Dead Man's Ransom

by Ellis Peters

  The awe of the exchange, himself the unwise cause of it and to some extent already under censure for his unwisdom, or something else of like weight, had had its effect upon Elis, for he came with stiff bearing and very sombre face, who was known rather for his hearty cheerfulness in and out of season. Certainly his eyes shone at the sight of Eliud entering, and he came with open arms to embrace him, but thereafter shoved free again. The grip of his hand had some unaccountable tension about it, and though he sat down to table beside his cousin, the talk over that meal was general and restrained. It caused some mild wonder among their companions. There were these two inseparables, together again after long and anxious separation, and both as mute as blocks, and as pale and grave of face as men arraigned for their lives.

  It was very different when the meal was over, the grace said, and they were free to go forth into the court. Elis caught his cousin by the arm and hauled him away into the cloister, where they could take refuge in one of the carrels where no monk was working or studying, and go to earth there like hunted foxes, shoulder warm for comfort against shoulder, as when they were children and fled into sanctuary from some detected misdeed. And now Eliud could recognise his foster-brother as he had always been, as he always would be, and marvelled fondly what misdemeanour or misfortune he could have to pour out here, where he had been so loftily on his dignity.

  “Oh, Eliud!” blurted Elis, hugging him afresh in arms which had certainly lost none of their heedless strength. “For God’s sake, what am I to do? How shall I tell you! I can’t go back! If I do, I’ve lost all. Oh, Eliud, I must have her! If I lose her I shall die! You haven’t seen her? Prestcote’s daughter?”

  “His daughter?” whispered Eliud, utterly dazed. “There was a lady, with a grown girl and a young boy… I hardly noticed.”

  “For God’s sake, man, how could you not notice her? Ivory and roses, and her hair all pale, like spun silver… I love her!” proclaimed Elis in high fever. “And she is just as fain, I swear it, and we’ve pledged ourselves. Oh, Eliud, if I go now I shall never have her. If I leave her now, I’m lost. And he’s an enemy, she warned me, he hates the Welsh. Never go near him, she said…” Eliud, who had sat stunned and astray, roused himself to take his friend by the shoulders and shake him furiously until he fell silent for want of breath, staring astonished.

  “What are you telling me? You have a girl here? You love her? You no longer want to make any claim on Cristina? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Were you not listening? Haven’t I told you?” Elis, unsubdued and unchastened, heaved himself free and grappled in his turn. “Listen, let me tell you how it fell. What pledge did I myself ever give Cristina? Is it her fault or mine if we’re tied like tethered cattle? She cares no more for me than I for her. I’d brother the girl and dance at her wedding, and kiss her and wish her well heartily. But this… this is another matter! Oh, Eliud, hush and hear me!”

  It poured forth like music, the whole story from his first glimpse of her, the silver maiden at the door, blue-eyed, magical. Plenty of bards had issued from the stock to which Elis belonged, he had both the gift of words and the eloquent tune. Eliud sat stricken mute, gaping at him in blanched astonishment and strange dismay, his hands gripped and wrung in Elis’s persuading hands.

  “And I was frantic for you!” he said softly and slowly, almost to himself. “If I had but known…”

  “But Eliud, he’s here!” Elis held him by the arms, peering eagerly into his face. “He is here? You brought him, you must know. She says, don’t go, but how can I lose this chance? I’m noble, I pledge the girl my whole heart, all my goods and lands, where will he find a better match? And she is not spoken for. I can, I must win him, he must listen to me… why should he not?” He flashed one sweeping glance about the almost vacant court. “They’re not yet ready, they haven’t called us. Eliud, you know where he’s laid. I’m going to him! I must, I will! Show me the place!”

  “He’s in the infirmary.” Eliud was staring at him with open mouth and wide, shocked eyes. “But you can’t, you mustn’t… He’s sick and weary, you can’t trouble him now.”

  “I’ll be gentle, humble, I’ll kneel to him, I’ll put my life in his hands. The infirmary—which is it? I never was inside these walls until now. Which door?” He caught Eliud by the arm and dragged him to the archway that looked out on the court. “Show me, quickly!”

  “No! Don’t go! Leave him be! For shame, to rush in on his rest…”

  “Which door?” Elis shook him fiercely. “You brought him, you saw!”

  “There! The building drawn back to the precinct wall, to the right from the gatehouse. But don’t do it! Surely the girl knows her father best. Wait, don’t harry him now—an old, sick man!”

  “You think I’d offer any hardihood to her father! All I want is to tell him my heart, and that I have her favour. If he curses me, I’ll bear it. But I must put it to the test. What chance shall I ever have again?” He made to pull clear, and Eliud held him convulsively, then as suddenly heaved a great sigh and loosed his hold.

  “Go, then, try your fortune! I can’t keep you.” Elis was away, without the least caution or dissembling, out into the court and straight as an arrow across it to the door of the infirmary. Eliud stood in shadow to watch him vanish within, and leaned his forehead against the stone and waited with eyed closed some while before he looked again.

  The abbot’s guests were just emerging from the doorway of his lodging. The young man who was now virtually sheriff set off with the lady and her daughter, to conduct them again to the porch of the guest hall. Einon ab Ithel lingered in talk with the abbot, his two companions, having less English, waited civilly a pace aside. Very soon he would be ordering the saddling of the horses, and the ceremonious leave-taking.

  From the doorway of the infirmary two figures emerged, Elis first, stiffly erect, and after him one of the brothers. At the head of the few stone steps the monk halted, and stood to watch Elis stalk away across the great court, taut with offence, quenched in despair, like our first forefather expelled from Eden.

  “He’s sleeping,” he said, coming in crestfallen. “I couldn’t speak with him, the infirmarer turned me away.”

  *

  Barely half an hour now, and they would be on their way back to Montford, there to spend the first night of their journey into Wales. In the stables Eliud led out Einon’s tall bay, and saddled and bridled him, before turning his attention to the horse he himself had ridden, which now Elis must ride in his place, while he lingered here.

  The brothers had roused themselves after their customary rest, and were astir about the court again, on their way to their allotted labours. Some days into March, there was already work to be done in field and garden, besides the craftsmen who had their workshops in cloister and scriptorium. Brother Cadfael, crossing at leisure towards the garden and the herbarium, was accosted suddenly by an Eliud evidently looking about him for a guide, and pleased to recognise a face he knew.

  “Brother, if I may trouble you—I’ve been neglecting my duty, there’s something I had forgotten. My lord Einon left his cloak wrapping the lord Gilbert in the litter, for an extra covering. Of sheared sheepskins—you’ll have seen it? I must reclaim it, but I don’t want to disturb the lord Gilbert. If you will show me the place, and hand it forth to me…”

  “Very willingly,” said Cadfael, and led the way briskly. He eyed the young man covertly as they walked together. That passionate, intense face was closed and sealed, but trouble showed in his eyes. He would always be carrying half the weight of that easy foster brother of his who went so light through the world. And a fresh parting imminent, after so brief a reunion; and that marriage waiting to make parting inevitable and lifelong. “You’ll know the place,” said Cadfael, “though not the room. He was deep asleep when we all left him. I hope he is still. Sleep in his own town, with his family by and his charge in good heart, is all he needs.”

  “There was no mortal harm, then?” aske
d Eliud, low, voiced.

  “None that time should not cure. And here we are. Come in with me. I remember the cloak. I saw Brother Edmund fold it aside on the chest.”

  The door of the narrow chamber had been left ajar, to avoid the noise of the iron latch, but it creaked on being opened far enough to admit entrance. Cadfael slipped through the opening sidewise, and paused to look attentively at the long, still figure in the bed, but it remained motionless and oblivious. The brazier made a small, smokeless eye of gold in the dimness within. Reassured, Cadfael crossed to the chest on which the clothes lay folded and gathered up the sheepskin cloak. Unquestionably it was the one Eliud sought, and yet even at this moment Cadfael was oddly aware that it did not answer exactly to his recollection of it, though he did not stop to try and identify what was changed about it. He had turned back to the door, where Eliud hovered half-in, half-out, peering anxiously, when the young man made a step aside to let him go first into the passage, and knocked over the stool that stood in the corner. It fell with a loud wooden clap and rolled. Eliud bent to arrest its flight and snatch it up from the tiled floor and Cadfael, waving a hand furiously at him for silence, whirled round to see if the noise had startled the sleeper awake.

  Not a movement, not a sharp breath, not a sigh. The long body, scarcely lifting the bedclothes, lay still as before. Too still. Cadfael went close, and laid a hand to draw down the brychan that covered the grizzled beard and hid the mouth. The bluish eyelids in their sunken hollows stared up like carven eyes in a tomb sculpture. The lips were parted and drawn a little back from clenched teeth, as if in some constant and customary pain. The gaunt breast did not move at all. No noise could ever again disturb Gilbert Prestcote’s sleep.

  “What is it?” whispered Eliud, creeping close to gaze.

  Take this,” ordered Cadfael, thrusting the folded cloak into the boy’s hands. “Come with me to your lord and Hugh Beringar, and God grant the women are safe indoors.”

  He need not have been in immediate anxiety for the women, he saw as he emerged into the open court with Eliud mute and quivering at his heels. It was chilly out there, and this was men’s business now the civilities were properly attended to, and Lady Prestcote had made her farewells and withdrawn with Melicent into the guest hall. The Welsh party were waiting with Hugh in an easy group near the gatehouse, ready to mount and ride, the horses saddled and tramping the cobbles with small, ringing sounds. Elis stood docile and dutiful at Einon’s stirrup, though he did not look overjoyed at being on his way home. His face was overcast like the sky. At the sound of Cadfael’s rapid steps approaching, and the sight of his face, every eye turned to fasten on him.

  “I bring black news,” said Cadfael bluntly. “My lord, your labour has been wasted, and I doubt your departure must wait yet a while. We are just come from the infirmary. Gilbert Prestcote is dead.”

  Chapter 6

  THEY WENT WITH HIM, Hugh Beringar and Einon ab Ithel, jointly responsible here for this exchange of prisoners which had suddenly slithered away out of their control. They stood beside the bed in the dim, quiet room, the little lamp a mild yellow eye on one side, the brazier a clear red one on the other. They gazed and touched, and held a bright, smooth blade to the mouth and nose, and got no trace of breath. The body was warm and pliable, no long time dead; but dead indeed.

  “Wounded and weak, and exhausted with travelling,” said Hugh wretchedly. “No blame to you, my lord, if he had sunk too far to climb back again.”

  “Nevertheless, I had a mission,” said Einon. “My charge was to bring you one man, and take another back from you in exchange. This matter is void, and cannot be completed.”

  “So you did bring him, living, and living you delivered him over. It is in our hands his death came. There is no bar but you should take your man and go, according to the agreement. Your part was done, and done well.”

  “Not well enough. The man is dead. My prince does not countenance the exchange of a dead man for one living,” said Einon haughtily. “I split no hairs, and will have none split in my favour. Nor will Owain Gwynedd. We have brought you, however innocently, a dead man. I will not take a live one for him. This exchange cannot go forward. It is null and void.”

  Brother Cadfael, though with one ear pricked and aware of these meticulous exchanges, which were no more than he had foreseen, had taken up the small lamp, shielding it from draughts with his free hand, and held it close over the dead face. No very arduous or harsh departure. The man had been deeply asleep, and very much enfeebled, to slip over a threshold would be all too easy. Not, however, unless the threshold were greased or had too shaky a doorstone. This mute and motionless face, growing greyer as he gazed, was a face familiar to him for some years, fallen and aged though it might be. He searched it closely, moving the lamp to illumine every plane and every cavernous hollow. The pitted places had their bluish shadows, but the full lips, drawn back a little, should not have shown the same livid tint, nor the pattern of the large, strong teeth within, and the staring nostrils should not have gaped so wide and shown the same faint bruising.

  “You will do what seems to you right,” said Hugh at his back, “but I, for my part, make plain that you are free to depart in company as you came, and take both your young men with you. Send back mine, and I consider the terms will have been faithfully observed. Or if Owain Gwynedd still wants a meeting, so much the better, I will go to him on the border, wherever he may appoint, and take my hostage from him there.”

  “Owain will speak his own mind,” said Einon, “when I have told him what has happened. But without his word I must leave Elis ap Cynan unredeemed, and take Eliud back with me. The price due for Elis has not been paid, not to my satisfaction. He stays here.”

  “I am afraid,” said Cadfael, turning abruptly from the bed, “Elis will not be the only one constrained to remain here.” And as they fixed him with two blank and questioning stares: “There is more here than you know. Hugh said well, there was no mortal harm to him, all he needed was time, rest and peace of mind, and he would have come back to himself. An older self before his time, perhaps, but he would have come. This man did not simply drown in his own weakness and weariness. There was a hand that held him under.”

  “You are saying,” said Hugh, after a bleak silence of dismay and doubt, “that this was murder?”

  “I am saying so. There are the signs on him clear.”

  “Show us,” said Hugh.

  He showed them, one intent face stooped on either side to follow the tracing of his finger. “It would not take much pressure, there would not be anything to be called a struggle. But see what signs there are. These marks round nose and mouth, faint though they are, are bruises he had not when we bedded him. His lips are plainly bruised, and if you look closely you will see the shaping of his teeth in the marks on the upper lip. A hand was clamped over his face to cut off breath. I doubt if he awoke, in his deep sleep and low state it would not take long.”

  Einon looked at the furnishings of the bed, and asked, low, voiced: “What was used to muffle nose and mouth, then? These covers?”

  “There’s no knowing yet. I need better light and time enough. But as sure as God sees us, the man was murdered.”

  Neither of them raised a word to question further. Einon had experience of many kinds of dying, and Hugh had implicit trust by now in Brother Cadfael’s judgement. They looked wordlessly at each other for a long, thinking while.

  “The brother here is right,” said Einon then. “I cannot take away any of my men who may by the very furthest cast have any part in this killing. Not until truth is shown openly can they return home.”

  “Of all your party,” said Hugh, “you, my lord, and your two captains are absolutely clear of any slur. You never entered the infirmary until now, they have not entered it at all, and all three have been in my company and in the abbot’s company every minute of this visit, besides the witness of the women. There is no one can keep you, and it is well you should return to Owain G
wynedd, and let him know what has happened here. In the hope that truth may out very soon, and set all the guiltless free.”

  “I will so return, and they with me. But for the rest…”

  They were both considering that, recalling how the party had separated to its several destinations, the abbot’s guests with him to his lodging, the rest to the stables to tend their horses, and after that to wander where they would and talk to whom they would until they were called to the refectory for their dinner. And that half-hour before the meal saw the court almost empty.

  “There is not one other among us,” said Einon, “who could not have entered here. Six men of my own, and Eliud. Unless some of them were in company with men of this household, or within sight of such, throughout. That I doubt, but it can be examined.”

  “There are also all within here to be considered. Of all of us, surely your Welshmen had the least cause to wish him dead, having carried and cared for him all this way. It is madness to think it. Here are the brothers, such wayfarers as they have within the precinct, the lay servants, myself, though I have been with you the whole while, my men who brought Elis from the castle… Elis himself…”

  “He was taken straight to the refectory,” said Einon. “However, he above all stays here. We had best be about sifting out any of mine who can be vouched for throughout, and if there are such I will have them away with me, for the sooner Owain Gwynedd knows of this, the better.”