A Rare Benedictine (2 page)

“And
what will you do,” asked Alard, “now the King’s got everything he wanted,
married his son to Anjou and Maine, and made an end of fighting? Go back to the
east? There’s never any want of squabbles there to keep a man busy.”

“No,”
said Cadfael, eyes fixed on the shore that began to show the solidity of land
and the undulations of cliff and down. For that, too, was over and done, years
since, and not as well done as once he had hoped. This desultory campaigning in
Normandy was little more than a postscriptum, an afterthought, a means of
filling in the interim between what was past and what was to come, and as yet
unrevealed. All he knew of it was that it must be something new and momentous,
a door opening into another room. “It seems we have both a few days’ grace, you
and I, to find out where we are going. We’d best make good use of the time.”

There
was stir enough before night to keep them from wondering beyond the next
moment, or troubling their minds about what was past or what was to come. Their
ship put into the roads with a steady and favourable wind, and made course into
Southampton before the light faded, and there was work for Alard checking the
gear as it was unloaded, and for Cadfael disembarking the horses. A night’s
sleep in lodgings and stables in the town, and they would be on their way with
the dawn.

“So
the King’s due in Woodstock,” said Alard, rustling sleepily in his straw in a
warm loft over the horses, “in time to sit in judgement on the twenty-third of
the month. He makes his forest lodges the hub of his kingdom, there’s more statecraft
talked at Woodstock, so they say, than ever at Westminster. And he keeps his
beasts there—lions and leopards, even camels. Did you ever see camels, Cadfael?
There in the east?”

“Saw
them and rode them. Common as horses there, hard-working and serviceable, but
uncomfortable riding, and foul-tempered. Thank God it’s horses we’ll be
mounting in the morning.” And after a long silence, on the edge of sleep, he
asked curiously into the straw-scented darkness: “If ever you do go back, what
is it you want of Evesham?”

“Do
I know?” responded Alard drowsily, and followed that with a sudden sharpening
sigh, again fully awake. “The silence, it might be... or the stillness. To have
no more running to do... to have arrived, and have no more need to run. The appetite
changes. Now I think it would be a beautiful thing to be still.”

The
manor which was the head of Roger Mauduit’s scattered and substantial honour
lay somewhat south-east of Northampton, comfortably under the lee of the long
ridge of wooded hills where the king had a chase, and spreading its extensive
fields over the rich lowland between. The house was of stone, and ample, over a
deep undercroft, and with a low tower providing two small chambers at the
eastern end, and the array of sturdy byres, barns and stables that lined the
containing walls was impressive. Someone had proved a good steward while the
lord was away about King Henry’s business.

The
furnishings of the hall were no less eloquent of good management, and the men
and maids of the household went about their work with a brisk wariness that
showed they went in some awe of whoever presided over their labours. It needed
only a single day of watching the Lady Eadwina in action to show who ruled the
roost here. Roger Mauduit had married a wife not only handsome, but also
efficient and masterful. She had had her own way here for three years, and by
all the signs had enjoyed her dominance. She might, even, be none too glad to
resign her charge now, however glad she might be to have her lord home again.

She
was a tall, graceful woman, ten years younger than Roger, with an abundance of
fair hair, and large blue eyes that went discreetly half-veiled by absurdly
long lashes most of the time, but flashed a bright and steely challenge when
she opened them fully. Her smile was likewise discreet and almost constant,
concealing rather than revealing whatever went on in her mind; and though her
welcome to her returning lord left nothing to be desired, but lavished on him
every possible tribute of ceremony and affection from the moment his horse
entered at the gate, Cadfael could not but wonder whether she was not, at the
same time, taking stock of every man he brought in with him, and every article
of gear or harness or weaponry in their equipment, as one taking jealous
inventory of his goods and reserves to make sure nothing was lacking.

She
had her little son by the hand, a boy of about seven years old, and the child
had the same fair colouring, the same contained and almost supercilious smile,
and was as spruce and fine as his mother.

The
lady received Alard with a sweeping glance that deprecated his tatterdemalion
appearance and doubted his morality, but nevertheless was willing to accept and
make use of his abilities. The clerk who kept the manor roll and the accounts
was efficient enough, but had no Latin, and could not write a good court hand.
Alard was whisked away to a small table set in the angle of the great hearth,
and kept hard at work copying certain charters and letters, and preparing them
for presentation.

“This
suit of his is against the abbey of Shrewsbury,” said Alard, freed of his
labours after supper in hall. “I recall you said that girl of yours had married
a merchant in that town. Shrewsbury is a Benedictine house, like mine of
Evesham.” His, he called it still, after so many years of abandoning it; or his
again, after time had brushed away whatever division there had ever been. “You
must know it, if you come from there.”

“I
was born in Trefriw, in Gwynedd,” said Cadfael, “but I took service early with
an English wool-merchant, and came to Shrewsbury with his household. Fourteen,
I was then in Wales fourteen is manhood, and as I was a good lad with the short
bow, and took kindly to the sword, I suppose I was worth my keep. The best of
my following years were spent in Shrewsbury, I know it like my own palm, abbey
and all. My master sent me there a year and more, to get my letters. But I quit
that service when he died. I’d pledged nothing to the son, and he was a poor
shadow of his father. That was when I took the Cross. So did many like me, all
afire. I won’t say what followed was all ash, but it burned very low at times.”

“It’s
Mauduit who holds this disputed land,” said Alard, “and the abbey that sues to
recover it, and the thing’s been going on four years without a settlement, ever
since the old man here died. From what I know of the Benedictines, I’d rate
their honesty above our Roger’s, I tell you straight. And yet his charters seem
to be genuine, as far as I can tell.”

“Where
is this land they’re fighting over?” asked Cadfael.

“It’s
a manor by the name of Rotesley, near Stretton, demesne, village, advowson of
the church and all. It seems when the great earl was just dead and his abbey
still building, Roger’s father gave Rotesley to the abbey. No dispute about
that, the charter’s there to show it. But the abbey granted it back to him as
tenant for life, to live out his latter years there undisturbed, Roger being
then married and installed here at Sutton. That’s where the dispute starts. The
abbey claims it was clearly agreed the tenancy ended with the old man’s death,
that he himself understood it so, and intended it should be restored to the
abbey as soon as he was out of it. While Roger says there was no such agreement
to restore it unconditionally, but the tenancy was granted to the Mauduits, and
ought to be hereditary. And so far he’s hung on to it tooth and claw. After
several hearings they remitted it to the King himself. And that’s why you and
I, my friend, will be off with his lordship to Woodstock the day after
tomorrow.”

“And
how do you rate his chances of success? He seems none too sure himself,” said
Cadfael, “to judge by his short temper and nail-biting this last day or so.”

“Why,
the charter could have been worded better. It says simply that the village is
granted back in tenancy during the old man’s lifetime, but fails to say
anything about what shall happen afterwards, whatever may have been intended.
From what I hear, they were on very good terms, Abbot Fulchered and the old
lord, agreements between them on other matters in the manor book are worded as
between men who trusted each other. The witnesses are all of them dead, as
Abbot Fulchered is dead. It’s one Godefrid now. But for all I know the abbey
may hold letters that have passed between the two, and a letter is witness of
intent, no less than a formal charter. All in good time we shall see.”

The
nobility still sat at the high table, in no haste to retire, Roger brooding
over his wine, of which he had already drunk his fair share and more. Cadfael
eyed them with interest, seen thus in a family setting. The boy had gone to his
bed, hauled away by an elderly nurse, but the Lady Eadwina sat in close
attendance at her lord’s left hand, and kept his cup well filled, smiling her
faint, demure smile. On her left sat a very fine young squire of about
twenty-five years, deferential and discreet, with a smile somehow the male
reflection of her own. The source of both was secret, the spring of their
pleasure or amusement, or whatever caused them so to smile, remained private
and slightly unnerving, like the carved stone smiles of certain very old
statues Cadfael had seen in Greece, long ago. For all his mild, amiable and
ornamental appearance, combed and curled and courtly, he was a big, well-set-up
young fellow, with a set to his smooth jaw. Cadfael studied him with interest,
for he was plainly privileged here.

“Goscelin,”
said Alard by way of explanation, following his friend’s glance. “Her
right-hand man while Roger was away.”

Her
left-hand man now, by the look of it, thought Cadfael. For her left hand and
Goscelin’s right were private under the table, while she spoke winningly into
her husband’s ear; and if those two hands were not paddling palms at this
moment Cadfael was very much deceived. Above and below the drapings of the
board were two different worlds. “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “what she’s
breathing into Roger’s ear now.”

What
the lady was breathing into her husband’s ear was, in fact: “You fret over
nothing, my lord. What does it matter how strong his proofs, if he never
reaches Woodstock in time to present them? You know the law: if one party fails
to appear, judgement is given for the other. The assize judges may allow more
than one default if they please, but do you think King Henry will? Whoever
fails of keeping tryst with him will be felled on the spot. And you know the
road by which Prior Heribert must come.” Her voice was a silken purr in his
ear. “And have you not a hunting-lodge in the forest north of Woodstock,
through which that road passes?”

Roger’s
hand had stiffened round the stem of his wine cup. He was not so drunk but he
was listening intently.

“Shrewsbury
to Woodstock will be a two or three-day journey to such a rider. All you need
do is have a watcher on the road north of you, to give warning. The woods are
thick enough, masterless men have been known to haunt there. Even if he comes
by daylight, your part need never be known. Hide him but a few days, it will be
long enough. Then turn him loose by night, and who’s ever to know what footpads
held and robbed him? You need not even touch his parchments, robbers would
count them worthless. Take what common thieves would take, and theirs will be
the blame.”

Roger
opened his tight-shut mouth to say in a doubtful growl: “He’ll not be
travelling alone.”

“Hah!
Two or three abbey servants they’ll run like hares. You need not trouble
yourself over them. Three stout, silent men of your own will be more than
enough.”

He
brooded, and began to think so, too, and to review in his mind the men of his
household, seeking the right hands for such work. Not the Welshman and the
clerk, the strangers here; their part was to be the honest onlookers, in case
there should ever be questions asked.

They
left Sutton Mauduit on the twentieth day of November, which seemed
unnecessarily early, though as Roger had decreed that they should settle in his
hunting-lodge in the forest close by Woodstock, which meant conveying stores
with them to make the house habitable and provision it for a party for, presumably,
a stay of three nights at least, it was perhaps a wise precaution. Roger was
taking no chances in his suit, he said; he meant to be established on the
ground in good time, and have all his proofs in order.

“But
so he has,” said Alard, pricked in his professional pride, “for I’ve gone over
everything with him, and the case, if open in default of specific instructions,
is plain enough and will stand up. What the abbey can muster, who knows? They
say the abbot is not well, which is why his prior comes in his place. My work
is done.”

He
had the faraway look in his eye, as the party rode out and faced westward, of
one either penned and longing to be where he could but see, or loose and weary
and being drawn home. Either a vagus escaping outward, or a penitent flying
back in haste before the doors should close against him. There must indeed be
something desirable and lovely to cause a man to look towards it with that look
on his face.

Three
men-at-arms and two grooms accompanied Roger, in addition to Alard and Cadfael,
whose term of service would end with the session in court, after which they
might go where they would, Cadfael horsed, since he owned his own mount, Alard
afoot, since the pony he rode belonged to Roger. It came as something of a
surprise to Cadfael that the squire Goscelin should also saddle up and ride
with the party, very debonair and well-armed with sword and dagger.