Hermit of Eyton Forest (12 page)

“Ah,
you are back!” said Radulfus. “You have not brought back the body of our guest
so quickly?”

“No,
Father, not yet, they will be following us, but on foot it will take some time.
It is just as Brother Cadfael reported it to you in the night. The man was
stabbed in the back, probably as he was leading his horse, the path there being
narrow and overgrown. You will know already that his saddle-roll was cut loose
and stolen. By what Brother Cadfael observed of the body when he found it, the
thing must have been done about the time of Compline, perhaps a little before.
There’s nothing to show by whom. By the hour, he must have been on his way back
here to your guest hall. By the way he faced as he fell, also, for the body was
not moved, or his ring would have been taken, and he still wears it. But as to
where he had been in those parts, there’s no knowing.”

“I
think,” said the abbot, “we have something to show on that head. Brother Jerome
here will tell you what he has now told to Prior Robert and me.” Jerome was
usually only too ready to hear his own voice, whether in sermon, homily or
reproof, but it was noticeable that this time he was assembling his words with
more than normal care.

“The
man was a guest and an upright citizen,” he said, “and had told us at chapter
that he was pursuing an offender against the law, one who had committed assault
against the person of his steward and done him grievous harm, and then
absconded from his master. I took thought afterwards that there was indeed one
newcomer in these parts who might well be the man he sought, and I considered
it the duty of every one of us to help the cause of justice and law. So I spoke
to the lord of Bosiet. I told him that the young man who serves the hermit Cuthred,
and who came here with him only a few weeks ago, does answer to the description
he gave of his runaway villein Brand, though he calls himself Hyacinth. He is
of the right age, his colouring as his master described it. And no one here
knows anything about him. I thought it only right to tell him the truth. If the
young man proved not to be Brand, there was no harm to him.”

“And
you told him, I believe,” said the abbot neutrally, “how to get to the hermit’s
cell, where he could find this young man?”

“I
did, Father, as was my duty.”

“And
he at once set off to ride to that place.”

“Yes,
Father. He had sent his groom on an errand into the town, he was obliged to
saddle up for himself, but he did not wish to wait, since most of the day was
gone.”

“I
have spoken to the groom Warin, since we learned of his master’s death,” said
the abbot, looking up at Hugh. “He was sent to enquire after any craftsman in
fine leather-work in Shrewsbury, for it seems that was the young man’s craft
also, and Bosiet thought he might have tried to get work within the borough
among those who could use his skills. There is no blame can attach to the
servant, by the time he returned his master was long gone. His errand could not
wait, it seems, until morning.” His voice was measured and considered, with no
inflection of approval or disapproval. “That solves, I think, the problem of
where he had been.”

“And
where I must follow him,” said Hugh, enlightened. “I’m obliged to you, Father,
for pointing me the next step of the road. If he did indeed talk to Cuthred, at
least we may learn what passed, and whether he got the answer he wanted—though
plainly he was returning alone. Had he been bringing a captive villein with
him, he would hardly have left him with free hands and a dagger about him. With
your permission, Father, I’ll keep Brother Cadfael with me as witness, rather
than take men-at-arms to a hermitage.”

“Do
so,” said the abbot willingly. “This unfortunate man was a guest of our house,
and we owe him every effort which may lead to the capture of his murderer. And
every proper rite and service that can still be paid to his corpse. Robert,
will you see to it that the body is reverently received when it comes? And
Brother Jerome, you may assist. Your zeal to be of help to him should not be
frustrated. You shall keep a night vigil with him in prayers for his soul.”

So
there would be two lying side by side in the mortuary chapel tonight, Cadfael
thought as they went out together from the parlour: the old man who had closed
a long life as gently as a spent flower sheds it petals, and the lord of lands
taken abruptly in his malice and hatred, with no warning, and no time to make
his peace with man or God. Drogo Bosiet’s soul would be in need of all the
prayers it could get.

“And
has it yet entered your mind,” asked Hugh abruptly, as they rode out along the
Foregate for the second time, “that Brother Jerome in his zeal for justice may
have helped Bosiet to his death?”

If
it had, Cadfael was not yet minded to entertain the thought. “He was on his way
back,” he said cautiously, “and empty-handed. It argues that he was
disappointed. The boy is not his lost villein.”

“It
could as well argue that he is, and saw his doom bearing down on him in time to
vanish. How then? He’s been in the woods there now long enough to know his way
about. How if he was the hand that held the dagger?” No denying that it was a
possibility. Who could have better reason for slipping a knife into Drogo
Bosiet’s back than the lad he meant to drag back to his own manor court, flay
first, and exploit afterwards lifelong?

“It’s
what will be said,” agreed Cadfael sombrely. “Unless we find Cuthred and his
boy sitting peacefully at home minding their own business and meddling with no
one else’s. Small use guessing until we hear what happened there.” They
approached the projecting tongue of Eaton land by the same path Drogo had used,
and saw the small clearing in thick woodland open before them almost suddenly,
as he had seen it, but in full daylight, while he had come in early dusk. Muted
sunlight filtering through the branches turned the sombre grey of the stone hut
to dull gold. The low pales of the fence that marked out the garden were set
far apart, a mere sketched boundary, no bar to beast or man, and the door of
the hut stood wide open, so that they saw through into the inner room where the
constant lamp on the stone altar showed tiny and dim as a single spark, almost
quenched by the light falling from the tiny shutterless window above. Saint
Cuthred’s cell, it seemed, stood wide open to all who came. A part of the
enclosed garden was still wild, though the grass and herbage had been cut, and
there the hermit himself was at work with mattock and spade, heaving up the
matted clods and turning the soil below as he cleared it. They watched him at
it as they approached, inexpert but dogged and patient, plainly unused to
handling such tools or stooping to such labours as should have fallen to
Hyacinth. Who, by the same token, was nowhere to be seen. A tall man, the
hermit, long-legged, long-bodied, lean and straight, his coarse dark habit
kilted to his knees, and the cowl flung back on his shoulders. He saw them
coming and straightened up from his labours with the mattock still in his
hands, and showed them a strong, fleshless face, olive-skinned and deep-eyed,
framed in a thick bush of dark hair and beard. He looked from one to the other
of them, and acknowledged Hugh’s reverence with a deep inclination of his head,
without lowering his eyes.

“If
your errand is to Cuthred the hermit,” he said in a deep and resonant voice,
and with assured authority, “come in and welcome. I am he.” And to Cadfael,
after studying his face for a moment: “I think I saw you at Eaton when the lord
Richard was buried. You are a brother of Shrewsbury.”

“I
am,” said Cadfael. “I was there in the boy’s escort. And this is Hugh Beringar,
sheriff of this shire.”

“The
lord sheriff does me honour,” said Cuthred. “Will you enter my cell?” And he
loosed his frayed rope girdle and shook down the skirt of his habit to his
feet, and led the way within. The thick tangle of his hair brushed the stone
above the doorway as he entered. He stood a good head taller than either of his
visitors.

In
the dim living room there was one narrow window that let in the afternoon
light, and a small stir of breeze that brought in the scent of mown herbage and
moist autumn leaves. Through the doorless opening into the chapel within they
saw all that Drogo had seen, the stone slab of the altar with its carved
casket, the silver cross and candlesticks, and the open breviary lying before
the small spark of the lamp. The hermit followed Hugh’s glance to the open book
and, entering, closed it reverently, and laid it with loving care in accurate
alignment with the forward edge of the reliquary. The fine gilt ornament and
delicate tooling of the leather binding gleamed in the small light of the lamp.
“And how may I be of service to the lord sheriff?” asked Cuthred, his face
still turned towards the altar.

“I
need to ask you some few questions,” said Hugh with deliberation, “in the
matter of a murdered man.”

That
brought the lofty head round in haste, staring aghast and astonished.

“Murdered?
Here and now? I know of none. Say plainly what you mean, my lord.”

“Last
night a certain Drogo Bosiet, a guest at the abbey, set out to visit you, at
the prompting of one of the brothers. He came here in search of a runaway
villein, a young man of about twenty years, and his intent was to view your boy
Hyacinth, being a stranger and of the right age and kind, and see whether he is
or is not the bondman who ran away from Bosiet. Did he ever reach you? By the
time he had ridden this far it would already be evening.”

“Why,
yes, such a man did come,” said Cuthred at once, “though I did not ask his
name. But what has this to do with murder? A murdered man, you said.”

“This
same Drogo Bosiet, on his way back towards the town and the abbey, was stabbed
in the back and left beside the track, a mile or more from here. Brother Cadfael
found him dead and his horse wandering loose, last night in the full dark.”

The
hermit’s deep-set eyes, flaring reddish in their gaunt sockets, flashed from
one face to the other in incredulous questioning. “Hard to believe, that there
could be cutthroats and masterless men here, in this well-farmed, well-managed
country—within your writ, my lord, and so near the town. Can this be what it
seems, or is there worse behind it? Was the man robbed?”

“He
was, of his saddle-roll, whatever that may have held. But not of his ring, not
of his gown. What was done was done in haste.”

“Masterless
men would have stripped him naked,” said Cuthred with certainty. “I do not
believe this forest is shelter for outlaws. This is some very different
matter.”

“When
he came to you,” said Hugh, “what did he have to say? And what followed?”

“He
came when I was saying Vespers, here in the chapel. He entered and said that he
had come to see the boy who runs my errands, and that I might find I had been
deceived into taking a villain into my employ. For he was seeking a runaway
serf, and had been told that there was one here of the right age, newly come
and a stranger to all, who might well be his man. He told me whence he came,
and in what direction he had reason to believe his fugitive had fled. These
things, and the time, fitted all too well for my peace of mind with the time
and place where first I met and pitied Hyacinth. But it was not put to the
test,” said Cuthred simply. “The boy was not here. A good hour earlier I had sent
him on an errand to Eaton. He did not come back. He has not come back even
today. Now I doubt much if he ever will.”

“You
do believe,” said Hugh, “that he is this Brand.”

“I
cannot judge. But I saw that he well might be. And when he failed to come back
to me last night, then I felt it must be so. It is no part of my duty to give
up any man to retribution, that is God’s business. I was glad I could not say
yes or no, and glad he was not here to be seen.”

“But
if he had simply got wind of the search for him, and kept out of the way,” said
Cadfael, “he would have come back to you by now. The man who hunted him had
gone away empty-handed, and if another visit threatened, he could do as much
again, provided you did not betray him. Where else would he be so safe as with
a holy hermit? But still he has not come.”

“But
now you tell me,” said Cuthred gravely, “that his master is dead—if this man
was indeed his lord. Dead and murdered! Say that my servant Hyacinth had got wind
of Bosiet’s coming, and did more than absent himself. Say that he thought it
better to lie in ambush and end the search for him once for all! No, I do not
think now that I shall ever see Hyacinth again. Wales is not far, and even an
incomer without a kinship can find service there, though upon hard terms. No,
he will not come back. He will never come back.”

It
was a strange moment for Cadfael’s mind to wander, as though some corner of his
consciousness had made even more of one remembered moment than he had realised,
for he found himself thinking suddenly of Annet coming into her father’s house
radiant and roused and mysterious, with an oak leaf in her disordered hair. A
little flushed and breathing as though she had been running. And past the hour
of Compline, at a time when surely Drogo of Bosiet already lay dead more than a
mile away on the track to Shrewsbury. True, Annet had gone out dutifully to
shut up the hens and the cow for the night, but she had been a very long time
about it, and come back with the high colour and triumphant eyes of a girl
returning from her lover. And had she not made occasion to say a good word for
Hyacinth, and taken pleasure in hearing her father praise him?