An Excellent Mystery (16 page)

“So
he might,” said Hugh mildly, thinking of his own masterful heir, to whom
Cadfael stood godfather, “so he very well might. I’m obliged to you, friend. At
least we’ll ask there.” He wheeled his horse, without haste, to the homeward
way. “A good harvest to you!” he said over his shoulder, smiling, and chirruped
to the grey and was off, with his sergeants at his heels.

Walter
the cooper had a shop in the hilltop town of Brigge, in a narrow alley no great
way from the shadow of the castle walls. His booth was a narrow-fronted cave
that drove deep within, and backed on an open, well-lit yard smelling of cut
timber, and stacked with his finished and half-finished barrels, butts and
pails, and the tools and materials of his craft. Over the low wall the ground
fell away by steep, grassy terraces to where the Severn coiled, almost as it
coiled at Shrewsbury, close about the foot of the town, broad and placid now at
low summer water, with sandy shoals breaking its surface, but ready to wake and
rage if sudden rains should come.

Hugh
left his sergeants in the alley, and himself dismounted and went in through the
dark booth to the yard beyond. A freckled boy of about seventeen was stooped
over his jointer, busy bevelling a barrel-stave, and another a year or two
younger was carefully paring long bands of willow for binding the staves
together when the barrel was set up in its truss hoop. Yet a third boy, perhaps
ten years old, was energetically sweeping up shavings and cramming them into
bags for firing. It seemed that Walter had a full quiver of helpers in his
business, for they were all alike, and all plainly sons of one father, and he
the small, spry, dark man who straightened up from his shaving-horse, knife in
hand.

“Serve
you, sir?”

“Master
cooper,” said Hugh, “I’m looking for one Adam Heriet, who I’m told is brother
to your wife. They know nothing of his whereabouts at his nephew’s croft at
Harpecote, but thought you might be in closer touch with him. If you can tell
me where he’s to be found, I shall be grateful.”

There
was a silence, sudden and profound. Walter stood gravely staring, and the hand
that held the draw-knife with its curved blade sank quite slowly to hang at his
side while he thought. Manual dexterity was natural to him, but thought came
with deliberation, and slowly. All three boys stood equally mute and stared as
their father stared. The eldest, Hugh supposed, must be Adam’s godson, if Edric
had the matter aright.

“Sir,”
said Walter at length, “I don’t know you. What’s your will with my wife’s kin?”

“You
shall know me, Walter,” said Hugh easily. “My name is Hugh Beringar, I am
sheriff of this shire, and my business with Adam Heriet is to ask him some
questions concerning a matter three years old now, in which I trust he’ll be
able to help us do right. If you can bring me to have speech with him, you may
be helping him no less than me.”

Even
a law-abiding man, in the circumstances, might have his doubts of that, but a
law-abiding man with a decent business and a wife and family to look after
would also take a careful look all round the matter before denying the sheriff
a fair answer. Walter was no fool. He shuffled his feet thoughtfully in the
sawdust and the small shavings his youngest son had missed in his sweeping, and
said with every appearance of candour and goodwill: “Why, my lord, Adam’s been
away soldiering some years, but now it seems there’s almost quiet down in the
southern parts, and he’s free to take his pleasure for a few days. You come
very apt to your time, sir, as it chances, for he’s here within the house this
minute.”

The
eldest boy had made to start forward softly towards the house door by this, but
his father plucked him unobtrusively back by the sleeve, and gave him a swift
glance that froze him where he stood. “This lad here is Adam’s godson and
namesake,” said Walter guilelessly, putting him forward by the hand which had
restrained him. “You show the lord sheriff into the room, boy, and I’ll put on
my coat and follow.”

It
was not what the younger Adam had intended, but he obeyed, whether in awe of
his father or trusting him to know best. But his freckled face was glum as he
led the way through the door into the large single room that served as hall and
sleeping-quarters for his elders. An uncovered window, open over the descent to
the river, let in ample light on the centre of the room, but the corners
receded into a wood-scented darkness. At a big trestle table sat a solid,
brown-bearded, balding man with his elbows spread comfortably on the board, and
a beaker of ale before him. He had the weathered look of a man who lives out of
doors in all but the bleakest seasons, and an air of untroubled strength about
his easy stillness. The woman who had just come in from her cupboard of a
kitchen, ladle in hand, was built on the same generous fashion, and had the
same rich brown colouring. It was from their father that the boys got their
wiry build and dark hair, and the fair skins that dappled in the sun.

“Mother,”
said the youth, “here’s the lord sheriff asking after Uncle Adam.”

His
voice was flat and loud, and he halted a moment, blocking the doorway, before
he moved within and let Hugh pass by him. It was the best he could do. The
unshuttered window was large enough for an active man, if he had anything on
his conscience, to vault through it and make off down the slope to a river he
could wade now without wetting his knees. Hugh warmed to the loyal godson, and
refrained from letting him see even the trace of a smile. A dreaming soul,
evidently, who saw no use in a sheriff but to bring trouble to lesser men. But
Adam the elder sat attentive and interested a reasonable moment before he got
to his feet and gave amiable greeting.

“My
lord, you have your asking. That name and title belongs to me.”

One
of Hugh’s sergeants would be circling the slope below the window by now, while
the other stayed with the horses. But neither the man nor the boy could have
known that. Evidently Adam had seen action enough not to be easily startled or
affrighted, and here had no reason he could see, so far, to be either.

“Be
easy,” he said. “If it’s a matter of some of King Stephen’s men quitting their
service, no need to look here. I have leave to visit my sister. You may have a
few strays running loose, for all I know, but I’m none.”

The
woman came to his side slowly and wonderingly, bewildered but not alarmed. She
had a round, wholesome, rosy face, and honest eyes.

“My
lord, here’s my good brother come so far to see me. Surely there’s no wrong in
that?”

“None
in the world,” said Hugh, and went on without preamble, and in the same mild
manner: “I’m seeking news of a lady who vanished three years since. What do you
know of Julian Cruce?”

That
was sheer blank bewilderment to mother and son, and to Walter, who had just
come into the room at Hugh’s back, but it was plain enough vernacular to Adam
Heriet. He froze where he stood, half-risen from the bench, leaning on the
trestle table, and hung there staring into Hugh’s face, his own countenance
wary and still. He knew the name, it had flung him back through the years,
every detail of that journey he was recalling now, threading them frantically
through his mind like the beads of a rosary in the hands of a terrified man.
But he was not terrified, only alerted to danger, to the pains of memory, to
the necessity to think fast, and perhaps select between truth, partial truth
and lying. Behind that firm, impenetrable face he might have been thinking
anything.

“My
lord,” said Adam, stirring slowly out of his stillness, “yes, of her certainly
I know. I rode with her, I and three others from her father’s household, when
she went to take the veil at Wherwell. And I do know, seeing I serve in those
parts, I do know how the nunnery there was burned out. But vanished three years
since? How is that possible, seeing it was well known to her kin where she was
living? Vanished now — yes, all too certainly, for I’ve been asking in vain
since the fire. If you know more of my lady Julian since then than I, I beg you
tell me. I could get no word whether she’s living or dead.”

It
had all the ring of truth, if he had not so strongly contained himself in those
few moments of silence. It might be more than half truth, even so. If he was
honest, he would have looked for her there, after the holocaust. If dishonest —
well, he knew and could use the recent circumstances.

“You
went with her to Wherwell,” said Hugh, answering nothing and volunteering
nothing. “Did you then see her safe within the convent gates there?”

This
silence was brief indeed, but pregnant. If he said yes, boldly, he lied. If
not, at least he might be telling truth.

“No,
my lord, I did not,” said Adam heavily. “I wish I had, but she would not have
it so. We lay the last night at Andover, and then I went on with her the last
few miles. When we came within a mile — but it was not within sight yet, and
there were small woodlands between — she sent me back, and said she would go
the end of the way alone. I did what she wished. I had done what she wished since
I carried her in my arms, barely a year old,” he said, with the first flash of
fire out of his dark composure, like brief lightning out of banked clouds.

“And
the other three?” asked Hugh mildly.

“We
left them in Andover. When I returned we set out for home all together.”

Hugh
said nothing yet about the discrepancy in time. That might well be held in
reserve, to be sprung on him when he was away from this family solidarity, and
less sure of himself.

“And
you know nothing of Julian Cruce since that day?”

“No,
my lord, nothing. And if you do, for God’s sake let me know of it, worst or
best!”

“You
were devoted to this lady?”

“I
would have died for her. I would die for her now.”

Well,
so you may yet, thought Hugh, if you turn out to be the best player of a part
that ever put on a false face. He was in two minds about this man, whose brief
flashes of passion had all the force of truth, and yet who picked his way among
words with a rare subtlety.

Why,
if he had nothing to hide?

“You
have a horse here, Adam?”

The
man lifted upon him a long, calculating stare, from eyes deep-set beneath bushy
brows. “I have, my lord.”

“Then
I must ask you to saddle and ride with me.”

It
was an asking that could not be refused, and Adam Heriet was well aware of it,
but at least it was put in a fashion which enabled him to rise and go with
composed dignity. He pushed back the bench and stood clear.

“Ride
where, my lord?” And to the freckled boy, watching dubiously from the shadows,
he said: “Go and saddle for me, lad, make yourself useful.”

Adam
the younger went, though not willingly, and with a long backward glance over
his shoulder, and in a moment or two hooves thudded on the hard-beaten earth of
the yard.

“You
must know,” said Hugh, “all the circumstances of the lady’s decision to enter a
convent. You know she was betrothed as a child to Godfrid Marescot, and that he
broke off the match to become a monk at Hyde Mead.”

“Yes,
I do know.”

“After
the burning of Hyde, Godfrid Marescot came to Shrewsbury in the dispersal that
followed. Since the sack of Wherwell, he frets for news of the girl, and
whether you can bring him any or no, Adam, I would have you come with me and
visit him.” Not a word yet of the small matter of her non-arrival at the refuge
she had chosen. Nor was there any way of knowing from this experienced and
well-regulated face whether Adam knew of it or no. “If you cannot shed light,”
said Hugh amiably, “at least you can speak to him of her, share a remembrance
heavy enough, as things are now, to carry alone.”

Adam
drew a long, slow, cautious breath. “I will well, my lord. He was a fine man,
so everyone reports of him. Old for her, but a fine man. It was great pity. She
used to prattle about him, proud as if he was making a queen of her. Pity such
a lass should ever take to the cloister. She would have been his fair match. I
knew her. I’ll ride with you in goodwill.” And to the husband and wife who
stood close together, wondering and distrustful, he said calmly: “Shrewsbury is
not far. You’ll see me back again before you know it.”

It
was a strange and yet an everyday ride back to Shrewsbury. All the way this
hardened and resilient man-at-arms conducted himself as though he did not know
he was a prisoner, and suspect of something not yet revealed, while very well
knowing that two sergeants rode one at either quarter behind him, in case he
should make a break for freedom. He rode well, and had a very decent horse
beneath him, and must be a man held in good repute and trusted by his commander
to be loosed as he pleased, and thus well provided. Concerning his own
situation he asked nothing, and betrayed no anxiety; but three times at least
before they came in sight of Saint Giles he asked: “My lord, did you ever hear
word of her at all, after the troubles fell on Winchester?”

“Sir,
if you have made enquiries round Wherwell, did you come upon any trace? There
must have been many nuns scattered there.”

And
last, in abrupt pleading: “My lord, if you do know, is she living or dead?”