Hermit of Eyton Forest (11 page)

Cadfael
rode without haste through the darkening wood. The moon was already up, and
bright where it could penetrate the thickness of the trees. Compline must be
long over by now, and the brothers making ready for sleep. The boys would be in
their beds long ago. It was cool and fresh in the green-scented forest,
pleasant to ride alone and at leisure, and have time to think of timeless
things that could not be accommodated in the bustle of the day, sometimes not
even during the holy office or the quiet times of prayer, where by rights they
belonged. There was more room for them here under this night sky still faintly luminous
round the rims of vision. Cadfael rode in a deep content of mind through the
thickest part of the woodland growth, with a glimmer of light from the open
fields ahead before him.

It
was the rustling movement on his left, among the trees, that startled him out
of his muse. Something vaguely pale in the gloom moved alongside him, and he
heard the slight jingling of a horse’s bit and bridle. A riderless horse,
wandering astray but saddled and bridled, for the small metallic sounds rang
clear. He had not been riderless when he set out from his stable. In glimpses
of moonlight between the branches the pale shape shone elusively, drawing
nearer to the path. Cadfael had seen that light roan hide before, that same
afternoon in the great court of the abbey.

He
dismounted in haste, and called, advancing to take the slack bridle and run a
hand over the dappled forehead. The saddle was still in place, but the straps
that had held a small saddle-roll behind it had been sliced through. And where
was the rider? And why, indeed, had he set out yet again, after returning
empty-handed from a day’s hunting? Had someone provided him a clue to start him
off again after his prey, even thus late at night? Cadfael parted the bushes
and turned in from the path, where he had first glimpsed the pale form moving.
Here nothing seemed disturbed, the tangle of branches showed no disrupting
passage. He worked back a little to emerge again on the path, and there, aside
under the bushes in long grass, so hidden that he had ridden past it and seen
no sign, he found what he had feared to find. Drogo Bosiet lay sprawled on his
face, sunk deep in the ripe autumnal herbage, and even against the dark
colouring of his gown, Cadfael could just distinguish the darker blot that was
his blood, welling out under his left shoulder blade, where the dagger that had
killed him had plunged and been withdrawn.

Chapter Six

AT
SO LATE AN HOUR there was small chance of reaching immediate help at either
abbey or castle, and none of deriving any knowledge from the darkening scene
here in the forest. All Cadfael could do, thus alone, was to kneel beside the
mute body and feel for a heartbeat or pulse, and listen for any faint sign of
breathing. But though Drogo’s flesh was warm, and yielded pliably to handling,
there was no breath in him, and the heart in his great chest, almost certainly
pierced by the thrust from behind, was stonily still. He could not have been
dead very long, but the gush of blood that had sprung out with the blade had
ceased to flow, and was beginning to dry at its edges into a dark crust. More
than an hour ago, Cadfael thought, judging by what signs he had, perhaps as
much as two hours. And his saddle-roll cut loose and taken. Here, in our woods!
When did any man ever hear of footpads so close? Or has some cutthroat from the
town heard of Eilmund being laid up at home, and ventured to try his luck here
for a chance traveller riding alone?

Delay
could not harm Drogo now, and daylight might show at least some trace to lead
to his murderer. Best leave him so, and take word to the castle, where there
was always a guard waking, and leave a message for Hugh, to be delivered as
soon as there was light. At midnight the brothers would rise for Matins, and
the same grim news could and should be delivered then to Abbot Radulfus. The
dead man was the abbey’s guest, and his son expected within a few days, and to
the abbey he must be taken for proper and reverent care. No, there was nothing
more to be done for Drogo Bosiet, but at least he could get the horse back to his
stable. Cadfael mounted, and gathered the loose bridle in his left hand, and
the horse came with him docilely. There was no haste. He had until midnight. No
need to save time, since even if he reached his bed before Matins, sleep would
be impossible. Better take care of the horses and then wait for the bell.

Abbot
Radulfus came early to the church for Matins, to find Cadfael waiting for him
in the south porch as he crossed from his lodging. The bell in the dortoir was
only just sounding. It takes but a few moments to say bluntly that a man is
dead, and by an act of man, not of God.

Radulfus
was never known to waste words in exclamation, and did not do so now at the
news that a guest of his house had come to an unlawful end in the abbey’s own
forest. The gross affront and grosser wrong he accepted in sombre silence, and
the right and duty of retribution, as incumbent now upon the church as on the
secular authority, he took up with a deep assenting nod of his head, and a grim
tightening of his long, firm lips. In the hush while he thought, they heard the
soft, sandalled steps of the brothers descending the night stairs. “And you
have left word for Hugh Beringar?” asked the abbot.

“At
his house and at the castle.”

“No
man can do more, then, until first light. He must be brought here, for here his
son will come. But you—you will be needed, you can lead straight to where he
lies. Go now, I excuse you from the office, go and take some rest, and at dawn
ride to join the sheriff. Say to him that I will send a party after, to bring
the body home.”

In
the first hesitant light of a chill morning they stood over Drogo Bosiet’s
body, Hugh Beringar and Cadfael, a sergeant of Hugh’s garrison and two
men-at-arms, all silent, all with eyes fixed on the great patch of encrusted
blood that soaked the back of the rich riding coat. The grass hung as heavy and
flattened with dew as if after rain, and the moisture had gathered in great
pearls in the woollen pile of the dead man’s clothing, and starred the bushes
in a treasury of cobwebs.

“Since
he plucked out the dagger from the wound,” said Hugh, “most likely he took it
away with him. But we’ll look about for it, in case he discarded it. And you
say the straps of the saddle-roll were sliced through? After the slaying—he
needed the knife for that. Quicker and easier in the dark to cut it loose than
unbuckle it, and whoever he was, he wouldn’t want to linger. Strange, though,
that a mounted man should fall victim to such an attack. At the least sound he
had only to spur and draw clear, surely.”

“But
I think,” said Cadfael, studying how the body lay, “that he was on foot here,
and leading the horse. He was a stranger, and the path here is very narrow and
the trees crowd close, and it was dark or getting dark. See the leaves that
have clung to his boot soles. He never had time to turn, the one stroke was
enough. Where he had been I don’t know, but he was on his way back to his
lodging in our guest hall when he was struck down. With no struggle and little
noise. The horse had taken no great alarm, he strayed only a few yards.”

“Which
argues an expert footpad and thief,” said Hugh. “But do you believe in that? In
my writ and so close to the town?”

“No.
But some secret rogue, perhaps even a sneak thief out of the town, might risk
one exploit, knowing Eilmund is laid up at home. But this is guessing,” said
Cadfael, shaking his head. “Now and then even a poacher might be tempted to try
murder, if he came on a man of substance, alone and at night. But guessing is
small use.”

The
party sent by Abbot Radulfus to carry Drogo back to the abbey were already
winding their way along the path with their litter. Cadfael knelt in the grass,
soaking his habit at the knees in the plenteous dew, and carefully turned the
stiffening body face upward. The heavy muscling of the cheeks had fallen slack,
the eyes, so disproportionately small for the massive countenance, were half
open. He looked older and less arrogantly brutal in death, a mortal man like
other men, almost piteous. The hand that had lain hidden under his body wore a
heavy silver ring.

“Something
the thief missed,” said Hugh, looking down with something of startled regret in
his face for so much power now powerless. “Another sign of haste. Or he would
have ransacked every garment. And proof enough that the body was not moved. He
lies as he fell, facing towards Shrewsbury. It’s as I said, he was on his way
home.”

“There’s
a son expected, you said? Come,” said Hugh, “we can leave him to your men now,
and my fellows will comb the woods all round in case there’s sign or trace to
be found, though I doubt it. You and I will be off back to the abbey, and see
what the abbot has brought to light at chapter. For someone must surely have
put some notion into his mind, to send him out again so late.” The sun was above
the rim of the world, but veiled and pale, as they mounted and turned back
along the narrow ride. The spider-draped bushes caught the first gleams that
pierced the mist, and flashed in coruscations of diamonds. When they emerged
into the open, low-lying fields the horses waded through a shallow lilac-tinted
sea of vapour.

“What
do you know of this man Bosiet,” asked Hugh, “more than he has told me, or I
have gleaned without his telling?”

“Little
enough, I expect. He’s lord of several manors in Northamptonshire, and some
little while since a villein of his, as like as not for a very good reason,
laid his steward flat and put him to bed for some days, and then very wisely
took to his heels before they could lay hands on him. Bosiet and his men have
been hunting for the fellow ever since. They must have wasted a good while
searching the rest of the shire, I fancy, before they got word from someone
that he’d made for Northampton and seemed to be heading north and west. And
between them they’ve followed this far, making drives in both directions from
every halt. He must have cost them far above his value, valuable though they
say he is, but it’s his blood they’re after first and foremost, and seemingly
they set a higher price on that than on his craft, whatever that may be. There
was a very vigorous hate there,” said Cadfael feelingly. “He brought it to
chapter with him. Father Abbot was not greatly taken with the notion of helping
him to the sort of revenge he’d be likely to take.”

“And
shrugged him off on to me,” said Hugh, briefly grinning. “Well, small blame to
him. I took your word for it, and stayed out of his way as long as I could. In
any case I could give him no help. What else do you know of him?”

“That
he has a groom named Warin, the one that rode with him, though not, it seems,
on his last ride. Maybe he’d sent his man on some other errand, and couldn’t
wait once he got the word, but set off alone. He’s—he was—a man who liked to
use his fists freely on his servants, for any offence or none. At least he’d
laid Warin’s face open for him, and according to the groom that was no rarity.
As for the son, according to Warin he’s much like his father, and just as
surely to be avoided. And he’ll be coming from Stafford any day now—”

“To
find he has to coffin his father’s body and take it home for burial,” said Hugh
ruefully.

“To
find he’s now lord of Bosiet,” said Cadfael. “That’s the reverse of the coin.
Who knows which side up it will look to him?”

“You’re
grown very cynical, old friend,” remarked Hugh, wryly smiling.

“I’m
thinking,” Cadfael owned, “of reasons why men do murder. Greed is one, and
might be spawned in a son, waiting impatiently for his inheritance. Hate is
another, and a misused servant might entertain it willingly if chance offered.
But there are other and stranger reasons, no doubt, like a simple taste for
thieving, and a disposition to make sure the victim never blabs. A pity, Hugh,
a great pity there should be so much hurrying on of death, when it’s bound to
reach every man in its own good time.”

By
the time they emerged on to the highroad at Wroxeter the sun was well up, and
the mist clearing from its face, though the fields still swam in pearly vapour.
They made good speed from there along the road to Shrewsbury, and rode in at
the gatehouse after the end of High Mass, when the brothers were dispersing to
their work until the hour of the midday meal.

“The
lord abbot’s been asking after you,” said the porter, coming out from his lodge
at sight of them. “He’s in his parlour, and the prior with him, and asks that
you’ll join him there.”

They
left their horses to the grooms, and went at once to the abbot’s lodging. In
the panelled parlour Radulfus looked up from his desk, and Prior Robert, very
erect and austere on a bench beside the window, looked down his nose with a
marked suggestion of disapproval and withdrawal. The complexities of law and
murder and manhunt had no business to intrude into the monastic domain, and he
deplored the necessity to recognise their existence, and the very processes of dealing
with them when they did force a breach in the wall. Close to his elbow,
unobtrusive in his shadow, stood Brother Jerome, his narrow shoulders hunched,
thin lips drawn tight, pale hands folded in his sleeves, the image of virtue
assailed and bearing the cross with humility. There was always a strong element
of complacency in Jerome’s humility, but this time there was also a faintly
defensive quality, as though his rightness had somehow, if only by implication,
been questioned.