The Summer of the Danes (15 page)

“No,”
said Mark, “the messenger from Carnarvon came only later. She cannot have
known.”

“And
she is somewhere abroad between Aber and here, and alone? I wish I had more men
to send out after her,” said Meurig, frowning, “but we have already sent on to
Carnarvon all the fighting men who can be spared, to join the prince there.
Such as are left we may need here.”

“We
do not know,” Cadfael said, “which way she rode. She may be well behind us to
the east, for all we know, and safe enough. But if we can do no more, we can
divide on the ride back, and enquire everywhere after her.”

“And
if she has by now heard of the peril,” Mark added eagerly, “and very wisely
looks for safe shelter, are there in these regions any houses of religious
women, where she might take refuge?”

This
also Cadfael translated, though he could have given a general answer to it
himself, without troubling the bishop. The Church in Wales had never run to
nunneries, as even conventual life for men had never been on the same monastic
pattern as in England. Instead of the orderly, well-regulated house of sisters,
with a recognised authority and a rule, here there might arise, in the most
remote and solitary wilderness, a small wattled oratory, with a single, simple
saint living within it, a saint in the old dispensation, without benefit of
Pope or canonisation, who grew a few vegetables and herbs for her food, and
gathered berries and wild fruit, and came to loving terms with the small beasts
of the warren, so that they ran to hide in her skirts when they were hunted,
and neither huntsmen nor horn could urge on the hounds to do the lady affront,
or her little visitors harm. Though Cadfael had to admit, on reflection, that
the Dublin Danes might not observe a proper respect to such unaccustomed
evidences of sanctity.

The
bishop shook his head. “Our holy women do not gather in communities, like
yours, but set up their cells in the wilds, alone. Such anchoresses would not
settle near a town. More likely far to withdraw into the mountains. There is
one we know of here, who has her hermitage by this same Menai water, some miles
west from here, beyond the narrows. But as soon as we heard of this threat from
the sea I sent to warn her, and bring her in here to shelter. And she had the
good sense to come, and make no demur about it. God is the first and best
defence of lone women, but I see no virtue in leaving all to him. I want no
martyrs within my domain, and sanctity is small protection.”

“Then
her cell is left empty,” said Mark, and sighed. “But if this girl should have
ridden so far, and failed to find a friend at need, where next might she turn?”

“Inland,
surely, into the cover of woodland. I know of no defensible holding close by,
but these raiders, if they land, would not go far from their ships. Any house
in Arfon would take a girl in. Though the nearest and themselves most at risk,”
he added simply, “may well have drawn off into the hills themselves. Your
fellow here knows how lightly we can vanish at need.”

“I
doubt she can have gone far ahead of us,” said Cadfael, pondering
possibilities. “And for all we know she may have her own plans, and know very
well where to run. At least we can ask wherever we touch on the way back.”
There was always the chance, too, that Canon Meirion had already found his
daughter, closer to the royal seat at Aber.

“I
can have prayers said for her safety,” said the bishop briskly, “but I have
sheep of my own to fold, and cannot, however willingly I would, go searching
after one stray. At least, Brothers, rest this night over, before you take to
the roads again, and may you ride safely and get good word of the young woman
you seek.”

Bishop
Meurig might be preoccupied with guarding his extended household, but he did
not let that interfere with his hospitality. His table was well-supplied, his meat
and mead ample and well-prepared, and he did not let his guests depart next
morning without rising at dawn to see them off. It was a limpid, moist morning,
after some fitful showers in the night, and the sun came up glistening and
radiant, gilding the shallows to eastward.

“Go
with God!” said the bishop, solid and square in the gateway of his precinct, as
though he would hold it single-handed against all comers. His complimentary
letters were already bestowed in Mark’s saddle-roll, together with a small
flask of gilded glass filled with the cordial he made from his own honey, and
Cadfael carried before him a basket with a day’s supply of food for six men
rather than two. “Come safely back to your bishop, on whom be God’s blessing,
and to your convent, Brother Cadfael, where his grace surely prevails. I trust
some day we may meet again.”

Of
the peril now threatening he certainly went in no awe. When they looked back
from the street he was bustling purposefully across the open court, head
foremost and lowered, like a small, determined bull not yet belligerent but
certainly not to be trifled with.

They
had emerged from the edges of the town on to the highroad, when Mark reined in,
and sat his horse mute and thoughtful, looking first back along the road towards
Aber, and then westward towards the invisible sinuous curves of the narrow
strait that separated Anglesey from Arfon. Cadfael drew in beside him, and
waited, knowing what was on his friend’s mind.

“Could
she have passed beyond this point? Ought we not to go on westward? She left
Aber hours before us. How long, I wonder, before she got word of the coming of
the Danes?”

“If
she rode through the night,” said Cadfael, “she was not likely to hear of it
until morning, there would be no one abroad to warn her. By morning she could
be well to the west, and if she intended by her flight to evade her marriage,
she would not come near Bangor, for there she was to meet her husband. Yes, you
are right, she might by this be well to westward, and into danger. Nor am I sure
she would turn back even if she knew of it.”

“Then
what are we waiting for?” demanded Mark simply, and turned his horse towards
the west.

At
the church of Saint Deiniol, several miles south-west from Bangor and perhaps
two miles from the strait, they got word of her at last. She must have kept to
the old, direct road, the same Owain and his host would take, but hours ahead
of them. The only puzzle was why it had taken her so long to reach that point,
for when they enquired of the priest there was no hesitation, but yes, she had
lighted down here to ask directions only late the previous evening, about
Vespers.

“A
young woman on a light roan, and all alone. She asked her way to the cell of
Nonna. Due west from here it lies, in the trees near the water. I offered her
shelter for the night, but she said she would go to the holy woman.”

“She
would find the cell deserted,” said Cadfael. “Bishop Meurig feared for the
anchoress, and sent to bring her into Bangor. From which direction did the girl
ride in?”

“Down
out of the forests, from the south. I did not know,” said the priest,
distressed, “that she would find the place empty. I wonder, poor child, what
she would do? There would still be time enough for her to find refuge in
Bangor.”

“That
I doubt she would do,” said Cadfael. “If she came to the cell only so late, she
might well bide the night over there, rather than risk moving by darkness.” He
looked at Mark, in no doubt already what that young man would be thinking. On
this journey Mark had the governance, not for the world would Cadfael have
robbed him of it by word or act.

“We
will go and look for her at the hermitage,” said Mark firmly, “and if she is
not there, we will separate and try whatever tracks seem most likely to offer
her refuge. In these lowland pastures there must be homesteads she may have
tried.”

“Many
will have taken advice,” the priest suggested, shaking his head dubiously. “In
a few weeks they would have been moving their herds and flocks into the
uplands, even without this threat. Some may have moved early, rather than risk
being plundered.”

“We
can but make the assay,” said Mark stoutly. “If need be, we’ll take to the
hills ourselves in search of her.”

And
forthwith he made a brisk reverence to their informant, and wheeled his horse and
set off due west, straight as an arrow. The priest of Saint Deiniol looked
after him with raised brows and an expression half amused and half solicitous,
and shook his head doubtfully.

“Would
that young man be seeking the girl out of the goodness of his heart? Or for
himself?”

“Even
for that young man,” Cadfael said cautiously, “I would not presume to say
anything is impossible. But it comes as near as makes no matter. Any creature
in peril of death or harm, be it man, woman, plough horse, or Saint Melangell’s
hare, could draw him through moss or quicksand. I knew I should never get him
back to Shrewsbury while Heledd was astray.”

“You
are turning back here yourself?” the priest demanded drily.

“Small
chance! If he is bound to her, fellow-voyager to his fellow, so am I to him.
I’ll get him home!”

“Well,
even if his concern for her is purer than dew,” said the priest with
conviction, “he had best take heed to his vows when he does find her. For she’s
a bonny black maid as ever I saw. I was glad of my evening years when I dared
bid her shelter the night over in my house. And thankful when she would not.
And that lad is at the best of the morning, tonsure or no tonsure.”

“The
more reason I should go after him,” agreed Cadfael. “And my thanks to you for
the good word. For all the good words! I’ll see them strictly delivered when I
overtake him.”

“Saint
Nonna,” said Cadfael didactically, threading the woodland belt that spread more
than a mile inland from the strait, “was the mother of Saint David. She has many
sacred wells about the country, that give healing, especially to the eyes, even
to curing blindness. This holy woman must have chosen to name herself after the
saint.”

Brother
Mark pursued his determined way along the narrow ride, and said nothing. On either
hand the trees glittered in moist sunlight after the early morning showers,
mixed woodland sufficiently open to let in the radiance of early afternoon,
sufficiently close to be ridden in single file, and all just coming into the
first full leaf, young and fresh and full of birds. Every Spring is the only
Spring, a perpetual astonishment. It bursts upon a man every year, thought
Cadfael, contemplating it with delight in spite of all anxieties, as though it
had never happened before, but had just been shown by God how to do it, and
tried, and found the impossible possible.

Ahead
of him in the worn grass of the ride Mark had halted, staring ahead. Between
the trees, here thinning, open light shone before them, at a little distance
still, but now not very far, and shimmering with reflected gleams from water.
They were nearing the strait. And on Mark’s left hand a narrow footway twined
in among the trees to a low-roofed hut some yards aside from the path. “This is
the place.”

“And
she was here,” said Cadfael. The wet grass, unshaken on either side by any
wind, had retained the soft dew of rain that dimmed its new green to a silver
grey, but through it a horse had certainly passed, leaving his darker trail,
and brushing before him the tips of new growth, for the passage to the cell was
very narrow. The ride in which they had halted was in regular use, they had not
thought to examine it as they rode. But here between the encroaching bushes a
horse had certainly passed since the rain. And not inward, but outward. A few
young shoots had been broken at the tip, leaning towards the open ride, and the
longer grasses darkened by hooves clearly showed the direction in which they
had been brushed in passing. “And is gone,” said Cadfael, “since the morning.”
They dismounted, and approached the cell on foot. Built little and low, and one
room only, for a woman who had almost no needs at all, beyond her small
stone-built altar against one wall, and her plain straw pallet against another,
and her small cleared space of garden behind for vegetables and herbs. Her door
was drawn to, but had no lock to be seen without, and no bar within, only a
latch that any wayfarer could lift and enter. The place was empty now. Nonna
had obeyed the bishop’s expressed wish, and allowed herself to be escorted into
shelter in Bangor, how willingly there was no knowing. If she had had a guest
here in her absence, the guest too was gone. But in a patch of clear turf
between the trees the grass had been grazed, and hooves had ranged on a long
tether, leaving their traces before the rain fell, for drops still hung on the
grasses, unshaken. And in one place the beast had left his droppings, fresh and
moist still, but already cold.

“She
passed the night here,” said Cadfael, “and with the morning she left. After the
rain she left. Which way, who knows! She came to Llandeiniolen from inland, out
of the hills and through the forest, so the priest said. Had she some place of
refuge in mind up there, some kinsman of Meirion’s who might take her in? And
did she find that place, too, already deserted, and think of the anchoress as
her next hope? It would account for why it took her so long to get here. But as
for where she is gone now, how can we tell?”

“She
knows by now of the danger from the sea,” said Mark. “Surely she would not go
on westward into such a peril? But back towards Bangor and her marriage? She
has already risked much to evade it. Would she make her way back to Aber, and
her father? That would not deliver her from this marriage, if she is so set against
it.”