Hermit of Eyton Forest (10 page)

Richard
crouched motionless, hugging his knees, his ears stretched to catch every word
that passed.

“Where
is this hermitage to be found?” demanded Drogo, with the hunger of the manhunt
in his voice. “And what is the fellow calling himself?”

“He
goes by the name of Hyacinth. The hermit’s name is Cuthred, anyone in Wroxeter
or Eaton can show you where he dwells.” And Jerome launched willingly into
exact instructions as to the road, which occupied him so happily that even if
there had been any small sounds from the neighbouring carrel he probably would
not have heard them. But Richard’s small bare feet made no sound on the flags
as he slid hastily round into the archway, and fled down the court to the stables,
still carrying his shoes. His hard little soles patterned like pebbles on the
cobbles of the stableyard, careless of being overheard now that he was safely
out of that narrow, darkening carrel, echoing hollowly to the sound of one
self-righteous voice and one wolfish one plotting the capture and ruin of
Hyacinth, who was young and lively and ranked as a friend. But they should not
have him, not if Richard could prevent. No matter how detailed Brother Jerome’s
directions, that man who wanted his villein back, and certainly meant him no
good if ever he got him, would still have to find his way and sort out the
woodland paths as he came to them, but Richard knew every track, and could ride
by the shortest way, and fast, if only he could get his pony saddled and
smuggled quietly out at the gatehouse before the enemy sent a groom to saddle
his own tall horse. For he was hardly likely to do it for himself if he had a
servant to do it for him. The thought of the twilit woods did not daunt
Richard, his heart rose excitedly to the adventure.

Luck
or heaven favoured him, for it was the hour when everyone was at supper, and
even the porter at the gatehouse was taking his meal within, and left the gate
unwatched while he ate. If he did hear hooves, and come out to see who the
rider might be, he came too late to see Richard scramble into the saddle and
set off at a round trot along the Foregate towards Saint Giles. He had even
forgotten that he was hungry, and felt no pang at going supperless. Besides, he
was a favourite with Brother Petrus, the abbot’s cook, and might be able to
wheedle something out of him later. As for what was to happen when his absence
was discovered, as it surely must be at bedtime even if it passed unremarked at
supper, there was no point in giving any thought to that. What mattered was to
find Hyacinth, and warn him, if he was indeed this Brand, that he had better
get away into hiding as fast as he could, for the hunt was out after him, and
close on his heels. After that, let what was bound to happen, happen! He turned
into the forest beyond Wroxeter, on a broad ride which Eilmund had cleared for
the passage of his coppice wood and trimmed poles. It led directly to the
forester’s cottage, but also provided the quickest way to a side-path which continued
to the hermitage, the obvious place to look first for Cuthred’s servant. The
forest here was chiefly oak, and old, the ground cover light and low, and the
deep layers of the leaves of many autumns made riding silent. Richard had
slackened speed among the old trees, and the pony stepped with delicate
pleasure in the cushioned mould. But for the hush, the boy would never have
heard the voices, for they were low and intent, and manifestly the one was a
man’s, the other a girl’s, though their words were too soft to be
distinguished, meant only for each other. Then he saw them, aside from the
path, very still and very close beside the broad bole of an oak tree. They were
not touching, though they had eyes only for each other, and whatever they had
to say was earnest and of high importance. The shout Richard launched at sight
of them startled them apart like fluttered birds.

“Hyacinth!
Hyacinth!”

He
rolled and fell from his pony, rather than dismounted, and flew to meet them as
they started towards him.

“Hyacinth,
you must hide—you must get away quickly! They’re after you, if you’re Brand—are
you Brand? There’s a man has come looking for you, he says he’s hunting a
runaway villein named Brand…” Hyacinth, alert and quivering, held him by the
shoulders, and dropped to his knees to have him eye to eye. “What like of man?
A servant? Or the man himself? And when was this?”

“After
Vespers. I heard them talking. Brother Jerome told him there was a young man
newly come into this country, who might be the one he’s looking for. He told
him where to find you, and he’s coming to look for you at the hermitage now,
this very night. An awful man, big and loud-mouthed. I ran to get my pony while
they were still talking, I got away before him. But you mustn’t go back to Cuthred,
you must get away quickly and hide.”

Hyacinth
caught the boy in his arms in a brief, boisterous embrace. “You’re a true and
gallant friend as any man could have, and never fear for me, now I’m warned
what can harm me? That’s the man himself, no question! Drogo Bosiet thinks
highly enough of me to waste time and men and money on hunting me down, and in
the end he’ll get nothing for his pains.”

“Then
you are Brand? You were his villein?”

“I
love you all the more,” said Hyacinth, “for viewing my villeinage as past. Yes,
the name they gave me long ago was Brand, I chose Hyacinth for myself. You and
I will keep to that name. And now you and I, my friend, must part, for what you
must do now is ride back to the abbey quickly, before the light’s gone, and before
you’re missed. Come, I’ll see you safe to the edge of the wood.”

“No!”
said Richard, outraged. “I’ll go alone, I’m not afraid. You must vanish now, at
once!”

The
girl had laid her hand on Hyacinth’s shoulder. Richard saw her eyes wide and
bright with resolution rather than alarm in the encroaching twilight. “He
shall, Richard! I know a place where he’ll be safe.”

“You
ought to try to get into Wales,” said Richard anxiously, even somewhat
jealously, for this was his friend, and he was the rescuer, and almost he
resented it that Hyacinth should owe any part of his salvation to someone else,
and a woman, at that.

Hyacinth
and Annet looked briefly at each other, and smiled, and the quality of their
smiles lit up the woodland. “No, not that,” said Hyacinth gently. “If run I
must, I’ll not run far. But you need not fear for me, I shall be safe enough.
Now mount, my lord, and be off with you, back where you’ll be safe, or I won’t
stir a step.”

That
set him in motion briskly enough. Once he looked back to wave, and saw them
standing as he had left them, gazing after him. A second time he looked back,
before the spot where they stood was quite hidden from him among the trees, but
they were gone, vanished, and the forest was silent and still. Richard
remembered his own problems ahead, and took the road homeward at an anxious
trot.

Drogo
Bosiet rode through the early twilight by the ways Brother Jerome had indicated
to him, asking peremptorily of the villagers in Wroxeter for confirmation that
he was on the best road to the cell of the hermit Cuthred. It seemed that the
holy man was held in the kind of unofficial reverence common to the old Celtic
eremites, for more than one of those questioned spoke of him as Saint Cuthred.

Drogo
entered the forest close to where Eaton land, as the shepherd in the field
informed him, bordered Eyton land, and a narrow ride brought him after almost a
mile of forest to a small, level clearing ringed round with thick woodland. The
stone hut in the centre was stoutly built but small and low-roofed, and showed
signs of recent repair after being neglected for years. There was a little
square garden enclosure round it, fenced in with a low pale, and part of the
ground within had been cleared and planted. Drogo dismounted at the edge of the
clearing and advanced to the fence, leading his horse by the bridle. The
evening silence was profound, there might have been no living being within a
mile of the place.

But
the door of the hut stood open, and from deep within a steady gleam of light
showed. Drogo tethered his horse, and strode in through the garden and up to
the door, and still hearing no sound, went in. The room into which he stepped
was small and dim, and contained little but a pallet bed against the wall, a
small table and a bench. The light burned within, in a second room, and through
the open doorway, for there was no door between, he saw that this was a chapel.
The lamp burned upon a stone altar, before a small silver cross set up on a
carved wooden casket reliquary, and on the altar before the cross lay a slender
and elegant breviary in a gilded binding. Two silver candlesticks, surely the
gifts of the hermit’s patroness, flanked the cross, one on either side. Before
this altar a man was kneeling motionless, a tall man in a rough black habit,
with the cowl raised to cover his head. Against the small, steady light the
dark figure was impressive, the long, erect back straight as a lance, the head
not bowed but raised, the very image of sanctity. Even Drogo held his tongue
for a moment, but no longer. His own needs and desires were paramount, a
hermit’s prayers could and must yield to them. Evening was rapidly deepening
into night, and he had no time to waste.

“You
are Cuthred?” he demanded firmly. “They told me at the abbey how to find you.”

The
dignified figure did not move, unless he unfolded his unseen hands. But he said
in a measured and unstartled voice: “Yes, I am Cuthred. What do you need from
me? Come in and speak freely.”

“You
have a boy who runs your errands. Where is he? I want to see him. You may well
have been cozened into keeping a rogue about you unawares.” And at that the
habited figure did turn, the cowled head reared to face the stranger, and the
sidelong light from the altar lamp showed a lean, deep-eyed, bearded face, a
long, straight, aristocratic nose, a fell of dark hair within the hood, as
Drogo Bosiet and the hermit of Eyton forest looked long and steadily at each
other.

Brother
Cadfael was sitting by Eilmund’s couch, supping on bread and cheese and apples,
since like Richard he had missed his usual supper, and well content with a very
discontented patient, when Annet came back from feeding the hens and shutting
them in, and milking the one cow she kept for their own use. She had been an
unconscionable time about it, and so her disgruntled father told her. All trace
of fever had left him, his colour was good, and he was in no great discomfort,
but he was in a glum fury with his own helplessness, and impatient to be out
and about his business again, distrusting the abbot’s willing but untutored
substitutes to take proper care of his forest. The very shortness of his temper
was testimony to his sound health. And the offending leg was straight and gave
no great pain. Cadfael was well satisfied. Annet came in demurely, and laughed
at her father’s grumbling, no way in awe of him. “I left you in the best of
company, and I knew you’d be the better for an hour or so without me, and so
would I for an hour without you, such an old bear as you’re become! Why should
I hurry back, on such a fine evening? You know Brother Cadfael has taken good
care of you, don’t grudge me a breath of air.” But by the look of her she had
enjoyed something more potent than a mere breath of air. There was a brightness
and a quivering aliveness about her, as if after strong wine. Her brown hair,
always so smoothly banded, had shaken loose a few strands on her shoulders,
Cadfael noted, as though she had wound her way through low branches that caught
at the braids, and the colour in her cheeks was rosy and roused, to match the
brilliance of her eyes. She had brought in a few of the month’s lost leaves on
her shoes. True, the byre lay just within the trees at the edge of the
clearing, but there were no well-grown oaks there. “Well, now that you’re back,
and I shan’t be leaving him to complain without a listener,” said Cadfael, “I’d
best be getting back before it’s full dark. Keep him off his feet for a few
days yet, lass, and I’ll let him up on crutches soon if he behaves himself. At
least he’s taken no harm from lying fast in the water, that’s a mercy.”

“Thanks
to Cuthred’s boy Hyacinth,” Annet reminded them. She flicked a swift glance at
her father, and was pleased when he responded heartily: “And that’s truth if
ever there was! He was as good as a son to me that day, and I don’t forget it.”

And
was it fancy, or did Annet’s cheeks warm into a deeper rose? As good as a son
to a man who had no son to be his right hand, but only this bright, confident,
discreet and loving daughter?

“Possess
your soul in patience,” advised Cadfael, rising, “and we’ll have you as sound
as before. It’s worth waiting for. And don’t fret about the coppice, for Annet
here will tell you they’ve made a good job of clearing the brook and shaved off
the overhang of the bank. It will hold.” He made fast his scrip to his girdle,
and turned to the door.

“I’ll
see you to the gate,” said Annet, and came out with him into the deep twilight
of the clearing, where his horse was placidly pulling at the turf.

“Girl,”
said Cadfael with his foot in the stirrup, “you blossom like a rose tonight.”

She
was just taking up the loose tresses in her hands, and smoothing them back into
neatness with the rest. She turned and smiled at him. “But I seem to have been
through a thorn bush,” she said.

Cadfael
leaned from the saddle and delicately picked a sear oak leaf out of her hair.
She looked up to see him twirling it gently between his fingers by the stem,
and wonderfully she smiled. That was how he left her, roused and braced, and
surely having made up her mind to go, undaunted, through all the thorny
thickets that might be in the path between her and what she wanted. She was not
ready yet to confide even in her father, but it troubled her not at all that
Cadfael should guess at what was in the wind, nor had she any fear of a twisted
ending. Which did not preclude the possibility that others might have good
reason to fear on her account.