, twin bracelets, a torque of gold set with roughly cut gemstones, and two rings, one a man’s massive seal, the other a broad gold band, deeply engraved. Last came a large and intricate ring brooch, the fastening of a cloak, in reddish gold, fine Saxon work.
They stood and gazed, and were slow to believe or understand.
These I know, also,” said Radulfus slowly. The brooch I have seen once in the cloak of the lady Donata. The plain ring she wore always.”
“She gave them to Ramsey before her death,” said Herluin, low-voiced, marveling at what seemed almost a miracle. “All these were in the casket I put in Nicol’s charge when he left with the wagon for Ramsey. The casket we found, broken open and discarded…”
“I well remember,” said Nicol’s voice hoarsely from the doorway. “I carried the key safe enough, but they had prized up the lid, taken the treasure, and cast the box away… So we thought!”
So they had all thought. All this goodwill, all these gifts to a ravaged monastery, had been in their casket on the altar of the Lady Chapel on the night of the flood, high enough to be clear even of the highest flood water. Safe from the river, but not from thieves coming on the pretext of helping to preserve the holy things, while taking advantage of the opportunity to help themselves to what lay temptingly to hand. The key had been in the lock, no need that time to break it open. Easy enough to lift out the leather bag, replace it with whatever offered, rags and stones, to represent the weight that had been removed. Relock the box, and leave it to be transferred to the wagon in Nicol’s care. And then, thought Cadfael, his eyes upon Donata’s bright last charity, hide the booty somewhere safe, somewhere apart, until the time comes for leaving Shrewsbury. Somewhere apart, where even if discovered it could not attach to a name; but where it was unlikely to be discovered. Bénezet had helped to move the horses from their low-lying stable within the walls. It would take no time at all to thrust his prize to the very bottom of the full cornbin, newly supplied for the few days of the horses’ stay. Small fear of their having to remain long enough to expose the alien thing beneath the corn. Safer there than in the common guesthall, where casual overnight travelers came and went, and there was little if any privacy. Even thieves can be robbed, and curious neighbors can find out things that were hidden.
“They never left Shrewsbury!” said Hugh, staring down at the pile of silver and gold. “Father Herluin, it seems God and the saints have restored you your own.”
“Under whom,” said Robert Bossu drily, “thanks are due also to this girl of yours, Rémy. She has proved her point concerning theft. Are we not forgetting her? I hope he did her no injury. Where is she now?”
“She is in the church,” said Cadfael, “and asks that you will allow her a little time in private before departing. She has nothng worse than a graze, as concerning the body, she can go and she can ride, but a while of quietness is what her spirit needs.”
“We will wait her convenience,” said the earl. “I would like, I confess, Hugh, to see the end of this. If your fellows bring back the thief alive, so much the better, for he has robbed me, in passing, of a good horse. He has much to answer for.”
“More,” said Cadfael somberly, “than mere theft.”
He had moved aside the pile of clothes which had covered Bénezet’s plunder from sight, and thrust a hand into the depths of the saddlebag, and there was some folded garment still left undisturbed within, put away beneath all. He held it unfolded in his hands, a linen shirt, clean from fresh folds after laundering, and was gazing down at the cuff of one sleeve, turning it about in his figers with fixed attention. A very self-sufficient man, Bénezet, very orderly in his management of his affairs, needing no woman to wash and furbish for him. But not rich enough to be able to discard a shirt, even if there had been much opportunity, shut in here within monastic walls at his master’s pleasure, while Rémy pursued his quest for patronage. He had washed it and folded it deep under everything in his packing, to await its next airing miles distant from here and weeks later. But there are stains not easily washed out. Cadfael extended the cuff beneath Hugh’s wondering gaze, and Earl Robert leaned to take up the second sleeve. For about a hand’s breadth from the hem they were both thinly spattered with small round stains, no more than a faint but clear pink outline, even fainter pink within. But Cadfael had seen the like before, often enough to know it. So, he thought, had Robert Bossu.
This is blood,” said the earl.
“It is Aldhelm’s blood,” said Cadfael. “It rained that night. Bénezet would be cloaked, thick black wool swallows blood, and I am sure he was careful. But…”
But a jagged stone, raised in both hands and smashed down upon the head of a senseless man, however the act is managed, however discreetly accomplished, and with no great haste, no one to interfere, must yet threaten at least the hands and wrists of the murderer with indelible traces. The worst was trapped under the stone, and bled into the grass after, but this faint sprinkling, this fringing shower, had marked flesh and
linen. And from linen, unless it can be steeped at once, it is difficult to erase the small shapes that betray.
“I remember,” said Rémy, dazed and half-incredulous, clean forgetful of himself, “I was your guest that night, Father Abbot, and he was free to his own devices. He said he was bound for the town.”
“It was he who told the girl that Aldhelm was expected,” said Cadfael, “and she who warned Tutilo to be safely out of sight. So Bénezet knew of the need, if need there was for him. But how could he be sure? It was enough that Aldhelm, required to recollect clearly, might recollect all too much of what he had seen in innocence. And therefore in innocence he is dead. And Bénezet was his murderer. And Bénezet will never know, and neither shall we, if he murdered for nothing.”
Alan Herbard, Hugh’s deputy in office, rode in at the gate an hour before noon.
The party was just reassembling for departure, after Earl Robert’s generous delay for Daalny’s sake, and Cadfael, self-appointed custodian of her interests, for good reason, had just been requested, very courteously, to go and call her to join the group, if by this time she felt sufficiently recovered. There had been time, also, for all the rest of them to assimilate, as best they could, the flood of revelations and shocks that bade fair to diminish their numbers and change several lives. Sub-Prior Herluin had lost a novice and his revenge for sorely-felt abuses, but recovered the treasures he thought lost for ever, and his mood, in spite of sins and deaths and violence, had brightened since his glum morning face almost into benevolence. Rémy had lost a manservant, but secured his future with a very influential patron: a manservant is easily replaced, but entry to the household of one of the foremost earls of the land is a prize for life. Rémy was not disposed to complain. He had not even lost the horse with the man, the stolen beast belonged to Robert Bossu’s squire. Bénezet’s sedate and aging roan, relieved of his saddlebags, waited now imperturbably for another rider. Nicol could ride, and leave his fellow to drive the wheeled cart. Everything was settling into the ordinary routines of life, however deflected from their course hitherto.
And suddenly there was Alan Herbard in the gateway, just dismounting, curious and a little awed at approaching Hugh in this illustrious company.
“We have the man, sir. I rode ahead to tell you. They are bringing him after. Where would you have him taken? There was no time to hear why he ran, and what he was accused of.”
“He is charged with murder,” said Hugh. “Get him safe into the castle under lock and key, and I’ll follow as soon as I may. You were quick. He cannot have got far. What happened?”
“He took us a mile or more into the Long Forest, and we were gaining on him, and he turned off the open ride to try and lose us among thick woodland. I think they started a hind, and the horse balked, for we heard him curse, and then the horse screamed and reared. I think he used the dagger…”
The squire had drawn close to hear what had befallen his mount. Indignantly he said: “Conradin would never endure that.”
“They were well ahead, we could only judge by the sounds. But I think he reared, and swept the fellow off against a low branch, for he was lying half-stunned under a tree when we picked him up. He goes lame on one leg, but it’s not broken. He was dazed, he gave us no trouble.”
“He may yet,” said Hugh warningly.
“Will’s no prentice, he’ll keep safe hold of him. But the horse,” said Alan, somewhat apologetic on this point, “we haven’t caught. He’d bolted before we ever reached the place, and for all the searching we dared do with the man to guard, we couldn’t find him close, nor even hear anything ahead of us. Riderless, he’ll be well away before he’ll get over his fright and come to a stay.”
“And my gear gone with him,” said the unlucky owner with a grimace, but laughed the next moment. “My lord, you’ll owe me new clothes if he’s gone beyond recall.”
“We’ll make a proper search tomorrow,” promised Alan. “We’ll find him for you. But first I’ll go and see this murderer safely jailed.”
He made his reverence to the abbot and the earl, and remounted at the gate, and was gone. They were left looking at one another like people at the hour of awaking, uncertain for a moment whether what they contemplate is reality or dream.
“It is well finished,” said Robert Bossu. “If this is the end!” And he turned upon the abbot his grave, considerate glance. “It seems we have lived this farewell twice, Father, but this time it is truth, we must go. I trust we may meet at some happier occasion, but now you will be glad to have us out of your sight and out of your thoughts, with all the troubles we have brought you between us. Your household will be more peaceful without us.” And to Cadfael he said, turning to take his horse’s bridle: “Will you ask the lady if she feels able to join us? It’s high time we took the road.”
He was gone only a few moments, and he emerged through the south door and the cloister alone.
“She is gone,” said Brother Cadfael, his tone temperate and his face expressionless. “There is no one in the church but Cynric, Father Boniface’s verger, trimming the candles on the parish altar, and he has seen no one come or go within the past half hour.”
Afterwards he sometimes wondered whether Robert Bossu had been expecting it. He was a man of very dangerous subtlety, and could appreciate subtlety in others, and see further into a man at short acquaintance than most people. Nor was he at all averse to loosing cats among pigeons. But no, probably not. He had not known her long enough for that. If she had ever reached his Leicester household, and been in his sight a few weeks, he would have known her very well, and been well able to assess her potentialities in other pursuits besides music. But at the least, this was no great surprise to him. It was not he, but Rémy of Pertuis, who raised the grieving outcry:
“No! She cannot be gone. Where could she go? She is mine! You are sure? No, she must be there, you have not had time to look for her…”
“I left her there more than an hour ago,” said Cadfael simply, “by Saint Winifred’s altar. She is not there now. Look for yourself. Cynric found the church empty when he came to dress the altar.”
“She has fled me!” mourned Rémy, whitefaced and stricken, not simply protesting at the loss of his most valuable property, and certainly not lamenting a creature greatly loved. She was a voice to him, but he was true Provençal and true musician, and a voice was the purest of gold to him, a treasure above rubies. To own her was to own that instrument, the one thing in her he regarded. There was nothing false in his grief and dismay. “She cannot go. I must seek her. She is mine, I bought her. My lord, only delay until I can find her. She cannot be far. Two days longer… one day…”
“Another search? Another frustration?” said the earl and shook his head decisively. “Oh, no! I have had dreams like this, they never lead to any ending, only barrier after barrier, balk after balk. She was indeed, she is, a very precious asset, Rémy, a lovely peal in her throat, and a light, true hand on organetto or strings. But I have been truant all too long, and if you want my alliance you had best ride with me now, and forget you paid money for what is beyond price. It never profits. There are others as gifted, you shall have the means to find them and I’ll guarantee to keep them content.”
What he said he meant, and Rémy knew it. It took him a great struggle to choose between his singer and his future security, but the end was never in doubt. Cadfael saw him swallow hard and half-choke upon the effort, and almost felt sorry for him at that moment. But with a patron as powerful, as cultivated and as durable as Robert Beaumont, Rémy of Pertuis could hardly be an object for sympathy very long.
He did look round sharply for a reliable agent here, before he gave in. “My lord abbot, or you, my lord sheriff—I would not like her to be solitary and in want, ever. If she should reappear, if you hear of her, I beg you, let me have word, and I will send for her. She has always a welcome with me.”
True enough, and not all because she was valuable to him for her voice. Probably he had nev
er realized until now that she was more than a possession, that she was a human creature in her own right, and might go hungry, even starve, fall victim to villains on the road, come by harm a thousand different ways. It was like the flight of a nun from childhood, suddenly venturing a terrible world that gave no quarter. So, at least, he might think of her, thus seeing her whole in the instant when she vanished from his sight. How little he knew her!
“Well, my lord, I have done what I can. I am ready.”
They were gone, all of them, streaming out along the Foregate towards Saint Giles, Robert Beaumont, earl of Leicester, riding knee to knee with Sub-Prior Herluin of Ramsey, restored to good humor by the recovery of the fruits of his labors in Shrewsbury, and gratified to be traveling in company with a nobleman of such standing; Robert’s two squires riding behind, the younger a little disgruntled at having to make do with an unfamiliar mount, but glad to be going home; Herluin’s middle-aged layman driving the baggage cart, and Nicol bringing up the rear, well content to be riding instead of walking. Within the church their hoofbeats were still audible until they reached the corner of the enclave, and turned along the Horse Fair. Then there was a grateful silence, time to breathe and reflect. Abbot Radulfus and Prior Robert were gone about their lawful business, and the brothers had dispersed to theirs. It was over.
“Well,” said Cadfael thankfully, bending his head familiarly to Saint Winifred, “an engaging rogue, and harmless, but not for the cloister, any more than she was for servility, so why repine? Ramsey will do very well without him, and Partholan’s queen is a slave no longer. True, she’s lost her baggage, but that she would probably have rejected in any case. She told me, Hugh, she owned nothing, not even the clothes she wore. Now it will please her that she has stolen only the few things on her back.”
“And the boy,” said Hugh, “has stolen only a girl.” And he added, glancing aside at Cadfael’s contented face: “Did you know he was there, when you followed her in?”
