An Excellent Mystery (12 page)

Nicholas
rode the twelve miles or so to Romsey in sobering solemnity, aware he might be
drawing near to an answer possibly not to his liking. Once clear of Winchester
and on his way further south-west, he was delivered from any threat, for he
went through country where the queen’s writ ran without challenge. Pleasant,
rolling country, well tree’d even before he reached the fringes of the great
forest. He came to the abbey gatehouse, in the heart of the small town, in the
late evening, and rang the bell at the gate.

The
portress peered at him through the grille, and asked his business. He stooped
entreatingly to the grid, and gazed into a pair of bright, elderly eyes in beds
of wrinkles.

“Sister,
have you given refuge here to some of the nuns of Wherwell? I am seeking for
news of one of them, and could get no answers there.”

The
portress eyed him narrowly, and saw a young face soiled and drawn with travel,
a young man alone, and in dead earnest, no threat. Even here in Romsey they had
learned to be cautious about opening their gates, but the road beyond him was
empty and still, and the twilight folded down on the little town peacefully
enough.

“The
prioress and three sisters reached here,” she said, “but I doubt if any of them
can tell you much of the rest, not yet. But come within, and I’ll ask if she
will speak with you.”

The
wicket clanked open, lock and chain, and he stepped through into the court.
“Who knows?” said the portress kindly, fastening the door again after him. “One
of our three may be the one you’re seeking. At least you may try.”

She
led him along dim corridors to a small, panelled parlour, lit by a tiny lamp,
and there left him. The evening meal would be long over, even Compline past, it
was almost time for sleeping. They would want him satisfied, if satisfaction
was possible, and out of their precinct before the night.

He
could not rest or sit, but was prowling the room like a caged bear when a
further door opened, and the prioress of Wherwell came quietly in. A short,
round, rosy woman, but with a formidably strong face and exceedingly direct
brown eyes, that studied her visitor from head to foot in one piercing glance
as he made his reverence to her.

“You
asked for me, I am told. I am here. How can I help you?”

“Madam,”
said Nicholas, trembling for awe of what might come, “I was well north, in
Shropshire, when I heard of the sack of Wherwell. There was a sister there of
whose vocation I had only just learned, and now all I want is to know that she
lives and is safe after that outrage. Perhaps to speak with her, and see for
myself that she is well, if that can be permitted. I did ask in Wherwell
itself, but could get no word of her — I know only the name she had in the
world.”

The
prioress waved him to a seat, and herself sat down apart, where she could watch
his face. “May I know your own name, sir?”

“My
name is Nicholas Harnage. I was squire to Godfrid Marescot until he took the
cowl in Hyde Mead. He was formerly betrothed to this lady, and he is anxious
now to know that she is safe and well.”

She
nodded at that very natural desire, but nevertheless her brows had drawn
together in a thoughtful and somewhat puzzled frown. “That name I know, Hyde
was proud of having gained him. But I never recall hearing… What is the name of
this sister you seek?”

“In
the world she was Julian Cruce, of a Shropshire family. The sister I spoke with
in Wherwell had never heard the name, but it may well be that she chose a very
different name when she took the veil. But you will know of her both before and
after.”

“Julian
Cruce?” she repeated, erect and intent now, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Young
sir, are you not in some mistake? You are sure it was Wherwell she entered? Not
some other house?”

“No,
certainly, madam, Wherwell,” he said earnestly. “I had it from her brother
himself, he could not be mistaken.”

There
was a moment of taut silence, while she considered and shook her head over him,
frowning. “When was it that she entered the Order? It cannot be long ago.”

“Three
years, madam. The date I cannot tell, but it was about a month after my lord
took the cowl, and that was in the middle of July.” He was frightened now by
the strangeness of her reception. She was shaking her head dubiously, and
regarding him with mingled sympathy and bewilderment. “It may be that this was
before you held office…”

“Son,”
she said ruefully, “I have been prioress for more than seven years now, there
is not a name among our sisters that I don’t know, whether the world’s name or
the cloistered, not an entry I have not witnessed. And sorry as I am to say it,
and little as I myself understand it, I cannot choose but tell you, past any
doubt, that no Julian Cruce ever asked for, or received the veil at Wherwell.
It is a name I never heard, and belongs to a woman of whom I know nothing.”

He
could not believe it. He sat staring and passing a dazed hand once and again
over his forehead. “But… this is impossible! She set out from home with an
escort, and a dowry intended for her convent. She declared her intent to come
to Wherwell, all her household knew it, her father knew it and sanctioned it.
About this, I swear to you, madam, there is no possible mistake. She set out to
ride to Wherwell.”

“Then,”
said the prioress gravely, “I fear you have questions to ask elsewhere, and
very serious questions. For believe me, if you are certain she set out to come
to us, I am no less certain that she never reached us.”

“But
what could prevent?” he asked urgently, wrenching at impossibilities. “Between
her home and Wherwell…”

“Between
her home and Wherwell were many miles,” said the prioress. “And many things can
prevent the fulfilment of the plans of men and women in this world. The
disorders of war, the accidents of travel, the malice of other men.”

“But
she had an escort to bring her to her journey’s end!”

“Then
it’s of them you should be making enquiries,” she said gently, “for they
signally failed to do so.”

No
point whatever in pressing her further. He sat stunned into silence, utterly
lost. She knew what she was saying, and at least she had pointed him towards
the only lead that remained to him. What was the use of hunting any further in
these parts, until he had caught at the clue she offered him, and begun to
trace that ride of Julian’s from Lai, where it had begun. Three men-at-arms,
Reginald had said, went with her, under a huntsman who had an affection for her
from her childhood. They must still be there in Reginald’s service, there to be
questioned, there to be made to account for the mission that had never been
completed.

The
prioress had yet one more point to make, even as she rose to indicate that the
interview was over, and the late visitor dismissed.

“She
was carrying, you say, the dowry she intended to bring to Wherwell? I know
nothing of its value, of course, but… The roads are not entirely free of evil
customs…”

“She
had four men to guard her,” cried Nicholas, one last flare in desperation, “And
they knew what she carried?”

“God
knows,” said the prioress, “I should be loth to cast suspicion on any upright
man, but we live in a world, alas, where of any four men, one at least may be
corruptible.”

He
went away into the town still dazed, unable to think or reason, unable to grasp
and understand what with all his heavy heart he believed. It was growing dark,
and he was too weary to continue now without sleep, besides the care he must
have for his horse. He found an alehouse that could provide him a rough bed,
and stabling and fodder for his beast, and lay wakeful a long time before his
own exhaustion of body and mind overcame him.

He
had an answer, but what to make of it he did not know. Certain it was that she
had never passed through the gates of Wherwell, and therefore had not died
there in the fire. But — three years, and never a word or a sign! Her brother
had not troubled himself with a half-sister he scarcely knew, believing her to
be settled in life according to her own choice. And never a word had come from
her. Who was there to wonder or question? Cloistered women are secure in their
own community, have all their sisterhood about them, what need have they of the
world, and what should the world expect from them? Three years of silence from
those vowed to the cultivation of silence is natural enough; but three years
without a word now became an abyss, into which Julian Cruce had fallen as into
the ocean, and sunk without trace.

Now
there was nothing to be done but hasten back to Shrewsbury, confess his
shattering failure in his mission, and go on to Lai to tell the same dismal
story to Reginald Cruce. Only there could he again hope to find a thread to
follow. He set off early in the morning to ride back into Winchester.

It
was mid-morning when he drew near to the city. He had left it, prudently, not
by the direct way through the west gate, since the royal castle with its
hostile and by this time surely desperate garrison lay so close and had
complete command of the gate. But some time before he reached the spot where he
should, in the name of caution, turn eastward from the Romsey road and circle
round the south of the city to a safer approach, he began to be aware of a
constant chaotic murmur of sound ahead, that grew from a murmur to a throbbing
clamour, to a steely din of clashing and screaming that could mean nothing but
battle, and a close and tangled and desperate battle at that. It seemed to
centre to his left front, at some distance from the town, and the air in that
direction hung hazy with the glittering dust of struggle and flight.

Nicholas
abandoned all thought of turning aside towards the bishop’s hospital of Saint
Cross or the east gate, and rode on full tilt towards the west gate. And there
before him he saw the townsfolk of Winchester boiling out into the open
sunlight with shouting and excitement, and the streets within full of people,
loud, exultant and fearless, all clamouring for news or imparting news at the tops
of their voices, throwing off all the creeping caution that had fettered them
for so long.

Nicholas
caught at a tall fellow’s shoulder and bellowed his own question: “What is it?
What’s happened?”

“They’re
gone! Marched out at dawn, that woman and her royal uncle of Scotland and all
her lords! Little they cared about the likes of us starving, but when the wolf
bit them it was another story. Out they went, the lot of them — in good order,
then! Now hark to them! The Flemings at least let them get clear of the town
before they struck, and let us alone. There’ll be pickings, over there!”

They
were only waiting, these vengeful tradesmen and craftsmen of Winchester,
hovering here until the din of battle moved away into the distance. There would
be gleanings before the night. No man can ride his fastest loaded down with
casque and coat of mail. Even their swords they might discard to lighten the
weight their horses had to bear. And if they had retained enough optimism to
believe they could convey their valuables away with them, there would be rich
pickings indeed before the day was out.

So
it had come, the expected attempt to break out of the iron circle of the
queen’s army, and it had come too late to have any hope of success. After the
holocaust of Wherwell even the empress must have known she could hold out here
no longer.

North-west
along the Stockbridge road and wavering over the rising downs, the glittering
halo of dust rolled and danced, spreading wider as it receded. Nicholas set off
to follow it, as the boldest of the townsmen, or the greediest, or the most
vindictive, were also doing afoot. He had far outridden them, and was alone in
the undulating uplands, when he saw the first traces of the assault which had
broken the empress’s army. A single fallen body, a lamed horse straying, a
heavy shield hurled aside, the first of many. A mile further on and the ground
was littered with arms, pieces of armour torn off and flung aside in flight,
helmets, coats of mail, saddle-bags, spilling garments and coins and ornaments
of silver, fine gowns, pieces of plate from noble tables, all expendable where
mere life was the one thing to be valued. Not all had preserved it, even at
this cost. There were bodies, tossed and trampled among the grasses, frightened
horses running in circles, some ridden almost to death and gasping on the
ground. Not a battle, but a rout, a headlong flight in contagious terror.

He
had halted, staring in sick wonder at such a spectacle, while the flight and
pursuit span forward into the distance under its shining cloud, towards the
Test at Stockbridge. He did not follow it further, but turned and rode back
towards the city, wanting no part in that day’s work. On his way he met the
first of the gleaners, hungry and eager, gathering the spoils of victory.

It
was three days later, in the early afternoon, when he rode again into the great
court at Shrewsbury abbey, to fulfil the promise he had made. Brother Humilis
was in the herb-garden with Cadfael, sitting in the shade while Fidelis chose
from among the array of plants a few sprigs and tendrils he wanted for an
illuminated border, bryony and centaury and bugloss, and the coiled threads of
vetches, infinitely adaptable for framing initial letters. The young man had
grown interested in the herbs and their uses, and sometimes helped to make the
remedies Cadfael used in the treatment of Humilis, tending them with
passionate, still devotion, as though his love could add the final ingredient
that would make them sovereign.