Hermit of Eyton Forest (23 page)

The
ford was smooth going in the first stretch, sandy and shallow, then the path
trod dry-shod over the tip of the island, and again plunged into the long
passage beyond, a wide archipelago of small, sandy shoals, dimpling and
gleaming with the soft, circuitous motion of the water. In mid-passage Richard
drew rein for a moment to look back, for the broad, innocent expanse of green
meadows oppressed him with a feeling of nakedness and apprehension. Here he
could be seen from a mile or more away, a small dark figure on horseback,
defenceless and vulnerable, against a landscape all moist, pearly light and
pale colours. And there, riding at a gallop towards the ford, on the same path
by which he had come, distant and small still but all too purposefully riding
after him, came a single horseman on a big, light-grey horse, Fulke Astley in
determined pursuit of his truant son-in-law.

Richard
shot through the shallows in a flurry of spray, and was off in a desperate
hurry through the wet meadows, heading west for the track that would bring him
in somewhat over four miles to Saint Giles, and the last straight run to the
abbey gatehouse. Over a mile to go before he could find cover in the undulating
ground and the scattered groves of trees, but even then he could not hope to
shake off the pursuit now that he had been sighted, as surely he must have
been. And his pony was no match for that raking dappled beast behind him. But
speed was the only hope he had. He still had a fair start, even if he had lost
the best of it waiting to cross the ford. He dug in his heels and set his teeth
and made for Shrewsbury as if wolves were at his heels. The ground rose, folded
in low hills, dotted with trees and slopes of bushes, hiding hunted and hunter
from each other, but the distance between them must be shortening, and where
the track ran level and unsheltered for a while Richard stole an uneasy glance
over his shoulder, glimpsed his enemy again, nearer than before, and paid for
his momentary inattention with another fall, though this time he clung to the
reins and saved himself both the worst of the shock and the effort of catching
his pony again. Muddied and bruised and furious with himself, he scrambled
headlong back into the saddle and rode wildly on, feeling Astley’s fixed stare
as a dagger in his back. It was fortunate that the pony was Welsh-bred and
sturdy, and had been some days spoiling for exercise, and that the weight he
carried was so light, but even so the pace was unkind, and Richard knew it and
fretted over it, but could not slacken it. By the time the fence of Saint Giles
came in sight, and the track broadened into a road, he could hear the hooves
pounding somewhere behind him. But for that he might have turned in there for
refuge, since the leper hospice was manned and served by the abbey, and Brother
Oswin would not have surrendered him to anyone unless on the abbot’s orders.
But by then there was no time to halt or turn aside. Richard crouched low and
galloped on along the Foregate, every moment expecting to see Fulke Astley’s
massive shadow cast across his quarter, and a big hand stretching out to grasp
his bridle. Round the corner of the abbey wall now, and pounding along the
straight stretch to the gatehouse, scattering the craftsmen and cottagers just
ending their day’s work and turning homeward, and the children and dogs playing
in the highway.

There
was barely five yards between them when Richard swung recklessly in at the
gatehouse.

At
Vespers that evening there were several worshippers from the guest hall, as
Cadfael noted from his place in the choir. Rafe of Coventry was present,
taciturn and unobtrusive as ever, and even Aymer Bosiet, after his day’s
activities in pursuit of his elusive property, had put in a morose and grim
appearance, possibly to pray for a reliable lead from heaven. By the look of
him he had weighty matters on his mind, since he was frowning over them all through
Vespers, like a man trying to make up his mind. Perhaps the necessity to remain
on good terms with his mother’s powerful kin was urging him to hasten home at
once with Drogo’s body, and show some signs of family piety. Perhaps the
thought of a subtle younger brother, there on the spot and fully capable of
mischief for his own advancement, might also be arguing for the abandonment of
a wild-goose chase in favour of a certain inheritance.

Whatever
his preoccupations, he provided one more witness to the scene that confronted
brothers and guests when the office was over, and they emerged by the south
door and passed along the west range of the cloister into the great court, to
disperse there to their various preparations for supper. Abbot Radulfus was
just stepping out into the court, with Prior Robert and the whole procession of
the brothers following, when the evening quiet was broken by the headlong thud
of hooves along the beaten earth of the roadway outside the gatehouse, turning
abruptly to a steely clatter on the cobbles within, as a stout black pony
hurtled in past the gatehouse without stopping, slithering and stamping on the
stones, closely followed by a tall grey horse. The rider on the grey was a big,
fleshy, bearded man, crimson-faced with anger or haste, or both together,
leaning forward to snatch at the bridle of the boy who rode the pony. The two
of them had shot a matter of twenty yards or so into the centre of the court
when his outstretched hand reached the rein, and hauled both mounts to a sliding,
snorting halt, lathered and trembling. He had secured the pony, but not the
boy, who let out a yell of alarm, and abandoning his reins, rather fell than
dismounted on the other side, and fled like a homing bird to the abbot’s feet,
where he stumbled and fell flat on his face, and winding his arms desperately
round the abbot’s ankles, wailed out an indistinguishable appeal into the
skirts of the black habit and hung on tightly, half expecting to be plucked
away by force, and certain no one could prevent it, if the attempt was made,
except for this erect and stable rock to which he clung.

The
quiet which had been so roughly shattered had settled again with startling
suddenness on the great court. Radulfus raised his intent and austere stare
from the small figure hugging his ankles to the stout and confident man who had
left the quivering horses sweating side by side, and advanced some paces to
meet him, by no means abashed before the monastic authority. “My lord, this is
somewhat unceremonious. We are not accustomed to such abrupt visitations,” said
Radulfus.

“My
lord abbot, I regret being forced to disturb you. If our entry was unmannerly,
I ask your pardon. For Richard rather than for myself,” said Fulke with
conscious and confident challenge. “His foolishness is the cause. I hoped to
spare you this silly upheaval by overtaking him earlier and seeing him safely
back home.

Where
I will take him now, and see that he does not trouble you so again.” It seemed
that he was quite sure of himself, though he did not advance another step or
reach out a hand to grasp the boy by the collar. He met the abbot’s gaze eye to
eye, unblinking. Behind Prior Robert’s back the brothers broke ranks to come
forth into the open and gather round in a discreet half-circle, to peer in awe
at the crouching boy, who had begun to gasp out muffled protests and pleas,
still incoherent, since he would not raise his head or relax the frantic grasp
of his arms. After the brothers came the guests, no less interested in so
unusual a spectacle. Cadfael, moving methodically round to a position from
which he had a clear view, caught the detached but attentive eye of Rafe of
Coventry, and saw the fleeting passage of a smile brush the falconer’s bearded
lips. Instead of answering Astley, the abbot looked down again with a frowning
face at the boy at his feet, and said crisply: “Stop your noise, child, and
leave go of me. You are in no danger. Get up!”

Richard
slackened his hold reluctantly, and raised a face smudged with mud and the
green of leaves from his falls, the sweat of his haste and fear, and a few
frantic tears of relief from a terror seen now to be none too reasonable.
“Father, don’t let him take me! I don’t want to go back, I want to be here, I
want to stay with Brother Paul, I want to learn. Don’t send me away! I never
meant to stay away, never! I was on my way back when they stopped me. I was on
my way home, truly I was!”

“It
would seem,” said the abbot drily, “that there is some dispute here as to where
your home is, since the lord Fulke is offering you safe-conduct there, whereas
you are of the opinion that you are already arrived. What account you have to
give of yourself can wait another occasion. Where you belong, it seems, cannot.
Get up, Richard, at once, and stand erect as you should.” And he reached down a
lean and muscular hand to take Richard by the forearm and hoist him briskly to
his feet.

For
the first time Richard looked about him, uncomfortably aware of many eyes upon
him, and a little galled at having to cut so dishevelled and soiled a figure
before all the assembled brothers, let alone the indignant shame he felt at the
stiffening snail-trails of tears on his cheeks. He straightened his back, and
scrubbed hurriedly with a sleeve at his dirty face. He looked briefly for Brother
Paul among the habited circle, and found him, and was a little comforted. And
Brother Paul, who had been hard put to it not to run to his strayed lamb, put
his trust in Abbot Radulfus, and kept his mouth shut. “You have heard, sir,”
said the abbot, “what Richard’s preference is. No doubt you know that his
father placed him here in my care, and wished him to remain here and study
until he came of age. I have a claim to the custody of this boy by charter,
duly witnessed, and it was from my care he disappeared some days ago. I have
not so far heard what substance there may be in your claim on him.”

“Richard
changes his mind daily,” said Fulke, confidently loud, “for only last night he
went willingly in quite another direction. Nor do I hold that such a child
should be left to choose by his own liking, when his elders are better judges
of what’s good for him. And as for my claim on the charge of him, you shall
know it. Richard is my son by law, with his grandmother’s full knowledge and
consent. Last night he was married to my daughter.” The shiver of consternation
that went round the circle of awestricken watchers subsided into absolute
stillness. Abbot Radulfus was not shaken outwardly, but Cadfael saw the lines
of his gaunt face tighten, and knew that the shaft had gone home. Such a
consummation had been plotted long since by Dionisia, this self-important
neighbour was little more than her instrument in the affair. What he announced
could very well be true, if they had had the boy in their hands all this time
that he had been missing. And Richard, who had stiffened and jerked up his
head, open-mouthed to cry that it was false, met the abbot’s stern eyes fixed
steadily upon him, and was utterly confounded. He was afraid to lie to that
judicial countenance, indeed he admired as much as he feared, and he did not
wish to lie, and confronted with this flat declaration he found himself at a
loss to know what was truth. For they had married him to Hiltrude, and simple
denial was not enough. A last bolt of fright went through him and took his
breath away, for how if Hyacinth was himself deceived, and the vows he had
tamely repeated had bound him for life?

“Is
this true, Richard?” asked Radulfus.

His
voice was level and quiet, but in the circumstances seemed to Richard terrible.
He gulped down words that would not do, and Fulke, impatient, answered for him:
“It is true, and he cannot deny it. Do you doubt my word, my lord?”

“Silence!”
said the abbot peremptorily, but still quietly. “I require Richard’s answer.
Speak up, boy! Did this marriage indeed take place?”

“Yes,
Father,” faltered Richard, “but it is not—”

“Where?
With what other witnesses?”

“At
Leighton, Father, last night, that is true, but still I am not—” He was cut off
again, and submitted with a sob, frustrated and growing indignant.

“And
you spoke the words of the sacrament freely, of your own will? You were not
forced? Beaten? Threatened?”

“No,
Father, not beaten, but I was afraid. They did so hammer at me—”

“He
has been reasoned with, and he was persuaded,” said Fulke shortly. “Now he
takes back what he granted yesterday. He spoke his part without hand being laid
on him. Of his own will!”

“And
your priest undertook this marriage willingly? Assured that the consent of both
was freely given? A good man, of honest repute?”

“A
man of known holiness, my lord abbot,” said Fulke triumphantly. “The country
folk call him a saint. The holy hermit Cuthred!”

“But,
Father,” Richard cried with the courage of desperation, determined to get out
at last the plain, untangled truth of it, “I did what I did so that they’d let
me go free, and I could get back to you. I did say the vows, but only because I
knew they could not be binding. I am not married! It was not a marriage,
because—” Both the abbot and Fulke broke into speech, sternly overriding his
outburst and ordering his silence, but Richard’s blood was up. If it must out
here before everyone, then it must. He clenched his fists, and shouted loudly
enough to fetch a stony echo from the walls of the cloister: “—because Cuthred
is not a priest!”

Chapter Twelve

IN
THE GENERAL RIPPLE AND STIR OF ASTONISHMENT, doubt and outrage that passed like
a sudden gust of wind through the entire assembly, from Prior Robert’s
indignant snort to the inquisitive and half-gleeful whisperings and shiftings
among the novices, the thing that was clearest of all to Cadfael was that Fulke
Astley stood utterly confounded. Never had he had the least notion what was
coming, it had taken his breath away. He stood dangling his arms in curious
helplessness, as though something of his own being had slipped from his grasp
and left him lame and mute. When he had recovered breath enough to speak at all
he said what would have been expected of him, but without the confidence of
conviction, rather forcibly thrusting the very suggestion away from him in
panic.