Dead Man's Ransom Page 14

  “At Ellesmere, most like. And tomorrow at Whitchurch. The next day before we should look for him back here. He means to meet again with Owain, and make his way down the border after, if all goes well here.”

  “And if Owain lies at Chirk tonight, where will he be bound tomorrow?”

  “He has his camp still at Tregeiriog, with his friend Tudur ap Rhys. It’s there he’s called whatever new levies come in to his border service.”

  So he must keep touch there always, in order to deploy his forces wherever they might be needed. And if he returned there the next night, so would Einon ab Ithel.

  “I’ll sleep the night here,” said Cadfael, “and tomorrow I’ll also make for Tregeiriog. I know the maenol and its lord. I’ll wait for Owain there. And do you let Hugh Beringar know that the Welsh of Powys are in the field again, as I’ve told you. Small harm yet, and should there be worse, Herbard will send word here. But if this border holds fast, and bloodies Chester’s nose wherever he ventures it, Madog ap Meredith will also learn sense.”

  *

  This extreme border castle of Oswestry, with its town, was the king’s, but the manor of Maesbury, of which it had become the head, was Hugh’s own native place, and there was no man here who did not hold with him and trust him. Cadfael felt the solid security of Hugh’s name about him, and a garrison doubly loyal, to Stephen and to Hugh. It was a good feeling, all the more now that Owain Gwynedd spread the benign shadow of his hand over a border that belonged by location to Powys. Cadfael slept well after hearing Compline in the castle chapel, rose early, took food and drink, and crossed the great dyke into Wales.

  He had all but ten miles to go to Tregeiriog, winding all the way through the enclosing hills, always with wooded slopes one side or the other or both, and in open glimpses the bald grass summits leaning to view, and a sky veiled and still and mild overhead. Not mountain country, not the steel-blue rocks of the north-west, but hill-country always, with limited vistas, leaning hangers of woodland, closed valleys that opened only at the last moment to permit another curtained view. Before he drew too close to Tregeiriog the expected pickets heaved out of the low brush, to challenge, recognise and admit him. His Welsh tongue was the first safe-conduct, and stood him in good stead.

  All the colours had changed since last he rode down the steep hillside into Tregeiriog. Round the brown, timbered warmth of maenol and village beside the river, the trees had begun to soften their skeletal blackness with a delicate pale-green froth of buds, and on the lofty, rounded summits beyond the snow was gone, and the bleached pallor of last year’s grass showed the same elusive tint of new life. Through the browned and rotting bracken the first fronds uncurled. Here it was already Spring.

  At the gate of Tudur’s maenol they knew him, and came readily to lead him in and take charge of his horse. Not Tudur himself, but his steward, came to welcome the guest and do the honours of the house. Tudur was with the prince, doubtless at this hour on his way back from Chirk. In the cleft of the tributary brook behind the maenol the turfed campfires of his border levies gave off blue wisps of smoke on the still air. By evening the hall would again be Owain’s court, and all his chief captains in this border patrol mustered about his table.

  Cadfael was shown to a small chamber within the house, and offered the ceremonial water to wash off the dust of travel from his feet. This time it was a maid-servant who waited upon him, but when he emerged into the court it was to see Cristina advancing upon him in a flurry of blown skirts and flying hair from the kitchens.

  “Brother Cadfael… it is you! They told me,” she said, halting before him breathless and intent, “there was a brother come from Shrewsbury, I hoped it might be you. You know them, you can tell me the truth… about Elis and Eliud…”

  “What have they already told you?” asked Cadfael. “Come within, where we can be quiet, and what I can tell you, that I will, for I know you must have been in bitter anxiety.” But for all that, he thought ruefully, as she turned willingly and led the way into the hall, if he made that good, and told all he knew, it would be little to her comfort. Her betrothed, for whom she was contending so fiercely with so powerful a rival, was not only separated from her until proven innocent of murder, but disastrously in love with another girl as he had never been with her. What can you say to such a misused lady? Yet it would be infamous to lie to Cristina, just as surely as it would be cruel to bludgeon her with the blunt truth. Somewhere between the two he must pick his way.

  She drew him with her into a corner of the hall, remote and shadowed at this hour when most of the men were out about their work, and there they sat down together against smoky tapestries, her black hair brushing his shoulder as she poured out what she knew and begged for what she needed to know.

  “The English lord died, that I know, before ever Einon ab Ithel was ready to leave, and they are saying it was no simple death from his wounds, and all those who are not proven blameless must stay there as prisoners and suspect murderers, until the guilt is proven on some one man—English or Welsh, lay or brother, who knows? And here we must wait also. But what is being done to set them free? How are you to find the guilty one? Is all this true? I know Einon came back and spoke with Owain Gwynedd, and I know the prince will not receive his men back until they are cleared of all blame. He says he sent back a dead man, and a dead man cannot buy back one living. And moreover, that your dead man’s ransom must be a life—the life of his murderer. Do you believe any man of ours owes that debt?”

  “I dare not say there is any man who might not kill, given some monstrous, driving need,” said Cadfael honestly.

  “Or any woman, either,” she said with a fierce, helpless sigh. “But you have not fixed on any one man for this deed? No finger has been pointed? Not yet?”

  No, of course she did not know. Einon had left before ever Melicent cried out both her love and her hatred, accusing Elis. No further news had yet reached these parts. Even if Hugh had now spoken of this matter with the prince, no such word had yet found its way back here to Tregeiriog. But surely it would, when Owain returned. In the end she would hear how her betrothed had fallen headlong in love with another woman, and been accused by her of her father’s murder, murder for love that put an end to love. And where did that leave Cristina? Forgotten, eclipsed, but still in tenuous possession of a bridegroom who did not want her, and could not have the bride he did want! Such a tangled coil enmeshing all these four hapless children!

  “Fingers have been pointed, more than one way,” said Cadfael, “but there is no proof against one man more than another. No one is yet in danger of his life, and all are in health and well enough treated, even if they must be confined. There is no help for it but to wait and believe in justice.”

  “Believing in justice is not always so easy,” she said tartly. “You say they are well? And they are together, Elis and Eliud?”

  “They are. They have that comfort. And within the castle wards they have their liberty. They have given their word not to try to escape, and it has been accepted. They are well enough, you may believe that.”

  “But you can give me no hope, set me no period, when he will come home?” She sat confronting Cadfael with great, steady eyes, and in her lap her fingers were knotted so tightly that the knuckles shone white as naked bone. “Even if he does come home, living and justified,” she said.

  “That I can tell no more than you,” Cadfael owned wryly. “But I will do what I can to shorten the time. This waiting is hard upon you, I know it.” But how much harder would the return be, if ever Elis came back vindicated, only to pursue his suit for Melicent Prestcote, and worm his way out of his Welsh betrothal. It might even be better if she had warning now, before the blow fell. Cadfael was pondering what he could best do for her, and with only half an ear tuned to what she was saying.

  “At least I have purged my own soul,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “I have always known how well he loves me, if only he did not love his cousin as well or better.
Fosterlings are like that—you are Welsh, you know it. But if he could not bring himself to undo what was done so ill, I have done it for him now. I tired of silence. Why should we bleed without a cry? I have done what had to be done, I’ve spoken with my father and with his. In the end I shall have my way.”

  She rose, giving him a pale but resolute smile. “We shall be able to speak again, brother, before you leave us. I must go and see how things fare in the kitchen, they’ll be home with the evening.”

  He gave her an abstracted farewell, and watched her cross the hall with her free, boy’s stride and straight, proud carriage. Not until she had reached the door did he realise the meaning of what she had said. “Cristina!” he called in startled enlightenment; but the door had closed and she was gone.

  *

  There was no error, he had heard aright. She knew how well he loved her, if only he did not love his cousin as well or better, in the way of fosterlings! Yes, all that he had known before, he had seen it manifested in their warring exchanges, and misread it utterly. How a man can be deceived, where every word, every aspect, confirms him in his blindness! Not a single lie spoken or intended, yet the sum total a lie.

  She had spoken with her father—and with his!

  Cadfael heard in his mind’s ear Elis ap Cynan’s blithe voice accounting for himself when first he came to Shrewsbury. Owain Gwynedd was his overlord, and had overseen him in the fosterage where he had placed him when his father died…

  “…with my uncle Griffith ap Meilyr, where I grew up with my cousin Eliud as brothers…”

  Two young men, close as twins, far too close to make room for the bride destined for one of them. Yes, and she fighting hard for what she claimed as her rights, and knowing there was love deep enough and wild enough to match her love, if only… If only a mistaken bond made in infancy could be honourably dissolved. If only those two could be severed, that dual creature staring into a mirror, the left, handed image and the right, handed, and which of them the reality? How is a stranger to tell?

  But now he knew. She had not used the word loosely, of the kinsman who had reared them both. No, she meant just what she had said. An uncle may also be a foster-father, but only a natural father is a father.

  *

  They came, as before, with the dusk. Cadfael was still in a daze when he heard them come, and stirred himself to go out and witness the torchlit bustle in the court, the glimmer on the coats of the horses, the jingle of harness, bit and spur, the cheerful and purposeful hum of entwining voices, the hissing and crooning of the grooms, the trampling of hooves and the very faint mist of warm breath in the chilling but frostless air. A grand, vigorous pattern of lights and shadows, and the open door of the hall glowing warmly for welcome.

  Tudur ap Rhys was the first down from the saddle, and himself strode to hold his prince’s stirrup. Owain Gwynedd’s fair hair gleamed uncovered in the ruddy light of the torches as he sprang down, a head taller than his host. Man after man they came, chieftain after chieftain, the princelings of Gwynedd’s nearer commoes, the neighbours of England. Cadfael stood to survey each one as he dismounted, and lingered until all were on foot, and their followers dispersed into the camps beyond the maenol. But he did not find among them Einon ab Ithel, whom he sought.

  “Einon?” said Tudur, questioned. “He’s following, though he may come late to table. He had a visit to pay in Llansantffraid, he has a daughter married there, and his first grandson is come new into the world. Before the evening’s out he’ll be with us. You’re heartily welcome to my roof again, brother, all the more if you bring news to please the prince’s ear. It was an ill thing that happened there with you, he feels it as a sad stain on a clean acquaintance.”

  “I’m rather seeking than bringing enlightenment,” Cadfael confessed. “But I trust one man’s ill deed cannot mar these meetings between your prince and our sheriff. Owain Gwynedd’s goodwill is gold to us in Shropshire, all the more since Madog ap Meredith is showing his teeth again.”

  “Do you tell me so? Owain will want to hear of it, but after supper will be the fitting time. I’ll make you a place at the high table.”

  Since he had in any case to wait for the arrival of Einon, Cadfael sat back to study and enjoy the gathering in Tudur’s hall over supper, the warmth of the central fire, the torches, the wine, and the harping. A man of Tudur’s status was privileged to possess a harp and maintain his own harper, in addition to his duty to be a generous patron to travelling minstrels. And with the prince here to praise and be praised, they had a rivalry of singers that lasted throughout the meal. There was still a deal of coming and going in the courtyard, late-comers riding in, officers from the camps patrolling their bounds and changing pickets, and the womenfolk fetching and carrying, and loitering to talk to the archers and men-at-arms. For the time being this was the court of Gwynedd, where petitioners, bringers of gifts, young men seeking office and favour, all must come.

  The dishes had been removed, and the mead and wine were circulating freely, when Tudur’s steward came into the hall and made for the high table.

  “My lord, there’s one here asks leave to present to you his natural son, whom he has acknowledged and admitted to his kinship only two days ago. Griffri ap Llywarch, from close by Meifod. Will you hear him?”

  “Willingly,” said Owain, pricking up his fair head to stare down through the smoke and shadows of the hall with some curiosity. “Let Griffri ap Llywarch come in and be welcome.”

  Cadfael had not paid due attention to the name, and might not even have recognised it if he had, nor was he likely to recognise a man he had never seen before. The newcomer followed the steward into the hall, and up between the tables to the high place. A lean, sinewy man, perhaps fifty years old, balding and bearded, with a hillman’s gait, and the weathered face and wrinkled, far-seeing eyes of the shepherd. His clothing was plain and brown, but good homespun. He came straight to the dais, and made the Welshman’s brisk, unservile reverence to the prince.

  “My lord Owain, I have brought you my son, that you may know and approve him. For the only son I had by my wife is two years and more dead, and I was without children, until this my son by another woman came to me declaring his birth and proving it. And I have acknowledged him mine and brought him into my kinship, and as mine he is accepted. Now I ask your countenance also.”

  He stood proudly, glad of what he had to say and of the young man he had to present; and Cadfael would have had neither eyes nor ears for any other man present, if it had not been for the courteous silence that had followed him up the hall, and the one clear sound that carried in it. Shadows and smoke veiled the figure that followed respectfully at some yards distance, but the sound of its steps was plainly audible, and went haltingly, lighter and faster upon one foot. Cadfael’s eyes were upon the son when he came hesitantly into the torchlight from the high table. This one he knew, though the black hair was trimmed and thrown proudly back from a face not now sullen and closed, but open, hopeful and eager, and there was no longer a crutch under the leaning armpit.

  Cadfael looked back from Anion ap Griffri to Griffri ap Llywarch, to whose drear and childless middle age this unlooked-for son had suddenly supplied a warm heart of hope and content. The homespun cloak hanging loose upon Griffri’s shoulders bore in its folds a long pin with a large, chased gold head secured with a thin gold chain. And that, too, Cadfael had seen before, and knew only too well.

  So did another witness. Einon ab Ithel had come in, as one familiar with the household and desirous of making no inconvenient stir, by the high door from the private chamber, and emerged behind the prince’s table unnoticed. The man who was holding all attention naturally drew his. The red of torchlight flashed from the ornament worn openly and proudly. Its owner had the best reason to know there could not be two such, not of that exact and massive size and ornamentation.

  “God’s breath!” swore Einon ab Ithel in a great bellow of astonishment and indignation. “What manner of thief have we here
, wearing my gold under my very eyes?”

  *

  Silence fell as ominously as thunder, and every head whirled from prince and petitioner to stare at this loud accuser. Einon came round the high table in a few long strides, dropped from the dais so close as to send Griffri lurching back in alarm, and stabbed a hard brown finger at the pin that glowed in the drab cloak.

  “My lord, this—is mine! Gold out of my earth, I had it mined, I had it made for me, there is not another exactly like it in this or any land. When I came back from Shrewsbury, on that errand you know of, it was not in my collar, nor have I seen it since that day. I thought it fallen somewhere on the road, and made no ado about it. What is it to mourn for, gold! Now I see it again and marvel. My lord, it is in your hands. Demand of this man how he comes to be wearing what is mine.”

  Half the hall was on its feet, and rumbling with menace, for theft, unmitigated by circumstances, was the worst crime they acknowledged, and the thief caught red, handed could be killed on sight by the wronged man. Griffri stood stricken dumb, staring in bewilderment. Anion flung himself with stretched arms and braced body between his father and Einon.

  “My lord, my lord, I gave it, I brought it to my father. I did not steal… I took a price! Hold my father blameless, if there is blame it is mine only…”

  He was sweating with terror, great sudden gouts that ran on his forehead and were snared in his thick brows. And if he knew a little Welsh, in this extremity it did not serve him, he had cried out in English. That gave them all a moment of surprise. And Owain swept a hand over the hall and brought silence.

  “Sit, and keep closed mouths. This is my matter. I’ll have quiet and all here shall have justice.” They murmured, but they obeyed. In the ensuing hush Brother Cadfael rose unobtrusively to his feet and made his way round the table and down to the floor of the hall. His movements, however discreet, drew the prince’s eye.

  “My lord,” said Cadfael deprecatingly, “I am of Shrewsbury, I know and am known to this man Anion ap Griffri. He was raised English, no fault of his. Should he need one to interpret, I can do that service, so that he may be understood by all here.”