Monk's Hood (28 page)

Brother
Cadfael uttered his thanks, and went out from the church into a village
thronging with agitated, head-shaking neighbours. The tale of the morning’s
events was on the wing by now, surely already being carried over the hills
throughout the commote of Cynllaith, but even rumour had not flown so fast as
Meurig, for nothing was seen of him all that day. Cadfael led his horse from
the paddock, and mounted and rode. The weariness that had fallen upon him when
the need for effort ended so suddenly was subsiding slowly into a desperate
sadness, and that again into a drear but grateful calm. He took the journey
back very slowly, for he needed time to think, and above all, time for another
to do some even more urgent thinking. He passed by the manor-house of
Mallilie with only a rueful glance. The ending would not be
there.

He
was very well aware that it was not yet over.

“You
are back in good time, brother,” said Simon, stoking the brazier with fresh
fuel for the evening. “Whatever your business, I trust God prospered it.”

“He
did,” said Cadfael. “And now it must be your turn to rest, and leave the
remaining work to me. I’ve stabled and groomed and fed the horse, he’s not
overdone for I took things gently with him. After supper there’ll be time for
shutting the hen-house and seeing to the cow, and light enough still to bring down
the ewes in lamb to the barn, for I think there may be harder frost in the
night. Curious how the light lies in these hills a good half-hour longer than
in the town.”

“Your
Welsh eyes, brother, are only just regaining their proper vision. There are few
nights here that a man could not travel safely even among the upland bogs,
knowing the ground at all well. Only in the woods is it ever truly dark. I
talked with a wandering brother from the north once, a rough red-haired man
with a tongue I could barely understand, a Scot. He said in his far country
there were nights when the sun barely set before it rose again on the other
side, and you could see your way in an endless afterglow. But I do not know,”
said Brother Simon wistfully, “if he was romancing. I have never been further
than Chester.”

Brother
Cadfael forbore from citing his own travels, remembered now with the astonished
contentment of a man at rest. To tell the truth, he had enjoyed the storms no
less than he now enjoyed the calm, if this was indeed calm: but each had its
own time and place.

“I’ve
been glad of this stay with you,” he said, and that at least was true “It
smells like Gwynedd here. And the folk hereabouts have me speaking Welsh to
them, and that’s gain, for I use it little enough in Shrewsbury.”

Brother
Barnabas came with the supper, his own good bread, barley gruel, ewe’s-milk
cheese and dried apples. He
breathed without labour, and
strode round the house unwearied and energetic. “You see I’m ready and able for
work, brother, thanks to your skills. I could fold the ewes myself tonight.”

“You
will not,” said Cadfael firmly, “for I’ve taken that task for myself, having
been truant all day. You be content to see us devouring this baking of yours,
for that’s one art I have not, and at least I have the grace to know it, and be
thankful for the skills of other men.”

They
ate early at Rhydycroesau, having normally laboured out of doors from early
morning. There was still a muted half-light, the east a clear, deep blueness,
the west a pallid glow, when Cadfael went out to climb to the nearer crest and
bring down the ewes already heavy with lamb. They were few but precious, once
in a while they even dropped twins, and with care both survived. Cadfael
discerned a deep and tranquil satisfaction in the shepherd’s life. The children
of his solicitude were seldom killed, unless disease, injury or decrepitude
threatened, or in time of desperation the flock could not all be fed through
the winter. Their wool and milk were of more value than their meat, and their
precious skins could be garnered only once, and better when for distress they
had to be slaughtered. So they remained through their natural lives, growing
into familiarity and affection, trusting and being understood, even acquiring
names. Shepherds had a community of their own, peopled with gentle, obstinate,
quiet companions, who did no murder or theft or banditry, broke no laws, made
no complaints, fuelled no rebellions.

All
the same, he thought, climbing the hill In long, easy strides, I could not be a
shepherd for long. I should miss all the things I deplore, the range and grasp
of man for good and evil. And instantly he was back with the struggles and
victories and victims of the day.

On
the crest of the ridge he stood to contemplate the coming night, aware that he
must be seen from a good distance around. The sky above was immense and very
lofty, a very deep blue, with a faint dappling of stars so new and fine that
they were visible only when seen from the corner of the eye,
and
a direct stare immediately put them out. He looked down at the cluster of
walled folds and the snug dark huddle of buildings, and could not be quite sure
whether he had seen a mere quiver of movement at the corner of the barn. The
ewes, accustomed to extra pampering, were gathering about him of their own
will, ready to go down into the steamy, wool-scented warmth of the barn for the
night. Their rounded sides and bellies swayed contentedly as they walked. By
this light only an occasional gleam showed the disconcerting yellow stare of
their eyes.

When
at last he stirred, and began slowly to descend the hill, they followed
daintily on their little, agile feet, crowding close, jostling one another, the
mild, warm, greasy smell of their fleeces making a flowing cloud about them. He
counted, called softly back to one or two stragglers, young ones in their first
lamb, and irresponsible, though they came hurrying at his call. Now he had them
all.

Apart
from himself and his little flock, the night was empty and still, unless that
was the momentary intrusion and instant withdrawal of some live thing he had
caught between the buildings below. Blessedly, Brother Simon and Brother
Barnabas had taken him at his word, and remained contentedly in the warmth of
the house, by this time probably nodding over the brazier.

He
brought his charges down to the large barn, half of which was cleared by now
for their housing at night until they gave birth. The wide doors opened
inwards, he thrust them open before him and ushered his flock within, where
there was a rack filled for their use, and a trough of water. These needed no
light to find their way. The interior of the barn was still peopled with vague,
bulky shadows, but otherwise dark, and smelled of dried grass and clover and
the fat scent of fleeces. The mountain sheep had not the long, curly wool of
the lowlands, but they brought a very thick, short fleece that carried almost
as much wool of a somewhat less valuable kind, and they converted handsomely
the pasture their spoiled lowland cousins could not make use of. Their cheeses
alone were worth their keep.

Cadfael
chided the last and most unbiddable of his charges into the barn, and passed in
after her, advancing into the dimness that left him temporarily blind. He felt
the sudden presence behind him, and stood, every muscle stilled. The blade that
was laid cold and sudden against the skin of his throat started no movement; he
had had knives at his throat before, he was not such a fool as to provoke them
into malice or fright, especially when he approached them forewarned.

An
arm encircled him from behind, pinning both arms fast to his body, and he made
no move to recoil or resist. “And did you think when you destroyed me,
brother,” panted a suffocating voice in his ear, “that I would go into the dark
alone?”

“I
have been expecting you, Meurig,” said Brother Cadfael quietly. “Close the
door! You may safely, I shall not move. You and I have no need now of
witnesses.”

Chapter Ten

“NO,”
SAID THE VOICE IN HIS EAR, low and savagely, “no need of witnesses. My business
is with you alone, monk, and brief enough.” But the arms withdrew from him, and
in a moment the heavy doors closed with a hollow sound upon the glimpse of sky
in which, from this walled darkness within, the stars showed doubly large and
bright.

Cadfael
stood motionless, and heard the soft brushing of cloth as Meurig leaned back
against the closed door, arms spread, drawing deep breaths to savour the moment
of arrival, and anticipate the last vengeful achievement. There was no other
way out, and he knew his quarry had not moved by so much as a step.

“You
have branded me murderer, why should I draw back now from murder? You have
ruined me, shamed me, made me a reproach to my own kin, taken from me my
birthright, my land, my good name, everything that made my existence worth
calling a life, and I will have your life in recompense. I cannot live now, I
cannot even die, until I have been your death, Brother Cadfael.”

Strange
how the simple act of giving his victim a name changed everything, even this
blind relationship, like the first gleam of light. Further light could only
assist the change.

“Hanging
behind the door, where you are,” said Cadfael
practically,
“you’ll find a lantern, and on another nail there a leather bag with flint and
steel and tinder in it. We may as well see each other. Take care with the
sparks, you’ve nothing against our sheep, and fire would bring people running.
There’s a shelf where the lantern will stand.”

“And
you will make your bid to keep your forfeit life. I know!”

“I
shall not move hand or foot,” said Cadfael patiently. “Why do you suppose I
have made so certain the last work tonight should fall to me? Did I not say I
was expecting you? I have no weapon, and if I had I would not use it. I
finished with arms many years ago.”

There
was a long pause, during which, though he felt that more was expected of him,
he added nothing more. Then he heard the creek of the lantern as Meurig’s
questing hand found it, the grating noise of the horn shutter being opened, the
groping of fingers to find the shelf, and the sound of the lantern being set
down there. Flint and steel tapped sharply several times, sparks flashed and
vanished, and then a corner of charred cloth caught and held the tiny fire, and
Meurig’s face hung ghostlike over it, blowing until the wick caught in its turn,
and sent up a lengthening flame. Dim yellow light brought into being the
feeding-rack, the trough, the forest of shadows in the network of beams above,
and the placid, incurious ewes; and Cadfael and Meurig stood looking intently
at each other.

“Now,”
said Cadfael, “you can at least see to take what you came for.” And he sat down
and settled himself solidly on a corner of the feeding-rack.

Meurig
came towards him with long, deliberate strides through the straw-dust and chaff
of the floor. His face was fixed and grey, his eyes sunken deep into his head
and burning with frenzy and pain. So close that their knees touched, he
advanced the knife slowly until the point pricked Cadfael’s throat; along eight
inches of steel they eyed each other steadily.

“Are
you not afraid of death?” asked Meurig, barely above a whisper.

“I’ve
brushed elbows with him before. We respect each
other. In any
case there’s no evading him for ever, we all come to it, Meurig. Gervase Bonel…
you… I. We have to die, every one of us, soon or late. But we do not have to
kill. You and I both made a choice, you only a week or so ago, I when I lived
by the sword. Here am I, as you willed it. Now take what you want of me.”

He
did not take his eyes from Meurig’s eyes, but he saw at the edge of vision the
tightening of the strong brown fingers and the bracing of the muscles in the
wrist to strike home. But there was no other movement. All Meurig’s body seemed
suddenly to writhe in an anguished attempt to thrust, and still he could not.
He wrenched himself backward, and a muted animal moan came from his throat. He
cast the knife out of his hand to whine and stick quivering in the beaten earth
of the floor, and flung up both arms to clasp his head, as though all his
strength of body and will could not contain or suppress the pain that filled
him to overflowing. Then his knees gave under him, and he was crouched in a
heap at Cadfael’s feet, his face buried in his arms against the hay-rack. Round
yellow eyes, above placidly chewing muzzles, looked on in detached surprise at
the strangeness of men.

Broken
sounds came from Meurig’s buried mouth, muffled and sick with despair “Oh, God,
that I could so face my death… for I owe it, I owe it, and dare not pay! If I
were clean… if I were only clean again…”And in a great groan he said: “Oh,
Mallilie…”

“Yes,”
said Cadfael softly. “A very fair place. Yet there is a world outside it.”

“Not
for me, not for me… I am forfeit. Give me up! Help me… help me to be fit to
die…” He raised himself suddenly, and looked up at Cadfael, clutching with one
hand at the skirts of his habit. “Brother, those things you said of me… never
meant to be a murderer, you said…”

“Have
I not proved it?” said Cadfael. “I live, and it was not fear that stayed your
hand.”

“Mere
chance that led me, you said, and that because of an act of simple kindness…
Great pity it is, you said! Pity… Did you mean all those things, brother? Is
there pity?”