by Ellis Peters
*
It was an unlovely thing to see a human creature break and try to run, see him fight like a wildcat when he was hemmed in, and snarl defiance when he was overcome and pinioned. In deference to the abbot they hauled him out through the gates into the Foregate with as little violence as possible, and dealt with him there. He knotted his hands together to balk the removal of his gloves, and when his hands were naked, the pale circle on the middle finger of his right hand glared like snow on new-ploughed russet soil, the large blot of the stone clear to be seen. He struggled and cursed when they felt about his body, sank his head grimly into his chest so that they had to force his head back to withdraw the cord from round his neck, beneath his shirt, and expose the ring to view.
When they had hustled him away, four of them holding him and hard-pressed at that, to a cell in the castle, there fell a dreadful, exhausted silence over the great court. Joscelin, great-eyed, shaken and bewildered, folded his arms about Iveta, and quivered in uncomprehending relief, too shocked to question as yet the devious use that had been made of him throughout. Agnes stood rigid, staring balefully as long as her enemy remained in view, and then, released, clutched her head between her hands and wept, but hardly, in solitary and forbidding grief. Who would have thought she could have loved her unendearing husband?
The virago was gone. She let fall her hands and paced slowly, like one walking in her sleep, through the agitated onlookers who moved aside to give her passage. She looked round once upon them all, from the steps of the guest-hall, having passed by Iveta’s extended hand as though the girl did not exist, and then she went in, and vanished.
“Later,” said Abbot Radulfus, heavily but calmly, “she will speak freely. Her testimony is essential. As for her lord—he is dead already. Need we question, since he cannot be questioned?”
“Not in any tribunal of mine, at any rate,” agreed Gilbert Prestcote drily, and turned to his remaining men. “You, sergeant, before we set off to bring this dead man home, how comes it that you set so apt a watch about the brook here, while we were beating the forest? We had no intimation that ever reached my ears, that a raid might be attempted on these premises.”
“It was after you were all gone forth, my lord,” said the sergeant, “that Jehan here came to me with the notion that since the squire was set on the lady, he might take the chance when there were but few of us left here, to try to win her away.” He haled forth the clever fellow who had won commendation for an earlier idea, equally justified in the event. The man was not quite so sure of himself, now that things were turned topsy-turvy, and his patron was become the villain in the web, but he stood his ground. “It was he who said that the fellow, if he had the wit, might hide in his lord’s own gardens, you’ll remember, and when we searched, we found he had indeed been there, though he was gone when we came to it. This time it seemed just as good sense, so we kept a vigil in secret.”
“Friend,” said Prestcote, eyeing the man-at-arms somewhat ominously, “your guesses seem to be blessed by heaven, but I fancy hell had more to do with them. When did Aguilon put it into your head to search the bishop’s outhouses for our wanted man? At what hour?”
Jehan had the sense to be open about it, though none too happily. “My lord, it was after my lord Domville’s body was brought back here. When he came back to the bishop’s house, then he suggested it. He said I was welcome to the credit if we found our man, and he would as lief keep out of it.”
Joscelin shook his head despairingly between his hands, slow still to understand the whole of it. “But it was he who helped me—he came to find me, he hid me there himself in goodwill…”
“In very evil will!” said Brother Cadfael. “Son, you had given him not only the opportunity of hastening his inheritance of a great estate, but also of adding to it this lady’s person and lands. For you had provided him a perfect scapegoat, one wronged and angry and bearing a grudge. Yours would be the first and only name that came to mind, when Huon de Domville was waylaid and murdered. But with that in view he had to have you still at liberty, hidden away somewhere safe, until well after the death, and where he could point the hunt to take you when that was done. It was your leaving your sanctuary that balked his plans and saved your neck.”
“Then tonight,” pursued Joscelin, frowning over this chill treachery as if his head ached, “you mean he set this trap for me, in cold blood? I thought him my one friend, I asked his help…”
“How?” asked Cadfael sharply. “How did you get word to him?”
Joscelin told them the whole of it, though not one word yet of Lazarus or Bran, or any of those who had truly helped him. That he might tell some day, surely to Iveta, perhaps even to Brother Cadfael, but not here, not now.
“So he knew only that you were somewhere close, but not where. He could not send his trusty foil here to lay hands on you, he could only wait for you to come to the law, and you had set the scene yourself. All he had to do was pass on your message to the lady, and see that your horse was waiting for you as you had asked—or you would not have crossed into the garden here to be seized, would you?—and then say the quiet word to Jehan here. He would not wish to appear in the matter himself, certainly,” said Cadfael wryly, “since his pose of loyalty to you was his best commendation with the lady. You once safely taken and hanged,” he said, making no bones about it, for the good-natured lad was wrenching hard at belief in such devious treason in one he had trusted, “I doubt if Godfrid Picard would have balked at matching his niece with a murderer—a successful murderer. It was the peril meantime he could not stomach, in case it reached as far as his own credit, if not his own neck.”
“Speak up, Jehan,” ordered the sheriff, grimly smiling. “Did Aguilon again point you the way to commendation and promotion?”
“This morning,” admitted Jehan unwarily, “he put the notion into my head…”
“This morning! Before ever we set forth! And you said no word to me or to your officer until we were out of the way of your intended feat of arms. Promotion is hardly likely to come your way, fellow, for a while. Think yourself lucky to escape a whipping!”
Jehan was indeed thinking himself well out of a perilous corner, to be dismissed so lightly, and made himself scarce without delay.
“We had best be bringing in this dead man,” said the sheriff, turning brusquely back to the task in hand. “Will you guide us, brother? We’ll go mounted, and with a spare horse for Picard’s last ride.”
*
They were away, half a dozen mounted men, Cadfael in no way displeased to be astride a fine, sturdy rouncey again instead of a modest little mule. The abbot watched them out of the gates, and then turned to dismiss, with even voice and calm face, the disturbed and wondering brotherhood.
“Go, compose your minds, wash your hands, and go in to supper. The rule still orders our day. Traffic with the world is laid upon us for chastening, and for the testing of our vocation. The grace of God is not endangered by the follies or the wickedness of men.”
They went obediently. At a glance from Radulfus, Prior Robert inclined his head and followed the flock. The abbot was left confronting, with a faint, contemplative smile, the two young creatures still clinging hand in hand, eyeing him steadfastly but doubtfully. Too much had happened to them too suddenly, they were like children half-awake, not yet clear what, of their recollections and experiences, was real, and what was dream. But surely the dreams had been terrifying, and the reality must needs be better.
“I think,” said the abbot gently, “you need not be in any anxiety, my son, about that other charge your lord made against you. In all the circumstances, no just man would consider it safe to believe in such a theft, and Gilbert Prestcote is a just man. I cannot choose but wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “whether it was Aguilon also who hid the necklace in your saddle-bag with the medal of Saint James.”
“I doubt it, Father.” Joscelin took thought to be fair, even now, to a comrade who had done him such grievous wrong. �
��For truly I feel he had not thought of murder until I was cast off and accused, and broke away to freedom as I did. It is as Brother Cadfael said, he was presented with his chance and his scapegoat. My lord Domville most likely did his own meaner work this time. But, Father, it is not my troubles that weigh on me now. It is Iveta.”
He moistened his lips, feeling for the best words, and the abbot stood silent and imperturbable, and gave him no help. Iveta, too, had looked up at him in startled alarm, as though she feared he might too nobly and stupidly let go of her when she thought herself fairly won.
“Father, this lady has been vilely misused by those who were her guardians. Now her uncle is dead, and her aunt, even if she were fit to care for her, would not be allowed to keep the administration of so great an honor. It is my prayer that you, Father, will take her into your own guardianship from this day, for with you I know she will be used with gentleness and honor, and be happy as she deserves. If you put forward such a request to the king, he will not deny you.”
The abbot waited some moments, and his austere lips were very drily smiling. “And that is all? No plea for yourself?”
“None!” said Joscelin, with the fierce humility that looked and sounded what it was, a nobleman’s arrogance.
“But I have a prayer of my own,” said Iveta indignantly, keeping fast hold of a hand that would have renounced its claim on her. “It is that you will look kindly upon Joscelin, and use him as my favored suitor, for I love him, and he loves me, and though I will be obedient to you in everything else, if you will take me, I will not part with Joscelin, or ever love or marry anyone else.”
“Come,” said the abbot, not quite committing himself to a smile, “I think we three had better sit down to supper together in my lodging, and consider how best to dispose of the future. There’s no haste, and much to think about. Thinking is best after prayer, but will be none the worse for a meal and a glass of wine.”
*
The sheriff and his party brought back Godfrid Picard’s body to the abbey before Compline. In the mortuary chapel they laid him straight, and brought candles to examine his injuries. His unblooded dagger, found some yards aside in the grass, where Cadfael had discovered and left it, they slid back into its sheath as they unbuckled his sword-belt, but it cannot be said that much thought had been given to the curious circumstance of its lying thus naked and discarded in the glade.
The man was dead, his murderer, murderer already of one man, and a kinsman at that, was in Shrewsbury castle, safe under lock and key. If there were odd circumstances in this second case, no one but Cadfael noticed them, though for a while they puzzled him as much as they would have puzzled his companions, had they troubled to examine them. A man dies, strangled with a man’s hands, yet himself provided with a dagger, and clearly having had time to draw it. To draw, but not to blood it. And those who kill with their hands do so because they are otherwise unarmed.
The night was still. The candles did not flicker, and the light on the dead man’s suffused face, bitten tongue and exposed throat was sharp enough to show detail. Cadfael looked closely and long at the marks of the strong fingers that had crushed out life, but he said nothing. Nor was he asked anything. All questions had already been answered to the sheriff’s satisfaction.
“We’d best have a mare out tomorrow, to fetch the gray out of the forest,” said Prestcote, drawing up the linen sheet over Picard’s face. “A valuable beast, that. The widow could sell him for a good price in Shrewsbury, if she’s so minded.”
Having completed his duty here, Cadfael excused himself, and went to look for Brother Mark. He found him in the warming-room, rosily restored after a kitchen supper and a change of clothes, and about to take his leave, and walk back to Saint Giles and his duty.
“Wait only a brief while for me,” said Cadfael, “and I’ll bear you company. I have an errand there.”
In the meantime, his errand here was to two young people who had, as he saw when he ran them to earth in the abbot’s parlor, of all places, no great need of his solicitude, since they had enlisted a greater patron, and appeared to be on terms of complete confidence with him, partly due, perhaps, to a good wine after extreme stress and rapturous relief. So Cadfael merely paid his respects, accepted their flushed and generous gratitude, exchanged a somewhat ambiguous glance with Radulfus as he made his reverence, and left them to their deliberations, which were certainly proceeding very satisfactorily, but had certain implications for others, not here represented.
Two warm-hearted children, these, radiant with goodwill towards all who had stood by them at need. Very young, very vulnerable, very eager and impulsive now that they were happy. The abbot would keep them on a close rein for a while, her in some sheltered sisterhood or a well-matroned manor of her own, the boy under discreet watch in whatever service he took up, now that he was clean, honorable and his own best guarantor. But Radulfus would not keep them apart, he was too wise to try to separate what God or his angels had joined.
Meantime, there were others to be thought of, and there was need of the coming night, if what Cadfael had divined proved true.
He turned to the warming-room, where Brother Mark, content and expectant, was waiting for him by the fire. He had not sat so long in the warmth since he was a new novice in the order. It had been well worth getting soused in the Meole brooke.
“Is everything well?” he asked hopefully, as they set out together along the Foregate in the darkness.
“Very well,” said Cadfael, so heartily that Mark drew pleased and grateful breath, and ceased to question.
“The little lady for whom you prayed God’s help, some days ago,” said Cadfael cheerfully, “will do very well now. The lord abbot will see to that. All I want at the hospital is a pleasant word with your wanderer Lazarus, in case he moves on very soon, before I can come again. You know how they snuff the air and grow uneasy, and up anchor suddenly, and sail.”
“I had wondered,” confided Brother Mark, “whether he might be persuaded to stay. He has an affection for Bran. And the mother will not live much longer. She has turned her back on the world. Oh, not on her boy—but she feels he has gone beyond her, and has his own saints,” explained one of those saints diffidently, without self-recognition. “She is certain he is protected by heaven.”
There were those on earth, too, thought Cadfael, who had some interest in the matter. Two grateful, loosened tongues in the abbot’s parlor had poured out all their story without reserve, named names confidingly. Joscelin had a mind quick to learn, and a heart tenacious of affections, and Iveta in the fervor of deliverance wanted to take to her heart and hold fast in her life every soul, high or low, whole or afflicted, who had been good to Joscelin.
*
In the open porch before the hall of the hospice the old man Lazarus sat, mute, motionless, patient, with his erect back braced against the wall, and his legs drawn up beneath him on the bench, crossed after the eastern fashion. Curled up in the circle of the old man’s left arm, Bran lay uneasily asleep, with Joscelin’s wooden horse clasped to his heart. The small lamp above the door of the hall shed a faint yellow light on his spindly limbs and ruffled fair head, and showed a face smudged with tears. He awoke when Cadfael and Mark entered, staring up dazedly out of his nest, and the long arm withdrew from him silently, and let him scramble down from the bench.
“Why, Bran!” said Brother Mark, concerned and chiding. “What are you doing out of your bed at this hour?”
Bran embraced him hard, half-relieved and half-resentful, and accused in muffled tones from within the folds of the new and over-ample habit: “You both went away! You left me alone. I didn’t know where you were… You might not have come back! He hasn’t come back!”
“Ah, but he will, you’ll see.” Brother Mark gathered the boy to him, and took possession of a groping hand. Its fellow was busy retrieving the wooden horse, momentarily discarded but jealously reclaimed. “Come, come to bed, and I’ll tell you all about it. Your friend
is well and happy, and need not hide any more. Everything that was wrong has been put right. Come, and you shall hear it once from me, and he will tell it all over again when next you see him. As you will, I promise.”
“He said I should be his squire, and learn to read Latin hand, and reckon numbers, if ever he came to be knight,” Bran sternly reminded both his present and his absent patron, and allowed himself to be led sleepily towards the inner door. Mark looked back at Cadfael as they went, and at his reassuring nod took the child gently towards the dortoir.
Lazarus made no movement and said no word when Cadfael sat down beside him. Long ago he had outlived surprise, fear and desire, at least on his own account. He sat gazing out with his far-sighted blue-gray eyes at a night sky now beginning to flow like running water, a lofty, thin stream of cloud carried tranquilly eastwards on a fair breeze, while here on earth the very leaves were still.
“You’ll have heard,” said Cadfael, leaning back comfortably against the wall, “what Mark told the child. It was true, thanks be to God! Everything that was wrong has been put right. The murderer of Huon de Domville is taken, guilty past doubt. That is over. Pity is out of reach, short of pentinence, and of that there’s none. The man has not only killed his uncle, but vilely betrayed and misused his friend who trusted him, and shamelessly deceived a harried and forsaken girl. That is over. You need trouble no more.”
The man beside him said no word, asked no question, but he listened. Cadfael continued equably: “All will be well with her now. The king will surely approve our abbot as her new guardian. Radulfus is an austere and high-minded man, but also a human and humane one. She has nothing more to fear, not even for a lover none too well endowed with worldly goods. Her wishes, her happiness, will no longer be brushed aside as of no account.”
Within the great cloak Lazarus stirred, and turned his head. The deep voice, forming words with deliberate, halting care, spoke from behind the muffling veil: “You speak only of Domville. What of the second murder?”