Dead Man's Ransom Read online

  Elis crept nearer. The door of the guard-room was ajar, a long sliver of light from torches within quivered across the dark cobbles. The voices emerged by fits and starts, as they were raised and again lowered, but he caught words clearly here and there.

  “…burned a farm west of Pontesbury,” reported a messenger, still breathless from his haste, “and never withdrew… They’re camped overnight… and another party skirting Minsterley to join them.”

  Another voice, sharp and clear, most likely one of the experienced sergeants: “What numbers?”

  “In all… if they foregather… I was told it might be as many as a hundred and fifty…”

  “Archers? Lancers? Foot or horse?” That was not the sergeant, that was a young voice, a shade higher than it should have been with alarm and strain. They had got Alan Herbard out of bed. This was a grave matter.

  “My lord, far the greater part on foot. Lancers and archers both. They may try to encircle Pontesbury… they know Hugh Beringar is in the north…”

  “Halfway to Shrewsbury!” said Herbard’s voice, taut and jealous for his first command.

  “They’ll not dare that,” said the sergeant. “Plunder’s the aim. Those valley farms… with new lambs…”

  “Madog ap Meredith has a grudge to settle,” ventured the messenger, still short of breath, “for that raid in February. They’re close… but the pickings are smaller, there in the forest… I doubt…”

  Halfway to Shrewsbury was more than halfway to the ford in the forest where that grudge had come to birth. And the pickings… Elis turned his forehead into the chill of the stone against which he leaned and swallowed terror. A parcel of women! He was more than paid for that silly flaunt, who had a woman of his own there to sweat and bleed for, young, beautiful, fair as flax, tall like a willow. The square dark men of Powys would come to blows over her, kill one another for her, kill her when they were done.

  He had started out of his shelter under the wall before he even knew what he intended. The patient, drooping horse might have given him away, but there was no groom holding it, and it stood its ground silently, unstartled, as he stole past, a hand raised to caress and beseech acceptance. He did not dare take it, the first clatter of hooves would have brought them out like hornets disturbed, but at least it let him pass unbetrayed. The big body steamed gently, he felt its heat. The tired head turned and nuzzled his hand. He drew his fingers away with stealthy gentleness, and slid past towards the elongated wicket that offered a way out into the night.

  He was through, he had the descent to the castle Foregate on his right, and the way up into the town on his left. But he was out of the castle, he who had given his word not to pass the threshold, he who was forsworn from this moment, false to his word, outcast. Not even Eliud would speak for him when he knew.

  The town gates would not open until dawn. Elis turned left, into the town, and groped his way by unknown lanes and passages to find some corner where he could hide until the morning. He was none too sure of his best way out, and did not stop to wonder if he would ever manage to pass unnoticed. All he knew was that he had to get to Godric’s Ford before his countrymen reached it. He got his bearings by instinct, blundering blindly round towards the eastward gates. In Saint Mary’s churchyard, though he did not know it for that, he shrank into the shelter of a porch from the chill of the wind. He had left his cloak behind in his dishonoured cell, he was half-naked to shame and the night, but he was free and on his way to deliver her. What was his honour, more than his life, compared with her safety?

  The town woke early. Tradesmen and travellers rose and made their way down to the gates before full daylight, to be out and about their proper business betimes. So did Elis ap Cynan, going with them discreetly down the Wyle, cloakless, weaponless, desperate, heroic and absurd, to the rescue of his Melicent.

  *

  Eliud put out his hand, before he was fully awake, to feel for his cousin, and sat up in abrupt shock to find Elis’s side of the bed empty and cold. But the dark red cloak was still draped over the foot of the bed, and Eliud’s sense of loss was utterly irrational. Why should not Elis rise early and go out into the wards before his bedfellow was awake? Without his cloak he could not be far away. But for all that, and however brief the separation, it troubled Eliud like a physical pain. Here in their imprisonment they had hardly been a moment out of each other’s company, as if for each of them faith in a final happy delivery depended upon the presence of the other.

  Eliud rose and dressed, and went out to the trough by the well, to wash himself fully awake in the shock of the cold water. There was an unusual stir about the stables and the armoury, but he saw no sign of Elis anywhere in either place, nor was he brooding on the walls with his face towards Wales. The want of him began to ache like an amputation.

  They took their meals in hall among their English peers, but on this clear morning Elis did not come to break his fast. And by this time others had remarked his absence.

  One of the sergeants of the garrison stopped Eliud as he was leaving the hall. “Where is your cousin? Is he sick?”

  “I know no more than you,” said Eliud. “I’ve been looking for him. He was out before I awoke, and I’ve seen nothing of him since.” And he added in jealous haste, seeing the man frown and give him the first hard stare of suspicion: “But he can’t be far. His cloak is still in the cell. There’s so much stirring here, I thought he might have risen early to find out what was all the to-do.”

  “He’s pledged not to set foot out of the gates,” said the sergeant. “But do you tell me he’s given up eating? You must know more than you pretend.”

  “No! But he’s here within, he must be. He would not break his word, I promise you.”

  The man eyed him hard, and turned abruptly on his heel to make for the gatehouse and question the guards. Eliud caught him entreatingly by the sleeve. “What is it brewing here? Is there news? Such activity in the armoury and the archers drawing arrows… What’s happened overnight?”

  “What’s happened? Your countrymen are swarming in force along the Minsterley valley, if you want to know, burning farmsteads and moving in on Pontesbury. Three days ago it was a handful, it’s past a hundred tribesmen now.” He swung back suddenly to demand: “Did you hear aught in the night? Is that it? Has that cousin of yours run, broke out to join his ragamuffin kin and help in the killing? The sheriff was not enough for him?”

  “No!” cried Eliud. “He would not! It’s impossible!”

  “It’s how we got him in the first place, a murdering, looting raid the like of these. It suited him then, it comes very timely for him now. His neck out of a noose and his friends close by to bring him off safely.”

  “You cannot say so! You don’t yet know but he’s here within, true to his word.”

  “No, but soon we shall,” said the sergeant grimly, and took Eliud firmly by the arm. “Into your cell and wait. The lord Herbard must know of this.”

  He flung away at speed and Eliud, in desolate obedience, trudged back to his cell and sat there upon the bed with only Elis’s cloak for company. By then he was certain what the result of any search must be. Only an hour or two of daylight gone and there were endless places a man could be, if he felt no appetite either for food or for the company of his fellow, men, and yet the castle felt empty of Elis, as cold and alien as if he had never been there. And a courier had come in the night, it seemed, with news of stronger forces from Powys plundering closer to Shrewsbury, and closer still to the forest grange of the abbey of Polesworth at Godric’s Ford. Where all this heavy burden had begun and where, perhaps, it must end. If Elis had heard that nocturnal arrival and gone out to discover the cause—yes, then he might in desperation forget oath and honour and all. Eliud waited wretchedly until Alan Herbard came, with two sergeants at his heels. A long wait it had been. They would have scoured the castle by now. By their grim faces it was clear they had not found Elis.

  Eliud rose to his feet to face them. He would need al
l his powers and all his dignity now if he was to speak for Elis. This Alan Herbard was surely no more than a year or two his senior, and being as harshly tested as he.

  “If you know the manner of your cousin’s flight,” said Herbard bluntly, “you would be wise to speak. You shared this narrow space. If he rose in the night, surely you would know. For I tell you plainly, he is gone. He has run. In the night the wicket was opened for a man to enter. It’s no secret now that it let out a man—renegade, forsworn, self-branded murderer. Why else should he so seize this chance?”

  “No!” said Eliud. “You wrong him and in the end it will be shown you wrong him. He is no murderer. If he has run, that is not the reason.”

  “There is no if. He is gone. You know nothing of it? You slept through his flight?”

  “I missed him when I awoke,” said Eliud. “I know nothing of how he went or when. But I know him. If he rose in the night because he heard your man arriving and if he heard then—is it so?—that the Welsh of Powys are coming too close and in dangerous numbers, then I swear to you he has fled only out of dread for Gilbert Prestcote’s daughter. She is there with the sisters at Godric’s Ford and Elis loves her. Whether she has discarded him or no, he has not ceased to love her, and if she is in danger he will venture life, yes and his honour with it, to bring her to safety. And when that is done,” said Eliud passionately, “he will return here, to suffer whatever fate may await him. He is no renegade! He has broken his oath only for Melicent’s sake. He will come back and give himself up. I pledge my own honour for him! My own life!”

  “I would remind you,” said Herbard grimly, “you have already done so. Either one of you gave his word for both. At this moment you stand attainted as his surety for his treachery. I could hang you, and be fully justified.”

  “Do so!” said Eliud, blanched to the lips, his eyes dilated into a blaze of green. “Here am I, still his warranty. I tell you, this neck is yours to wring if Elis proves false. I give you leave freely. You are mustering to ride, I’ve seen it. You go against these Welsh of Powys. Take me with you! Give me a horse and a weapon, and I will fight for you, and you may have an archer at my back to strike me dead if I make a false step, and a halter about my neck ready for the nearest tree after the Powysmen are hammered, if Elis does not prove to you the truth of every word I say.”

  He was shaking with fervour, strung taut like a bowstring. Herbard opened his eyes wide at such open passion, and studied him in wary surprise a long moment. “So be it!” he said then abruptly, and turned to his men. “See to it! Give him a horse and a sword, and a rope about his neck, and have your best shot follow him close and be ready to spit him if he plays false. He says he is a man of his word, that even this defaulting fellow of his is such. Very well, we’ll take him at his word.”

  He looked back from the doorway. Eliud had taken up Elis’s red cloak and was holding it in his arms. “If your cousin had been half the man you are,” said Herbard, “your life would be safe enough.”

  Eliud whirled, hugging the folded cloak to him as if applying balm to an unendurable ache. “Have you not understood even yet? He is better than I, a thousand times better!”

  Chapter 12

  IN TREGEIRIOG, too, they were up with the first blush of light, barely two hours after Elis’s flight through the wicket at Shrewsbury. For Hugh Beringar had ridden through half the night, and arrived with the dove-grey hush of pre-dawn. Sleepy grooms rose, blear-yed, to take the horses of their English guests, a company of twenty men. The rest Hugh had left distributed across the north of the shire, well armed, well supplied, and so far proof against the few and tentative tests to which they had been subjected.

  Brother Cadfael, as sensitive to nocturnal arrivals as Elis, had started out of sleep when he caught the quiver and murmur on the air. There was much to be said for the custom of sleeping in the full habit, apart from the scapular, a man could rise and go, barefoot or staying to reclaim his sandals, as complete and armed as in the middle of the day. No doubt the discipline had originated where monastic houses were located in permanently perilous places, and time had given it the blessing of tradition. Cadfael was out, and halfway to the stables, when he met Hugh coming thence in the pearly twilight, and Tudur equally wide awake and alert beside his guest.

  “What brings you so early?” asked Cadfael. “Is there fresh news?”

  “Fresh to me, but for all I know stale already in Shrewsbury.” Hugh took him by the arm, and turned him back with them towards the hall. “I must make my report to the prince, and then we’re off down the border by the shortest way. Madog’s castellan from Caus is pouring more men into the Minsterley valley. There was a messenger waiting for me when we rode into Oswestry or I’d meant to stay the night there.”

  “Herbard sent the word from Shrewsbury?” asked Cadfael, “It was no more than a handful of raiders when I left, two days ago.”

  “It’s a war-party of a hundred or more now. They hadn’t moved beyond Minsterley when Herbard got wind of the muster, but if they’ve brought out such a force as that, they mean worse mischief. And you know them better than I, they waste no time. They may be on the move this very dawn.”

  “You’ll be needing fresh horses,” said Tudur practically.

  “We got some remounts at Oswestry, they’ll be fit for the rest of the way. But I’ll gladly borrow from you for the rest, and thank you heartily. I’ve left all quiet and every garrison on the alert across the north, and Ranulf seems to have pulled back his advance parties towards Wrexham. He made a feint at Whitchurch and got a bloody nose, and it’s my belief he’s drawn in his horns for this while. Whether or no, I must break off to attend to Madog.”

  “You may make your mind easy about Chirk,” Tudur assured him. “We’ll see to that. Have your men in for a meal, at least, and give the horses a breather. I’ll get the womenfolk out of their beds to see to the feeding of you, and have Einon rouse Owain, if he’s not already up.”

  “What do you intend?” Cadfael asked. “Which way shall you head?”

  “For Llansilin and down the border. We’ll pass to east of the Breiddens, and down by Westbury to Minsterley, and cut them off, if we can, from getting back to their base in Caus. I tire of having men of Powys in that castle,” said Hugh, setting his jaw. “We must have it back and make it habitable, and keep a garrison there.”

  “You’ll be few for such a muster as you report,” said Cadfael. “Why not aim at getting to Shrewsbury first for more men, and westward to meet them from there?”

  “The time’s too short. And besides, I credit Alan Herbard with sense and stomach enough to field a good force of his own to mind the town. If we move fast enough we may take them between the two prongs and crack them like a nut.”

  They had reached the hall. Word had gone before, the sleepers within were rolling out of the rushes in haste, servants were setting tables, and the maids ran with new loaves from the bakery, and great pitchers of ale.

  “If I can finish my business here,” said Cadfael tempted, “I’ll ride with you, if you’ll have me.”

  “I will so and heartily welcome.”

  “Then I’d best be seeing to what’s left undone here, when Owain Gwynedd is free. While you’re closeted with him, I’ll see my own horse readied for the journey.”

  He was so preoccupied with thoughts of the coming clash, and of what might already be happening in Shrewsbury, that he turned back towards the stables without at first noticing the light footsteps that came flying after him from the direction of the kitchens, until a hand clutched at his sleeve, and he turned to find Cristina confronting him and peering intently up into his face with dilated dark eyes.

  “Brother Cadfael, is it true, what my father says? He says I need fret no longer, for Elis has found some girl in Shrewsbury, and wants nothing better now than to be rid of me. He says it can be ended with goodwill on both sides. That I’m free, and Eliud is free! Is it true?” She was grave, and yet she glowed. Elis’s desertion was hope
and help to her. The tangled knot could indeed be undone by consent, without grudges.

  “It is true,” said Cadfael. “But beware of building too high on his prospects as yet, for it’s no way certain he’ll get the lady he wants. Did Tudur also tell you it is she who accuses Elis of being her father’s murderer? No very hopeful way to set up a marriage.”

  “But he’s in earnest? He loves the girl? Then he’ll not turn back to me, whether he wins his way with her or no. He never wanted me. Oh, I would have done well enough for him,” she said, hoisting eloquent shoulders and curling a tolerant lip, “as any girl his match in age and rank would have done, but all I ever was to him was a child he grew up with, and was fond of after a fashion. Now,” she said feelingly, “he knows what it is to want. God knows I wish him his happiness as I hope for mine.”

  “Walk with me down to the stables,” said Cadfael, “and keep me company, these few minutes we have. For I’m away with Hugh Beringar as soon as his men have broken their fast and rested their horses, and I’ve had a word again with Owain Gwynedd and Einon ab Ithel. Come, and tell me plainly how things stand between you and Eliud, for once before when I saw you together I misread you utterly.”

  She went with him gladly, her face clear and pure in the pearly light just flushing into rose. Her voice was tranquil as she said: “I loved Eliud from before I knew what love was. All I knew was how much it hurt, that I could not endure to be away from him, that I followed and would be with him, and he would not see me, would not speak with me, put me roughly from his side as often as I clung. I was already promised to Elis, and Elis was more than half Eliud’s world, and not for anything would he have touched or coveted anything that belonged to his foster-brother. I was too young then to know that the measure of his rejection of me was the measure of how much he wanted me. But when I came to understand what it was that tortured me, then I knew that Eliud went daily in the selfsame pain.”