The Pilgram of Hate (9 page)

Chapter Five

BROTHER
ADAM OF READING, being lodged in the dortoir with the monks of the house, had
had leisure to observe his fellow pilgrims of the guest-hall only at the
offices of the church, and in their casual comings and goings about the
precinct; and it happened that he came from the garden towards midafternoon,
with Cadfael beside him, just as Ciaran and Matthew were crossing the court
towards the cloister garth, there to sit in the sun for an hour or two before
Vespers. There were plenty of others, monks, lay servants and guests, busy on
their various occasions, but Ciaran’s striking figure and painfully slow and
careful gait marked him out for notice.

“Those
two,” said Brother Adam, halting, “I have seen before. At Abington, where I
spent the first night after leaving Reading. They were lodged there the same
night.”

“At
Abingdon!” Cadfael echoed thoughtfully. “So they came from far south. You did
not cross them again after Abingdon, on the way here?”

“It
was not likely. I was mounted. And then, I had my abbot’s mission to
Leominster, which took me out of the direct way. No, I saw no more of them,
never until now. But they can hardly be mistaken, once seen.”

“In
what sort of case were they at Abingdon?” asked Cadfael, his eyes following the
two inseparable figures until they vanished into the cloister. “Would you say
they had been long on the road before that night’s halt? The man is pledged to
go barefoot to Aberdaron, it would not take many miles to leave the mark on
him.”

“He
was going somewhat lamely, even then. They had both the dust of the roads on
them. It might have been their first day’s walking that ended there, but I doubt
it.”

“He
came to me to have his feet tended, yesterday,” said Cadfael, “and I must see
him again before evening. Two or three days of rest will set him up for the
next stage of his walk. From more than a day’s going south of Abingdon to the
remotest tip of Wales, a long, long walk. A strange, even a mistaken, piety it
seems to me, to take upon oneself ostentatious pains, when there are poor
fellows enough in the world who are born to pain they have not chosen, and
carry it with humility.”

“The
simple believe it brings merit,” said Brother Adam tolerantly. “It may be he
has no other claim upon outstanding virtue, and clutches at this.”

“But
he’s no simple soul,” said Cadfael with conviction, “whatever he may be. He
has, he tells me, a mortal disease, and is going to end his days in blessedness
and peace at Aberdaron, and have his bones laid in Ynys Enlli, which is a noble
ambition in a man of Welsh blood. The voluntary assumption of pain beyond his
doom may even be a pennon of defiance, a wag of the hand against death. That I
could understand. But I would not approve it.”

“It’s
very natural you should frown on it,” agreed Adam, smiling indulgence upon his
companion and himself alike, “seeing you are schooled to the alleviation of
pain, and feel it to be a violator and an enemy. By the very virtue of these
plants we have learned to use.” He patted the leather scrip at his girdle, and
the soft rustle of seeds within answered him. They had been sorting over
Cadfael’s clay saucers of new seed from this freshly ripening year, and he had
helped himself to two or three not native in his own herbarium. “It is as good
a dragon to fight as any in this world, pain.”

They
had gone some yards more towards the stone steps that led up to the main door
of the guest-hall, in no hurry, and taking pleasure in the contemplation of so
much bustle and motion, when Brother Adam checked abruptly and stood at gaze.

“Well,
well, I think you may have got some of our southern sinners, as well as our
would-be saints!”

Cadfael,
surprised, followed where Adam was gazing, and stood to hear what further he
would have to say, for the individual in question was the least remarkable of
men at first glance. He stood close to the gatehouse, one of a small group
constantly on hand there to watch the new arrivals and the general commerce of
the day. A big man, but so neatly and squarely built that his size was not
wholly apparent, he stood with his thumbs in the belt of his plain but ample
gown, which was nicely cut and fashioned to show him no nobleman, and no
commoner, either, but a solid, respectable, comfortably provided fellow of the
middle kind, merchant or tradesman. One of those who form the backbone of many
a township in England, and can afford the occasional pilgrimage by way of a
well-earned holiday. He gazed benignly upon the activity around him from a
plump, shrewd, well-shaven face, favouring the whole creation with a broad,
contented smile.

“That,”
said Cadfael, eyeing his companion with bright enquiry, “is, or so I am
informed, one Simeon Poer, a merchant of Guildford, come on pilgrimage for his
soul’s sake, and because the summer chances to be very fine and inviting. And
why not? Do you know of a reason?”

“Simeon
Poer may well be his name,” said Brother Adam, “or he may have half a dozen more
ready to trot forward at need. I never knew a name for him, but his face and
form I do know. Father Abbot uses me a good deal on his business outside the
cloister and I have occasion to know most of the fairs and markets in our shire
and beyond. I’ve seen that fellow—not gowned like a provost, as he is now, I
grant you, but by the look of him he’s been doing well lately—round every
fairground, cultivating the company of those young, green roisterers who
frequent every such gathering. For the contents of their pockets, surely. Most
likely, dice. Even more likely, loaded dice. Though I wouldn’t say he might not
pick a pocket here and there, if business was bad. A quicker means to the same
end, if a riskier.”

So
knowing and practical a brother Cadfael had not encountered for some years
among the innocents. Plainly Brother Adam’s frequent sallies out of the
cloister on the abbot’s business had broadened his horizons. Cadfael regarded
him with respect and warmth, and turned to study the smiling, benevolent
merchant more closely.

“You’re
sure of him?”

“Sure
that he’s the same man, yes. Sure enough of his practices to challenge him
openly, no, hardly, since he has never yet been taken up but once, and then he
proved so slippery he slithered through the bailiffs fingers. But keep a
weather eye on him, and this may be where he’ll make the slip every rogue makes
in the end, and get his comeuppance.”

“If
you’re right,” said Cadfael, “has he not strayed rather far from his own
haunts? In my experience, from years back I own, his kind seldom left the
region where they knew their way about better than the bailiffs. Has he made
the south country so hot for him that he must run for a fresh territory? That
argues something worse than cheating at dice.”

Brother
Adam hoisted dubious shoulders. “It could be. Some of our scum have found the
disorders of faction very profitable, in their own way, just as their lords and
masters have in theirs. Battles are not for them—far too dangerous to their own
skins. But the brawls that blow up in towns where uneasy factions come together
are meat and drink to them. Pockets to be picked, riots to be
started—discreetly from the rear—unoffending elders who look prosperous to be
knocked on the head or knifed from behind or have their purse-strings cut in
the confusion… Safer and easier than taking to the woods and living wild for
prey, as their kind do in the country.”

Just
such gatherings, thought Cadfael, as that at Winchester, where at least one man
was knifed in the back and left dying. Might not the law in the south be
searching for this man, to drive him so far from his usual hunting-grounds? For
some worse offence than cheating silly young men of their money at dice?
Something as black as murder itself?

“There
are two or three others in the common guest-hall,” he said, “about whom I have
my doubts, but this man has had no truck with them so far as I’ve seen. But
I’ll bear it in mind, and keep a watchful eye open, and have Brother Denis do
the same. And I’ll mention what you say to Hugh Beringar, too, before this
evening’s out. Both he and the town provost will be glad to have fair warning.”

Since
Ciaran was sitting quietly in the cloister garth, it seemed a pity he should be
made to walk through the gardens to the herbarium, when Cadfael’s broad brown
feet were in excellent condition, and sensibly equipped with stout sandals. So
Cadfael fetched the salve he had used on Ciaran’s wounds and bruises, and the
spirit that would brace and toughen his tender soles, and brought them to the
cloister. It was pleasant there in the afternoon sun, and the turf was thick
and springy and cool to bare feet. The roses were coming into full bloom, and
their scent hung in the warm air like a benediction. But two such closed and
sunless faces! Was the one truly condemned to an early death, and the other to
lose and mourn so close a friend?

Ciaran
was speaking as Cadfael approached, and did not at first notice him, but even
when he was aware of the visitor bearing down on them he continued steadily to
the end, “… you do but waste your time, for it will not happen. Nothing will be
changed, don’t look for it. Never! You might far better leave me and go home.”

Did
the one of them believe in Saint Winifred’s power, and pray and hope for a
miracle? And was the other, the sick man, all too passionately of Rhun’s mind,
and set on offering his early death as an acceptable and willing sacrifice,
rather than ask for healing?

Matthew
had not yet noticed Cadfael’s approach. His deep voice, measured and resolute,
said just audibly, “Save your breath! For I will go with you, step for step, to
the very end.”

Then
Cadfael was close, and they were both aware of him, and stirred defensively out
of their private anguish, heaving in breath and schooling their faces to
confront the outer world decently. They drew a little apart on the stone bench,
welcoming Cadfael with somewhat strained smiles.

“I
saw no need to make you come to me,” said Cadfael, dropping to his knees and
opening his scrip in the bright green turf, “when I am better able to come to
you. So sit and be easy, and let me see how much work is yet to be done before
you can go forth in good heart.”

“This
is kind, brother,” said Ciaran, rousing himself with a sigh. “Be assured that I
do go in good heart, for my pilgrimage is short and my arrival assured.”

At
the other end of the bench Matthew’s voice said softly, “Amen!”

After
that it was all silence as Cadfael anointed the swollen soles, kneading spirit
vigorously into the misused skin, surely heretofore accustomed always to going
well shod, and soothed the ointment of cleavers into the healing grazes.

“There!
Keep off your feet through tomorrow, but for such offices as you feel you must
attend. Here there’s no need to go far. And I’ll come to you tomorrow and have
you fit to stand somewhat longer the next day, when the saint is brought home.”
When he spoke of her now, he hardly knew whether he was truly speaking of the
mortal substance of Saint Winifred, which was generally believed to be in that
silver-chaced reliquary, or of some hopeful distillation of her spirit which
could fill with sanctity even an empty coffin, even a casket containing
pitiful, faulty human bones, unworthy of her charity, but subject, like all
mortality, to the capricious, smiling mercies of those above and beyond
question. If you could reason by pure logic for the occurrence of miracles,
they would not be miracles, would they?

He
scrubbed his hands on a handful of wool, and rose from his knees. In some
twenty minutes or so it would be time for Vespers.

He
had taken his leave, and almost reached the archway into the great court, when
he heard rapid steps at his heels, a hand reached deprecatingly for his sleeve,
and Matthew’s voice said in his ear, “Brother Cadfael, you left this lying.”

It
was his jar of ointment, of rough, greenish pottery, almost invisible in the
grass. The young man held it out in the palm of a broad, strong, workmanlike
hand, long-fingered and elegant. Dark eyes, reserved but earnestly curious,
searched Cadfael’s face.

Cadfael
took the jar with thanks, and put it away in his scrip. Ciaran sat where
Matthew had left him, his face and burning gaze turned towards them; they stood
at a distance, between him and the outer day, and he had, for one moment, the
look of a soul abandoned to absolute solitude in a populous world.

Cadfael
and Matthew stood gazing in speculation and uncertainty into each other’s eyes.
This was that able, ready young man who had leaped into action at need, upon
whom Melangell had fixed her young, unpractised heart, and to whom Rhun had
surely looked for a hopeful way out for his sister, whatever might become of
himself. Good, cultivated stock, surely, bred of some small gentry and taught a
little Latin as well as his schooling in arms. How, except by the compulsion of
inordinate love, did this one come to be ranging the country like a penniless
vagabond, without root or attachment but to a dying man?

“Tell
me truth,” said Cadfael. “Is it indeed true—is it certain—that Ciaran goes this
way towards his death?”

There
was a brief moment of silence, as Matthew’s wide-set eyes grew larger and
darker. Then he said very softly and deliberately, “It is truth. He is already
marked for death. Unless your saint has a miracle for us, there is nothing can
save him. Or me!” he ended abruptly, and wrenched himself away to return to his
devoted watch.