Hermit of Eyton Forest (14 page)

Which
was a very perverse blasphemy against marriage, Cadfael thought and said,
coming from one who had such excellent reason to consider himself blessed in
his wife and proud of his son. Hugh had wheeled his horse towards the steep
slope of the Wyle, but he slanted a smiling glance back over his shoulder.
“Come up to the house with me now, and complain of me to Aline. Keep her
company while I’m off to the castle to start the hunt.”

And
the prospect of sitting for an hour or so in Aline’s company, and playing with
his godson Giles, now approaching three years old, was tempting, but Cadfael
shook his head, reluctantly but resignedly. “No, I’d best be going back. We’ll
all be busy hunting our own coverts and asking along the Foregate until dark.
There’s no certainty where he’ll be, we dare miss no corner. But God speed your
search, Hugh, for it’s more likely than ours.” He walked his horse back over
the bridge towards the abbey with a slack rein, suddenly aware he had ridden
far enough for one day, and looked forward with positive need to the stillness
and soul’s quiet of the holy office, and the vast enclosing sanctuary of the
church. The thorough search of the forest must be left to Hugh and his
officers. No point even in spending time and grief now wondering where the boy
would spend the coming night, though an extra prayer for him would not come
amiss. And tomorrow, thought Cadfael, I’ll go and visit Eilmund, and take him
his crutches, and keep my eyes open on the way. Two missing lads to search for.
Find one, find both? No, that was too much to hope for. But if he found one, he
might also be a long step forward towards finding the other.

There
was a newly-arrived guest standing at the foot of the steps that led up to the
door of the guest hall, watching with contained interest the continuing bustle
of a search which had now lost its frenetic aspect and settled down grimly into
the thorough inspection of every corner of the enclave, besides the parties
that were out enquiring along the Foregate. The obsessed activity around him
only made his composed stillness the more striking, though his appearance
otherwise was ordinary enough. His figure was compact and trim, his bearing
modest, and his elderly but well-cared-for boots, dark chausses and good plain
cotte cut short below the knee, were the common riding gear of all but the
highest and the lowest who travelled the roads. He could as well have been a
baron’s sub-tenant on his lord’s business as a prosperous merchant or a minor
nobleman on his own. Cadfael noticed him as soon as he dismounted at the gate.
The porter came out from his lodge to plump himself down on the stone bench
outside with a gusty sigh, blowing out his russet cheeks in mild exasperation.
“No sign of the boy, then?” said Cadfael, though plainly expecting none. “No,
nor likely to be, not within here, seeing he went off pony and all. But make
sure first here at home, they say. They’re even talking of dragging the
mill-pond. Folly! What would he be doing by the pool, when he went off at a
trot along the Foregate—that we do know. Besides, he’ll never drown, he swims
like a fish. No, he’s well away out of our reach, whatever trouble he’s got
himself into. But they must needs turn out all the straw in the lofts and prod
through the stable litter. You’d best hurry and keep a sharp eye on your
workshop, or they’ll be turning that inside out.”

Cadfael
was watching the quiet dark figure by the guest hall. “Who’s the newcomer?”

“One
Rafe of Coventry. A falconer to the earl of Warwick. He has dealings with
Gwynedd for young birds to train, so Brother Denis tells me. He came not a
quarter of an hour since.”

“I
took him at first to be Bosiet’s son,” said Cadfael, “but I see he’s too
old—more the father’s own generation.”

“So
did I take him for the son. I’ve been keeping a sharp watch for him, for
someone has to tell him what’s waiting for him here, and I’d rather it was
Prior Robert than take it on myself.”

“I
like to see a man,” said Cadfael appreciatively, his eyes still on the
stranger, “who can stand stock still in the middle of other people’s turmoil,
and ask no questions. Ah, well, I’d better get this fellow unsaddled and into
his stall, he’s had a good day’s exercise with all this coming and going. And
so have I.”

And
tomorrow, he thought, leading the horse at a leisurely walk down the length of
the great court towards the stable yard, I must be off again. I may be astray,
but at least let’s put it to the test.

He
passed close to where Rafe of Coventry stood, passively interested in the
bustle for which he asked no explanation, and thinking his own thoughts. At the
sound of hooves pacing slowly on the cobbles he turned his head, and meeting
Cadfael’s eyes by chance, gave him the brief thaw of a smile and a nod by way
of greeting. A strong but uncommunicative face he showed, broad across brow and
cheekbones, with a close-trimmed brown beard and wide-set, steady brown eyes,
wrinkled at the corners as if he lived chiefly in the open, and was accustomed
to peering across distances.

“You’re
bound for the stables, Brother? Be my guide there. No reflection on your
grooms, but I like to see my own beast cared for.”

“So
do I,” said Cadfael warmly, checking to let the stranger fall into step beside
him. “It’s a lifetime’s habit. If you learn it young you never lose it.” They
matched strides neatly, being of the same modest stature. In the stable yard an
abbey groom was rubbing down a tall chestnut horse with a white blaze down his
forehead, and hissing gently and contentedly to him as he worked. “Yours?” said
Cadfael, eyeing the beast appreciatively.

“Mine,”
said Rafe of Coventry briefly, and himself took the cloth from the groom’s
hand. “My thanks, friend! I’ll take him myself now. Where may I stable him?”
And he inspected the stall the groom indicated, with a long, comprehensive
glance round and a nod of satisfaction. “You keep a good stable here, Brother,
I see. No offence that I prefer to do my own grooming. Travellers are not
always so well provided, and as you said, it’s habit.”

“You
travel alone?” said Cadfael, busy unsaddling but with a sharp eye on his
companion all the same. The belt that circled Rafe’s hips was made to carry
sword and dagger. No doubt he had shed both in the guest hall with his cloak
and gear. A falconer is not easily fitted into a category where travel is
concerned. A merchant would have had at least one able-bodied servant with him
for protection, probably more. A soldier would be self-sufficient, as this man
chose to be, and carry the means of protecting himself.

“I
travel fast,” said Rafe simply. “Numbers drag. If a man depends only on
himself, there’s no one can let him fall.”

“You’ve
ridden far?”

“From
Warwick.” A man of few words and no curiosity, this falconer of the earl’s. Or
did that quite hold good? Concerning the search for the lost boy he showed no
disposition to ask questions, but he was taking a measured interest in the
stables and the horses they held. Even after he had satisfied himself of his
own beast’s welfare, he still stood looking round him at the rest with a keen
professional eye. The mules and the working horses he passed by, but halted at
the pale roan that had belonged to Drogo Bosiet. That was understandable enough
in a lover of good horseflesh, for the roan was a handsome animal and clearly
from stock of excellent quality.

“Can
your house afford such bloodstock?” He passed a hand approvingly over the
glossy shoulder and stroked between the pricked ears. “Or does this fellow
belong to a guest?”

“He
did,” said Cadfael, himself sparing of words.

“He
did? How is that?” Rafe had turned alertly to stare, and in the unrevealing
face the eyes were sharp and intent.

“The
man who owned him is dead. He’s lying in our mortuary chapel this moment.” The
old brother had gone to his rest in the cemetery that same morning, Drogo had
the chapel to himself now.

“What
kind of man was that? And how did he die?” On this head he had questions enough
to ask, startled out of his detachment and indifference.

“We
found him dead in the forest, a few miles from here, with a knife wound in his
back. And robbed.” Cadfael was never quite sure why he himself had become so
reticent at this point, and why, for instance, he did not simply name the dead
man. And had his companion persisted, as would surely have been natural enough,
he would have answered freely. But there the questioning stopped.

Rafe
shrugged off the implied perils of riding alone in the forests of the border
shires, and closed the low door of the stall on his contented horse. “I’ll bear
it in mind. Go well armed, I say, or keep to the highroads.” He dusted his
hands and turned towards the gateway of the yard. “Well, I’ll go and make ready
for supper.” And he was off at a purposeful walk, but not immediately towards
the guest hall. Instead, he crossed to the archway of the cloister, and entered
there. Cadfael found something so significant in that arrow-straight progress
towards the church that he followed, candidly curious and officiously helpful,
and finding Rafe of Coventry standing hesitant by the parish altar, looking
round him at the multiplicity of chapels contained in transepts and chevet,
directed him with blunt simplicity to the one he was looking for.

“Through
here. The arch is low, but you’re my build, no need to stoop your head.”

Rafe
made no effort to disguise or disclaim his purpose, or to reject Cadfael’s
company. He gave him one calm, considering look, nodded his acknowledgements,
and followed. And in the stony chill and dimming light of the chapel he crossed
at once to the bier where Drogo Bosiet’s body lay reverently covered, with
candles burning at head and feet, and lifted the cloth from the dead face. Very
briefly he studied the fixed and pallid features, and again covered them, and
the movements of his hands as they replaced the cloth had lost their urgency
and tension. He had time even for simple human awe at the presence of death.

“You
don’t, by any chance, know him?” asked Cadfael.

“No,
I never saw him before. God rest his soul!” And Rafe straightened up from
stooping over the bier, and drew a liberating breath. Whatever his interest in
the body had been, it was over.

“A
man of property, by the name of Drogo Bosiet, from Northamptonshire. His son is
expected here any day now.”

“Do
you tell me so? A bleak coming that will be for him.” But the words he used now
were coming from the surface of his mind only, and answers concerned him
scarcely at all. “Have you many guests at this season? Of my own years and
condition, perhaps? I should enjoy a game of chess in the evening, if I can
find a partner.”

If
he had lost interest in Drogo Bosiet, it seemed he was still concerned to know
of any others who might have come here as travellers. Any of his own years and
condition!

“Brother
Denis could give you a match,” said Cadfael, deliberately obtuse. “No, it’s a
quiet time with us. You’ll find the hall half-empty.” They were approaching the
steps of the guest hall, side by side and easy together, and the late afternoon
light, overcast and still, was beginning to dim into the dove grey of evening.

“This
man who was struck down in the forest,” said Rafe of Coventry. “Your sheriff
will surely have the hounds out after an outlaw so near the town. Is there
suspicion of any man for the deed?”

“There
is,” said Cadfael, “though there’s no certainty. A newcomer in these parts,
who’s missing from his master’s service since the attack.” And he added,
innocently probing without seeming to probe: “A young fellow he is, maybe
twenty years old…” Not of Rafe’s years or condition, no! And of no interest to
him, for he merely nodded his acceptance of the information, and by the
indifference of his face as promptly discarded it.

“Well,
God speed their hunting!” he said, dismissing Hyacinth’s guilt or innocence as
irrelevant to whatever he had on that closed and armoured mind of his.

At
the foot of the guest hall steps he turned in, surely to examine, thought
Cadfael, every man of middle years who would come to supper in hall. Looking
for one in particular? Whose name, since he did not ask for names, would be
unhelpful, because false? One, at any rate, who was not Drogo Bosiet of
Northamptonshire!

Chapter Eight

HUGH
CAME TO THE MANOR OF EATON early in the morning, with six mounted men at his
back, and a dozen more deployed behind him between the river and the highroad,
to sweep the expanse of field and forest from Wroxeter to Eyton and beyond. For
a fugitive murderer they might have to turn the hunt westward, but Richard must
surely be somewhere here in this region, if he had indeed set out to warn
Hyacinth of the vengeance bearing down on him. Hugh’s party had followed the direct
road from the Abbey Foregate to Wroxeter, an open, fast track, and thence by
the most direct path into the forest, to Cuthred’s cell, where Richard would
have expected to find Hyacinth. By young Edwin’s account he had been only a few
minutes ahead of Bosiet, he would have made all haste and taken the shortest
and fastest way. But he had never reached the hermitage. “The boy Richard?”
said the hermit, astonished. “You did not ask me of him yesterday, only of the
man. No, Richard did not come. I remember the young lord well, God grant no
harm has come to him! I did not know he was lost.”