Hermit of Eyton Forest (24 page)

“My
lord abbot, this is madness! The boy is lying. He’ll say anything to serve his
turn. Of course Father Cuthred is a priest! The brothers of Savigny from
Buildwas brought him to us, ask them, they have no doubts. There has never been
any question. This is wickedness, so to slander a holy man.”

“Such
slander would indeed be wickedness,” agreed Radulfus, fixing his deep-set eyes
and lowered brows formidably upon Richard. “Think well, sir, before you repeat
it. If this is a device to get your way and remain here with us, think better
of it now and confess it. You shall not be punished for it. Whatever else, it
would seem that you have been misused, abducted and intimidated, and that shall
excuse you. I would remind Sir Fulke of these circumstances. But if you do not
tell truth now, Richard, then you do incur punishment.”

“I
have told truth,” said Richard stoutly, jutting his very respectable chin and
meeting the awesome eyes without blinking. “I am telling truth. I swear it! I
did what they demanded of me because I knew then that the hermit is not a
priest, and a marriage made by him would be no marriage.”

“How
did you know?” cried Fulke furiously, stirring out of his confusion. “Who told
you so? My lord, this is all a childish ruse, and a spiteful one. He is lying!”

“Well?
You may answer those questions,” said Radulfus, never taking his eyes from
Richard’s. “How did you know? Who told you?” But these were the very questions
Richard could not answer without betraying Hyacinth, and bringing the hunt on
to his trail with renewed vigour. He said with wincing gallantry: “Father, I
will tell you, but not here, only to you. Please believe me, I am not lying.”

“I
do believe you,” said the abbot, abruptly releasing him from the scrutiny which
had made him tremble. “I believe you are saying what you have been told, and
what you believe to be true. But this is a more serious matter than you can
understand, and it must be cleared up. A man against whom such an accusation
has been made has the right to speak up for himself, and prove his good faith.
I shall go myself, tomorrow early, and ask the hermit whether he is or is not a
priest, and who ordained him, and where, and when. These things can be proven,
and should be. You will surely have an equal interest, my lord, in finding out,
once for all, whether this was indeed a marriage. Though I must warn you,” he
added firmly, “that even if it is it can be annulled, seeing it cannot have
been consummated.”

“Make
the attempt,” retorted Astley, somewhat recovering his composure, “and it will
be contested to the limit. But I acknowledge that truth must come out. We
cannot have such doubts lingering.”

“Then
will you not meet with me at the hermitage, as early as may be after Prime? It
is fair we should both hear what Cuthred has to say. I am well sure,” he said
with truth, having seen the effect of Richard’s outburst, “that you believed
implicitly the man was a priest, with full rights to marry and bury. That is
not in dispute. Richard has cause to hold to the contrary. Let us put it to the
test.”

There
was nothing Astley could object to in that, nor, thought Cadfael, had he any
wish to avoid the issue. He had certainly been profoundly shocked by the
suggestion of deceit, and wanted the damaging doubt removed. But he did make
one more attempt to regain his hold meantime on the boy. He advanced a hand to
Richard’s shoulder. “I will come to that meeting,” he said, “and see this
deluded child proved wrong. But for this night I still hold he stands as my
son, and should go with me.”

The
hand closed on Richard’s arm, and the boy started and tore himself away.
Brother Paul could no longer restrain himself, he hurried forward out of the
staring ranks and drew the truant close to his side. “Richard stays here,” said
Radulfus firmly. “His father entrusted him to me, and I set no limit on his
stay with us. But whose son by law and whose husband the child is we must and
will examine.”

Fulke
was growing purple in the face again with suppressed anger. He had come so near
to capturing the imp, and now to be thwarted, and the whole structure of his
and Dionisia’s territorial plans put in jeopardy. He would not give up so
easily.

“You
take much upon yourself, my lord abbot,” he began, “in denying rights to his
kin, you who have no blood claim upon him. And I think you are not without
designs upon his lands and goods in keeping him here. You want no marriage for
the boy, but rather to school him here until he knows no other world, and will
enter tamely into his novitiate, and your house into his inheritance…” He was
so intent on his accusations, and all those about him so stricken into wonder
at his daring, that no one had yet observed the new arrival at the gatehouse.
All eyes were on Astley, and all mouths agape in amazement, and Hugh had
tethered his horse at the gate and entered on foot, making no noise. He had
taken but ten paces into the court when his eye fell first on the grey horse
and the black pony, crusted with the drying lather of their hasty ride, and
held now by a groom, who stood gaping at the group framed in the archway of the
cloister. Hugh followed the man’s fascinated stare, and took in at a glance the
same arresting spectacle, the abbot and Fulke Astley face to face in obvious
confrontation, and Brother Paul with an arm protectively about the shoulders of
a small, wiry, grubby and dishevelled boy, who lifted to the evening light the
wide-eyed face, half-frightened, half-defiant, of Richard Ludel. Radulfus,
standing disdainfully silent under abuse, was the first to notice the new
arrival on the scene. Looking clean over his adversary’s head, as with his
height he could very well do, he said distinctly: “No doubt the lord sheriff
will pay the attention due to your charges. As he may also be interested in how
Richard came to be in your care at Leighton as late as last night. You should
address your complaints to him.” Fulke span upon one heel so precipitately that
he all but lost his balance; and there was Hugh coming briskly down the court
to join them, one quirky eyebrow tilted into his black hair, and the eye
beneath it bright and sharply knowing, and levelled upon Fulke. “Well, well, my
lord!” said Hugh amiably. “I see you have made shift to discover and restore
the truant I have just failed to find in your manor of Leighton. Here am I
newly come from there to report failure to the lord abbot as Richard’s
guardian, and here I find you have been doing my work for me while I was
wild-goose chasing. I take that very kindly of you. I’ll bear it in mind when
it comes to considering the little matter of abduction and forcible imprisonment.
It seems the woodland bird that whispered in my ear Richard was at Leighton
told simple truth, for all I found no trace of him when I put it to the proof,
and no one to admit he’d ever been there. You can have been out of the house
barely half an hour by some other path when I reached it by the road.” His
observant eye roved over Richard’s taut figure and wary face, and came to rest
on the abbot. “Do you find him in good heart, and none the worse for being
caged, my lord? He’s come to no harm?”

“None
to his body, certainly,” said Radulfus. “But there is another matter
unresolved. It seems a form of marriage took place last night at Leighton
between Richard and Sir Fulke’s daughter. To that Richard agrees, but he says
that it was no real marriage, since the hermit Cuthred, who conducted it, is
not a priest.”

“Do
you tell me so?” Hugh pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, and swung round
upon Fulke, who stood mute but watchful, all too aware of the need to step
warily, and think now before he spoke. “And what do you say to that, my lord?”

“I
say it is an absurd charge that will never stand. He came to us with the good
will of the brothers of Buildwas. I never heard word against him, and do not
believe it now. We have dealt with him in good faith.”

“That,
I am sure, is true,” said the abbot fairly. “If there is anything in this
charge, those who desired this marriage did not know of it.”

“But
Richard, I think, did not desire it,” said Hugh, with a somewhat grim smile.
“This cannot rest so, we must have out the truth.”

“So
we are all agreed,” said Radulfus, “and Sir Fulke has contracted to meet with
me tomorrow after Prime at the hermitage, and hear what the man himself has to
say. I was about to send to you, my lord sheriff, and tell you how this thing
stands, and ask you to ride with me tomorrow. This scene,” he said, casting an
authoritative glance round at his all too attentive flock, “need not be
prolonged, I think. If you will sup with me, Hugh, you shall hear all that has
happened. Robert, have the brothers proceed. I am sorry our evening should have
been so rudely disrupted. And, Paul…” He looked down at Richard, who had one
fist tightly clenched on a fold of Paul’s habit, ready to hold fast had his
tenure been threatened. “Take him away, Paul, clean him up, feed him, and bring
him to me after supper. He has a great deal to tell us that has not been told
yet. There, you may disperse, all, there is no more here to see.” The brothers
edged aside obediently, and moved away somewhat raggedly to resume the interrupted
order of the evening, though there would be furtive whispering even in the
frater, and a great deal of excited talk afterwards in the leisured hour before
Collations. Brother Paul marched his restored lamb away to be washed and made
presentable before abbot and sheriff after supper. Aymer Bosiet, who had looked
on with a certain malevolent satisfaction at someone else’s crisis and
confusion as a relief from his own, detached himself moodily and went across
the court to the guest hall. But Cadfael, suddenly moved to look back, missed
the one figure he was seeking. Rafe of Coventry was no where to be seen, and
now that Cadfael came to think of it, he must have taken himself off quietly
some time before the intriguing scene ended. Because he had no interest in it,
and was quite capable of detaching himself from a spectacle which held most men
spellbound? Or because he had found something in it that interested him deeply
and urgently?

Fulke
Astley was left hesitant, eye to eye with Hugh, and unsure whether it would
serve him better to attempt explanations and justification, or to withdraw—if
he was allowed to withdraw—in dignified silence, or at least with as few words
as possible, and no concessions.

“Tomorrow,
then, my lord,” he said, settling upon brevity, “I shall be at Cuthred’s
hermitage as I have promised.”

“Good!
And you might do well,” said Hugh, “to acquaint the hermit’s patroness with
what’s mooted against him. She may wish to be present herself. As at this time,
my lord, I have no more immediate need of you. And should I have need in the
future, I know where to find you. You may have good reason to be glad that
Richard slipped his collar. Mischief undone is best forgotten. Provided, of
course, there’s no further mischief in contemplation.” Of that Fulke made the
best he could. With a curt reverence to the abbot he turned to reclaim his
horse, mounted, and rode out at the gatehouse at a deliberate and stately
walking pace.

Brother
Cadfael, summoned to join the colloquy in the abbot’s lodging after supper,
turned aside on his way, on a sudden impulse, and went into the stable yard.
Richard’s black pony was contented and easy in his stall after his strenuous
ride, groomed and watered and placidly feeding. But the big chestnut with the
white blaze down his forehead was gone from his place, saddle and harness and
all. Whatever the occasion for his silent departure, Rafe of Coventry had
ridden forth on some local errand of his own. Richard sat on a low stool at the
abbot’s knee, washed and brushed and meekly grateful to be home, and told his
story, or as much of it as he felt justified in telling. He had an interested
audience. There were present, besides the abbot, Hugh Beringar, Brother Cadfael
at Hugh’s accepted request, and Brother Paul, still reluctant to let the
returned prodigal out of his sight. Richard had tolerated, even enjoyed, being
shaken, slapped, scrubbed and made much of, the whole chaotic process which had
produced this neat, shining schoolboy for the abbot’s inspection. There were
gaps in his story, and he knew they would be questioned, but Radulfus was of
noble family, and would understand that a nobleman cannot betray those who have
helped him, or even certain underlings who at the instance of their masters
have injured him. “Would you know them again, the two who captured you and took
you into Wroxeter?” asked Hugh.

Richard
considered the tempting prospect of revenge on the strapping young fellow who
had laughed at his struggles and hindered him at the ford, but rejected it
reluctantly as unworthy of his nobility. “I couldn’t be sure of them. It was
getting dark.” They did not press him. Instead, the abbot asked: “Had you help
in escaping from Leighton? You could hardly have broken out on your own, or you
would have done it earlier.”

Answering
that presented something of a problem. If he told the truth it would certainly
do Hiltrude no harm here among his friends, but if ever it reached her father
it could do her harm enough. Better stick to the story as she must have told
it, that the door had been mistakenly left unbolted, and he had made his own
way out. Cadfael observed the slight flush that mantled in the boy’s
well-scrubbed cheeks as he recounted that part of his adventures, with notable
brevity and modesty. If it had been true he would have been exulting in it. “He
should have known what a slippery fish he had caught,” said Hugh, smiling. “But
you still have not told us why you rode out from the abbey in the first place,
nor who told you that the hermit is not the priest he purports to be.” This was
the crux, and Richard had been thinking about it with unaccustomed labour and
pain while he submitted to Brother Paul’s affectionate homily on obedience and
order, and the evil consequences to be expected from transgressing their rules.
He looked up warily into the abbot’s face, shot an uneasy glance at Hugh, whose
reactions as the secular authority were less calculable, and said earnestly:
“Father, I said I would tell you, but I did not say I would tell any other.
There is someone who might be harmed if I told what I know of him, and I know
he has not deserved it. I can’t bring him into danger.”