An Excellent Mystery (20 page)

Once
out of his bed, he had lost the fine art of being idle. He filled in the time
until Prime with some work among the herbs, and some early watering while the
sun was still climbing, round and dull gold behind its veil of haze. These
functions his hands and eyes could take care of, while his mind was free to
fret and speculate over the complicated fortunes of people for whom he had
formed a strong affection. No question but Godfrid Marescot — to think of him
as an affianced man was to give him his old name — was busy leaving this world
at a steady, unflinching walk, and every day he quickened his pace like a man
anxious to be gone, and yet every day looked back over his shoulder in case
that lost bride of his might be following on his heels rather than waiting for
him patiently along the road ahead. And what could any man tell him for his
reassurance? And what could afford any comfort to Nicholas Harnage, who had
been too slow in prizing her fitly and making his bid for her favour?

A
mile from Wherwell, and never seen again. And gone with her, temptation enough
for harm, the valuables and the money she carried. And one man only as visible
and obvious suspect, Adam Heriet, with everything against him except for Hugh’s
scrupulous conviction that he had been in genuine desperation to get news of
her. He had asked and asked, and never desisted until he reached Shrewsbury. Or
had he simply been fishing, not for news of her so much as for a glimpse, any
glimpse, into Hugh’s mind, any unwary word that would tell him how much the law
already knew, and what chance he still had, by silence or lies or any other
means, of brazening his way safely through his present peril?

Other
inconsequent questions jutted from the obscurity like the untrimmed overgrowths
from the hedges of a neglected maze. Why did the girl choose Wherwell, in the
first place? Certainly she might have preferred it as being far from her home,
no bad principle when beginning a new life. Or because it was one of the chief
houses of Benedictine nuns in all the south country, with scope for a gifted
sister to rise to office and power. And why did she give orders to three of her
escort to remain in Andover instead of accompanying her all the way. True, the
one she retained was her confidant and willing slave from infancy. If that was
indeed true of him? It was reputed of him, yes, but truth and reputation
sometimes part company. And if true, why did she dismiss even him short of her
goal? Perhaps better phrase that more carefully: Did she dismiss him short of
her goal? Then where did he spend the lost hours before he returned to Andover?
Gaping at the wonders of Winchester, as he claimed? Or attending to more
sinister business? What became of the treasures she carried? No great fortune,
except to a man who lacked any fortune, but to him wealth enough. And always:
What became of her?

And
through the tangle he was beginning to glimpse a possible answer, and that
uncertain inkling dismayed and terrified him more than all the rest. For if he
was right, there could be no good end to this that he could see, every way he
probed thorns closed the path. No way out, without worse ruin. Or a miracle.

He
went to Prime at last, prompt to the bell, and prayed earnestly for a beckoning
light. The need and the deserving must surely be known elsewhere even better
than here, he thought, who am I to presume to fill a place far too big for me?

Brother
Fidelis did not attend Prime, his empty place ached like the soreness left
after a pulled tooth. Rhun shone beside his friend’s vacant stall, and never
once glanced at Brother Urien. Such problems must not be allowed to distract
his rapt attention from the office and the liturgy. There would be a time later
in the day to give some thought to Urien, whose aggression had not been
absolved, but only temporarily prevented. Rhun had no fear of shouldering the
responsibility for another man’s soul, being still half-child, with a child’s
certainty and clarity. To go to his confessor and tell what he suspected and
knew of Urien would be to deprive Urien of the whole value of the sacrament of
confession, and to tell tales upon a comrade in travail; the former was
arrogant in Rhun’s eyes, a kind of spiritual theft, and the latter was
despicable, a schoolboy’s treachery. Yet something would have to be done,
something more than merely removing Fidelis from the sphere of Urien’s torment
and greed. Meantime, Rhun prayed and sang and worshipped with a whole happy
heart, and trusted his saint to give him guidance.

Cadfael
made short work of breakfast, asked leave, and went to visit Humilis. Coming
armed with clean linen pad and green healing salve, he found his patient
propped up in his bed freshly washed and shaven, already fed, if indeed he had
managed to swallow anything, his toilet seen to in devoted privacy, and a cup
of wine and water ready to his hand. Fidelis sat on a low stool beside the bed,
ready to stir at once in answer even to a guessed-at need, in any look or
gesture. When Cadfael entered, Humilis smiled, though the smile was pallidly
blue of lip and cheek, translucent as ice. It is true, thought Cadfael,
receiving that salutation, he is fast bound out of this world. It cannot be
many days. The flesh melts from his bones as you watch, into smoke, into air.
His spirit outgrows his body, soon it must burst out and become visible, there
is no room for it in this fragile parcel of bones.

Fidelis
looked up and echoed his master’s smile, and leaned to turn back the single
light cover from the shrunken shanks, then rose from the stool to give place to
Cadfael, and stood ready to offer a deft, assisting hand. Those menial services
he offered with so much love must be called on frequently now. It was marvel
this body could function of itself at all, but there was a will that would not
let it surrender its rights — certainly not to anything less than love.

“Have
you slept?” asked Cadfael, smoothing his new dressing into place.

“I
have, and well,” said Humilis. The better for having Fidelis by me. I have not
deserved such privilege, but I am meek enough to entreat for it to be
continued. Will you speak with Father Abbot for me?”

“I
would, if there was need,” said Cadfael heartily, “but he already knows and
approves.”

“Then
if I’m to have my indulgence,” said Humilis, “speak for me now to this nurse
and confessor and tyrant of mine, that he use a little kindness also to
himself. At least he should go now to Mass, since I cannot, and take a turn in
the garden for a little while, before he shuts himself here again with me.”

Fidelis
heard all this smiling, but with a smile of inexpressible sadness. The boy,
thought Cadfael, knows all too well the time cannot be long, and numbers every
moment, charging it with meaning. Love in ignorance squanders what love,
informed, crowds and overfills with tokens of eternity.

“He
says rightly,” said Cadfael. “You go to Mass, and I’ll stay here until you come
again. No need to hurry, I fancy you’ll find Brother Rhun waiting for you.”

Fidelis
accepted what he recognised as his purposeful dismissal, and went out silently,
leaving them no less silent until his slight shadow had passed from the
threshold of the room and out into the open court.

Humilis
lay back in his raised pillows, and drew a great breath that should have
floated his diminished body into the air, like thistledown.

“Will
Rhun truly be looking for him?”

“He
surely will,” said Cadfael.

“That’s
well! Of such a one he has need. An innocent, of such native power! Oh,
Cadfael, for the simplicity and the wisdom of the dove! I wish Fidelis were
such a one, but he is the other, the complement, the inward one. I had to send
him away, I must talk with you. Cadfael, I am troubled in my mind for Fidelis.”

It
was not news. Cadfael honestly nodded, and said nothing.

“Cadfael,”
said the patient voice, delivered from stress now that they were alone. “I’ve
grown to know you a little, in this time you have been tending me. You know as
well as I that I am dying. Why should I grieve for that? I owe a death that has
been all but claimed of me a hundred times already. It is not for myself I’m
troubled, it is for Fidelis. I dread leaving him alone here, trapped in this
life without me.”

“He
will not be alone,” said Cadfael. “He is a brother of this house. He will have
the service and fellowship of all here,” The sharp, wry smile did not surprise
him. “And mine,” he said, “if that means anything more to you. Rhun’s,
certainly. You have said yourself that Rhun’s loyalty is not to be despised.”

“No,
truly. The saints of simplicity are made of his metal. But you are not simple,
Brother Cadfael. You are sometimes of frightening subtlety, and that also has
its place. Moreover, I believe you understand me. You understand the nature of
the need. Will you take care of Fidelis for me, stand his friend, believe in
him, be shield and sword to him if need be, after I am gone?”

“To
the best of my power,” said Cadfael, “yes, I will.” He leaned to wipe away a
slow trickle of spittle from the corner of a mouth wearied with speaking and
slack at the lip, and Humilis sighed, and let him serve, docile under the brief
touch. “You know,” said Cadfael gently, “what I only guess at. If I have
guessed right, there is here a problem beyond my wit or yours to solve. I
promise my endeavour. The ending is not mine, it belongs only to God. But what
I can do, I will do.”

“I
would happily die,” said Humilis, “if my death can serve and save Fidelis. But
what I dread is that my death, which cannot delay long, may only aggravate his
trouble and his suffering. Could I take them with me into the judgement, how
gladly would I embrace them and go. God forbid he should ever be brought to
shame and punishment for what he has done.”

“If
God forbids, man cannot touch him,” said Cadfael. “I see what needs to be done,
but how to achieve it, God knows, I cannot see. Well, God’s vision is clearer
than mine, he may both see a way out of this tangle and open my eyes to it when
the time is ripe. There’s a path through every forest, and a safe passage
somewhere through every marsh, it needs only the finding.”

A
faint grey smile passed slowly over the sick man’s face, and left him grave
again. “I am the marsh out of which Fidelis must find safe passage. I should
have Englished that name of mine, it would have been more fitting, with more
than half my blood Saxon — Godfrid of the Marsh for Godfrid de Marisco. My
father and my grandfather thought best to turn fully Norman. Now it’s all one,
we leave here all by the same gate.” He lay still and silent for a while,
visibly gathering his thoughts and such strength as he had. “There is one other
longing I have, before I die. I should like to see again the manor of Salton,
where I was born. I should like to take Fidelis there, just once to be with him
outside the monastery walls, in the place that saw my beginning. I ought to
have asked permission earlier, but there is still time. It’s only a few miles
up-river from us. Will you speak for me to the lord abbot, and ask this one
kindness?”

Cadfael
eyed him in doubt and consternation. “You cannot ride, that’s certain. Whatever
means we might take to get you there, it would be asking too much of such
strength as you have left.”

“No
effort on my part can now alter by more than hours what is left of my life, but
it would be a happiness to exchange some part of my time remaining for a
glimpse of the place where I was a child. Ask it for me, Cadfael.”

“There
is the river,” said Cadfael dubiously, “but such twists and turns, it adds
double to the journey. And such low water, you’d need a boatman who knows every
shoal and current.”

“You
must know of such a one. I remember how we used to swim and fish off our own
shore. Shrewsbury lads were watermen from birth, I could swim before I could
walk. There must be many such adepts along this riverside.”

And
so there were, and Cadfael knew the best of them, whose knowledge of the Severn
spanned every islet, every bend and shallow, and who at any season could judge
accurately where anything cast into the water would again be cast ashore. Madog
of the Dead Boat had earned his title through the many sad services he had
rendered in his time to distracted families who had lost sons or brothers into
the flood after the melting of the Welsh snows far up-river, or too venturesome
infants left unguarded for a moment while their mothers spread the washing on
the bushes of the shore, or fishermen fathers putting out in their coracles
with too much ale already under their belts. He did not resent his title,
though his preferred trade was fishing and ferrying. What he did for the dead
someone had to do, in grace, and since he could do it better than any other,
why should he not take pride in it? Cadfael had known him many years, an
elderly Welshman like himself, and had several times had occasion to seek his
help, which was never grudged.

“Even
in this low water,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, “Madog could get a coracle up
the brook from the river, but a coracle wouldn’t carry you and Fidelis besides.
But his light skiff draws very little water, I daresay he could bring it into
the mill pond, there’s still depth enough that far up the brook, with the mill
race fed back into it. We could carry you out by the wicket to the mill, and
see you bestowed…”

“That
far I could walk,” said Humilis resolutely.