The Pilgram of Hate (28 page)

“With
that I find no fault,” said Olivier simply. “Why should you not be glad? But
she… she’s safe? They have not taken her?”

“No,
according to the messenger she’s safely away, with Robert of Gloucester and a
few others as loyal, but the rest, it seems, scattered and made off for their
own lands, where they’d feel safe. That’s the word as he brought it, barely a
day old. The city of London was being pressed hard from the south,” said Hugh,
somewhat softening the load of folly that lay upon the empress’s own shoulders,
“with King Stephen’s queen harrying their borders. To get relief their only way
was to drive the empress out and let the queen in, and their hearts were on her
side, no question, of the two they’d liefer have her.”

“I
knew,” said Olivier,”she was not wise, the Empress Maud. I knew she could not
forget grudges, no matter how sorely she needed to close her eyes to them. I
have seen her strip a man’s dignity from him when he came submissive, offering
support… Better at making enemies than friends. All the more she needs,” he
said, “the few she has. Where is she gone? Did your messenger know?”

“Westward
for Oxford. And they’ll reach it safely. The Londoners won’t follow so far,
their part was only to drive her out.”

“And
the bishop? Is he gone with her?” The entire enterprise had rested upon the
efforts of Henry of Blois, and he had done his best for her, not entirely
creditably but understandably and at considerable cost, and his best she
herself had undone. Stephen was a prisoner in Bristol, but Stephen was still
crowned and anointed king of England. No wonder Hugh’s eyes shone.

“Of
the bishop I know nothing as yet. But he’ll surely join her in Oxford. Unless…”

“Unless
he changes sides again,” Olivier ended for him, and laughed. “It seems I shall
have to leave you in more haste than I expected,” he said with regret. “One
fortune rises, another falls. No sense in quarrelling with the lot.”

“What
will you do?” asked Hugh, watching him steadily. “You know, I think, that
whatever you may ask of us here, is yours, and the choice is yours. Your horses
are fresh. Your men will not yet have heard the news, they’ll be waiting on
your word. If you need stores for a journey, take whatever you will. Or if you
choose to stay…”

Olivier
shook his blue-black head, and the clasping curves of glossy hair danced on his
cheeks. “I must go. Not north, where I was sent. What use in that, now? South
for Oxford. Whatever she may be else, she is my liege lord’s liege lady, where
she is he will be, and where he is, I go.”

They
eyed each other silently for a moment, and Hugh said softly, quoting remembered
words: “To tell you truth, now I’ve met you I expected nothing less.”

“I’ll
go and rouse my men, and we’ll get to horse. You’ll follow to your house,
before I go? I must take leave of Lady Beringar.”

“I’ll
follow you,” said Hugh.

Olivier
turned to Brother Cadfael without a word but with the brief golden flash of a
smile breaking through his roused gravity for an instant, and again vanishing.
“Brother… remember me in your prayers!” He stooped his smooth cheek yet again
in farewell, and as the elder’s kiss was given he embraced Cadfael vehemently,
with impulsive grace. “Until a better time!”

“God
go with you!” said Cadfael.

And
he was gone, striding rapidly along the gravel path, breaking into a light run,
in no way disheartened or down, a match for disaster or for triumph. At the
corner of the box hedge he turned in flight to look back, and waved a hand
before he vanished.

“I
wish to God,” said Hugh, gazing after him, “he was of our party! There’s an odd
thing, Cadfael! Will you believe, just then, when he looked round, I thought I
saw something of you about him. The set of the head, something…”

Cadfael,
too, was gazing out from the open doorway to where the last sheen of blue had
flashed from the burnished hair, and the last echo of the light foot on the
gravel died into silence. “Oh, no,” he said absently, “he is altogether the
image of his mother.”

An
unguarded utterance. Unguarded from absence of mind, or design?

The
following silence did not trouble him, he continued to gaze, shaking his head
gently over the lingering vision, which would stay with him through all his
remaining years, and might even, by the grace of God and the saints, be made
flesh for him yet a third time. Far beyond his deserts, but miracles are
neither weighed nor measured, but as uncalculated as the lightnings.

“I
recall,” said Hugh with careful deliberation, perceiving that he was permitted
to speculate, and had heard only what he was meant to hear, “I do recall that
he spoke of one for whose sake he held the Benedictine order in reverence… one
who had used him like a son…”

Cadfael stirred,
and looked round at him, smiling as he met his friend’s fixed and thoughtful
eyes. “I always meant to tell you, some day,” he said tranquilly, “what he does
not know, and never will from me. He is my son.”

About
the Author

ELLIS PETERS is
the
nom-de-crime
of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of
books under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award,
conferred by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted
Edgar, awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well
known as a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded
the Gold Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for
her services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at
home in her beloved Shropshire.