Hermit of Eyton Forest (8 page)

Annet
did not say anything, but she closed the house door softly behind her, and came
forward to meet him at the gate. And Cadfael rode back through the woods mildly
aware that he was smiling, though he could not be sure, on more sober
reflection, that there was anything to smile about in so unlikely an encounter.
For what common ground could there be, for those two to meet on, and hold fast
for more than a moment: the abbey forester’s daughter, a good match for any
lively and promising young man this side the shire, and a beggarly, rootless
stranger dependent on charitable patronage, with no land, no craft and no kin?
He went to tend and stable his horse before he sought out Abbot Radulfus to
tell him how things stood in Eyton forest. There was a late stir within there,
of new guests arrived, and their mounts being accommodated and cared for. Of
late there had been little movement about the county; the business of the
summer, when so many merchants and tradesmen were constantly on the move, had
dwindled gently away into the autumn quiet. Later, as the Christmas feast drew
near, the guest halls would again be full with travellers hastening home, and
kinsmen visiting kinsmen, but at this easy stage between, there was time to
note those who came, and feel the human curiosity that is felt by those who
have sworn stability about those who ebb and flow with the tides and seasons.
And here just issuing from the stables and crossing the yard in long, lunging
strides, the gait of a confident and choleric man, was someone undoubtedly of
consequence in his own domain, richly dressed, elegantly booted, and wearing
sword and dagger. He surged past Cadfael in the gateway, a big, burly,
thrusting man, his face abruptly lit as he swung past the torch fixed at the
gate, and then as abruptly darkened. A massive face, fleshy and yet hard, muscled
like a wrestler’s arms, handsome in a brutal fashion, the face of a man not in
anger at this moment, but always ready to be angry. He was shaven clean, which
made the smooth power of his features even more daunting, and the eyes that
stared imperiously straight before him looked disproportionately small, though
in reality they probably were not, because of the massy flesh in which they
were but shallowly set. By the look of him, not a man to cross. He might have
been fifty years old, give or take a few years, but time certainly had not
softened what must have been granite from the start.

His
horse was standing in the stable yard outside an open stall, stripped and
gently steaming as if his saddlecloth had only just been removed, and a groom
was rubbing him down and hissing to him gently as he worked. A meagre but wiry
fellow, turning grey, in faded homespun of a dull brown, and a rubbed leather
coat. He slid one sidelong glance at Cadfael and nodded a silent greeting, so
inured to being wary of all men that even a Benedictine brother was to be
avoided rather than welcomed.

Cadfael
gave him good-evening cheerfully, and began his own unsaddling. “You’ve ridden
far? Was that your lord I met at the gate?”

“It
was,” said the man without looking up, and spared no more words.

“A
stranger to me. Where are you from? Guests are thin this time of year.”

“From
Bosiet, it’s a manor the far side of Northampton, some miles south-east of the
town. He is Bosiet–Drogo Bosiet. He holds that and a fair bit of the county
besides.”

“He’s
well away from his home ground,” said Cadfael with interest. “Where’s he bound?
We see very few travellers from Northamptonshire in these parts.” The groom
straightened up to take a longer and narrower look at this inquisitive
questioner, and visibly his manner eased a little, finding Cadfael amiable and
harmless. But he did not on that account grow less morose, nor more voluble.
“He’s hunting,” he said with a grim and private smile.

“But
not for deer,” hazarded Cadfael, returning the inspection and caught by the
wryness of the smile. “Nor, I dare say, for the beasts of the warren.”

“You
dare say well. It’s a man he’s after.”

“A
runaway?” Cadfael found it hard to believe. “So far from home? Was a runaway
villein worth so much time and expense to him?”

“This
one is. He’s valuable and skilled, but that’s not the whole of it,” confided
the groom, discarding his suspicion and reticence. “He has a score to settle
with this one. One report we got of him, setting out westwards and north, and
he’s combed every village and town along all this way, dragging me one road
while his son with another groom goes another, and he won’t stop short of the
Welsh border. Me? If I did clap eyes on the lad he’s after, I’d be blind. I
wouldn’t give him back a dog that ran from him, let alone a man.” His dry voice
had gathered sap and passion as he talked, and he turned fully for the first
time, so that the torchlight fell on his face. One cheek was marked with a
blackening bruise, the corner of his mouth torn and swollen, with the look of a
festering infection about it.

“His
mark?” asked Cadfael, eyeing the wound.

“His
seal, sure enough, and done with a seal ring. I was not quick enough at his
stirrup when he mounted, yesterday morning.”

“I
can dress that for you,” said Cadfael, “if you’ll wait while I go and make
report to my abbot about another matter. You’d best let me, it could take bad
ways. By the same token,” he said quietly, “you’re far enough out of his
country, and near enough to the border, to do some running of your own, if
you’re so minded.”

“Brother,”
said the groom with the briefest and harshest of laughs, “I have a wife and
children in Bosiet, I’m manacled. But Brand was young and unwed, his heels are
lighter than mine. And I’d best get this beast stalled, and be off to wait on
my lord, or he’ll be laying the other cheek open for me.”

“Then
come out to the guest hall steps,” said Cadfael, recalled as sharply to his own
duty, “when he’s in bed and snoring, and I’ll clean that sore for you.”

Abbot
Radulfus listened with concern, but also with relief, to Cadfael’s report,
promised to send at first light enough helpers to clear away the willow tree,
clean out the brook and shore up the bank above, and nodded gravely at the
suggestion that Eilmund’s long wait in the water might complicate his recovery,
even though the fracture itself was simple and clean. “I should like,” said
Cadfael, “to visit him again tomorrow and make sure he stays in his bed, for
there may be a degree of fever, and you know him, Father, it will take more
than his daughter’s scolding to keep him tamed. If he has your orders he may
take heed. I’ll take his measure for crutches, but not let them near him till
I’m sure he’s fit to rise.”

“You
have my leave to go and come as you see fit,” said Radulfus, “for as long as he
needs your care. Best keep that horse for your use until then. The journey
would be too slow on foot, and we shall need you here some part of the day,
Brother Winfrid being new to the discipline.”

Cadfael
smiled, remembering. “It was no slow journey the young man Hyacinth made of it.
Four times today he’s run those miles, back and forth on his master’s errand,
and back and forth again for Eilmund. I only hope the hermit did not take it
ill that his boy was gone so long.”

It
was in Cadfael’s mind that the groom from Bosiet might be too much in fear of
his master to venture out by night, even when his lord was sleeping. But come
he did, slipping out furtively just as the brothers came out from Compline.
Cadfael led him out through the gardens to the workshop in the herbarium, and
there kindled a lamp to examine the lacerated wound that marred the man’s face.
The little brazier was turfed down for the night, but not extinguished,
evidently Brother Winfrid had been careful to keep it alive in case of need. He
was learning steadily, and strangely the delicacy of touch that eluded him with
pen or brush showed signs of developing now that he came to deal with herbs and
medicines. Cadfael uncovered the fire and blew it into a glow, and put on water
to heat.

“He’s
safe asleep, is he, your lord? Not likely to wake? Though if he did, he should
have no need of you at this hour. But I’ll be as quick as I may.” The groom sat
docile and easy under the ministering hands, turning his face obediently to the
light of the lamp. The bruised cheek was fading at the edges from black to
yellow, but the tear at the corner of his mouth oozed blood and pus. Cadfael
bathed away the encrusted exudations and cleaned the gash with a lotion of
water betony and sanicle.

“He’s
free with his fists, your lord,” he said ruefully. “I see two blows here.”

“He
seldom stops at one,” said the groom grimly. “He does after his kind. There are
some worse than him, God help all those who serve them. His son’s another made
to the same pattern. What else could we look for, when he’s lived so from
birth? In a day or so he’s to join us here, and if he has not got his hands on
Brand by then—God forbid!—the hunt will go on.”

“Well,
at least if you stay a day or so I can get this gash healed for you. What’s
your name, friend?”

“Warin.
Yours I know, Brother, from the hospitaller. That feels cool and kind.”

“I
should have thought,” said Cadfael, “that your lord would have gone first to
the sheriff, if he had a real complaint against this runaway of his. The
guildsmen of the town would likely keep their mouths shut, even if they knew
anything, a town stands to gain by taking in a good craftsman. But the king’s
officers are bound, willing or no, to help a man to his own property.”

“We
got here too late, as you saw, to do much in that kind until the morrow. He
knows, none so well, that Shrewsbury is a charter borough, and may cheat him of
his prey if the lad has got this far. He does intend going to the sheriff. But
since he’s lodged here, and reckons the church as well as the law ought to help
him to his own, he’s asked to put his case at chapter tomorrow, and after that
he’ll be off into the town to seek out the sheriff. There’s no stone he won’t
up-end to get at Brand’s hide.”

Cadfael
was thinking, though he did not say it, that there might be time in between to
send word to Hugh to make himself very hard to find. “What in the world,” he
asked, “has the man done, to make your master so vindictive against him?”

“Why,
he was for ever on the edge of trouble, being a lad that would stand up for
himself, yes, and for others, too, and that’s crime enough for Drogo. I don’t
know the rights of what happened that last day, but however it was, I saw
Bosiet’s steward, who takes his style from his master, carried into the manor
on a shutter, and he was laid up for days. Seemingly something had happened
between them, and Brand had laid him flat, for the next we knew, Brand was
nowhere, and they were hunting him along all the roads out of Northampton. But
they never caught up with him, and here we are still hot on his trail. If ever
Drogo lays hands on him he’ll flay him, but he won’t cripple him, he’s too
valuable to waste. But he’ll have every morsel of his grudge out of the lad’s
skin, and then wring every penny of profit out of his skills lifelong, and make
good sure he never gets the chance to run again.”

“Then
he had better make a good job of it now,” agreed Cadfael wryly. “If
well-wishing can help him, he has it. Now hold still a moment there! And this
ointment you can take with you and use as often as you choose. It helps take
out the sting and lower the swelling.”

Warin
turned the little jar curiously in his hand, and touched a finger to his cheek.
“What’s in it, to work such healing?”

“Saint
John’s wort and the small daisy, both good for wounds. And if chance offers
tomorrow, let me see you again and hear how you do. And keep out of his reach!”
said Cadfael warmly, and turned to bed down his brazier again with fresh
turves, to smoulder quietly and safely until morning.

Drogo
Bosiet duly appeared at chapter next morning, large, loud and authoritative in
an assembly where a wiser man would have realised that authority lay with the
abbot, and the abbot’s grip on it was absolute, however calm and measured his
voice and austere his face. So much the better, thought Cadfael, watching
narrowly and somewhat anxiously from his retired stall, Radulfus will know how
to weigh the man, and let nothing slip too soon. “My lord abbot,” said Drogo,
straddling the flags of the floor like a bull before the charge, “I am here in
search of a malefactor who attacked and injured my steward and fled my lands.
He is known to have made for Northampton, my manor, to which he is tied, being
several miles south-east of the town, and I have it in mind that he would make
for the Welsh border. We have hunted for him all this way, and from Warwick I
have taken this road from Shrewsbury, while my son goes on to Stafford, and
will join me here from that place. All I ask here is whether any stranger of
his years has lately come into these parts.”

“I
take it,” said the abbot after a long and thoughtful pause, and steadily eyeing
the powerful face and arrogant stance of his visitor, “that this man is your
villein.”

“He
is.”

“And
you do know,” pursued Radulfus mildly, “that since it would seem you have
failed to reclaim him within four days, it will be necessary to apply to the
courts to regain possession of him legally?”

“My
lord,” said Drogo with impatient scorn, “so I can well do, if I can but find
him. The man is mine, and I mean to have him. He has been a cause of trouble to
me, but he has skills which are valuable, and I do not mean to be robbed of
what is mine. The law will give me my rights in the lands where the offence arose.”
And so, no doubt, such a law as survived in his own shire would certainly do,
at the mere nod of his head.