Dead Man's Ransom bc-9 Page 6

  Nevertheless, he did not pray for them that night. He lay long in thought instead, pondering how so complex a knot might be disentangled.

  In the early morning he and his remaining force mounted and rode. It did not surprise him that the devoted cousin and foster, brother should be there to see him go, and send by him all manner of messages to his captive friend, to sustain him until his release. Most fitting that the one who was older and wiser should stand proxy to rescue the younger and more foolish. If folly can be measured so?

  ‘I was not clever,’ owned Eliud ruefully, holding Cadfael’s stirrup as he mounted, and leaning on his horse’s warm shoulder when he was up. ‘I made too much of it that he should not go with Cadwaladr. I doubt I drove him the more firmly into it. But I knew it was mad!’ ‘You must grant him one grand folly,’ said Cadfael comfortably. ‘Now he’s lived through it, and knows it was folly as surely as you do. He’ll not be so hot after action again. And then,’ he said, eyeing the grave oval countenance close, ‘I understand he’ll have other causes for growing into wisdom when he comes home. He’s to be married, is he not?’ Eliud faced him a moment with great hazel eyes shining like lanterns. Then: ‘Yes!’ he said very shortly and forbiddingly, and turned his head away.

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  THE NEWS went round in Shrewsbury, abbey, castle and town, almost before Cadfael had rendered account of his stewardship to Abbot Radulfus, and reported his success to Hugh. The sheriff was alive, and his return imminent, in exchange for the Welshman taken at Godric’s Ford. In her high apartments in the castle, Lady Prestcote brightened and grew buoyant with relief. Hugh rejoiced not only in having found and recovered his chief, but also in the prospect of a closer alliance with Owain Gwynedd, whose help in the north of the shire, if ever Ranulf of Chester did decide to attack, might very well turn the tide. The provost and guildsmen of the town, in general, were well pleased. Prestcote was a man who did not encourage close friendships, but Shrewsbury had found him a just and well, intentioned officer of the crown, if heavy, handed at times, and was well aware that it might have fared very much worse. Not everyone, however, felt the same simple pleasure. Even just men make enemies.

  Cadfael returned to his proper duties well content, and having reviewed Brother Oswin’s stewardship in the herbarium and found everything in good order, his next charge was to visit the infirmary and replenish the medicine, cupboard there.

  ‘No new invalids since I left?’ ‘None. And two have gone out, back to the dortoir, Brother Adam and Brother Everard. Strong constitutions they have, both, in spite of age, and it was no worse than a chest cold, and has cleared up well. Come and see how they all progress. If only we could send out Brother Maurice with the same satisfaction as those two,’ said Edmund sadly. ‘He’s eight years younger, strong and able, and barely sixty. If only he was as sound in mind as in body! But I doubt we’ll never dare let him loose. It’s the bent his madness has taken. Shame that after a blameless life of devotion he now remembers only his grudges, and seems to have no love for any man. Great age is no blessing, Cadfael, when the body’s strength outlives the mind.’ ‘How do his neighbours bear with him?’ asked Cadfael with sympathy.

  ‘With Christian patience! And they need it. He fancies now that every man is plotting some harm against him. And says so, outright, besides any real and ancient wrongs he’s kept in mind all too clearly.’ They came into the big, bare room where the beds were laid, handy to the private chapel where the infirm might repair for the offices. Those who could rise to enjoy the brighter part of the day sat by a large log fire, warming their ancient bones and talking by fits and starts, as they waited for the next meal, the next office or the next diversion. Only Brother Rhys was confined to his bed, though most of those within here were aged, and spent much time there. A generation of brothers admitted in the splendid enthusiasm of an abbey’s founding also comes to senility together, yielding place to the younger postulants admitted by ones and twos after the engendering wave. Never again, thought Cadfael, moving among them, would a whole chapter of the abbey’s history remove thus into retirement and decay. From this time on they would come one by one, and be afforded each a death-bed reverently attended, single and in solitary dignity. Here were four or five who would depart almost together, leaving even their attendant brothers very weary, and the world indifferent.

  Brother Maurice sat installed by the fire, a tall, gaunt, waxen, white old man of elongated patrician face and irascible manner. He came of a noble house, an oblate since his youth, and had been removed here some two years previously, when after a trivial dispute he had suddenly called out Prior Robert in a duel to the death, and utterly refused to be distracted or reconciled. In his more placid moments he was gracious, accommodating and courteous, but touch him in his pride of family and honour and he was an implacable enemy. Here in his old age he called up from the past, vivid as when they happened, every affront to his line, every lawsuit waged against them, back to his own birth and beyond, and brooded over every one that had gone unrevenged.

  It was a mistake, perhaps, to ask him how he did, but his enthroned hauteur seemed to demand it. He raised his narrow hawk, nose, and tightened his bluish lips. ‘None the better for what I hear, if it be true. They’re saying that Gilbert Prestcote is alive and will soon be returning here. Is that truth?’ ‘It is,’ said Cadfael. ‘Owain Gwynedd is sending him home in exchange for the Welshman captured in the Long Forest a while since. And why should you be none the better for good news of a decent Christian man?’ ‘I had thought justice had been done,’ said Maurice loftily, ‘after all too long a time. But however long, divine justice should not fail in the end. Yet once again it has glanced aside and spared the malefactor.’ The glitter of his eyes was grey as steel.

  ‘You’d best leave divine justice to its own business,’ said Cadfael mildly, ‘for it needs no help from us. And I asked you how you did, my friend, so never put me off with others. How is it with that chest of yours, this wintry weather? Shall I bring you a cordial to warm you?’ It was no great labour to distract him, for though he was no complainer as to his health, he was open to the flattery of concerned attention and enjoyed being cosseted. They left him soothed and complacent, and went out to the porch very thoughtful.

  ‘I knew he had these hooks in him,’ said Cadfael when the door was closed between, ‘but not that he had such a barb from the Prestcote family. What is it he holds against the sheriff?’ Edmund shrugged, and drew resigned breath. ‘Tt was in his father’s time, Maurice was scarcely born! There was a lawsuit over a piece of land and long arguments either side, and it went Prestcote’s way. For all I know, as sound a judgement as ever was made, and Maurice was in his cradle, and Gilbert’s father, good God, was barely a man, but here the poor ancient has dredged it up as a mortal wrong. And it is but one among a dozen he keeps burnished in his memory, and wants blood for them all. Will you believe it, he has never set eyes on the sheriff? Can you hate a man you’ve never seen or spoken to, because his grandsire beat your father at a suit at law? Why should old age lose everything but the all, present evil?’ A hard question. And yet sometimes it went the opposite way, kept the good, and let all the malice and spite be washed away. And why one old man should be visited by such grace, and another by so heavy a curse, Cadfael could not fathom. Surely a balance must be restored elsewhere.

  ‘Not everyone, I know,’ said Cadfael ruefully, ‘loves Gilbert Prestcote. Good men can make as devoted enemies as bad men. And his handling of law has not always been light or merciful, though it never was corrupt or cruel.’ ‘There’s one here has somewhat better cause than Maurice to bear him a grudge,’ said Edmund. ‘I am sure you know Anion’s history as well as I do. He’s on crutches, as you’ll have seen before you left us on this journey, and getting on well, and we like him to go forth when there’s no frost and the ground’s firm and dry, but he’s still bedded with us, within there. He says nothing, while Maurice says too much, but you’re Welsh, and you know how a
Welshman keeps his counsel. And one like Anion, half, Welsh, half, English, how do you read such a one?’ ‘As best you can,’ agreed Cadfael, ‘bearing in mind both are humankind.’ He knew the man Anion, though he had never been brought close to him, since Anion was a lay servant among the livestock, and had been brought into the infirmary in late autumn from one of the abbey granges, with a broken leg that was slow to knit. He was no novelty in the district about Shrewsbury, offspring of a brief union between a Welsh wool, trader and an English maid, servant. And like many another of his kind, he had kept touch with his kin across the border, where his father had a proper wife, and had given her a legitimate son no long time after Anion was conceived.

  ‘I do remember now,’ said Cadfael, enlightened. ‘There were two young fellows came to sell their fleeces that time, and drank too deep and got into a brawl, and one of the gate, keepers on the bridge was killed. Prestcote hanged them for it. I did hear tell at the time the one had a half, brother this side the border.’ ‘Griffri ap Griffri, that was the young man’s name. Anion had got to know him, the times he came into town, they were on good terms.

  He was away among the sheep in the north when it happened or he might well have got his brother to bed without mischief. A good worker and honest, Anion, but a surly fellow and silent, and never forgets a benefit nor an injury.’ Cadfael sighed, having seen in his time a long line of decent men wiped out in alternate savageries as the result of just such a death. The blood, feud could be a sacred duty in Wales.

  ‘Ah, well, it’s to be hoped the English half of him can temper his memories. That must be two years ago now. No man can bear a grudge for ever.’ In the narrow, stone, cold chapel of the castle by the meagre light of the altar lamp, Elis waited in the gloom of the early evening, huddled into his cloak in the darkest corner, biting frost without and gnawing fire within. It was a safe place for two to meet who could otherwise never be alone together. The sheriff’s chaplain was devout, but within limits, and preferred the warmth of the hall and the comforts of the table, once Vespers was disposed of, to this cold and draughty place.

  Melicent’s step on the threshold was barely audible, but Elis caught it, and turned eagerly to draw her in by both hands, and swing the heavy door closed to shut out the rest of the world.

  ‘You’ve heard?’ she said, hasty and low. ‘They’ve found him, they’re bringing him back. Owain Gwynedd has promised it…’ ‘I know!’ said Elis, and drew her close, folding the cloak about them both, as much to assert their unity as to shield her from the chill and the trespassing wind. For all that, he felt her slipping away like a wraith of mist out of his hold. ‘I’m glad you’ll have your father back safely.’ But he could not sound glad, no matter how manfully he lied. ‘We knew it must be so if he lived…’ His voice baulked there, trying not to sound as if he wished her father dead, one obstacle out of the way from between them, and himself still a prisoner, unransomed. Her prisoner, for as long as might be, long enough to work the needful miracle, break one tie and make another possible, which looked all too far out of reach now.

  ‘When he comes back,’ she said, her cold brow against his cheek,’then you will have to go. How shall we bear it!’ ‘Don’t I know it! I think of nothing else. It will all be vain, and I shall never see you again. I won’t, I can’t accept that. There must be a way…’ ‘If you go,’ she said, ‘I shall die.’ ‘But I must go, we both know it. How else can I even do this one thing for you, to buy your father back?’ But neither could he bear the pain of it. If he let her go now he was for ever lost, there would be no other to take her place. The little dark creature in Wales, so faded from his mind he could hardly recall her face, she was nothing, she had no claim on him. Rather a hermit’s life, if he could not have Melicent. ‘Do you not want him back?’ ‘Yes!’ she said vehemently, torn and shivering, and at once took it back again: ‘No! Not if I must lose you! Oh, God, do I know what I want? I want both you and him, but you most! I do love my father, but as a father. I must love him, love is due between us, but… Oh, Elis, I hardly know him, he never came near enough to be loved. Always duty and affairs taking him away, and my mother and I lonely, and then my mother dead… He was never unkind, always careful of me, but always a long way off. It is a kind of love, but not like this… not as I love you! It’s no fair exchange…’ She did not say: ‘Now if he had died…’ but it was there stark at the back of her mind, horrifying her. If they had failed to find him, or found him dead, she would have wept for him, yes, but her stepmother would not have cared too much where she chose to marry. What would have mattered most to Sybilla was that her son should inherit all, and her husband’s daughter be content with a modest dowry. And so she would have been content, yes, with none.

  ‘But it must not be an end!’ vowed Elis fiercely. ‘Why should we submit to it? I won’t give you up, I can’t, I won’t part from you.’ ‘Oh, foolish!’ she said, her tears gushing against his cheek, ‘The escort that brings him home will take you away. There’s a bargain struck, and no choice but to keep it. You must go, and I must stay, and that will be the end. Oh, if he need never reach here…’ Her own voice uttering such things terrified her, she buried her lips in the hollow of his shoulder to smother the unforgivable words.

  ‘No, but listen to me, my heart, my dear! Why should I not go to him and offer for you? Why should he not give me fair hearing? I’m born princely, I have lands, I’m his equal, why should he refuse to let me have you? I can endow you well, and there’s no man could ever love you more.’ He had never told her, as he had so light, heartedly told Brother Cadfael, of the girl in Wales, betrothed to him from childhood. But that agreement had been made over their heads, by consent of others, and with patience and goodwill it could be honourably dissolved by the consent of all. Such a reversal might be a rarity in Gwynedd, but it was not unheard of. He had done no wrong to Cristina, it was not too late to withdraw.

  ‘Sweet fool innocent!’ she said, between laughter and rage. ‘You do not know him! Every manor he holds is a border manor, he has had to sweat and fight for them many a time. Can you not see that after the empress, his enemy is Wales? And he as good a hater as ever was born! He would as soon marry his daughter to a blind leper in St Giles as to a Welshman, if he were the prince of Gwynedd himself. Never go near him, you will but harden him, and he’ll rend you. Oh, trust me, there’s no hope there.’ ‘Yet I will not let you go,’ vowed Elis into the cloud of her pale hair, that stirred and stroked against his face with a life of its own, in nervous, feathery caresses. ‘Somehow, somehow, I swear I’ll keep you, no matter what I must do to hold you, no matter how many I must fight to clear the way to you. I’ll kill whoever comes between us, my love, my dear…’ ‘Oh, hush!’ she said. ‘Don’t talk so. That’s not for you. There must, there must be some way for us…’ But she could see none. They were caught in an inexorable process that would bring Gilbert Prestcote home, and sweep Elis ap Cynan away.

  ‘We have still a little time,’ she whispered, taking heart as best she could. ‘They said he is not well, he had wounds barely healed. They’ll be a week or two yet.’ ‘And you’ll still come? You will come? Every day? How should I bear it if I could no longer see you?’ ‘I’ll come,’ she said,’these moments are my life, too. Who knows, something may yet happen to save us.’ ‘Oh, God, if we could but stop time! If we could hold back the days, make him take for ever on the journey, and never, never reach Shrewsbury!’ It was ten days before the next word came from Owain Gwynedd. A runner came in on foot, armed with due authorisation from Einon ab Ithel, who ranked second only to Owain’s own penteulu, the captain of his personal guard. The messenger was brought to Hugh in the castle guardroom early in the afternoon; a border man, with some business dealings into England, and well acquainted with the language.

  ‘My lord, I bring greetings from Owain Gwynedd through the mouth of his captain, Einon ab Ithel. I am to tell you that the party lies tonight at Montford, and tomorrow we shall bring you our charge, the lord Gilb
ert Prestcote. But there is more. The lord Gilbert is still very weak from his wounds and hardships, and for most of the way we have carried him in a litter. All went well enough until this morning, when we had hoped to reach the town and discharge our task in one day. Because of that, the lord Gilbert would ride the last miles, and not be carried like a sick man into his own town.’ The Welsh would understand and approve that, and not presume to deter him. A man’s face is half his armour, and Prestcote would venture any discomfort or danger to enter Shrewsbury erect in the saddle, a man master of himself even in captivity.

  ‘It was like him and worthy of him,’ said Hugh, but scenting what must follow. ‘And he tried himself too far. What has happened?’ ‘Before we had gone a mile he swooned and fell. Not a heavy fall, but a healed wound in his side has started open again, and he lost some blood. It may be that there was some manner of fit or seizure, more than the mere exertion, for when we took him up and tended him he was very pale and cold. We wrapped him well, Einon ab Ithel swathed him further in his own cloak, and laid him again in the litter, and have carried him back to Montford.’ ‘Has he his senses? Has he spoken?’ asked Hugh anxiously.

  As sound in his wits as any man, once he opened his eyes, and speaks clearly, my lord. We would keep him at Montford longer, if need be, but he is set to reach Shrewsbury now, being so near. He may take more harm, being vexed, than if we carry him here as he wishes, tomorrow.’ So Hugh thought, too, and gnawed his knuckles a while pondering what was best. ‘Do you think this setback may be dangerous to him? Even mortal?’ The man shook his head decidedly. ‘My lord, though you’ll find him a sick man and much fallen and aged, I think he needs only rest and time and good care to be his own man again. But it will not be a quick or an easy return.’ ‘Then it had better be here, where he desires to be,’ Hugh decided, ‘but hardly in these cold, harsh chambers. I would take him to my own house, gladly, but the best nursing will surely be at the abbey, and there you can just as well bear him, and he may be spared being carried helpless through the town. I will bespeak a bed for him in the infirmary there, and see his wife and children into the guest, hall to be near him. Go back now to Einon ab Ithel with my greetings and thanks, and ask him to bring his charge straight to the abbey. I will see Brother Edmund and Brother Cadfael prepared to receive him, and all ready for his rest. At what hour may we expect your arrival? Abbot Radulfus will wish to have your captains be his guests before they leave again.’ ‘Before noon,’ said the messenger, ‘we should reach the abbey.’ ‘Good! Then there shall be places at table for all, for the midday meal, before you set forth with Elis ap Cynan in exchange for my sheriff.’ Hugh carried the news to the tower apartments, to Lady Prestcote, who received them with relief and joy, though tempered with some uneasiness when she heard of her husband’s collapse. She made haste to collect her son and her maid, and make ready to move to the greater comfort of the abbey guest, hall, ready for her lord’s coming, and Hugh conducted them there and went to confer with the abbot about the morrow’s visit. And if he noted that one of the party went with them mute and pale, brilliant, eyed as much with tears as with eagerness, he thought little of it then. The daughter of the first wife, displaced by the son of the second, might well be the one who missed her father most, and had worn her courage so threadbare with the grief of waiting that she could not yet translate her exhaustion into joy.