The Pilgram of Hate (13 page)

But
there were those beneath the arch of the bridge who had not Severn water in
their blood, and were less ready to wet more than their feet in even low water.
And suddenly these had steel in their hands, and were weaving and slashing and
stabbing their way through into the open as best they could, and without
scruple. It did not last long. In the quaking dark, sprawled among the trampled
grasses up the riverside, Hugh’s six clung to such captives as they could
grapple, and shook off trickles of blood from their own scratches and gashes.
And diminishing in the darkness, the thresh and toss of bushes marked the
flight of those who had got away. Unseen beneath the bridge, the deserted
lantern and scattered dice, grave loss to a trickster who must now prepare a
new set, lay waiting to be retrieved.

Hugh
shook off a few drops of blood from a grazed arm, and went scrambling through
the rough grass to the path leading up from the Gaye to the highroad and the
bridge. Before him a shadowy body fled, cursing. Hugh launched a shout to reach
the road ahead of them: “Hold him! The law wants him!” Foregate and town might
be on their way to bed, but there were always late strays, both lawful and
unlawful, and some on both sides would joyfully take up such an invitation to
mischief or justice, whichever way the mind happened to bend.

Above
him, in the deep, soft summer night that now bore only a saffron thread along
the west, an answering hail shrilled, startled and merry, and there were
confused sounds of brief, breathless struggle. Hugh loped up to the highroad to
see three shadowy horsemen halted at the approach to the bridge, two of them
closed in to flank the first, and that first leaning slightly from his saddle
to grip in one hand the collar of a panting figure that leaned against his
mount heaving in breath, and with small energy to attempt anything besides.

“I
think, sir,” said the captor, eyeing Hugh’s approach, “this may be what you
wanted. It seemed to me that the law cried out for him? Am I then addressing
the law in these parts?”

It
was a fine, ringing voice, unaccustomed to subduing its tone. The soft dark did
not disclose his face clearly, but showed a body erect in the saddle, supple,
shapely, unquestionably young. He shifted his grip on the prisoner, as though
to surrender him to a better claim. Thus all but released, the fugitive did not
break free and run for it, but spread his feet and stood his ground, half-defiant,
eyeing Hugh dubiously.

“I’m
in your debt for a minnow, it seems,” said Hugh, grinning as he recognised the
man he had been chasing. “But I doubt I’ve let all the salmon get clear away
up-river. We were about breaking up a parcel of cheating rogues come here
looking for prey, but this young gentleman you have by the coat turns out to be
merely one of the simpletons, our worthy goldsmith out of the town. Master
Daniel, I doubt there’s more gold and silver to be lost than gained, in the
company you’ve been keeping.”

“It’s
no crime to make a match at dice,” muttered the young man, shuffling his feet
sullenly in the dust of the road. “My luck would have turned…”

“Not
with the dice they brought with them. But true it’s no crime to waste your
evening and go home with empty pockets, and I’ve no charge to make against you,
provided you go back now, and hand yourself over with the rest to my sergeant.
Behave yourself prettily, and you’ll be home by midnight.”

Master
Daniel Aurifaber took his dismissal thankfully, and slouched back towards the
bridge, to be gathered in among the captives. The sound of hooves crossing the
bridge at a trot indicated that someone had run for the horses, and intended a
hunt to westward, in the direction the birds of prey had taken. In less than a
mile they would be safe in woodland, and it would take hounds to run them to
earth. Small chance of hunting them down by night. On the morrow something
might be attempted.

“This
is hardly the welcome I intended for you,” said Hugh, peering up into the
shadowy face above him. “For you, I think, must be the envoy sent from the
Empress Maud and the bishop of Winchester. Your herald arrived little more than
an hour ago, I did not expect you quite so soon. I had thought I should be done
with this matter by the time you came. My name is Hugh Beringar, I stand here
as sheriff for King Stephen. Your men are provided for at the castle, I’ll send
a guide with them. You, sir, are my own guest, if you will do my house that
honour.”

“You’re
very gracious,” said the empress’s messenger blithely, “and with all my heart I
will. But had you not better first make up your accounts with these townsmen of
yours, and let them creep away to their beds? My business can well wait a
little longer.”

“Not
the most successful action ever I planned,” Hugh owned later to Cadfael. “I
under-estimated both their hardihood and the amount of cold steel they’d have
about them.”

There
were four guests missing from Brother Denis’s halls that night: Master Simeon
Poer, merchant of Guildford; Walter Bagot, glover; John Shure, tailor; William
Hales, farrier. Of these, William Hales lay that night in a stone cell in
Shrewsbury castle, along with a travelling pedlar who had touted for them in
the town, but the other three had all broken safely away, bar a few scratches
and bruises, into the woods to westward, the most northerly outlying spinneys
of the Long Forest, there to bed down in the warm night and count their
injuries and their gains, which were considerable. They could not now return to
the abbey or the town; the traffic would in any case have stood only one more
night at a profit. Three nights are the most to be reckoned on, after that some
aggrieved wretch is sure to grow suspicious. Nor could they yet venture south
again. But the man who lives on his wits must keep them well honed and
adaptable, and there are more ways than one of making a dishonest living.

As
for the young rufflers and simple tradesmen who had come out with visions of
rattling their winnings on the way home to their wives, they were herded into
the gatehouse to be chided, warned, and sent home chapfallen, with very little
in their pockets.

And
there the night’s work would have ended, if the flare of the torch under the
gateway had not caught the metal gleam of a ring on Daniel Aurifaber’s right
hand, flat silver with an oval bezel, for one instant sharply defined. Hugh saw
it, and laid a hand on the goldsmith’s arm to detain him.

“That
ring-let me see it closer!”

Daniel
handed it over with a hint of reluctance, though it seemed to stem rather from
bewilderment than from any feeling of guilt. It fitted closely, and passed over
his knuckle with slight difficulty, but the finger bore no sign of having worn
it regularly.

“Where
did you get this?” asked Hugh, holding it under the flickering light to examine
the device and inscription.

“I
bought it honestly,” said Daniel defensively.

“That
I need not doubt. But from whom? From one of those gamesters? Which one?”

“The
merchant—Simeon Poer he called himself. He offered it, and it was a good piece
of work. I paid well for it.”

“You
have paid double for it, my friend,” said Hugh, “for you bid fair to lose ring
and money and all. Did it never enter your mind that it might be stolen?”

By
the single nervous flutter of the goldsmith’s eyelids the thought had certainly
occurred to him, however hurriedly he had put it out of his mind again. “No!
Why should I think so? He seemed a stout, prosperous person, all he claimed to
be…”

“This
very morning,” said Hugh, “just such a ring was taken during Mass from a
pilgrim at the abbey. Abbot Radulfus sent word up to the provost, after they
had searched thoroughly within the pale, in case it should be offered for sale
in the market. I had the description of it in turn from the provost. This is
the device and inscription of the bishop of Winchester, and it was given to the
bearer to secure him safe-conduct on the road.”

“But
I bought it in good faith,” protested Daniel, dismayed. “I paid the man what he
asked, the ring is mine, honestly come by.”

“From
a thief. Your misfortune, lad, and it may teach you to be more wary of sudden
kind acquaintances in the future who offer you rings to buy—wasn’t it so?—at
somewhat less than you know to be their value? Travelling men rattling dice
give nothing for nothing, but take whatever they can get. If they’ve emptied
your purse for you, take warning for the next time. This must go back to the
lord abbot in the morning. Let him deal with the owner.” He saw the goldsmith
draw angry breath to complain of his deprivation, and shook his head to ward
off the effort, not unkindly. “You have no remedy. Bite your tongue, Daniel,
and go make your peace with your wife.”

The
empress’s envoy rode gently up the Wyle in the deepening dark, keeping pace
with Hugh’s smaller mount. His own was a fine, tall beast, and the young man in
the saddle was long of body and limb. Afoot, thought Hugh, studying him
sidelong, he will top me by a head. Very much of an age with me, I might give
him a year or two, hardly more.

“Were
you ever in Shrewbury before?”

“Never.
Once, perhaps, I was just within the shire, I am not sure how the border runs.
I was near Ludlow once. This abbey of yours, I marked it as I came by, a very
fine, large enclosure. They keep the Benedictine Rule?”

“They
do.” Hugh expected further questions, but they did not come. “You have kinsmen
in the Order?”

Even
in the dark he was aware of his companion’s grave, musing smile. “In a manner
of speaking, yes, I have. I think he would give me leave to call him so, though
there is no blood-kinship. One who used me like a son. I keep a kindness for
the habit, for his sake. And did I hear you say there are pilgrims here now?
For some particular feast?”

“For
the translation of Saint Winifred, who was brought here four years ago from
Wales. Tomorrow is the day of her arrival.” Hugh had spoken by custom, quite
forgetting what Cadfael had told him of that arrival, but the mention of it
brought his friend’s story back sharply to mind. “I was not in Shrewsbury
then,” he said, withholding judgement. “I brought my manors to King Stephen’s
support the following year. My own country is the north of the shire.”

They
had reached the top of the hill, and were turning towards Saint Mary’s church.
The great gate of Hugh’s courtyard stood wide, with torches at the gateposts,
waiting for them. His message had been faithfully delivered to Aline, and she
was waiting for them with all due ceremony, the bedchamber prepared, the meal
ready to come to table. All rules, all times, bow to the coming of a guest, the
duty and privilege of hospitality.

She
met them at the door, opening it wide to welcome them in. They stepped into the
hall, and into a flood of light from torches at the walls and candles on the
table, and instinctively they turned to face each other, taking the first long
look. It grew ever longer as their intent eyes grew wider. It was a question
which of them groped towards recognition first. Memory pricked and realisation
awoke almost stealthily. Aline stood smiling and wondering, but mute, eyeing
first one, then the other, until they should stir and shed a clearer light.

“But
I know you!” said Hugh. “Now I see you, I do know you.”

“I
have seen you before,” agreed the guest. “I was never in this shire but the
once, and yet…”

“It
needed light to see you by,” said Hugh, “for I never heard your voice but the
once, and then no more than a few words. I doubt if you even remember them, but
I do. Six words only. “Now have ado with a man!” you said. And your name, your
name I never heard but in a manner I take as it was meant. You are Robert, the
forester’s son who fetched Yves Hugonin out of that robber fortress up on
Titterstone Clee. And took him home with you, I think, and his sister with
him.”

“And
you are that officer who laid the siege that gave me the cover I needed,” cried
the guest, gleaming. “Forgive me that I hid from you then, but I had no
warranty there in your territory. How glad I am to meet you honestly now, with
no need to take to flight.”

“And
no need now to be Robert, the forester’s son,” said Hugh, elated and smiling.
“My name I have given you, and the freedom of this house I offer with it. Now
may I know yours?”

“In
Antioch, where I was born,” said the guest, “I was called Daoud. But my father
was an Englishman of Robert of Normandy’s force, and among his comrades in arms
I was baptised a Christian, and took the name of the priest who stood my
godfather. Now I bear the name of Olivier de Bretagne.”

They
sat late into the night together, savouring each other now face to face, after
a year and a half of remembering and wondering. But first, as was due, they
made short work of Olivier’s errand here.

“I
am sent,” he said seriously, “to urge all sheriffs of shires to consider,
whatever their previous fealty, whether they should not now accept the
proffered peace under the Empress Maud, and take the oath of loyalty to her.
This is the message of the bishop and the council: This land has all too long
been torn between two factions, and suffered great damage and loss through
their mutual enmity. And here, say that I lay no blame on that party which is
not my own, for there are valid claims on both sides, and equally the blame
falls on both for failing to come to some agreement to end these distresses.
The fortune at Lincoln might just as well have fallen the opposing way, but it
fell as it did, and England is left with a king made captive, and a queen-elect
free and in the ascendant. Is it not time to call a halt? For the sake of order
and peace and the sound regulation of the realm, and to have a government in
command which can and must put down the many injustices and tyrannies which you
know, as well as I, have set themselves up outside all law. Surely any strong
rule is better than no rule at all. For the sake of peace and order, will you
not accept the empress, and hold your county in allegiance to her? She is
already in Westminster now, the preparations for her coronation go forward.
There is a far better prospect of success if all sheriffs come in to strengthen
her rule.”