Hermit of Eyton Forest (13 page)

“How
did you come upon this young man in the first place?” Hugh was asking. “And why
did you take him into your service?”

“I
was on my way from St Edmundsbury, by way of the Augustinian canons at
Cambridge, and I lodged two nights over at the Cluniac priory in Northampton.
He was among the beggars at the gate. Though he was able-bodied and young he
was also shabby and unkempt as if he had been living wild. He told me his
father had been dispossessed and was dead, and he had no kin left and no work,
and out of compassion I clothed him and took him as my servant. Otherwise he
would surely have sunk into thieving and banditry in order to live. And he has
been quick and obedient to me, and I thought him grateful, and so perhaps he
truly was. But now it may all be in vain.”

“And
when was this that you met him there?”

“In
the last days of September. I cannot be sure of the exact day.” Time and place
fitted all too well.

“I
see I have a manhunt on my hands,” said Hugh wryly, “and I’d best be getting
back to Shrewsbury, and setting on the hounds at once. For whether the lad’s a
murderer or no, I’ve no choice now but to find and take him.”

Chapter Seven

IT
HAD ALWAYS BEEN BROTHER JEROME’S CONTENTION, frequently and vociferously
expressed, that Brother Paul exercised far too slack an authority over his
young charges, both the novices and the children. It was Paul’s way to make his
supervision of their days as unobtrusive as possible except when actually
teaching, though he was prompt to appear if any of them needed or wanted him.
But such routine matters as their ablutions, their orderly behaviour at meals,
and their retiring at night and rising in the morning were left to their good
consciences and to the sound habits of cleanliness and punctuality they had
been taught. Brother Jerome was convinced that no boy under sixteen could be
trusted to keep any rule, and that even those who had reached that mature age
still had more of the devil in them than of the angels. He would have watched
and hounded and corrected their every movement, had he been master of the boys,
and made a great deal more use of punishments than ever Paul could be brought
to contemplate. It was pleasure to him to be able to say, with truth, that he
had always prophesied disaster from such lax stewardship. Three schoolboys and
nine novices, in a range of ages from nine years up to seventeen, are quite
enough active youngsters to satisfy the casual eye at breakfast, unless someone
has reason to count them, and discover that they fall one short of the right
tally. Probably Jerome would have counted them on every occasion, certain that
sooner or later there would be defaulters. Brother Paul did not count. And as
he was needed at chapter and afterwards that day on specific business
concerning his office, he had confided the morning’s schooling to the most
responsible of the novices, another policy which Jerome deplored as ruinous to
discipline. In church the small fry occupied such insignificant places that one
more or less would never be noticed. So it was only late in the afternoon, when
Paul mustered his flock again into the schoolroom, and separated the class of
novices from the younger boys, that the absence of Richard was at last
manifest.

Even
then Paul was not at first alarmed or disturbed. The child was simply loitering
somewhere, forgetful of time, and would appear at a run at any moment. But time
slid by and Richard did not come. Questioned, the three boys remaining shuffled
their feet uneasily, shifted a little closer together to have the reassurance
of shoulder against shoulder, shook their heads wordlessly, and evaded looking
Brother Paul in the eye. The youngest in particular looked less than happy, but
they volunteered nothing, which merely convinced Paul that Richard was
deliberately playing truant, that they were well aware of it and disapproved
but would not let out one word to betray him. That he refrained from
threatening them with dire penalties for such refractory silence would only
have confirmed Jerome in his black disapproval of such an attitude. Jerome
encouraged tale-bearers. Paul had a sneaking sympathy with the sinful
solidarity that would invite penalties to fall on its own head rather than
betray a companion. He merely stated firmly that Richard should be called to
account for his behaviour later and pay the penalty of his foolishness, and
proceeded with the lesson. But he was increasingly aware of his pupils” inattention
and uneasiness, and the guilty glances they slid sidelong at one another over
their letters. By the time they were dismissed he felt that the youngest, at
any rate, was on the verge of blurting out whatever he knew, and his very
distress argued that there was more behind this defection than the mere
capricious cutting of a class.

Paul
called the child back as they were leaving, half-gratefully, half-fearfully.
“Edwin, come here to me!”

Understandably,
the other two fled, certain now that the sky was about to fall on them, and in
haste to avoid the first shock, whatever followed later. Edwin halted, turned,
and slowly trailed his way back across the room, his eyes lowered to the small
feet he was dragging reluctantly along the boards of the floor. He stood before
Brother Paul, and trembled. One knee was still bandaged, and the linen had
slipped awry. Without thinking, Paul unwound it and made it neat again.

“Edwin,
what is it you know about Richard? Where is he?” The child gulped out with
utter conviction: “I don’t know!” and burst into tears. Paul drew him close and
let him bury his nose in a long-suffering shoulder.

“Tell
me! When did you last see him? When did he go?” Edwin sobbed inarticulately
into the rough woollen folds, until Paul held him off and peered into the
smudged and woeful face. “Come! Tell me everything you know.”

And
it came out in a flood, between hectic sniffs and sobs. “It was yesterday,
after Vespers. I saw him, he took his pony and rode out along the Foregate. I
thought he’d come back, but he didn’t, and we were frightened—We didn’t want
him to be caught, he’d be in such terrible trouble—We didn’t want to tell, we
thought he’d come back and no one need know…”

“Do
you tell me,” demanded Paul, appalled and for once sounding formidable, “that
he did not sleep here in his bed last night? That he’s been gone since
yesterday and not a word said?”

A
fresh burst of despairing tears distorted Edwin’s round flushed face, and his
violently nodding head admitted the impeachment. “And all of you knew this? You
three? Did you never think that he might be hurt somewhere, or in danger? Would
he stay out all night willingly? Oh, child, why did you not tell me? All this
time we’ve lost!” But the boy was frightened enough already, there was nothing
to be done with him but hush and reassure and comfort him, where reassurance
and comfort were very hard to find. “Now, tell me—you saw him go, mounted.
After Vespers? Did he not say what he intended?” Edwin, very drearily, gathered
what sense he had left and fumbled out the rest of it. “He came too late for
Vespers. We were down on the Gaye, by the river, he didn’t want to come in, and
when he did run after us it was too late. I think he waited to try and slip in
with us when we came out of church, but Brother Jerome was standing talking
to—to that man, the one who…” He began to whimper again, recalling what he
should not have seen, but of course had, the bearers of the litter coming in at
the gatehouse, the bulky body motionless, the powerful face covered. “I waited
at the school door,” whispered the tearful voice, “and I saw Richard come
running out and down to the stables, and then he came back with his pony, and
led it out at the gate in a great hurry, and rode away. And that’s all I know.
I thought he would soon come back,” he wailed hopelessly. “We didn’t want to
get him into trouble…” If they had recoiled from doing that, they had certainly
given him ample time and scope to get himself into trouble, deeper than any
disloyalty of theirs might have plunged him. Brother Paul resignedly shook and
patted his penitent into relative calm.

“You
have been very wrong and foolish, and if you’re in disgrace it’s no more than
you deserve. But answer everything truthfully now, and we’ll find Richard safe
and sound. Go now, at once, and find the other two, and the three of you wait
here until you are sent for.”

And
Paul was off at a shaken run to take the bad news first to Prior Robert and
then to the abbot, and then to confirm that the pony Dame Dionisia had sent as
bait to her grandson was indeed gone from his stall. And there was great
clamour and running about and turning grange court and barns and guest halls
inside out, in case the culprit had not, after all deserted the enclave, or for
sounder reasons had returned to it furtively, to try and conceal the fact that
he had ever left it. The wretched schoolboys, tongue-lashed by Prior Robert and
threatened with worse when anyone had time to perform it, cowered shivering and
reduced to tears by the enormity of what had seemed to them good intentions,
and having survived the first storm of recriminations, settled down stoically
to endure the rest supperless and outcast. Not even Brother Paul had time to
offer them any further reassuring words, he was too busy searching through the
complex recesses of the mill and nearer alleys of the Foregate. Into this
frenzy of alarm and activity Cadfael came riding in the early evening, after
parting from Hugh at the gate. This very night there would be sergeants out
dragging the woods from Eyton westward for the fugitive who might or might not
be Brand, but must at all costs be captured. Hugh was no fonder of manhunts
than was Cadfael, and many a misused serf had been driven at last to flight and
outlawry, but murder was murder, and the law could not stomach it. Guilty or
innocent, the youth Hyacinth would have to be found. Cadfael dismounted at the
gatehouse with his mind full of one vanished youngster, to be met by the
spectacle of agitated brothers running hither and thither among all the monastic
buildings in search of a second one. While he was gaping in amazement at the
sight, Brother Paul came bearing down upon him breathless and hopeful.
“Cadfael, you’ve been in the forest. You haven’t seen hide or hair of young
Richard, have you? I’m beginning to think he must have run home…”

“The
last place he’d be likely to go,” said Cadfael reasonably, “while he’s wary of
his grandmother’s intentions. Why? Do you tell me you’ve mislaid the imp?”

“He’s
gone—gone since last night, and we never knew it until an hour ago.” Paul
poured out the dismal story in a cascade of guilt and remorse and anxiety. “I
am to blame! I have failed in my duty, been too complacent, trusted them too
far… But why should he run away? He was happy enough. He never showed signs…”

“Doubtless
he had his reasons,” said Cadfael, scrubbing thoughtfully at his blunt brown
nose. “But back to the lady? I doubt it! No, if he went off in such haste it
was something new and urgent that sent him running. Last night after Vespers,
you said?”

“Edwin
tells me Richard dawdled too long by the river, and came too late for Vespers,
and must have been lurking in the cloister to slip in among the rest of the
boys when they came out. But he could not do it because Jerome stood there in
the archway, waiting to speak to Bosiet, who had attended among the guests. But
when Edwin looked back he saw Richard come running out down to the stables, and
then out at the gate in a hurry.”

“Did
he so!” said Cadfael, enlightened. “And where was Jerome, then, and Bosiet,
that the boy was able to make off undetected?” But he did not wait for an
answer. “No, never trouble to guess. We already know what they had to talk
about, between the two of them—a small matter, and private. Jerome wanted no
other audience, but it seems he had one of whom he knew nothing. Paul, I must
leave you to your hunt a little while longer, and ride after Hugh Beringar.
He’s already committed to a search for one vanished lad, he may as well make it
for two, and drag the coverts but once.”

Hugh,
overtaken under the arch of the town gate, reined in abruptly at the news, and
turned to stare meditatively at Cadfael. “So you think that’s the way of it!”
he said and whistled. “Why should he care about a young fellow he’s barely seen
and never spoken to? Or have you reason to think the two of them have had their
heads together?”

“No,
none that I know of. Nothing but the timing of it, but that links the pair
closely enough. Not much doubt what Richard overheard, and none that it sent
him hotfoot on some urgent errand. And before Bosiet can get to the hermitage,
Hyacinth vanishes.”

“And
so does Richard!” Hugh’s black brows drew together, frowning over the
implications. “Do you tell me if I find the one I shall have found both?”

“No,
that I gravely doubt. The boy surely meant to be back in the fold before
bedtime, and all innocence. He’s no fool, and he has no reason to want to leave
us. But all the more reason we should be anxious about him now. He would be
back with us, surely, if something had not prevented. Whether his pony’s thrown
him somewhere, and he’s hurt, or lost—or whether… They’re wondering if he’s run
home to Eaton, but that’s rankly impossible. He never would.”

Hugh
had grasped the unspoken suggestion which Cadfael himself had hardly had time
to contemplate. “No, but he might be taken there! And by God, so he might! If
some of Dionisia’s people happened on him alone in the woods, they’d know how
to please their lady. Oh, I know the household there are Richard’s people, not
hers, but there must be one or two among them would take the chance of present
favours if it offered. Cadfael, old friend,” said Hugh heartily, “you go back
to your workshop and leave Eaton to me. As soon as I’ve set my men on the hunt,
yes, for both, I’ll go myself to Eaton and see what the lady has to say for
herself. If she baulks at letting me turn her manor inside out for the one lad,
I shall know she has the other hidden away somewhere about the place, and I can
force her hand. If Richard’s there, I’ll have him out for you by tomorrow, and
back in Brother Paul’s arms,” promised Hugh buoyantly. “Even if it costs the
poor imp a whipping,” he reflected with a sympathetic grin, “he may find that
preferable to being married off on his grandmother’s terms. At least the sting
doesn’t last so long.”