by Ellis Peters
“Sir, am I free now? I need not hide here any longer? Then take me with you! I want to fetch my girl away out of that house. I want her with me. How if they take fright at her too much knowledge? How if they do her harm? I’m coming to bring her away, whether or no it’s safe for me!”
Hugh clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Come, and welcome. Free as a bird, and I’ll ensure my men shall know it and hold you safe enough. Tomorrow the town shall know it, too.”
*
There were no lights in the Aurifaber house when Hugh’s sergeant hammered at the hall door. The household was already abed, and it took some time to rouse any of the family. No doubt Dame Juliana, by this time, was shrouded and ready for her coffin.
It was Margery who at last came down to enquire quaveringly through the closed door who was without, and what was the matter at this time of night. At Hugh’s order she opened and let them in, herself surprised and vexed that Susanna, who slept downstairs, had not saved her the trouble. But it soon became clear that Susanna was not there to hear any knocking. Her room was empty, the bed undisturbed, the chest that had held her clothes now contained only a few discarded and well-worn garments.
The arrival of the sheriff’s deputy and others, with several officers of the law, very soon brought out all the inhabitants, Walter coming down blear-eyed and suspicious, Daniel hurrying solicitously to his wife’s side, the boy Griffin peering uncertainly from the other side of the yard. A curiously shrunken and unimpressive gathering, without its two dominant members, and every one of these few who remained utterly at a loss, staring about and at one another in consternation, as though somewhere among the shadows of the hall they might still discover Susanna.
“My daughter?” croaked Walter, looking about him helplessly. “But is she not here? She must be… she was here as always, she put out the lights as she always does, the last to her bed. Not an hour since! She cannot be gone!”
But she was gone. And so, as Cadfael found when he took a lantern and slipped away by the outdoor stairs at the rear of the house and into the undercroft, was Iestyn. Iestyn the Welshman, without money or family or standing, who would never for a moment have been considered as fit for his master’s daughter, even now she had ceased to be necessary to the running of his master’s house, and was of no further value.
The undercroft ran under stone-vaulted ceilings the length of the house. On impulse Cadfael left the cold, abandoned bed, and lit himself through to the front, where a narrow stair ran up to a door into the shop. Directly opposite to him, as he opened it, stood the pillaged coffer where Walter had kept his wealth. There had been no shadow that night, no sound, only the candle had flickered as the door was silently opened.
A few yards away, when Cadfael retraced his steps and again climbed the outdoor stair, lay the well. And on his right hand, the door into Susanna’s chamber, by which she could pass quickly between hall and kitchen, and a young man from below-stairs could as well enter when all was dark.
They were gone, as they had surely planned to go one night earlier and been detained by death. Acting on another thought, Cadfael went in by Susanna’s door, and asked Margery to open for him the locked door of the store. The big stone crock in which Susanna had kept her stock of oatmeal stood in one corner. Cadfael lifted the lid, and held his lantern over it. There was still a respectable quantity of grain left in the bottom of it, enough to hide quite a large bundle, suitably disposed, but bereft of that padding it showed much less than a quarter full. Juliana with her keys had been before him, and left what she found there, intending, as always, to manage the fortunes of her own clan with no interference from any other. She had known, and she had held her peace when she could have spoken. And that stark girl, her nearest kin, all desperation and all iron calm, had tended her scrupulously, and waited to learn her fate without fear or complaint. The one as strong as the other, for good or for evil, neither giving nor asking quarter.
Cadfael replaced the lid, went out and relocked the door. In the hall they were fluttering and bleating, anxious to insist on their own innocence and respectability at all costs, distracted at the thought that a kinswoman should be suspect of such an enormity as robbing her own family. Walter stammered out his answers, aghast at such treachery, almost incoherent with grief for his lost money, lost to his own child. Hugh turned rather to Daniel.
“If she intended a long journey tonight, to take her out of our writ, or at least out of our hold, where would she run?
They would need horses. Have you horses they may have taken?”
“Not here in the town,” said Daniel, pale-faced and tousled from bed, his comeliness looking almost idiot at this pass, “but over the river we have a pasture and a stable. Father keeps two horses there.”
“Which way? In Frankwell?”
“Through Frankwell and along the westward road.”
“And the westward road may well be our road,” said Cadfael, coming in from the store, “for there’s a Welshman missing from under here, and what little he had gone with him, and once well into Wales he can thumb his nose at the sheriff of Shropshire. Whatever he may have taken with him.”
He had barely got it out, to indignant and disbelieving protests from Walter, outraged at the mere suggestion of such a depraved alliance, when Liliwin came bursting in from the rear quarters, his small person stiff and quivering with alarm.
“I’ve been to the kitchen—Rannilt is not there. Her bed’s cold, she’s left her things just as they are, nothing taken. How little she must have to take, but he knew the value, to one with virtually nothing, of the poor possessions she had left behind. “They’ve taken her with them—they’re afraid of what she knows and may tell. That woman has taken her,” he cried, challenging the household, the law and all; “and she has killed and will kill again if she sees need. Where will they have gone? For I am going after them!”
“So are we all,” said Hugh, and turned on Walter Aurifaber. Let the father sweat for his own, as the lover did for his love. For his own by blood or by greed. “You, sir, come with us. You say she had but an hour’s start of us and on foot. Come, then, let’s be after them mounted. I sent for horses from the castle, they’ll be in the lane by now. You best know the way to your own stable, bring us there fast.”
*
The night was dark, clear and still young, so that light lingered in unexpected places, won from a smooth plane of the river, a house-front of pale stone, a flowering bush, or scattered stars of windflowers under the trees. The two women had passed through the Welsh gate and over the bridge without question. Owain Gwynedd, the formidable lord of much of Wales, withheld his hand courteously from interfering in England’s fratricidal war, and very cannily looked after his own interests, host to whoever fled his enemy, friend to whoever brought him useful information. The borders of Shrewsbury he did not threaten. He had far more to gain by holding aloof. But his own firm border he maintained with every severity. It was a good night, and a good time of night, for fugitives to ride to the west, if their tribal references were good.
Through the dark streets of the suburb of Frankwell they passed like shadows, and Susanna turned westward, keeping the river still in view, along a path between fields. The smaller bundle, but the heavier, Susanna carried. The large and unwieldy one that held all her good clothes they carried between them. It would have been too clumsy for one to manage alone. If I had not your help, she had said, I must have left half my belongings behind, and I shall have need of them.”
“Shall you get far tonight?” wondered Rannilt, hesitant but anxious for assurance.
“Out of this land, I hope. Iestyn, who is nobody here, has a kinship of his own, and a place of his own, in his own country. There we shall be safe enough together. After tonight, if we make good speed, we cannot be pursued. You are not afraid, Rannilt, coming all this way with me in the dark?”
“No,” said Rannilt sturdily, “I’m not afraid. I wish you well, I wish you happy, I’m glad to carry yo
ur goods for you, and to know that you don’t go unprovided.”
“No,” agreed Susanna, with a curious twist to her voice that suggested laughter, “not quite penniless. I have earned my future, have I not? Look back now,” she said, “over your left shoulder, at that mole-hill of the town.” It showed as a hunched shadow in the shadowy night, stray flickers of light cast up the pale stone of the wall from the silver of the river in between. “A last glimpse,” said Susanna, “for we have not far now to go. Has the load been heavy? You shall soon lay it down.”
“Not heavy at all,” said Rannilt. “I would do more for you if I could.”
The track along the headlands was rough and rutted, but Susanna knew it well, and stepped securely. On their right the ground rose, its darkness furred and fragrant with trees. On their left the smooth green meadows swept down to the lambent, murmuring Severn. Ahead, a roof heaved dimly out of the night, bushes banked about it, rough ground sheltering it to northwards, the pasture opening serenely to the south.
“We are there,” said Susanna, and hastened her step, so that Rannilt hurried to keep up with her and balance their burden.
Not a large building, this one that loomed out of the night, but stout in its timbers, and tall enough to show that above the stable it had a loft for hay and fodder. There was a double door set wide upon deep darkness, out of which the scent of horseflesh and hay and grainy, dusty warmth came to meet them. A man emerged, a dark shape, tensed to listen for any approaching foot. Susanna’s step he knew at once and he came with spread arms; she dropped her end of the bundle and opened her arms to him. Not a word, not a sound had passed between them. Rannilt stood clutching her end of the load, and shook as though the earth had trembled under her, as they came together in that silent, exultant embrace, laced arms straining. Once at least, if never again, she had experienced a small spark of this devouring flame. She closed her eyes, and stood quivering.
Their breaking apart was as abrupt and silent as their coming together. Iestyn looked over Susanna’s shoulder, and fixed his black glance on Rannilt. “Why did you bring the girl? What do we want with her?”
“Come within,” said Susanna, “and I’ll tell you. Have you saddled up? We should get away quickly.”
“I was about it when I heard you.” He picked up the roll of clothing, and drew her with him into the warm darkness of the stable and Rannilt followed timidly, only too aware how little need they now had of her. Iestyn closed the doors, but did not fasten them. “Who knows, there may still be some soul awake along the river, no need to let them see any movement here until we’re away.”
She heard and felt them embrace again in the dark, even in this brief contact becoming one by passionate consent. She knew then that they had lain together as she and Liliwin had lain, but many times and with no better hope. She remembered the rear door of Susanna’s chamber and the stair to the undercroft not many yards distant. Every temptation lavishly offered, and all countenance denied.
“This child here,” said Iestyn softly, “what’s your intent with her? Why did you bring her all this way?”
“She sees too clear and notices too much,” said Susanna shortly. “She has said to me, poor fool innocent, things she had better not have said, and had better not say to any other, for if they understood more than she by it, they might yet be the death of us. So I brought her. She can go with us—a part of the way.”
Iestyn demanded, after a brief, deep silence: “What do you mean by that?”
“What do you suppose? There are woods enough and wild places your side the border. Who’s to look for her? A kinless kitchen slave.” The voice was so calmly and reasonably Susanna’s voice that Rannilt could not take in what it was saying, and stood utterly lost and feeling herself forgotten, even while they spoke of her.
A horse stamped and shifted in the dark, the warmth of its big body tempering the night air. Shapes began to emerge faintly, shadow separating itself from shadow, while Iestyn breathed long and deeply, and suddenly shuddered. Rannilt felt him quake, and still did not understand.
“No!” he said in a muted cry just below his breath. “No, that we cannot, that I will not. Good God, what harm has she ever done us, a poor soul even less happy than we?”
“You need not,” said Susanna simply. “I can! There is nothing now I cannot do to have you mine, to belong to you, to go by your side through this world. After what I’ve done already, what is there I dare not do?”
“No, not this! Not this offence, not if you love me. The other was forced on you, what loss was he, as mean as your kin! But not this child! I will not let you! Nor’s there no need,” he said, turning from ordering to persuading. “Here are we, well out of the town, leave her here and go, you and I together, what else matters here? Let her make her way back by daylight. Where shall we be? Far past pursuit, over the border into Welsh land, safe. What harm can she do us, who has never done any yet, nor ever willed any?”
“They will pursue! If ever my father gets to know… You know him! He would not stir a step for me, but for this—this…” She spurned with her foot the bundle she had brought with her, and it rang faintly in the dark. “There could be barriers on the way into Wales, accidents, delays… Far better be sure.”
“No, no, no! You shall not so despoil my love, I will not have you so changed. I want you as you are now…”
The horses shifted and blew, uneasy at having disturbing company at this hour, yet wakeful and ready. Then there was a silence, brief and fathoms deep, and ending in a long-drawn sigh.
“My heart, my love,” Susanna said in a melting whisper, “as you will, as you order… Have it your way, then… Yes, let her be! What if we are hunted? There’s nothing I can refuse you—not my life…”
And whatever it had been between them, and concerning her, it was over. Rannilt stood helpless in the corner of the stable, trying to understand, willing them away, westward into Wales, where Iestyn was a man and a kinsman instead of a menial, and Susanna might be an honourable wife, who had been hitherto a household servant, baulked of her rights, grudged her dowry, a discard woman.
Iestyn plucked up the clothing roll, and by the stirring and trampling of one of the horses, he was busy strapping it into balance behind the saddle. The other bundle, the heavy one, gave forth again its soft, metallic sound as Susanna hoisted it, to be stowed behind the second mount. They were still barely visible, those horses. An occasional splinter of light glanced from their coats and was lost again; their warmth breathed on the air with every movement.
A hand swung wide the half of the double door, and a sector of sky peered in, lighter than the darkness, bluer than the blackness, growing luminous with the rising of a half-moon. One of the horses stirred into motion, led towards that paler interstice.
There was a short, sharp cry, so soft and desolate that the air ached with it. The opened half-door slammed to again, and Rannilt heard hasty hands fumbling with heavy bars, hoisting and dropping them into solid sockets. Two such beams guarding the door had the force and assurance of a fortress.
“What is it?” Susanna’s voice pealed sharply out of the dusk within. She was holding the bridle, the abrupt halt made the horse stamp and snort.
“Men, a good number, coming down from the headland! There are horses, led behind! They’re coming here—they know!”
“They cannot know!” she cried.
“They do know. They’re spreading, to ring us round, I saw the ranks part. Get up the ladder! Take her with you. She may be worth all to us yet. What else,” he cried, suddenly raging, “have we between ourselves and the judgement?”
Rannilt, bewildered and frightened, stood trembling in the darkness, stunned by the confusing turmoil of hooves stamping round her, and bodies in violent, blind motion, warm stable smells eddying on the air and pricking her nostrils as the stirrings of terror prickled her skin. The doors were barred, and Iestyn between her and that way out, even if she could have lifted the beams. And still she could not bel
ieve, could not take in what was happening to her, or relate these two desperate people with the Susanna and the Iestyn she had known. When a hand gripped her wrist and tugged her towards the rear corner of the stable, she went helplessly with the urgent compulsion. What else could she do? Her ankle struck against the lowest rung of a ladder, the hand dragged her upwards. Fumbling and panting, she went where she was hauled, and was tossed face-down into a pile of hay that enveloped her in dust and dry sweetness. Dimly she was aware of punctures of sky shining through the hay, distinguishably paler in the timber darkness before her, where whoever built this stable and loft had placed a ventilation lattice to air his store.
Somewhere behind her, at the door end of the loft, a larger square of sky looked in, the hatch by which the hay harvest was forked in here for storage, high above the barred doors below. She heard the rungs of the ladder creak at Iestyn’s weight as he climbed in haste, and ran to fling himself on his knees beside that outlet, to watch his enemies close about his refuge. She heard, and suddenly was able to comprehend what she heard. The thud of fists hammering on the barred doors, the challenge of the law without.
“Open and come forth, or we’ll hack you out with axes. We know you there within and know what you have to answer for!”
Not a voice she knew, for an eager sergeant had outrun his lord and his fellows when he heard the bars slam home, and had come well first to the doors. But she knew the import of what he bellowed to the night, and understood fully at last into what peril she had been brought.
“Stand back!” Iestyn’s voice rang loud and hard. “Or answer to God for a life, you also! Well away from those doors, and don’t venture back, for I see you clearly. And I’ll speak no more with you, underling, but only with your master. Tell him I have a girl here between my hands, and a knife at my belt, and so sure as axe strikes at these timbers, my knife slits her throat. Now bring me here someone with whom I can parley.”