Hermit of Eyton Forest (9 page)

“If
you will tell us what your fugitive is like,” said the abbot reasonably,
“Brother Denis can tell you at once whether we have had such a one as guest in
our halls.”

“He
goes by the name of Brand—twenty years old, dark of hair but reddish, lean and
strong, beardless—”

“No,”
said Brother Denis the hospitaller without hesitation, “I have had no such
young man lodged here, not for five or six weeks back certainly. If he had
found work along the way with some trader or merchant carrying goods, such as
come with three or four servants, then he might have passed this way. But a
young man alone—no, none.”

“As
to that,” said the abbot with authority, forestalling reply from any other,
though indeed no one but Prior Robert would have ventured to speak before him,
“you would do well to take your question to the sheriff at the castle, for his
officers are far more likely than we here within the enclave to know of any
newcomers entering the town. The pursuit of criminals and offenders such as you
describe is their business, and they are thorough and careful about it. The
guildsmen of the town are also wary and jealous of their rights, and have good
reason to keep their eyes open, and their wits about them. I recommend you to
apply to them.”

“So
I intend, my lord. But you will bear in mind what I have asked, and if any here
should recall anything to the purpose, let me hear of it.”

“This
house will do whatever is incumbent upon it in good conscience,” said the abbot
with chilly emphasis, and watched with an unrevealing face as Drogo Bosiet,
with only the curtest of nods by way of leavetaking, turned on his booted heel
and strode out of the chapterhouse. Nor did Radulfus see fit to make any
comment or signify any conclusion when the petitioner was gone, as if he felt
no need to give any further instruction than he had given by the tone of his
replies. And by the time they emerged from chapter, some time later, both Drogo
and his groom had saddled and ridden forth, no doubt over the bridge and into
the town, to seek out Hugh Beringar at the castle. Brother Cadfael had intended
to pay a quick visit to the herbarium and his workshop, to see all was in order
there and set Brother Winfrid to work on what was safest and most suitable for
his unsupervised attentions, and then set off at once for Eilmund’s cottage,
but events prevented. For there was a death that day among the old, retired
brothers in the infirmary, and Brother Edmund, in need of a companion to watch
out the time with him after the tired old man had whispered the few almost
inaudible words of his last confession and received the final rites, turned
first and confidently to his closest friend and associate among the sick. They
had done the same service together many times in forty years of a vocation
imposed from birth in Edmund’s case, though willingly embraced later, but
chosen after half a lifetime in the outer world by Cadfael. They stood at the
opposite poles of oblatus and conversus, and they understood each other so well
that few words ever needed to pass between them. The old man’s dying was
painless and feather-light, all the substance of his once sharp and vigorous
mind gone on before; but it was slow. The fading candle flame did not flicker,
only dimmed in perfect stillness second by second, so mysteriously that they
missed the moment when the last spark withdrew, and only knew he was gone when
they began to realise that the prints of age were smoothing themselves out
gently from his face.

“So
pass all good men!” said Edmund fervently. “A blessed death as ever I saw! I
wonder will God deal as gently with me, when my time comes!” They cared for the
dead man together, and together emerged into the great court to arrange for his
body to be carried to the mortuary chapel. And then there was a small matter of
Brother Paul’s youngest schoolboy, who had missed his footing in haste on the
day stairs and rolled down half the flight, bloodying his knees on the cobbles
of the court, and had to be picked up and bathed and bandaged, and despatched
to his play with an apple by way of reward for his bravery in denying stoutly
that he was hurt. Only then could Cadfael repair to the stable and saddle the
horse assigned to him, and by then it was almost time for Vespers.

He
was leading his horse across the court to the gatehouse when Drogo Bosiet rode
in under the archway, his finery a little jaded and dusty from a day’s
frustration and exertion, his face blackly set, and the groom Warin a few yards
behind him, warily attentive, alert to obey the least gesture, but anxious
meantime to stay out of sight and out of mind. Clearly the hunt had drawn no
quarry anywhere, and the hunters came back with the approach of evening empty-handed.
Warin would have to stand clear of the length of that powerful arm tonight.

Cadfael
went forth through the gate reassured and content, and made good speed towards
his patient at Eyton.

Chapter Five

RICHARD
HAD BEEN OUT ALL AFTERNOON with the other boys in the main abbey gardens beside
the river, where the last pears were just being harvested. The children were
allowed to help, and within reason to sample, though the fruit had still to
ripen after gathering. But these, the last, had hung so long on the tree that
they were already eatable. It had been a good day, with sun, and freedom, and
some dabbling in the river where there were safe shallows, and he was reluctant
to go indoors to Vespers at the end of it, and then to supper and bed. He
loitered at the end of the procession winding its way along the riverside path,
and up the green, bushy slope to the Foregate. In the stillness of late
afternoon there were still clouds of midges dancing over the water, and fish
rising to them lazily. Under the bridge the flow looked almost motionless
though he knew it was fast and deep. There had been a boatmill moored there
once, powered by the stream.

Nine-year-old
Edwin, his devoted ally, loitered with him, but a little anxiously, casting a
glance over his shoulder to see how the distance between them and the tailend
of the procession lengthened. He had been praised for his stoicism after his
fall, and was in no mind to lose the warm sense of virtue the incident had left
with him by being late for Vespers. But neither could he lightly desert his
bosom friend. He hovered, rubbing at a bandaged knee that still smarted a
little.

“Richard,
come on, we mustn’t dawdle. Look, they’re nearly at the highroad.”

“We
can easily catch up with them,” said Richard, dabbling his toes in the
shallows. “But you go on, if you want to.”

“No,
not without you. But I can’t run as fast as you, my knee’s stiff. Do come on,
we shall be late.”

“I
shan’t, I can be there long before the bell goes, but I forgot you couldn’t run
as well as usual. You go on, I’ll overtake you before you reach the gatehouse.
I just want to see whose boat this is, coming down towards the bridge.”

Edwin
hesitated, weighing his own virtuous peace of mind against desertion, and for
once decided in accordance with his own wishes. The last black habit at the end
of the procession was just climbing to the level of the highroad, to vanish
from sight. No one had looked back to call the loiterers, or scold, they were
left to their own consciences. Edwin turned and ran after his fellows as fast
as he could for his stiffening knee. From the top of the slope he looked back,
but Richard was ankle-deep in his tiny cove, skimming stones expertly across
the surface of the water in a dotted line of silvery spray. Edwin decided on
virtue, and abandoned him.

It
had never been in Richard’s mind to play truant, but his game seduced him as
each cast bettered the previous one, and he began to hunt for smoother and
flatter pebbles under the bank, ambitious to reach the opposite shore. And then
one of the town boys who had been swimming under the green sweep of turf that
climbed to the town wall took up the challenge, and began to return the shower
of dancing stones, splashing naked in the shallows. So absorbed was Richard in
the contest that he forgot all about Vespers, and only the small, distant chime
of the bell startled him back to his duty. Then he did drop his stone, abandon
the field to his rival, and scramble hastily ashore to snatch up his discarded
shoes and run like a hart for the Foregate and the abbey. He had left it too
late. The moment he arrived breathless at the gatehouse, and sidled in
cautiously by the wicket to avoid notice, he heard the chanting of the first
psalm from within the church.

Well,
it was not so great a sin to miss a service, but for all that, he did not wish
to add it to his score at this time, when he was preoccupied with grave family
matters outside the cloister. By good fortune the children of the stewards and
the lay servants were also accustomed to attend Vespers, which so conveniently
augmented the numbers of the schoolboys that one small truant might not be
missed, and if he could slip back into their enveloping ranks as they left the
church afterwards it might be assumed that he had been among them all along. It
was the best course he could think of. Accordingly he slipped into the
cloister, and installed himself in the first carrel of the south walk, curled
up in the corner, where he could see the south door of the church, by which
brothers, guests and boys would all emerge when the service ended. Once the
obedientiaries and choir monks had passed, it should not be difficult to worm
his way in among the boys without being noticed. And here they came at last,
Abbot Radulfus, Prior Robert and all the brothers, passing decorously by, and
out into the evening on their way to supper; and then the less orderly throng
of the abbey young. Richard was sidling along the wall that concealed him,
ready to slip out and mingle with them as they passed, when a familiar and
censorious voice made itself heard just on the other side of the wall, in the
very archway through which the children must pass. “Silence, there! Let me hear
no chattering so soon after divine worship! Is this how you were taught to
leave the holy place? Get into line, two and two, and behave with due
reverence.”

Richard
froze, his back pressed against the chill stone of the wall, and drew back
stealthily into the darkest corner of the carrel. Now what had possessed
Brother Jerome to let the procession of the choir monks pass by without him,
and wait here to hector and scold the unoffending children? For there he stood
immovable, harrying them into tidy ranks, and Richard was forced to crouch in
hiding and let his best hope of escape dwindle away into the evening air in the
great court, leaving him trapped. For of all the brothers, Jerome was the one
before whom he would least willingly creep forth ignominiously to be arraigned
and lectured. And now the boys were gone, a few abbey guests emerging at
leisure from the church, and still Jerome stood there waiting, for Richard
could see his meagre shadow on the flags of the floor.

And
suddenly it appeared that he had been waiting for one of the guests, for the
shadow intercepted and melted into a more substantial shadow. Richard had seen
the substance pass, a big, muscular striding man with a face as solid and
russet as a sandstone wall, and the rich gown of the middle nobility, short of
the baronage or even their chief tenants, but still to be reckoned with. “I
have been waiting, sir,” said Brother Jerome, self-important but respectful,
“to speak a word to you. I have been thinking of what you told us at chapter
this morning. Will you sit down with me in private for a few moments?”
Richard’s young heart seemed to turn over within him, for there was he crouched
on the stone bench by one of Brother Anselm’s aumbries in the carrel right
beside them, and he was in terror that they would immediately walk in upon him.
But for his own reasons, it seemed, Brother Jerome preferred to be a little
more retired, as if he did not want anyone still within the church, perhaps the
sacristan, to observe this meeting as he left, for he drew his companion deep
into the third carrel, and there sat down with him. Richard could easily have
slid round the corner and out of the cloister now that the way was free, but he
did not do so. Pure human curiosity kept him mute and still where he was,
almost holding his breath, a little pitcher with very long ears. “This
malefactor of whom you spoke,” began Jerome, “he who assaulted your steward and
has run from you—how did you say he was called?”

“His
name is Brand. Why, have you any word of him?”

“No,
certainly none by that name. I do firmly believe,” said Jerome virtuously,
“that it is every man’s duty to help you to reclaim your villein if he can.
Even more it is the duty of the church, which should always uphold justice and
law, and condemn the criminal and lawbreaker. You did tell us this fellow is
young, about twenty years? Beardless, reddish dark as to his hair?”

“All
that, yes. You know of such a one?” demanded Drogo sharply.

“It
may not be the same man, but there is one young man who would answer to such a
description, only one to my knowledge who is lately come into these parts. It
would be worth asking. He came here with a pilgrim, a holy man who has settled
down in a hermitage only a few miles from us, on the manor of Eaton. He serves
the hermit. If he is indeed your rogue, he must have imposed on that good soul,
who in the kindness of his heart has given him work and shelter. If it is so,
then it is only right that his eyes should be opened to the kind of servitor he
is harbouring. And if he proves not to be the man, there is no harm done. But
indeed I did have my doubts about him, the one time he came here with a
message. He has a sort of civil insolence about him that sorts ill with a
saint’s service.”