Hermit of Eyton Forest (25 page)

“I
would not wish to make you break faith with any man,” said Radulfus gravely.
“Tomorrow I’ll hear your confession myself, and you shall tell me then, and
rest happy that you’ve done right, and your confidence is sacred. Now you’d
best get to your bed, for I fancy you need it. Take him away, Paul!” Richard
made his ceremonial reverences, glad to have got off so lightly; but as he
passed where Hugh sat he hesitated and stopped, plainly with something still on
his mind.

“My
lord, you said everyone at Leighton said I had never been there, of course
they’d be afraid to say anything else. But did Hiltrude say so?” Hugh could
make connections perhaps faster than most men, but if he instantly made this
one he gave no sign of it. With respectful gravity and a blank countenance he
said: “That’s Astley’s daughter? I never spoke with her, she was not in the
house.”

Not
there! So she did not have to lie. She must have slipped out discreetly as soon
as her father was gone. Richard said a relieved and grateful goodnight, and
went away to his bed with a lightened heart.

“She
let him out, of course,” said Hugh as soon as the door had closed after the
boy. “She was a victim no less than he. Now I begin to see a pattern. Richard
is seized as he rides back through Eyton forest, and what is there in Eyton
forest and along that path but Eilmund’s cottage and the hermitage? And to the
hermitage we know he did not go. And who should walk into Shrewsbury about noon
this day and send me off hotfoot to Leighton, which otherwise I should not have
reached before tomorrow, but Eilmund’s girl? And where she got the news she
never clearly said, but some passing villager had said he’d seen a boy there
who might well be Richard. And Richard, more forthrightly, will not say why he
went off there alone, nor who told him the hermit is no true priest. Father, it
seems to me that someone—let’s not go so far as to name him!—has very good
friends among our acquaintance. I hope they are as good judges! Well, tomorrow,
at any rate, there’ll be no hunting. Richard is safely home with you. And to
tell truth, I doubt the other quarry will ever be flushed out of cover.
Tomorrow our morning business is laid down for us. Let’s first see that
resolved.”

As
soon as Prime was over they mounted and rode, Abbot Radulfus, Hugh Beringar and
Brother Cadfael, who in any case was bound for Eilmund’s cottage that day, to
see how the forester was progressing. It was by no means the first time he had
adjusted his legitimate visits to accommodate his reasoned curiosity. That he
could count on Hugh to abet his plans was an added advantage, and an additional
witness with a sharp eye for the infinitesimal changes by which the human
countenance betrays itself might be invaluable in this encounter. The morning
was clearer of mist than in recent days, there had arisen a steady, drying wind
that was crisping the fallen leaves in the forest rides, and colouring in muted
gold those that still hung on the trees. The first frost would set the crowns
of the forest blazing in russets and browns and flame. Another week or two,
thought Cadfael, and there’d be no shelter for Hyacinth in the trees when
inconvenient visitors came to the cottage, even the oaks would be half-naked.
But in a few more days, God willing, Aymer would have abandoned his revenge,
cut his losses, and made off in haste to secure his gains at home. His father’s
body was safely coffined, and though he had only two grooms with him, there was
also Drogo’s good horse as a remount for a new master in a hurry, and he would
find no difficulty in hiring litter bearers at every way-stage on his journey.
He had already scoured the whole region without success, and showed distinct
signs of fretting between two desired ends, of which surely the more profitable
would win in the end. Hyacinth’s freedom might be nearer than he knew. And he
had already served and deserved well, for who else could have got word to
Richard that the hermit was not all he claimed to be? Hyacinth had travelled
with him, known him well before he ever set foot in Buildwas. Hyacinth might
well know things about his reverend master that were known to no one else.

The
thick woodland hid the hermitage from them until they were very near. The
sudden parting of the trees before them came always as a mild surprise,
unveiling in an instant the small green clearing, the low pales that made a
mere token fence about the garden, and the squat cell of grey stone, patched
with the newer and paler grey of its recent repairs. The door of the house was
open, as Cuthred had said it always was, to all who came. There was no one at
work in the half-cleared garden, no sound from the interior of the cell, as
they dismounted at the gateless gateway and tethered their horses. Cuthred must
be within, by the silence perhaps at his prayers.

“Go
first, Father,” said Hugh. “This is more within your writ than mine.” The abbot
had to stoop his head to pass through the stone doorway, and stood motionless
for a moment within, until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The single
narrow window let in a subdued light at this hour by reason of the overhanging
trees, and the shapes within the bare room took on substance only gradually,
the narrow pallet against the wall, the small table and bench, the few vessels,
plate and cup and pottery bowl. The doorless opening into the chapel revealed
the stone block of the altar by the tiny glow of the lamp on it, but left all
below in obscurity. The lamp had burned very low, was no more than a spark.

“Cuthred!”
called Radulfus into the silence. “Are you within? The abbot of Shrewsbury
greets you in the name and grace of God!” There was no answer but the small,
stony echo. Hugh stepped past and advanced into the chapel doorway, and there
halted abruptly, drawing in hissing breath. Cuthred was indeed within, but not
at his prayers. He lay sprawled on his back beneath the altar, head and
shoulders propped against the stone, as though he had fallen or been hurled
backwards while facing the doorway. His habit billowed in dark folds round him,
exposing sinewy feet and ankles, and the breast of the gown was matted and
blackened by a long stain, where he had bled from the stab that killed him. His
face, between the tangled dark fell of hair and beard, was contorted in a
grimace which might have been of agony or of rage, the lips drawn back from
strong teeth, the eyes glaring half-open. His arms were flung wide, and beside
his right hand, as though released in the moment of falling, a long dagger lay
spilled on the stone floor.

Priest
or no, Cuthred was never going to testify in his own defence. There was no need
to question or touch to see that he was some hours dead, and dead by violence.

“Christ
aid!” said the abbot in a harsh whisper, and stood like stone over the body.
“God have mercy on a murdered man! Who can have done this thing?” Hugh was on
his knees beside the dead man, touching flesh already grown chill and waxen in
texture. There was nothing to be demanded now of the hermit Cuthred, and
nothing to be done for him in this world, short of the final balance of
justice.

“Dead
some hours at least. A second man struck down within my shire, and no requital
yet for the first! For God’s sake, what is it let loose in these woods to such
devilish effect?”

“Can
this possibly have any bearing,” wondered the abbot heavily, “on what the boy
has told us? Has someone struck first to prevent him ever answering in his own
defence? To bury the proof with the man? There has been such resolute plotting
over this marriage, all for greed of land, but surely it could not be carried
so far as murder?”

“If
this is murder,” said Brother Cadfael, rather to himself than to any other, but
aloud. He had remained still and silent in the doorway all this time, looking
round him intently at the room he remembered well from a single visit, a room
so sparsely furnished that every detail was memorable. The chapel was larger
than the living room of the cell, there was room here for free movement, even
for a struggle. Only the eastern wall was built up beneath its tiny square
window with the great fashioned stone of the altar, and atop that the small
carved reliquary on which stood the silver cross, and on either side a silver
candlestick holding a tall candle, unlighted. On the stone before the
reliquary, the lamp, and laid neatly in front of it—But there was nothing laid
in front of it. Strange to have the man thrown down in disordered and
disregarded death, but the altar so trim and undisturbed. And only one thing
missing from the picture Cadfael carried in his mind’s eye. The breviary in the
leather binding fit for a prince, tooled in intricate scrolls and leaves and
gilded ornament, was gone.

Hugh
rose from his knees and stood back to view the room as Cadfael was viewing it.
They had seen it together, by rights their memories should match. He shot a
sharp glance at Cadfael. “You see cause to doubt it?”

“I
see that he was armed.”

Hugh
was already looking down at the long dagger that lay so close to Cuthred’s
half-open hand. He had not touched it. He stood back and touched nothing, now
that he knew the discarded flesh before him was cold. “He loosed his hold as he
fell. That dagger is his. It was used. There is blood on it—not his blood.
Whatever happened here, it was no furtive stabbing in the back.”

That
was certain. The wound was over his heart, the stiffening patch of blood from
it had reached his middle. The dagger that killed this man had been withdrawn
and let out his lifeblood. Its fellow here on the floor was stained for only a
thumb’s length from its tip, and had barely shed one drop upon the stone where
it lay.

“You
are saying,” said the abbot, stirring out of his horrified stillness, “that
this was a fight? But how should a holy hermit keep sword or dagger about him?
Even for his own defence against thieves and vagabonds such a man should not
resort to arms, but put his trust in God.”

“And
if this was a thief,” said Cadfael, “he was a most strange one. Here are cross
and candlesticks of silver, and they are not taken, not even shaken from their
places in the struggle. Or else they were set right afterwards.”

“That
is truth,” said the abbot, and shook his head over so inexplicable a mystery.
“This was not done for robbery. But what, then? Why should any man attack a
solitary religious, one without possessions by choice, one whose only valuables
are the furnishings of his altar? He has lived unmolested and serviceable among
us, by all accounts open and accessible to all who came with their needs and
troubles. Why should anyone wish to harm him? Can this be the same hand that
killed the lord of Bosiet, Hugh? Or must we fear we have two murderers loose
among us?”

“There
is still this lad of his,” said Hugh, frowning over the thought but unable
quite to discard it. “We have not found him, and I had begun to think that he
had made off westward and got clean away into Wales. But it’s still possible
that he has remained close here. There may well be those who are sheltering him
and believe in him. We have grounds for thinking so. If he is indeed the
villein who ran from Bosiet, he had some cause to rid himself of his master.
And say that Cuthred, who disowned him on hearing he had been deceived in him,
found out his hiding place now—yes, then he might also have cause to kill
Cuthred. All of which is mere matter for conjecture. And yet cannot be quite
rejected.”

No,
thought Cadfael, not until Aymer Bosiet has gone his way back to
Northamptonshire, and Hyacinth can come out of hiding and speak for himself,
and Eilmund and Annet, yes, and Richard, can speak for him. For between the
three of them I’m sure it can be proved exactly where Hyacinth has been at all
times, and he has not been here. No, we need not trouble about Hyacinth. But I
wish, he thought regretfully, I wish they had let me confide in Hugh long ago.

The
sun was higher in the sky by now, and found a better angle through the leafage
of the trees, to shed more light upon the distorted and lamentable body. The
skirts of the rusty black habit were gathered together at one side, as if a
large fist had drawn them into its grasp, and there the woollen cloth was
clotted with a sticky dark stain. Cadfael kneeled and drew the folds apart, and
they separated with a faint, rustling reluctance. “Here he wiped his dagger,”
said Cadfael, “before sheathing it again.”

“Twice,”
said Hugh, peering, for there was a second such smear, barely perceptible.
Coolly and efficiently, a methodical man cleaning his tools after finishing his
work! “And see here, this casket on the altar.” He had stepped carefully round
the body to look closely at the carved wooden box, and draw a finger along the
edge of the lid, above the lock. The flaw was no longer than a thumbnail, but
showed where the point of a dagger had been thrust in to prise the box open. He
lifted down the cross and raised the lid, which gave readily. The lock was
sprung and broken, and the casket was empty. Only the faint aromatic scent of
the wood stirred upon the air. There was not even a filming of dust within; the
box had been well made.

“So
something was taken, after all,” said Cadfael. He did not mention the breviary,
though he could not doubt that Hugh had noticed its absence as readily as he.

“But
not the silver. What could a hermit have about him of greater value than Dame
Dionisia’s silver? He came to Buildwas on foot, carrying only a scrip like any
other pilgrim, though to be sure his boy Hyacinth also carried a pack for him.
Now I wonder,” said Hugh, “whether this casket was also the lady’s gift, or
whether he brought it with him?”