Dead Man's Ransom bc-9

by Ellis Peters

  ‘So I am to be fetched away early, the day after tomorrow,’ said Elis. He cast one brief glance at Melicent and she at him. ‘Well, I can and will send in proper form from Gwynedd, it’s as well the thing should be done openly and honestly when I pay my suit to Melicent. And there will be things to set right at Tregeiriog before I shall be free.’ He did not speak of Cristina, but the thought of her was there, desolate and oppressive in the room with them. To win her battle, only to see the victory turn to ash and drift through her fingers. ‘I’m a sound sleeper,’ said Elis with a sombre smile,’they may have to roll me in my blankets and carry me out snoring, if they come too early.’ And he ended with abrupt gravity: ‘Will you ask Hugh Beringar if I may have my bed moved into the cell with Eliud these last two nights? It is not a great thing to ask of him.’ ‘I will,’ said Cadfael, after a brief pause to get the drift of that, for it made sense more ways than one. And he went at once to proffer the request. Hugh was already preparing to mount and ride back to the town, and Sister Magdalen was in the yard to see him go. No doubt she had been deploying for him, in her own way, all the arguments for mercy which Cadfael had already used, and perhaps others of which he had not thought. Doubtful if there would be any harvest even from her well, planted seed, but if you never sow you will certainly never reap.

  ‘Let them be together by all means,’ said Hugh, shrugging morosely, ‘if it can give them any comfort. As soon as the other one is fit to be moved I’ll take him off your hands, but until then let him rest. Who knows, that Welsh arrow may yet do the solving for us, if God’s kind to him.’ Sister Magdalen stood looking after him until the last of the escort had vanished up the forested ride.

  ‘At least,’ she said then, ‘it gives him no pleasure. A pity to proceed where nobody’s the gainer and every man suffers.’ ‘A great pity! He said himself,’ reported Cadfael, equally thoughtfully, ‘he wished to God it could be taken out of his hands.’ And he looked along his shoulder at Sister Magdalen, and found her looking just as guilelessly at him. He suffered a small, astonished illusion that they were even beginning to resemble each other, and to exchange glances in silence as eloquently as did Elis and Melicent.

  ‘Did he so?’ said Sister Magdalen in innocent sympathy. ‘That might be worth praying for. I’ll have a word said in chapel at every office tomorrow. If you ask for nothing, you deserve nothing.’ They went in together, and so strong was this sense of an agreed understanding between them, though one that had better not be acknowledged in words, that he went so far as to ask her advice on a point which was troubling him. In the turmoil of the fighting and the stress of tending the wounded he had had no chance to deliver the message with which Cristina had entrusted him, and after Eliud’s confession he was divided in mind as to whether it would be a kindness to do so now, or the most cruel blow he could strike.

  ‘This girl of his in Tregeiriog, the one for whom he was driving himself mad, she charged me with a message to him and I promised her he should be told. But now, with this hanging over him… Is it well to give him everything to live for, when there may be no life for him? Should we make the world, if he’s to leave it, a thousand times more desirable? What sort of kindness would that be?’ He told her, word for word, what the message was. She pondered, but not long.

  ‘Small choice if you promised the girl. And truth should never be feared as harm. But besides, from all I see, he is willing himself to die, though his body is determined on life, and without every spur he may win the fight over his body, turn his face to the wall, and slip away. As well, perhaps, if the only other way is the gallows. But if, I say if!, the times relent and let him live, then pity not to give him every armour and every weapon to survive to hear the good news.’ She turned her head and looked at him again with the deep, calculating glance he had observed before, and then she smiled. ‘It is worth a wager,’ she said.

  ‘I begin to think so, too,’ said Cadfael and went in to see the wager laid.

  They had not yet moved Elis and his cot into the neighbouring cell; Eliud still lay alone. Sometimes, marking the path the arrow had taken clean through his right shoulder, but a little low, Cadfael doubted if he would ever draw bow again, even if at some future time he could handle a sword. That was the least of his threatened harms now. Let him be offered as counter, balance the greatest promised good.

  Cadfael sat down beside the bed, and told how Elis had asked leave to join him and been granted what he asked. That brought a strange, forlorn brightness to Eliud’s thin, vulnerable face. Cadfael refrained from saying a word about Elis’s imminent departure, however, and wondered briefly why he kept silent on that matter, only to realise hurriedly that it was better not even to wonder, much less question. Innocence is an infinitely fragile thing and thought can sometimes injure, even destroy it.

  ‘And there is also a word I promised to bring you and have had no quiet occasion until now. From Cristina when I left Tregeiriog.’ Her name caused all the lines of Eliud’s face to contract into a tight, wary pallor, and his eyes to dilate in sudden bright green like stormy sunlight through June leaves. ‘Cristina sends to tell you, by me, that she has spoken with her father and with yours and soon, by consent, she will be her own woman to give herself where she will. And she will give herself to none but you.’ An abrupt and blinding flood drowned the green and sent the sunlight sparkling in sudden fountains, and Eliud’s good left hand groped lamely after anything human he might hold by for comfort, closed hungrily on the hand Cadfael offered, and drew it down against his quivering face, and lower into the bed, against his frantically beating heart. Cadfael let him alone thus for some moments, until the storm passed. When the boy was still again, he withdrew his hand gently.

  ‘But she does not know,’ whispered Eliud wretchedly, ‘what I am… what I have done…’ ‘What she knows of you is all she needs to know, that she loves you as you love her, and there is not nor ever could be any other. I do not believe that guilt or innocence, good or evil can change Cristina towards you. Child, by the common expectation of man you have some thirty years at least of your life to live, which is room for marriage, children, fame, atonement, sainthood. What is done matters, but what is yet to do matters far more. Cristina has that truth in her. When she does know all, she will be grieved, but she will not be changed.’ ‘My expectation,’ said Eliud faintly through the covers that hid his ravaged face, ‘is in weeks, months at most, not thirty years.’ ‘It is God fixes the term,’ said Cadfael, ‘not men, not kings, not judges. A man must be prepared to face life, as well as death, there’s no escape from either. Who knows the length of the penance, or the magnitude of the reparation, that may be required of you?’ He rose from his place then, because John Miller and a couple of other neighbours, nursing the small scars of the late battle, carried in Elis, cot and all, from the next cell and set him down beside Eliud’s couch. It was a good time to break off, the boy had the spark of the future already alive in him, however strongly resignation prompted him to quench it, and now this reunion with the other half of his being came very aptly. Cadfael stood by to see them settled and watch John Miller strip down the covers from Eliud and lift and replace him bodily, as lightly as an infant and as deftly as if handled by a mother. John had been closeted with Elis and Melicent, and was grown fond of Elis as of a bold and promising small boy from among his kin. A useful man, with his huge and balanced strength, able to pick up a sick man from his sleep, provided he cared enough for the man!, and carry him hence without disturbing his rest. And devoted to Sister Magdalen, whose writ ran here firm as any king’s.

  Yes, a useful ally.

  Well…

  The next day passed in a kind of deliberate hush, as if every man and every woman walked delicately, with bated breath, and kept the ritual of the house with particular awe and reverence, warding off all mischance. Never had the horarium of the order been more scrupulously observed at Godric’s Ford. Mother Mariana, small, wizened and old, presided over a sisterhood of such model devotio
n as to disarm fate. And her enforced guests in their twin cots in one cell were quiet and private together, and even Melicent, now a lay guest of the house and no postulant, went about the business of the day with a pure, still face, and left the two young men to their own measures.

  Brother Cadfael observed the offices, made some fervent prayers of his own, and went out to help Sister Magdalen tend the few injuries still in need of supervision among the neighbours.

  ‘You’re worn out,’ said Sister Magdalen solicitously, when they returned for a late bite of supper and Compline. ‘Tomorrow you should sleep until Prime, you’ve had no real rest for three nights now. Say your farewell to Elis tonight, for they’ll be here at first light in the morning. And now I think of it,’ she said, ‘I could do with another flask of that syrup you brew from poppies, for I’ve emptied my bottle, and I have one patient to see tomorrow who gets little sleep from pain. Will you refill the flask if I bring it?’ ‘Willingly,’ said Cadfael, and went to fetch the jar he had had sent from Brother Oswin in Shrewsbury after the battle. She brought a large green glass flask, and he filled it to the brim without comment.

  Nor did he rise early in the morning, though he was awake in good time; he was as good at interpreting a nudge in the ribs as the next man. He heard the horsemen when they came, and the voice of the portress and other voices, Welsh and English both, and among them, surely, the voice of John Miller. But he did not rise and go out to speed them on their way.

  When he came forth for Prime, the travellers, he reckoned, must be two hours gone on their way into Wales, armed with Hugh’s safe, conduct to cover the near end of the journey, well mounted and provided. The portress had conducted them to the cell where their charge, Elis ap Cynan, would be found in the nearer bed, and John Miller had carried him out in his arms, warmly swathed, and bestowed him in the litter sent to bear him home. Mother Mariana herself had risen to witness and bless their going.

  After Prime Cadfael went to tend his remaining patient. As well to continue just as in the previous days. Two clear hours should be ample start, and someone had to be the first to go in, no, not the first, for certainly Melicent was there before him, but the first of the others, the potential enemy, the uninitiated.

  He opened the door of the cell, and halted just within the threshold. In the dim light two roused, pale faces confronted him, almost cheek to cheek. Melicent sat on the edge of the bed, supporting the occupant in her arm, for he had raised himself to sit upright, with a cloak draped round his naked shoulders, to meet this moment erect. The bandage swathing his cracked rib heaved to a quickened and apprehensive heartbeat, and the eyes that fixed steadily upon Cadfael were not greenish hazel, but almost as dark as the tangle of black curls.

  ‘Will you let the lord Beringar know,’ said Elis ap Cynan,’that I have sent away my foster, brother out of his hands, and am here to answer for all that may be held against him. He put his neck in a noose for me, so do I now for him. Whatever the law wills can be done to me in his place.’ It was said. He drew a deep breath, and winced at the stab it cost him, but the sharp expectancy of his face eased and warmed now the first step was taken, and there was no more need of any concealment.

  ‘I am sorry I had to deceive Mother Mariana,’ he said. ‘Say I entreat her forgiveness, but there was no other way in fairness to all here. I would not have any other blamed for what I have done.’ And he added with sudden impulsive simplicity: ‘I’m glad it was you who came. Send to the town quickly, I shall be glad to have this over. And Eliud will be safe now.’ ‘I’ll do your errand,’ said Cadfael gravely, ‘both your errands. And ask no questions.’ Not even whether Eliud had been in the plot, for he already knew the answer. From all those who had found it necessary to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear, Eliud stood apart in his despairing innocence and lamentable guilt. Someone among those bearers of his on the road to Wales might have a frantically distressed invalid on his hands when the long, deep sleep drew to a close. But at the end of the enforced flight, whatever measures Owam Gwynedd took in the matter, there was Cristina waiting.

  ‘I have provided as well as I could,’ said Elis earnestly. ‘They’ll send word ahead, she’ll come to meet him. It will be a hard enough furrow, but it will be life.’ A deal of growing up seemed to have been done since Elis ap Cynan first came raiding to Godric’s Ford. This was not the boy who had avenged his nervous fears in captivity by tossing Welsh insults at his captors with an innocent face, nor the girl who had cherished dreamy notions of taking the veil before ever she knew what marriage or vocation meant.

  ‘The affair seems to have been well managed,’ said Cadfael judicially. ‘Very well, I’ll go and make it known, here and in Shrewsbury.’ He had the door half, closed behind him when Elis called: ‘And then will you come and help me do on my clothes? I would like to meet Hugh Beringar decent and on my feet.’ And that was what he did, when Hugh came in the afternoon, grim, faced and black, browed, to probe the loss of his felon. In Mother Mariana’s tiny parlour, dark, timbered and bare, Elis and Melicent stood side by side to face him. Cadfael had got the boy into his hose and shirt and coat, and Melicent had combed out the tangles from his hair, since he could not do it himself without pain. Sister Magdalen, after one measuring glance as he took his first unsteady steps, had provided him a staff to reinforce his treacherous knee, which would not go fairly under him as yet, but threatened to double all ways to let him fall. When he was ready he looked very young, neat and solemn, and understandably afraid. He stood twisted a little sideways, favouring the knitting rib that shortened his breath. Melicent kept a hand ready, close to his arm, but held off from touching.

  ‘I have sent Eliud back to Wales in my place,’ said Elis, stiff as much with apprehension as with resolve,’since I owe him a life. But here am I, at your will and disposal, to do with as you see fit. Whatever you hold due to him, visit upon me.’ ‘For God’s sake sit down,’ said Hugh shortly and disconcertingly. ‘I object to being made the target of your self, inflicted suffering. If you’re offering me your neck, that’s enough, I have no need of your present pains. Sit and take ease. I am not interested in heroes.’ Elis flushed, winced and sat obediently, but he did not take his eyes from Hugh’s grim countenance.

  ‘Who helped you?’ demanded Hugh with chilling quietness.

  ‘No one. I alone made this plan. Owain’s men did as they were ordered by me.’ That could be said boldly, they were well away in their own country.

  ‘We made the plan,’ said Melicent firmly.

  Hugh ignored her, or seemed to. ‘Who helped you?’ he repeated forcibly.

  ‘No one. Melicent knew, but she took no part. The sole blame is mine. Deal with me!’ ‘So alone you moved your cousin into the other bed. That was marvel enough, for a man crippled himself and unable to walk, let alone lift another man’s weight. And as I hear, a certain miller of these parts carried Eliud ap Griffith to the litter.’ ‘It was dark within, and barely light without,’ said Elis steadily, ‘and I…’ ‘We,’ said Melicent.

  ‘… I had already wrapped Eliud well, there was little of him to see. John did nothing but lend his strong arms in kindness to me.’ ‘Was Eliud party to this exchange?’ ‘No!’ they said together, loudly and fiercely.

  ‘No!’ repeated Elis, his voice shaking with the fervour of his denial. ‘He knew nothing. I gave him in his last drink a great draught of the poppy syrup that Brother Cadfael used on us to dull the pain, that first day. It brings on deep sleep. Eliud slept through all. He never knew! He never would have consented.’ ‘And how did you, bed, held as you were, come by that syrup?’ I stole the flask from Sister Magdalen,’ said Melicent. ‘Ask her! She will tell you what a great dose has been taken from it.’ So she would, with all gravity and concern. Hugh never doubted it, nor did he mean to put her to the necessity of answering. Nor Cadfael either. Both had considerately absented themselves from this trial, judge and culprits held the whole matter in their hands.

  There was a brief, heavy silence
that weighed distressfully on Elis, while Hugh eyed the pair of them from under knitted brows, and fastened at last with frowning attention upon Melicent.

  ‘You of all people,’ he said, ‘had the greatest right to require payment from Eliud. Have you so soon forgiven him? Then who else dare gainsay?’ ‘I am not even sure,’ said Melicent slowly,’that I know what forgiveness is. Only it seems a sad waste that all a man’s good should not be able to outweigh one evil, however great. That is the world’s loss. And I wanted no more deaths. One was grief enough, the second would not heal it.’ Another silence, longer than the first. Elis burned and shivered, wanting to hear his penalty, whatever it might be, and know the best and the worst. He quaked when Hugh rose abruptly from his seat.