Brother Cadfael's Penance

by Ellis Peters

  Cadfael embarked on that climb with deliberation, willing to be seen, waiting to be challenged. Philip Fitz-Robert would not tolerate any inefficient service. They were already alerted, long before he came within hailing distance. He heard a horn call briefly within. The great double doors were closed. It was sufficiently late in the day to have everything secured, but there was a wicket left open, lofty enough and wide enough to let in a mounted man, even a galloping man if he came pursued, and easy and light enough to slam shut after him and bar once he was within. In the twin short towers that flanked the gate there were arrow-slits that could bring to bear a dual field of fire on any pursuers. Cadfael approved, his instincts harking back to encounters long past but not forgotten.

  Such a gateway, however innocently open, a man approaches with discretion, keeping both hands in clear view, and neither hastening nor hesitating. Cadfael ambled the last few yards and halted outside, though no one had appeared either to welcome or obstruct. He called through the open wicket: ‘Peace on all within!’ and moved on gently through the opening and into the bailey, without waiting for an answer.

  In the dark, vaulted archway of the gate there were men on either side of him, and when he emerged into the ward two more were ready for him, prompt to bridle and stirrup, unhurried and unthreatening, but watchful.

  ‘And on whoever comes in peace,’ said the officer of the guard, coming out from the guardroom smiling, if a little narrowly. ‘As doubtless you do, brother. Your habit speaks for you.’

  ‘It speaks truly,’ said Cadfael.

  ‘And what’s your will in these parts?’ asked the sergeant. ‘And where are you bound?’

  ‘Here, to La Musarderie,’ said Cadfael directly, ‘if you’ll afford me houseroom a while, till I speak with your lord. My business is nothing beyond that. I come to beg audience with Philip FitzRobert, and they tell me he’s here within. At your disposal and his, whenever he sees fit. I’ll wait his pleasure as long as need be.’

  ‘You’re messenger for another?’ the sergeant questioned, no more than mildly curious. ‘He’s come back from a clutch of bishops, are you here to speak for yours?’

  ‘After a fashion, yes,’ Cadfael conceded. ‘But for myself also. If you’ll be so good as to carry him my request, no doubt he’ll also speak his mind.’

  They surrounded him, but at a tolerant distance, curious and alert, faintly grinning, while their sergeant considered at leisure what to think of him and what to do with him. The bailey was not very large, but the wide clearance of cover all round the castle walls compensated for that. From the guardwalk along the wall the view would be broad enough to give ample warning of any force coming in arms, and provide a murderous field for archers, who almost certainly figured large in the garrison. The encrustation of sheds, stores, armouries and cramped living quarters all round the wall within consisted mainly of timber. Fire, Cadfael considered, might be a threat, but even so a limited one. Hall and keep and towers and curtain wall were all of stone. He wondered why he was studying the place as an objective in battle, a stronghold to be taken. So it might prove to him, but not that way.

  ‘Light down and be welcome, brother,’ said the sergeant amiably. ‘We never turn away men of your cloth. As for our lord, you’ll need to wait a while, for he’s out riding this moment, but he shall hear your asking, never fear. Let Peter here take your horse, and he’ll bring your saddlebags into the lodging for you.’

  ‘I tend my own horse,’ said Cadfael placidly, mindful of the precaution of knowing where to find him at need; though the sergeant was so assured of having only a simple monastic courier on his hands that there was no need to suspect him of any deception. ‘I was a man-at-arms myself, long years ago. Once learned, you never lose the habit.’

  ‘True enough,’ said the sergeant indulgently, humouring this old ex-warrior. ‘Then Peter will show you, and when you’re done, you’ll find someone in hall to see to your needs. If you’ve borne arms yourself you’ll be used to a soldier’s keep.’

  ‘And content with it,’ agreed Cadfael heartily, and led his horse away after the groom, well satisfied to be within the wards. Nor did he miss any of the evidences that Philip kept an alert and well-run household here. Recalling the dark and courteous presence encountered so briefly and privately in the priory church at Coventry, he would have expected nothing less. Every castle ward has a multifarious life of its own, that goes on without fuss, in wellhouse, bakery, armoury, store and workshops, in two parallel disciplines, one military, one domestic. Here in a region of warfare, however desultory the dangers might be, the domestic side of castle life in La Musarderie seemed to have been scaled down to a minimum, and almost womanless. Possibly Philip’s steward had a wife somewhere, in charge of such women servants as might be kept here, but the economy within was starkly military and austerely male, and functioned with a ruthless efficiency that surely stemmed from its lord. Philip was unmarried and without children, wholly absorbed into the demonic conflict that no one seemed able to end. His castle reflected his obsession.

  There was human activity enough about the ward and in the stables, men came and went about their proper businesses, without haste but briskly, and the babel of voices was as constant as the buzzing about a beehive. The groom Peter was easy and talkative about helping Cadfael to unsaddle and unload, groom and water the horse and settle him in a stall, and pointed him amiably to the hall when that was done. The steward’s clerk who received him there with no more than momentary surprise and an acquiescent shrug, as though accepting a visitor of an unexpected but harmless kind, offered him a bed as of right, and told him where to find the chapel, for the proper hour of Vespers was past, and he had need of a pause to give thanks for present blessings and invoke help in future contentions. An elderly Benedictine wanting shelter for the night, what was there in that to enlist any man’s interest for more than a moment, even where voluntary guests were few and far between?

  The chapel was in the heart of the keep, and he wondered a little that they should let him into it unwatched and solitary. Philip’s garrison had no hesitation in allowing a monastic access to the central defences of the castle, they had even housed him within the keep, and there could be no other reason for such confidence than simple trust in his integrity and reverence for his habit. That caused him to look more closely into his own motives and methods, and confirmed him in the directness of his approach. There was no other way but straight forward, whether to success or ruin.

  He paid his belated devotions very gravely, in the chill, stony chapel, on his knees before an altar austerely draped and lit only by one small, steady lamp. The vault above withdrew into darkness, and the cold honed his mind as it stiffened his flesh. Lord God, how must I approach, how can I match, such a man? One who in casting off one coat has stripped himself naked to reproach and condemnation, and in donning another has merely covered his wounds, not healed them. I do not know what to make of this Philip.

  He was rising from his knees when he heard, distantly from the outer ward, the brisk clatter of hooves on the cobbles, a small, sharp sound. One horse only; one man only, like himself, not afraid to ride out from a castle or into a castle alone, in a region where castles were prizes to be seized at the least opportunity, and prisons to be avoided at all costs. After a moment Cadfael heard the horse being led away to the stable yard, treading out sober walking paces across the stones, ebbing into silence. He turned to leave the chapel, and went out between the guardrooms and gates of the keep, where the twilight hung pale against the black pillars of the portal. He emerged into what seemed by contrast almost daylight, and found himself crossing the path of Philip FitzRobert, just dismounted after his ride and striding across the ward to his hall, shrugging off his cloak on to one arm as he went. They met and halted, two or three yards between them, mutually at gaze.

  The rising wind of evening had ruffled Philip’s black hair, for he had ridden with head uncovered. The short, blown strands laced his high forehead, and ca
used him to frown as he stared. He went in the plainest of dark gear, independent of any manner of ornament or finery. His own bearing was his distinction. Physically, in motion or in stillness, he had an elongated elegance, and a tension like a strung bow.

  ‘They told me I had a guest,’ he said, and narrowed his full, dark brown eyes. ‘Brother, I think I have seen you before.’

  ‘I was in Coventry,’ said Cadfael, ‘among many others. Though whether you ever noticed me is more than I can say.’

  There was a brief silence, and neither of them moved. ‘You were present,’ Philip said then, ‘close by, but you did not speak. I do remember, you were by when we found de Soulis dead.’

  ‘I was,’ said Cadfael.

  ‘And now you come to me. To have speech with me. So they have said. On whose behalf?’

  ‘On behalf of justice and truth,’ said Cadfael, ‘at least in my view. On behalf of myself, and of some for whom I am advocate. And ultimately, perhaps, my lord, even on yours.’

  The eyes narrowed to sharpen vision through the fading light studied him in silence for a moment, without, apparently, finding any fault with the boldness of this address.

  ‘I shall have time to listen,’ said Philip then, the courteous level of his voice unshaken even by curiosity, ‘after supper. Come to me after I leave the hall. Any man of the household will show you where to find me. And if you wish, you may assist my chaplain at Compline. I respect your habit.’

  ‘That I cannot,’ said Cadfael bluntly. ‘I am not a priest. Even the full right of this habit I cannot now claim. I am absent without leave from my abbot. I have broken the cord. I am apostate.’

  ‘For cause!’ said Philip, and stared upon him steadily for a long moment, his interest both caught and contained within measure. Then he said abruptly: ‘Nevertheless, come!’ and turned and walked away into his hall.

  Chapter 8

  IN PHILIP FITZROBERT’S HALL the service was Spartan, and the company exclusively male. He presided at the high table among his knights, and the young men of his following used him with confident candour, not in awe, but to all appearances in willing duty. He ate sparingly and drank little, talked freely with his equals and courteously with his servants. And Cadfael, from his place beside the chaplain at a lower table, watched him and wondered what went on behind the lofty forehead and the deep brown eyes like slow-burning fires, and all that was mysterious in him, if not ominous.

  He rose from the table early, leaving the men of his garrison to continue at their leisure, and after his going there was an easing of manners and further circling of ale and wine, and some who could make music fetched their instruments to enliven the evening. Small doubt there was a strong guard set, and all gates closed and barred. Musard, so the chaplain had reported, had foolishly gone forth hunting, and ridden straight into Philip’s ambush, and been forced to surrender his castle in order to regain his freedom, and possibly also to keep himself alive; though threats against life in order to gain possession of a fortress were more likely to remain threats than to be put into action, and often met with obstinate defiance even with necks noosed and hangmen ready, in the assurance that they dared not be carried out. Family loyalties and complex intermarriages had baulked a great many such attempts. But Musard, not having a powerful relative on Stephen’s side, of greater importance to the king than Philip himself, had been less confident of his safety, and given in. That was hardly likely ever to happen to Philip. He showed no fear of any man, but neither would he leave gates unbarred, or fail to set good sentries on the walls.

  ‘I am bidden to your lord’s presence,’ said Cadfael, ‘after he withdraws from the hall. Will you point me the way? I think he is not a man to be kept waiting when he has named the time.’

  The chaplain was old and experienced, beyond surprise. In any case nothing that their castellan did, nothing he denied, nothing he granted, no princeling he rejected, no humble travelling monastic he welcomed, seemed to occasion surprise here. There would be sufficient reason for all, and whether that reason proved comprehensible or not, it would not be questioned.

  The old priest shrugged, and rose obligingly from table to lead the way out from the hall. ‘He keeps early hours as a rule. So he set you a time, did he? You’re favoured. But he’s hospitable to any who wear your habit, or come in the Church’s name.’

  Cadfael forbore from following that lead. It was known here that he came from the conference at Coventry, and probably assumed that he bore some further exhortation from his bishop to insinuate into Philip’s ear. Let them by all means think so; it accounted for him very satisfactorily. As between himself and Philip there could be no pretences.

  ‘In here. He lives almost priestly,’ commented the chaplain, ‘here in the cold of the keep, close to his chapel, none of your cushioned solars.’ They were in a narrow stone passage, lit only by a small, smoky torch in a bracket on the wall. The door they approached was narrow, and stood ajar. At the chaplain’s knock a voice from within called: ‘Come!’

  Cadfael entered a small, austere room, high-windowed on a single lancet of naked sky, in which a faint dusting of starlight showed. They were on a lofty floor raised, high enough to clear the curtain wall on this sheltered side. Below the window a large, shaded candle burned on a heavy table, and behind the table Philip sat on a broad stool buttressed with massive carved arms, his back against the dark hangings on the wall. He looked up from the book that lay open before him. It was no surprise that he was lettered. Every faculty he had he would push to the limit.

  ‘Come in, brother, and close the door.’

  His voice was quiet, and his face, lit sidelong by the candle at his left elbow, showed sharply defined in planes of light and ravines of shadow, deep hollows beneath the high cheekbones and in the ivory settings of dark, thoughtful eyes. Cadfael marvelled again how young he was, Olivier’s own age. Something of Olivier, even, in his clear, fastidious face, fixed at this moment in a searching gravity, that hung upon Cadfael in continued speculation.

  ‘You had something to say to me. Sit, brother, and say it freely. I am listening.’

  A motion of his hand indicated the wooden bench against the wall at his right hand, draped with sheepskin. Cadfael would rather have remained standing, facing him directly, but he obeyed the gesture, and the contact of eyes was not broken; Philip had turned with him, maintaining his unwavering regard.

  ‘Now, what is it you want of me?’

  ‘I want,’ said Cadfael, ‘the freedom of two men, two whom, as I believe, you have in close hold.’

  ‘Name them,’ said Philip, ‘and I will tell you if you believe rightly.’

  ‘The name of the first is Olivier de Bretagne. And the name of the second is Yves Hugonin.’

  ‘Yes’, said Philip without hesitation, and without any change in the quiet level of his voice. ‘I hold them both.’

  ‘Here, in La Musarderie?’

  ‘Yes. They are here. Now tell me why I should release them.’

  ‘There are reasons,’ said Cadfael, ‘why a fairminded man should take my request seriously. Olivier de Bretagne, I judge from all I know of him, would not consider turning his coat with you when you handed over Faringdon to the king. There were several who held with him, and would not go with you. All were overpowered and made prisoner, to be held for ransom by whoever should be given them as largesse by the king. That is known openly. Why, then, has Olivier de Bretagne not been offered for ransom? Why has it not been made known who holds him?’

  ‘I have made it known now to you,’ said Philip, with a small, dry smile. ‘Proceed from there.’

  ‘Very well! It is true I had not asked you until now, and now you have not denied. But it was never published where he was, as it was for the others. Is it fair that his case should be different? There are those who would be glad to buy him free.’

  ‘However high the price asked?’ said Philip.

  ‘Name it, and I will see it raised and paid to you.’

 
There was a long pause, while Philip looked at him with eyes wide and clear, and yet unreadable, so still that not a single hair on his head quivered. ‘A life, perhaps,’ he said then, very softly. ‘Another life in place of his to rot here solitary as he will rot.’

  ‘Take mine,’ said Cadfael.

  *

  In the arched lancet of the high window clouds had blotted out the faint starlight, the stones of the wall were now paler than the night without.

  ‘Yours,’ said Philip with soft deliberation, not questioning, not exclaiming, only saying over the single word to himself as if to incise it on the steely metal of his mind. ‘What satisfaction would your life be to me? What grudge have I against you, to give me any pleasure in destroying you?’

  ‘What grudge had you against him? What bitter pleasure will you experience in destroying him? What did he ever do to you, except hold fast to his cause when you deserted yours? Or when he so thought of what you did,’ Cadfael corrected himself stoutly, ‘for I tell you, I do not know how to interpret all that you have done, and he, as I well know, would be less ready to look not once, but twice, thrice and again, before judging.’

  No, the protest was pointless. Olivier’s fiery scorn would be enough offence. A match for Philip in his towering pride, blazing forth in unrestrained reproach, as if Philip’s own mirror image cried out against him. Perhaps the only way to put that mortal wound out of mind had been to bury the accuser out of sight and out of memory.

  ‘You valued him!’ said Cadfael, enlightened and unwary.

  ‘I valued him,’ Philip repeated, and found no fault with the statement. ‘It is not the first time I have been denied, rejected, misprized, left out of the reckoning, by some I most valued. There is nothing new in that. It takes time to reach the point of cutting off the last of them, and proceeding alone. But now, since you have made me an offer, why should you, why do you, offer me your old bones to moulder in his place? What is Olivier de Bretagne to you?’