The Devil's Novice Page 4

  “I bring him before you, not as having knowingly committed any offence,” said Brother Paul, “but as being in need of help which I am not fitted to attempt alone. It is true, as Brother Cadfael has told us—for I myself was not with the party yesterday—that the accident to Brother Wolstan caused great alarm to all, and Brother Meriet came upon the scene without warning, and suffered a severe shock, fearing the poor young man was dead. It may be that this alone preyed upon his mind, and came as a dream to disturb his sleep, and no more is needed now than calm and prayer. I ask for guidance.”

  “Do you tell me,” asked Radulfus, with a thoughtful eye on the submissive figure before him, “that he was asleep throughout? Having roused the entire dortoir?”

  “He slept through all,” said Cadfael firmly. “To have shaken him awake in that state might have done him great harm, but he did not wake. When persuaded, with care, he sank into a deeper level of sleep, and was healed from his distress. I doubt if he recalls anything of his dream, if he did dream. I am sure he knew nothing of what had happened, and the flurry he had caused, until he was told this morning.”

  “That is true, Father,” said Meriet, looking up briefly and anxiously. “They have told me what I did, and I must believe it, and God knows I am sorry. But I swear I knew nothing of my offence. If I had dreams, evil dreams, I recall nothing of them. I know no reason why I should so disturb the dortoir. It is as much a mystery to me as to any. I can but hope it will not happen again.”

  The abbot frowned and pondered. “It is strange that so violent a disturbance should arise in your mind without cause. I think, rather, that the shock of seeing Brother Wolstan lying in his blood does provide a source of deep distress. But that you should have so little power to accept, and to control your own spirit, does that bode well, son, for a true vocation?”

  It was the one suggested threat that seemed to alarm Meriet. He sank to his knees, with an abrupt and agitated grace that brought the ample habit swirling about him like a cloak, and lifted a strained face and pleading hands to the abbot.

  “Father, help me, believe me! All my wish is to enter here and be at peace, to do all that the Rule asks of me, to cut off all the threads that bind me to my past. If I offend, if I transgress, willingly or no, wittingly or no, medicine me, punish me, lay on me whatever penance you see fit, only don’t cast me out!”

  “We do not so easily despair of a postulant,” said Radulfus, “or turn our backs on one in need of time and help. There are medicines to soothe a too-fevered mind. Brother Cadfael has such. But they are aids that should be used only in grave need, while you seek better cures in prayer, and in the mastery of yourself.”

  “I could better come to terms,” said Meriet vehemently, “if you would but shorten the period of my probation, and let me in to the fullness of this life. Then there would be no more doubt or fear…”

  Or hope? wondered Cadfael, watching him; and went on to wonder if the same thought had not entered the abbot’s mind.

  “The fullness of this life,” said Radulfus sharply, “must be deserved. You are not ready yet to take vows. Both you and we must practise patience some time yet before you will be fit to join us. The more hotly you hasten, the more will you fall behind. Remember that, and curb your impetuosity. For this time, we will wait. I accept that you have not offended willingly, I trust that you may never again suffer or cause such disruption. Go now, Brother Paul will tell you our will for you.”

  Meriet cast one flickering glance round all the considering faces, and departed, leaving the brothers to debate what was best to be done with him. Prior Robert, on his mettle, and quick to recognise a humility in which there was more than a little arrogance, felt that the mortification of the flesh, whether by hard labour, a bread and water diet, or flagellation, might help to concentrate and purify a troubled spirit. Several took the simplest line: since the boy had never intended wrong, and yet was a menace to others, punishment was undeserved, but segregation from his fellows might be considered justified, in the interests of the general peace. Yet even that might seem to him a punishment, Brother Paul pointed out.

  “It may well be,” said the abbot finally, “that we trouble ourselves needlessly. How many of us have never had one ill night, and broken it with nightmares? Once is but once. We have none of us come to any harm, not even the children. Why should we not trust that we have seen both the first and the last of it? Two doors can be closed between the dortoir and the boys, should there again be need. And should there again be need, then further measures can be taken.”

  *

  Three nights passed peacefully, but on the fourth there was another commotion in the small hours, less alarming than on the first occasion, but scarcely less disturbing. No wild outcry this time, but twice or thrice, at intervals, there were words spoken loudly and in agitation, and such as were distinguishable were deeply disquieting, and caused his fellow-novices to hold off from him with even deeper suspicion.

  “He cried out, “No, no, no!” several times,” reported his nearest neighbour, complaining to Brother Paul next morning. “And then he said, “I will, I will!” and something about obedience and duty… Then after all was quiet again he suddenly cried out, “Blood!” And I looked in, because he had started me awake again, and he was sitting up in bed wringing his hands. After that he sank down again, there was nothing more. But to whom was he talking? I dread there’s a devil has hold of him. What else can it be?”

  Brother Paul was short with such wild suppositions, but could not deny the words he himself had heard, nor the disquiet they aroused in him. Meriet again was astonished and upset at hearing that he had troubled the dortoir a second time, and owned to no recollection of any bad dream, or even so small and understandable a thing as a belly-ache that might have disrupted his own rest.

  “No harm done this time,” said Brother Paul to Cadfael, after High Mass, “for it was not loud, and we had the door closed on the children. And I’ve damped down their gossip as best I can. But for all that, they go in fear of him. They need their peace, too, and he’s a threat to it. They say there’s a devil at him in his sleep, and it was he brought it here among them, and who knows which of them it will prey on next? The devil’s novice, I’ve heard him called. Oh, I put a stop to that, at least aloud. But it’s what they’re thinking. Cadfael himself had heard the tormented voice, however subdued this time, had heard the pain and desperation in it, and was assured beyond doubt that for all these things there was a human reason. But what wonder if these untravelled young things, credulous and superstitious, dreaded a reason that was not human?

  *

  That was well into October and the same day that Canon Eluard of Winchester, on his journey south from Chester, came with his secretary and his groom to spend a night or two for repose in Shrewsbury. And not for simple reasons of religious policy or courtesy, but precisely because the novice Meriet Aspley was housed within the walls of Saint Peter and Saint Paul.

  Chapter 3

  ELUARD OF WINCHESTER was a black canon of considerable learning and several masterships, some from French schools. It was this wide scholarship and breadth of mind which had recommended him to Bishop Henry of Blois, and raised him to be one of the three highest ranking and best trusted of that great prelate’s household clergy, and left him now in charge of much of the bishop’s pending business while his principal was absent in France.

  Brother Cadfael ranked too low in the hierarchy to be invited to the abbot’s table when there were guests of such stature. That occasioned him no heart-burning, and cost him little in first-hand knowledge of what went on, since it was taken for granted that Hugh Beringar, in the absence of the sheriff, would be present at any meeting involving political matters, and would infallibly acquaint his other self with whatever emerged of importance.

  Hugh came to the hut in the herb garden, yawning, after accompanying the canon to his apartment in the guest-hall.

  “An impressive man, I don’t wonder Bishop Henry
values him. Have you seen him, Cadfael?”

  “I saw him arrive.” A big, portly, heavily-built man who nonetheless rode like a huntsman from his childhood and a warrior from puberty; a rounded, bushy tonsure on a round, solid head, and a dark shadow about the shaven jowls when he lighted down in early evening. Rich, fashionable but austere clothing, his only jewellery a cross and ring, but both of rare artistry. And he had a jaw on him and an authoritative eye, shrewd but tolerant. “What’s he doing in these parts, in his bishop’s absence overseas?”

  “Why, the very same his bishop is up to in Normandy, soliciting the help of every powerful man he can get hold of, to try and produce some plan that will save England from being dismembered utterly. While he’s after the support of king and duke in France, Henry wants just as urgently to know where Earl Ranulf and his brother stand. They never paid heed to the meeting in the summer, so it seems Bishop Henry sent one of his men north to be civil to the pair of them and make sure of their favour, just before he set off for France—one of his own household clerics, a young man marked for advancement, Peter Clemence. And Peter Clemence has not returned. Which could mean any number of things, but with time lengthening out and never a word from him or from either of that pair in the north concerning him, Canon Eluard began to be restive. There’s a kind of truce in the south and west, while the two sides wait and watch each other, so Eluard felt he might as well set off in person to Chester, to find out what goes on up there, and what’s become of the bishop’s envoy.”

  “And what has become of him?” asked Cadfael shrewdly. “For his lordship, it seems, is now on his way south again to join King Stephen. And what sort of welcome did he get in Chester?”

  “As warm and civil as heart could wish. And for what my judgement is worth, Canon Eluard, however loyal he may be to Bishop Henry’s efforts for peace, is more inclined to Stephen’s side than to the empress, and is off back to Westminster now to tell the King he might be wise to strike while the iron’s hot, and go north in person and offer a few sweetmeats to keep Chester and Roumare as well-disposed to him as they are. A manor or two and a pleasant title—Roumare is as good as earl of Lincoln now, why not call him so?—could secure his position there. So, at any rate, Eluard seems to have gathered. Their loyalty is pledged over and over. And for all his wife is daughter to Robert of Gloucester, Ranulf did stay snug at home when Robert brought over his imperial sister to take the field a year and more ago. Yes, it seems the situation there could hardly be more to the canon’s satisfaction, now that it’s stated. But as for why it was not stated a month or so ago, by the mouth of Peter Clemence returning… Simple enough! The man never got there, and they never got his embassage.”

  “As sound a reason as any for not answering it,” said Cadfael, unsmiling, and eyed his friend’s saturnine visage with narrowed attention. “How far did he get on his way, then?” There were wild places enough in this disrupted England where a man could vanish, for no more than the coat he wore or the horse he rode. There were districts where manors had been deserted and run wild, and forests had been left unmanned, and whole villages, too exposed to danger, had been abandoned and left to rot. Yet the north had suffered less than the south and west by and large, and lords like Ranulf of Chester had kept their lands relatively stable thus far.

  “That’s what Eluard has been trying to find out on his way back, stage by stage along the most likely route a man would take. For certainly he never came near Chester. And stage by stage our canon has drawn blank until he came into Shropshire. Never a trace of Clemence, hide, hair or horse, all through Cheshire.”

  “And none as far as Shrewsbury?” For Hugh had more to tell, he was frowning down thoughtfully into the beaker he held between his thin, fine hands.

  “Beyond Shrewsbury, Cadfael, though only just beyond.

  He’s turned back a matter of a few miles to us, for reason enough. The last he can discover of Peter Clemence is that he stayed the night of the eighth day of September with a household to which he’s a distant cousin on the wife’s side. And where do you think that was? At Leoric Aspley’s manor, down in the edge of the Long Forest.”

  “Do you tell me!” Cadfael stared, sharply attentive now. The eighth of the month, and a week or so later comes the steward Fremund with his lord’s request that the younger son of the house should be received, at his own earnest wish, into the cloister. Post hoc is not propter hoc, however. And in any case, what connection could there possibly be between one man’s sudden discovery that he felt a vocation, and another man’s overnight stay and morning departure? “Canon Eluard knew he would make one of his halts there? The kinship was known?”

  “Both the kinship and his intent, yes, known both to Bishop Henry and to Eluard. The whole manor saw him come, and have told freely how he was entertained there. The whole manor, or very near, saw him off on his journey next morning. Aspley and his steward rode the first mile with him, with the household and half the neighbours to see them go. No question, he left there whole and brisk and well-mounted.”

  “How far to his next night’s lodging? And was he expected there?” For if he had announced his coming, then someone should have been enquiring for him long since.

  “According to Aspley, he intended one more halt at Whitchurch, a good halfway to his destination, but he knew he could find easy lodging there and had not sent word before. There’s no trace to be found of him there, no one saw or heard of him.”

  “So between here and Whitchurch the man is lost?”

  “Unless he changed his plans and his route, for which, God knows, there could be reasons, even here in my writ,” said Hugh ruefully, “though I hope it is not so. We keep the best order anywhere in this realm, or so I claim, challenge me who will, but even so I doubt it good enough to make passage safe everywhere. He may have heard something that caused him to turn aside. But the bleak truth of it is, he’s lost. And all too long!”

  “And Canon Eluard wants him found?”

  “Dead or alive,” said Hugh grimly. “For so will Henry want him found, and an account paid by someone for his price, for he valued him.”

  “And the search is laid upon you?” said Cadfael.

  “Not in such short terms, no. Eluard is a fair-minded man, he takes a part of the load upon him, and doesn’t grudge. But this shire is my business, under the sheriff, and I pick up my share of the burden. Here is a scholar and a cleric vanished where my writ runs. That I do not like,” said Hugh, in the ominously soft voice that had a silver lustre about it like bared steel.

  Cadfael came to the question that was uppermost in his mind. “And why, then, having the witness of Aspley and all his house at his disposal, did Canon Eluard feel it needful to turn back these few miles to Shrewsbury?” But already he knew the answer.

  “Because, my friend, you have here the younger son of that house, new in his novitiate. He is thorough, this Canon Eluard. He wants word from even the stray from that tribe. Who knows which of all that manor may not have noticed the one thing needful?”

  It was a piercing thought; it stuck in Cadfael’s mind, quivering like a dart. Who knows, indeed? “He has not questioned the boy yet?”

  “No, he would not disrupt the evening offices for such a matter—nor his good supper, either,” added Hugh with a brief grin. “But tomorrow he’ll have him into the guests parlour and go over the affair with him, before he goes on southward to join the king at Westminster, and prompt him to go and make sure of Chester and Roumare, while he can.”

  “And you will be present at that meeting,” said Cadfael with certainty.

  “I shall be present. I need to know whatever any man can tell me to the point, if a man has vanished by foul means within my jurisdiction. This is now as much my business as it is Eluard’s.”

  “You’ll tell me,” said Cadfael confidently, “what the lad has to say, and how he bears himself?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Hugh, and rose to take his leave.

  *

  As
it turned out, Meriet bore himself with stoical calm during that interview in the parlour, in the presence of Abbot Radulfus, Canon Eluard and Hugh Beringar, the powers here of both church and state. He answered questions simply and directly, without apparent hesitation.

  Yes, he had been present when Master Clemence came to break his journey at Aspley. No, he had not been expected, he came unheralded, but the house of his kinsmen was open to him whenever he would. No, he had not been there more than once before as a guest, some years ago, he was now a man of affairs, and kept about his lord’s person. Yes, Meriet himself had stabled the guest’s horse, and groomed, watered and fed him, while the women had made Master Clemence welcome within. He was the son of a cousin of Meriet’s mother, who was some two years dead now—the Norman side of the family. And his entertainment? The best they could lay before him in food and drink, music after the supper, and one more guest at the table, the daughter of the neighbouring manor who was affianced to Meriet’s elder brother Nigel. Meriet spoke of the occasion with wide-open eyes and clear, still countenance.

  “Did Master Clemence say what his errand was?” asked Hugh suddenly. “Tell where he was bound and for what purpose?”

  “He said he was on the bishop of Winchester’s business. I don’t recall that he said more than that while I was there. But there was music after I left the hall, and they were still seated. I went to see that all was done properly in the stable. He may have said more to my father.”