Hermit of Eyton Forest (26 page)

They
had been so intent on what they were observing within that they had failed to
pay attention to what was happening without, and there had been no sound to
warn them. And in the shock of what they had discovered they had almost
forgotten that at least one more witness was expected at this meeting. But it
was a woman’s voice, not Fulke’s, that suddenly spoke in the doorway behind
them, high and confidently, and with arrogant disapproval in its tone. “No need
to wonder, my lord. It would be simple and civil to ask me.” All three of them
swung round in dismayed alarm to stare at Dame Dionisia, tall and erect and
defiant between them and the brightening daylight from which she had come, and
which left her half-blind at stepping into this relative obscurity. They were
between her and the body, and there was nothing else to startle or alarm her
but the very fact that Hugh stood with his hand on the open casket, and the
cross had been lifted down. This she saw clearly, while the dying lamp lit
nothing else so well. And she was outraged. “My lord, what is this? What are
you doing with these sacred things? And where is Cuthred? Have you dared to
meddle in his absence?” The abbot moved to place himself more solidly between
her and the dead man, and advanced to persuade her out of the chapel.

“Madam,
you shall know all, but I beg you, come out into the other room and be seated,
and wait but a moment until we set all in order here. Here is no irreverence, I
promise you.”

The
light from without was still further darkened by the bulk of Astley looming at
her shoulder, blocking the retreat the abbot was urging. She stood her ground,
imperious and indignant.

“Where
is Cuthred? Does he know you are here? How is it he has left his cell? He never
does so—” The lie ended on her lips in a sharp indrawn breath. Beyond the
abbot’s robe she had seen one small pallor jutting from the huddle of dark
skirts, a foot that had shaken loose its sandal. Her vision was clearer now.
She evaded the abbot’s restraining hand and thrust strongly past him. All her
questions were answered in one shattering glance. Cuthred was indeed there, and
on this occasion at least had not left his cell. The long, patrician composure
of her face turned waxen grey and seemed to disintegrate, its sharp lines
fallen slack. She uttered a great wail, rather of terror than of grief, and
half-sprang, half-fell backwards into the arms of Fulke Astley.

Chapter Thirteen

SHE
NEITHER SWOONED NOR WEPT. She was a woman who did not lightly do either. But
she sat for a long while bolt upright on Cuthred’s bed in the living room,
rigid and pale and staring straight before her, clean through the stone wall
before her face, and a long way beyond. It was doubtful if she heard any of the
abbot’s carefully measured words, or the uneasy blusterings of Astley,
alternately offering her gallantries of comfort she did not value or need, and
recalling feverishly that this crime left all questions unanswered, and in some
none too logical way went to prove that the hermit had indeed been a priest,
and the marriage he had solemnized still a marriage. At least she paid no
attention to either. She had gone far beyond any such considerations. All her
old plans had become irrelevant. She had looked closely on sudden death,
unconfessed, unshriven, and she wanted no part of it. Cadfael saw it in her
eyes as he came out from the chapel, having done what he could to lay Cuthred’s
body straight and seemly, now that he had read all it had to tell him. Through
that death she was confronting her own, and she had no intention of meeting it
with all her sins upon her. Or for many years yet, but she had had warning that
if she was willing to wait, death might not be.

At
last she asked, in a perfectly ordinary voice, perhaps milder than any she
normally used to her household or tenants, but without moving, or withdrawing
her eyes from her ultimate enemy: “Where is the lord sheriff?”

“He’s
gone to get hold of a party to carry the hermit away from here,” said the
abbot. “To Eaton, if you so wish, to be cared for there, since you were his
patroness. Or, if it will spare you painful reminders, to the abbey. He shall
be properly received there.”

“It
would be a kindness,” she said slowly, “if you would take him. I no longer know
what to think. Fulke has told me what my grandson says. The hermit cannot
answer for himself now, nor can I for him. I believed without question that he
was a priest.”

“That,
madam,” said Radulfus, “I never doubted.” The focus of her stare had shortened,
a little colour had come back into her waxen face. She was on her way back,
soon she would stir and brace herself, and turn to look at the real world about
her, instead of the bleak distances of judgement day. And she would face
whatever she had to face with the same ferocious courage and obstinacy with
which she had formerly conducted her battles.

“Father,”
she said, turning towards him with abrupt resolution, “if I come to the abbey
tonight, will you yourself hear my confession? I shall sleep the better when I
have shed my sins.”

“I
will,” said the abbot.

She
was ready then to be taken home, and Fulke was all too anxious to escort her.
No doubt he, who had very little to say here in company, would be voluble enough
in private with her. He had not her intelligence, nor nearly so acute an
imagination. If Cuthred’s death had cast any shadow on him, it was merely the
vexation of not being able to claim proof of his daughter’s marriage, not at
all a bony hand on his shoulder. So at any rate thought Brother Cadfael,
watching him arm Dionisia to where her jennet was tethered, in haste to have
her away and be free of the abbot’s daunting presence.

At
the last moment, with the reins gathered in her hand, she suddenly turned back.
Her face had regained all its proud tension and force, she was herself again.
“I have only now remembered,” she said, “that the lord sheriff was wondering
about the casket in there on the altar. That was Cuthred’s. He brought it with
him.”

When
the abbot and the litter-bearers and Hugh were all on their slow and sombre way
back to the abbey, Cadfael took a last look round the deserted chapel, the more
attentively because he was alone and without distractions. There was not a
single stain of blood on the flags of the floor where the body had lain, only
the drop or two left by the point of Cuthred’s own dagger. He had certainly
wounded his adversary, though the wound could not be deep. Cadfael sighted a
course from the altar to the doorway, and followed it with a newly lighted
candle in his hand. In the chapel he found nothing more, and in the outer room
the floor was of beaten earth, and such faint traces would be hard to find
after the passage of hours. But on the doorstone he found three drops shaken,
dried now but plain to be seen, and on the new and unstained timber with which
the left jamb of the doorway had been repaired there was a blurred smear of
blood at the level of his own shoulder, where a gashed and bloodied sleeve had
brushed past.

A
man no taller than himself, then, and Cuthred’s dagger had taken him in the
shoulder or upper arm on the left side, as a stroke aimed at his heart might
well do.

Cadfael
had intended to ride on to Eilmund’s cottage, but on impulse he changed his
mind, for it seemed to him that after all he could not afford to miss whatever
might follow when Cuthred’s body was brought into the court at the abbey, to
the consternation of most, the relief, perhaps, of some, and the possible peril
of one in particular. Instead of cutting through the forest rides, he mounted
and rode back in haste towards Shrewsbury, to overtake the funeral procession.

They
had a curious audience as soon as they entered the Foregate, and the
camp-following of inquisitive boys and attendant dogs followed at their heels
all along the highroad, and even the respectable citizens came after them at a
more discreet distance, wary of abbot and sheriff but avid for information, and
breeding rumours as fast as flies breed on summer middens. Even when the cortege
turned in at the gatehouse the good folk from market and smithy and tavern
gathered outside to peer expectantly within, and continued their speculations
with relish.

And
there in the great court, as they carried one bier in from the world, was
another funeral party busy assembling to leave. Drogo Bosiet’s sealed coffin
was mounted on a low, light cart, hired in the town with its driver for this
first day’s travelling, which would be on a good road. Warin stood holding two
of the saddled horses, while the younger groom was busy adjusting a full
saddle-roll to get the weight properly balanced before loading it. At sight of
all this activity Cadfael drew a deep breath of gratitude, sensible that one
danger, at least, was being lifted away even earlier than he had dared to hope.
Aymer had finally made up his mind. He was bound for home, to make sure of his
inheritance.

The
attendants on one death could not forbear from stopping what they were doing to
stare at the attendants on the other. And Aymer, coming out from the guest hall
with Brother Denis beside him to wish the departing train godspeed, halted at
the top of the steps to take in the scene with surprise and sharp speculation,
his eyes dwelling longest on the covered form and face. He came striding down to
cross purposefully to where Hugh was just dismounting. “What’s this, my lord?
Another death? Has your hunt brought down my quarry at last? But dead?” He
hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry if the corpse was that of his lost
villein. The money and favour Hyacinth’s skills brought in were valuable, but
revenge would also be a satisfying gain, and just when he had despaired of
winning either, and made up his mind to go home.

Abbot
Radulfus, too, had dismounted, and stood looking on with an uncommunicative
face, for the two groups carried a curious and disturbing suggestion of a
mirror image, gathered about the arriving and departing dead. The abbey grooms
who had come to take the bridles of abbot and sheriff hung upon the fringes of
the assembly, reluctant to move away. “No,” said Hugh, “this is no man of
yours. If the boy we’ve been hunting is yours. Of him we’ve seen no sign,
whether he is or no. You’re bound for home, then?”

“I’ve
wasted time and effort enough, I’ll waste no more, though I grudge letting him
go free. Yes, we’re away now. I’m needed at home, there’s work waiting for me.
Who is this one you’ve brought back?”

“The
hermit who was set up no long time ago in Eyton forest. Your father went to
visit him,” said Hugh, “thinking the servant he kept might be the fellow you
were looking for, but the youngster had already taken to his heels, so it’s
never been put to the test.”

“I
remember, soothe lord abbot told me. So this is the man! I never went to him
again, what use if the lad he kept was gone?” He looked curiously down at the
shrouded figure. The bearers had laid down their burden, awaiting orders where
to take the dead. Aymer stooped and turned back the brychan from Cuthred’s
face. They had drawn back the wild fell of hair from his temples, and brushed
down his bushy beard into order, and the full light of noon shone over the lean
countenance, the deep-set eyes, the lofty lids a little bruised and bluish now,
the long, straight, patrician nose and full lips within the dark beard. The
glare of the half-open eyes was now veiled, the snarl on the drawn-back lips
carefully smoothed out to restore his harsh comeliness. Aymer leaned closer,
startled and disbelieving.

“But
I know this man! No, that’s to say too much, he never said his name. But I’ve
seen him and talked with him. A hermit—he? I never saw sign of it then! He wore
his hair trimmed Norman fashion, and had a short, clipped beard, not this
untended bush, and he was well clothed in good riding gear, boots and all, not
this drab habit and sandals. And he wore sword and dagger into the bargain,”
said Aymer positively, “and as if he was well accustomed to the use of them,
too.”

Until
he looked up again he was not fully aware of the significance of what he had
said, but Hugh’s intent face and instant question made it plain he had touched
on something more vital than he knew.

“You
are sure?” said Hugh.

“Certain,
my lord. It was only one night’s lodging, but I diced with him for the dinner,
and watched my father play a game of chess with him. I’m certain!”

“Where
was this? And when?”

“At
Thame, when we were looking towards London for Brand. We lodged overnight with
the white monks at their new abbey there. This man was there before us, we came
well into the evening, and went on south next day. I can’t say the exact day,
but it was towards the end of September.”

“Then
if you know him again,” said Hugh, “changed as his condition is, would your
father also have recognised him at sight?”

“Surely
he would, my lord. His eyes were sharper than mine. He’d sat over a chessboard
with the man, eye to eye. He’d know him again.” And so he had, thought Cadfael,
when he went man-hunting to the cell in the forest, and came face to face with
the hermit Cuthred who had been no hermit a month or so earlier. And he had not
lived to return to the abbey and let out to any man what he knew. And what if
he knew no great evil of this transformed being? He might still let fall to
other ears the casual word that would mean more to them than ever it had to
him, and bring to the cell in Eyton forest someone in search of more than a
runaway villein, and worse, surely, than a spurious priest. But he had not
lived to get further on his return journey than a close forest thicket,
sufficiently far from the hermitage to remove suspicion from a local saint
reputed never to leave his cell. The evidence of circumstances is not positive
proof, yet Cadfael had no doubts left. There before them the coffined body and
the new corpse rested for a few moments side by side, before Prior Robert
directed the bearers to the mortuary chapel, and Aymer Bosiet covered Cuthred’s
face again, and turned afresh to his own preparations for departure. His mind
was on other things, why distract and detain him now? But Cadfael did suddenly
take thought to ask one curious question.