by Ellis Peters
“I grant you did,” said Hugh, “and I understand your doubts, though it’s no part of my office to hound any man for what’s past and done.”
“But now, my lord…” Giffard had more to say, and had plainly taken great encouragement from his own eloquence and Hugh’s acquiescence, for he had burned into sudden hopeful fervour. “Now I see more in this than either you or I have thought. For I have not quite told you all, there has hardly been time to think of everything. For see, it was this young man who came here under the protection of Father Ailnoth, vilely deceiving the priest in the pretence that he was a harmless youth seeking work, and kin to the woman who kept the priest’s household. And is not Father Ailnoth, who brought him here in all innocence, now done to death and waiting for burial? Who is more likely to stand guilty of his murder than the man who took wicked advantage of his goodness, and made him an unwitting accomplice in treason?”
He knew very well what manner of bolt he was hurling into the circle of listeners, he had even drawn back a pace or two to observe the shock and to distance himself from it. There was no length to which he would not go, now, to prove his own loyal integrity, to keep what he still had, if he must eternally grudge and lament what he had lost by his former allegiance. Perhaps he was secretly relieved that the boy he traduced was well away, and need never answer, but what most troubled him was his own inviolability.
“You’re accusing him of the priest’s murder?” said Hugh, eyeing him narrowly. “That’s going far. On what grounds do you make such a charge?”
“The very fact that he is fled points to him.”
“That might be valid enough, but not—mark me!—not unless the priest had got wind of the deception practised on him. To the best we know there was no quarrel between them, nothing had arisen to set them at odds. Unless the priest had found out how he had been abused, there could be no ground for any hostility between them.”
“He did know,” said Giffard.
“Go on,” said Hugh after a brief, profound silence. “You cannot stop there. How do you know the priest had found him out?”
“For the best reason. I told him! I said there was still more that I had not yet told you. On the eve of the Nativity I came down here to his house, and told him how he was cheated and abused by one he had helped. I had given it anxious thought, and though I did not go to your deputy, I felt it only right to warn Father Ailnoth how he had harboured an enemy unawares. Those of the Empress’s party are threatened with excommunication now, as you, my lord sheriff, are witness. The priest had been shamefully imposed upon, and so I told him.”
So that was the way of it! That was where he had been bound in such determined haste before Compline. And that was why Father Ailnoth had rushed away vengefully to keep the nocturnal tryst and confront in person the youth who had imposed upon him. Give him his due, he was no coward, he would not run first to the sergeants and get a bodyguard, he would storm forth by the mill-pool to challenge his opponent face to face, denounce, possibly even attempt to overpower him with his own hands, certainly cry him outlaw to the abbot and to the castle if he could not himself hale him to judgement. But things had gone very differently, for Ninian had come unharmed to church, and Ailnoth had ended in the pool with a broken head. And who could avoid making the simple connection now? Who that had not spent so many days in Ninian’s blithe company as had Cadfael, and got to know him so well?
“And after you had left him,” said Hugh, eyeing Giffard steadily, “he knew the time and place appointed for you to meet with Bachiler, and the invitation you had rejected you think he went to accept? But without an acceptance from you, would Bachiler keep the appointment?”
“I made no answer. I had not rejected it outright. He was asking for help, for news, for a horse. He would come! He could not afford not to come.”
And he would meet with a very formidable and very angry enemy, bent on betraying him to the law, a man who verily held himself to be the instrument of the wrath of God. Yes, death could well come of such a meeting.
“Will,” said Hugh, turning abruptly to his sergeant, “get back to the castle and bring down more men. We’ll get the lord abbot’s permission to search the gardens here, and the stables and the barns, grange court, storehouses, all. Begin with the mill, and have a watch on the bridge and the highway. If this youngster was in the hut here not half an hour ago, as Cadfael says, he cannot be far. And whether he has killed or not is still open, but the first need is to lay hands on him and have him safe in hold.”
*
“You will not forget,” said Cadfael, alone with Hugh in the workshop later,”that there are others, many others, who had as good reason as Ninian, and better, to wish Ailnoth dead?”
“I don’t forget it. Far too many others,” agreed Hugh ruefully. “And all you tell me of this boy—not that I’m dull enough, mind, to suppose you’ve told me all you could!—shows him as one who might very well hit out boldly in his own defence, but scarcely from behind. Yet he might, in the heat of conflict. Who knows what any of us might do, in extremes? And by what I hear of the priest, he would lash out with all his might and whatever weapon came to hand. It’s the lad’s vanishing now that suggests the worst.”
“He had good reason to vanish,” pointed out Cadfael, “if he heard that Giffard was on his way to the castle to betray him. You’d have had to clap him into prison, guilty or innocent of the priest’s death. Your hand’s forced. Of course he’d run.”
“If someone warned him,” agreed Hugh with a wry smile. “You, for instance?”
“No, not I,” said Cadfael virtuously. “I knew nothing about Giffard’s errand, or I might have dropped a word in the boy’s ear. But no, certainly not I. I do know that Benet—Ninian we must call him now, I suppose!—was in the church some time before midnight on Christmas Eve. If he went to the mill at all, he went early for the meeting, and left early, also.”
“So you told me, and I believe it. But so, by your own account, did Ailnoth go early to the meeting place, perhaps to hide himself and spring out on Bachiler by surprise. There was still time for them to clash and one to die.”
“The boy had not the marks of any agitation or dismay upon him in the church. A little excitement, perhaps, but pleasurable, I would say. And how much have you managed to worm out of the parish folk about this business? There are a number who had justifiable grudges against Ailnoth, what have they to say for themselves?”
“In general, as you’d expect, as little as possible. One or two make no secret of their gratitude that the man’s gone, none at all. Eadwin, the one whose boundary stone he moved, he’s neither forgotten nor forgiven, even if the stone was replaced afterwards. His wife and children swear he never left the house that night—but so do they all, and so, of course, they would. Jordan Achard, the baker, now there’s a man who might kill in a rage. He has a real grievance. His bread is his pride, and there was never any amends made for that insult. It hurt far more than if the priest had denounced him for a notorious lecher, which would at least have had the merit of being true. There are some give him the credit for being the father of that poor girl’s baby, the lass who drowned herself, but from all I hear it could as well have been half the other men in the parish, for she couldn’t say no to any of them. Our Jordan says he was home and sober every moment of Christmas Eve, and his wife bears him out, but she’s a poor, subdued creature who wouldn’t dare cross him. But from all accounts it’s few nights he does spend in his own bed, and to judge by his wife’s sidelong looks and wary answers he may well have been sleeping abroad that night. But we shall never get her to say so. She’s both afraid of him and loyal to him.”
“The rest of his women may be less so,” said Cadfael. “But I hardly see Jordan as a man of violence.”
“Perhaps not. But I do see Father Ailnoth as a man of violence, whether bodily or spiritual. And consider, Cadfael, how he might behave if he happened on one of his flock sneaking into the wrong bed. If not a violent man, Jordan is
a big and strong one, and by no means meek enough to suffer assault tamely. He might end the fight another man began, without ever meaning to. But Jordan is one among many, and not the most likely.”
“Your men have been diligent,” said Cadfael with a sigh.
“They have. Alan was on his mettle, and determined to deserve his place. There’s a decent poor soul called Centwin, who lives along the Foregate towards the horse-fair ground. You’ll have heard his story. It was new to me until I heard it from Alan. The babe that died un-christened because Ailnoth could not interrupt his prayers. That sticks in the craw of every man in the parish, worse than all.”
“You cannot have found out anything black against Centwin?” protested Cadfael. “As quiet a creature as breathes, never a trouble to any.”
“Never with occasion until now. But this goes deep. And Centwin, quiet as he may be, is also deep. He keeps his own counsel, and broods over his own grievances. I’ve spoken with him. We questioned the watch on the town gate, Christmas Eve,” said Hugh. “They saw you go out, and you best know the time that was, and where you met the priest. They also saw Centwin go out not many minutes after you, on his way home, he said, from visiting a friend in the town to whom he owed a small debt. True enough, for the tanner he paid has confirmed it. He wanted, he said, to have all his affairs clear and all dues paid before he went to Matins, as indeed he did go, and left before Lauds for home. But you see how the time fits. One coming a few minutes behind you may also have met with Ailnoth, may have seen him turn from the Foregate along the path to the mill. There in darkness and loneliness, think, might not even a mild, submissive man with that wound burning in his belly have seen suddenly an opportunity to pay off yet another and a more bitter debt? And there was the time between then and Matins for two men to clash in the darkness, and one to die.”
“No,” said Cadfael, “I do not believe it!”
“Because it would be one cruelty piled upon another? But such things happen. No, take heart, Cadfael, neither do I quite believe it, but it is possible. There are too many by far who are not vouched for, or whose guarantors cannot be trusted, too many who hated him. And there is still Ninian Bachiler. Whatever the truth of him, you do understand that I must do my best to find him?”
He looked down at his friend with a dark, private smile that was more eloquent than the words. It was not the first time they had agreed, with considerate courtesy and no need of many words, to pursue each what he held to be his own duty, and bear no malice if the two crossed like swords.
“Oh, yes!” said Cadfael. “Yes, that I fully understand.”
Chapter 8
CADFAEL HAD RETURNED to the church after Prime to replenish the perfumed oil in the lamp on Saint Winifred’s altar. The inquisitive skills which might have been frowned upon if they had been employed to make scents for women’s vanity became permissible and even praiseworthy when used as an act of worship, and he took pleasure in trying out all manner of fragrant herbs and flowers in many different combinations, plying the sweets of rose and lily, violet and clover against the searching aromatic riches of rue and sage and wormwood. It pleased him to think that the lady must take delight in being so served, for virgin saint though she might be, she was a woman, and in her youth had been a beautiful and desirable one.
Cynric the verger came in from the north porch with the twig broom in his hand, from brushing away the night’s sprinkling of fine snow from porch and steps, and went to open the great service-book on the reading desk, and trim the candles on the parish altar ready for the communal Mass, and set two new ones on the prickets of the wall brackets on either side. Cadfael gave him good day as he came back into the nave, and got the usual tranquil but brief acknowledgement.
“Freezing as hard as ever,” said Cadfael. “There’ll be no breaking the ground for Ailnoth today.” For it would be Cynric who had to dig the grave, in the green enclosure east of the church, where priests and abbots and brothers were laid to rest.
Cynric sniffed the air and considered, his deep eyes veiled. “A change by tomorrow, maybe. I smell a thaw coming.”
It could be true. He lived on close, if neutral, terms with the elements, tolerating them as they seemed to refrain from harming him, for it must be deathly cold in that small, stony room over the porch.
“The ground’s chosen for him?” asked Cadfael, catching the taciturn habit.
“Close under the wall.”
“Not next to Father Adam, then? I thought Prior Robert would have wanted to put him there.”
“He did,” said Cynric shortly. “I said the earth there was not yet settled, and must have time to bed down.”
“A pity the hard frost came now. A dead man still lying among us unburied makes the young ones uneasy.”
“Ay,” said Cynric. “The sooner he’s in the ground the better for all. Now that he’s gone.” He straightened the second thick candle on its spike, stepped back to make sure it stood erect and would not gutter, and brushed the clinging feel of tallow from his hands, for the first time turning his eyes in their hollow caverns upon Cadfael, and lighting up his lantern countenance with the smile of singular if rueful sweetness that brought the children to him with such serene confidence. “Do you go into the Foregate this morning? I heard there’s a few folk having trouble with the cold.”
“No wonder they should!” said Cadfael. “I’m away to have a look at one or two of the children, but there’s no great harm yet. Why, do you know of someone who needs me? I have leave, I can as well make one more visit. Who is sick?”
“It’s the little wooden hovel on the left, along the back lane from the horse-fair, the widow Nest. She’s caring for her grandchild, the poor worm, Eluned’s baby, and she’s fretted for it.” Cynric, perforce, was unusually loquacious in explaining. “Won’t take its milk, and cries with the wind in its belly.”
“It was born a healthy child?” asked Cadfael. For it could not be many weeks old, and motherless, deprived of its best food. He had not forgotten the shock and anger that had swept through the Foregate, when they lost their favourite whore. If indeed Eluned had ever been a whore. She never asked payment. If men gave her things, it was of their own will. She, it seemed, had done nothing but give, however unwisely.
“A bonny girl, big and lusty, so Nest said.”
“Then she’ll have it in her, infant though she may be, to fight her way into life,” said Cadfael comfortably. “I must go get the right cordial for an infant’s inside. I’ll make it fresh. Who sings Mass for you today?”
“Brother Anselm.”
“Well for you!” said Brother Cadfael, making for the south porch and his quickest way to the garden and his workshop. “It might as easily have been Brother Jerome.”
*
The house was low and narrow, but sturdy, and the dark passage in which it stood braced against a taller dwelling looked crisp and clean in the hard frost, though in moist, mild weather it might have been an odorous hole. Cadfael rapped at the door, and for immediate reassurance called out loudly: “Brother Cadfael from the abbey, mistress. Cynric said you need me for the child.”
Whether it was his own name or Cynric’s that made him welcome there was no knowing, but instantly there was a stir of movement within, a baby howled fretfully, probably at being laid down in haste, and then the door was opened wide, and from half-darkness a woman beckoned him within, and made haste to close the door after him against the cold.
This one small room was all the house, and its only inlet for light or outlet for smoke was a vent in the roof. In clement weather the door would always be open from dawn to dusk, but frost had closed it, and the dwelling was lit only by a small oil lamp and the dim but steady glow of a fire penned in an iron cage on a flat stone under the vent. But blessedly someone had supplied charcoal for the widow’s needs, and there was a mild fume in the nostrils here but little smoke. Furnishings were few, a low bench-bed in a corner, a few pots on the firestone, a rough, small table. Cadfael took a
little time to accustom his eyes to the dim light, and the shapes of things emerged gradually. The woman stood by him, waiting, and like all else here, grew steadily out of the gloom, a perceptible human being. The cradle, the central concern of this house, was placed in the most sheltered corner, where the warmth of the fire could come, but not the draught from door or vent. And the child within was wailing indignantly within its wrappings, half-asleep but unable by reason of discomfort to fall deeper into peace.
“I brought an end of candle with me,” said Cadfael, taking in everything about him without haste. “I thought we might need more light. With your leave!” He took it out from his scrip, tilted the wick into the small flame of the lamp in its clay saucer, and stood the stump upon the corner of the table, where it shed light closely upon the cradle. It was a broad-based end discarded from one of the prickets in the wall brackets of the church, he found them useful for carrying on his errands because they would stand solidly on any flat surface, and run no risk of being overturned. Among flimsy wooden cottages there was need of such care. This dwelling, poor as it was, had been more solidly built than many.
“They keep you in charcoal?” asked Cadfael, turning to the woman, who stood quite still, gazing at him with fixed and illusionless eyes.
“My man who’s dead was a forester in Eyton. The abbey’s man there remembers me. He brings me wood, as well, the dead twigs and small chippings for kindling.”
“That’s well,” said Cadfael. “So young a babe needs to be kept warm. Now you tell me, what’s her trouble?”
She was telling him herself, in small, fretful wails from her cradle, but she was well wrapped and clean, and had a healthy, well-nourished voice with which to complain.
“Three days now she’s sickened on her milk, and cries with the wind inside. But I’ve kept her warm, and she’s taken no chill. If my poor girl had lived this chit would have been at her breast, not sipping from a spoon or my fingers, but she’s gone, and left this one to me, all I have now, and I’ll do anything to keep her safe.”