A Rare Benedictine (4 page)

“My
lords, gentlemen, all who have pleas here this day, and all others present, you
are bidden to disperse, for there will be no hearings today. All suits that
should be heard here must be postponed three days, and will be heard by His
Grace’s judges. His Grace the King cannot appear.”

This
time the silence fell again like a heavy curtain, muffling even thought or
conjecture.

“The
court is in mourning from this hour. We have received news of desolating
import. His Grace with the greater part of his fleet made the crossing to
England safely, as is known, but the Blanche Nef, in which His Grace’s son and
heir, Prince William, with all his companions and many other noble souls were
embarked, put to sea late, and was caught in gales before ever clearing
Barfleur. The ship is lost, split upon a rock, foundered with all hands, not a
soul is come safe to land. Go hence quietly, and pray for the souls of the
flower of this realm.”

So
that was the end of one man’s year of triumph, an empty achievement, a ruinous
victory, Normandy won, his enemies routed, and now everything swept aside,
broken apart upon an obstinate rock, washed away in a malicious sea. His only
lawful son, recently married in splendour, now denied even a coffin and a
grave, for if ever they found those royal bodies it would be by the relenting
grace of God, for the sea seldom put its winnings ashore by Barfleur. Even some
of his unlawful sons, of whom there were many, gone down with their royal
brother, no one left but the one legal daughter to inherit a barren empire.

Cadfael
walked alone in a corner of the King’s park and considered the foolishness of
mortal vainglory, that was paid for with such a bitter price. But also he
thought of the affairs of little men, to whom even a luckless King owed
justice. For somewhere there was still to be sought the lost prior of
Shrewsbury, carried off by masterless men in the forest, a litigant who might
still be lost three days hence, when his suit came up again for hearing, unless
someone in the meantime knew where to look for him.

He
was in little doubt now. A lawless gang at liberty so close to a royal palace
was in any case unlikely enough, and Cadfael was liable to brood on the
unlikely. But that there should be two no, that was impossible. And if one
only, then that same one whose ambush he had overheard at some distance, yet
close enough, too close for comfort, to Roger Mauduit’s hunting-lodge.

Probably
the unhappy brothers from Shrewsbury were off beating the wilds of the forest
afresh. Cadfael knew better where to look. No doubt Roger was biting his nails
in some anxiety over the delay, but he had no reason to suppose that three days
would release the captive to appear against him, nor was he paying much
attention to what his Welsh man-at-arms was doing with his time.

Cadfael
took his horse and rode back without haste towards the hunting-lodge. He left
in the early dusk, as soon as the evening meal was over in Mauduit’s lodging.
No one was paying any heed to him by that time of day. All Roger had to do was
hold his tongue and keep his wits about him for three days, and the disputed
manor would still be adjudged to him. Everything was beautifully in hand, after
all.

Two
of the men-at-arms and one groom had been left behind at the hunting-lodge.
Cadfael doubted if the man they guarded was to be found in the house itself,
for unless he was blindfolded he would be able to gather far too much knowledge
of his surroundings, and the fable of the masterless men would be tossed into
the rubbish-heap. No, he would be held in darkness, or dim light at best, even
during the day, in straw or the rush flooring of a common hut, fed adequately
but plainly and roughly, as wild men might keep a prisoner they were too
cautious to kill, or too superstitious, until they turned him loose in some
remote place, stripped of everything he had of value. On the other hand, he
must be somewhere securely inside the boundary fence, otherwise there would be
too high a risk of his being found. Between the gate and the house there were
trees enough to obscure the large holding of a man of consequence. Somewhere
among the stables and barns, or the now empty kennels, there he must be held.

Cadfael
tethered his horse in cover well aside from the lodge and found himself a perch
in a tall oak tree, from which vantage point he could see over the fence into
the courtyard.

He
was in luck. The three within fed themselves at leisure before they fed their
prisoner, preferring to wait for dark. By the time the groom emerged from the
hall with a pitcher and a bowl in his hands, Cadfael had his night eyes. They
were quite easy about their charge, expecting no interference from any man. The
groom vanished momentarily between the trees within the enclosure, but appeared
again at one of the low buildings tucked under the fence, set down his pitcher
for a moment while he hoisted clear a heavy wooden bar that held the door fast
shut, and vanished within. The door thudded to after him, as though he had
slammed it shut with his back braced against it, taking no chances even with an
elderly monastic. In a few minutes he emerged again empty-handed, hauled the
bar into place again, and returned, whistling, to the hall and the enjoyment of
Mauduit’s ale.

Not
the stables nor the kennels, but a small, stout hay-store built on short wooden
piles raised from the ground. At least the prior would have fairly snug lying.

Cadfael
let the last of the light fade before he made a move. The wooden wall was stout
and high, but more than one of the old trees outside leaned a branch over it,
and it was no great labour to climb without and drop into the deep grass
within. He made first for the gate, and quietly unbarred the narrow wicket set
into it. Faint threads of torchlight filtered through the chinks in the hall
shutters, but nothing else stirred. Cadfael laid hold of the heavy bar of the
storehouse door, and eased it silently out of its socket, opening the door by
cautious inches, and whispering through the chink: “Father...?”

There
was a sharp rustling of hay within, but no immediate reply.

“Father
Prior, is it you? Softly... Are you bound?”

A
hesitant and slightly timorous voice said: “No.” And in a moment, with better
assurance: “My son, you are not one of these sinful men?”

“Sinful
man I am, but not of their company. Hush, quietly now! I have a horse close by.
I came from Woodstock to find you. Reach me your hand, Father, and come forth.”

A
hand came wavering out of the hay-scented darkness to clutch convulsively at
Cadfael’s hand. The pale patch of a tonsured crown gleamed faintly, and a small,
rounded figure crept forth and stepped into the thick grass. He had the wit to
waste no breath then on questions, but stood docile and silent while Cadfael
re-barred the door on emptiness, and, taking him by the hand, led him softly
along the fence to the unfastened wicket in the great gate. Only when the door
was closed as softly behind them did he heave a great, thankful sigh.

They
were out, it was done, and no one would be likely to learn of the escape until
morning, Cadfael led the way to where he had left his horse tethered. The
forest lay serene and quiet about them.

“You
ride, Father, and I’ll walk with you. It’s no more than two miles into
Woodstock. We’re safe enough now.”

Bewildered
and confused by so sudden a reversal, the prior confided and obeyed like a
child. Not until they were out on the silent highroad did he say sadly, “I have
failed of my mission. Son, may God bless you for this kindness which is beyond
my understanding. For how did you know of me, and how could you divine where to
find me? I understand nothing of what has been happening to me. And I am not a
very brave man... But my failure is no fault of yours, and my blessing I owe
you without stint.”

“You
have not failed, Father,” said Cadfael simply. “The suit is still unheard, and
will be for three days more. All your companions are safe in Woodstock, except
that they fret and search for you. And if you know where they will be lodging,
I would recommend that you join them now, by night, and stay well out of sight
until the day the case is heard. For if this trap was designed to keep you from
appearing in the King’s court, some further attempt might yet be made. Have you
your evidences safe? They did not take them?”

“Brother
Orderic, my clerk, was carrying the documents, but he could not conduct the
case in court. I only am accredited to represent my abbot. But, my son, how is
it that the case still goes unheard? The King keeps strict day and time, it’s
well known. How comes it that God and you have saved me from disgrace and
loss?”

“Father,
for all too bitter reason the King could not be present.”

Cadfael
told him the whole of it, how half the young chivalry of England had been wiped
out in one blow, and the King left without an heir. Prior Heribert, shocked and
dismayed, fell to praying in a grieving whisper for both dead and living, and
Cadfael walked beside the horse in silence, for what more was there to be said?
Except that King Henry, even in this shattering hour, willed that his justice
should still prevail, and that was virtue in any monarch. Only when they came
into the sleeping town did Cadfael again interrupt the prior’s fervent prayers
with a strange question.

“Father,
was any man of your escort carrying steel? A dagger, or any such weapon?”

“No,
no, God forbid!’ said the prior, shocked. “We have no use for arms. We trust in
God’s peace, and after it in the King’s.”

“So
I thought,” said Cadfael, nodding. “It is another discipline, for another
venture.”

By
the change in Mauduit’s countenance Cadfael knew the hour of the following day
when the news reached him that his prisoner was flown. All the rest of that day
he went about with nerves at stretch and ears pricked for any sensational
rumours being bandied around the town, and eyes roving anxiously in dread of
the sight of Prior Heribert in court or street, braced to pour out his
complaint to the King’s officers. But as the hours passed and still there was
no sign, he began to be a little eased in his mind, and to hope still for a
miraculous deliverance. The Benedictine brothers were seen here and there, mute
and sombre-faced; surely they could have had no word of their superior. There
was nothing to be done but set his teeth, keep his countenance, wait and hope.

The
second day passed, and the third day came, and Mauduit’s hopes had soared
again, for still there was no word. He made his appearance before the King’s
judge confidently, his charters in hand. The abbey was the suitor. If all went
well, Roger would not even have to state his case, for the plea would fail of
itself when the pleader failed to appear.

It
came as a shattering shock when a sudden stir at the door, prompt to the hour
appointed, blew into the hall a small, round, unimpressive person in the
Benedictine habit, hugging to him an armful of vellum rolls, and followed by
his black-gowned brothers in close attendance. Cadfael, too, was observing him
with interest, for it was the first time he had seen him clearly. A modest man
of comfortable figure and amiable countenance, rosy and mild. Not so old as
that night journey had suggested, perhaps forty-five, with a shining innocence
about him. But to Roger Mauduit it might have been a fire-breathing dragon
entering the hall.

And
who would have expected, from that gentle, even deprecating presence, the
clarity and expertise with which that small man deployed his original charter,
punctiliously identical to Roger’s, according to the account Alard had given,
and omitting any specific mention of what should follow Arnulf Mauduit’s death,
how scrupulously he pointed out the omission and the arguments to which it
might give rise, and followed it up with two letters written by that same
Arnulf Mauduit to Abbot Fulchered, referring in plain terms to the obligatory
return of the manor and village after his death, and pledging his son’s loyal
observance of the obligation.

It
might have been want of proofs that caused Roger to make so poor a job of
refuting the evidence, or it might have been craven conscience. Whatever the
cause, judgement was given for the abbey.

Cadfael
presented himself before the lord he was leaving barely an hour after the
verdict was given.

“My
lord, your suit is concluded, and my service with it. I have done what I
pledged, here I part from you.”

Roger
sat sunk in gloom and rage, and lifted upon him a glare that should have felled
him, but failed of its impact.

“I
misdoubt me,” said Roger, smouldering, “how you have observed your loyalty to
me. Who else could know...” He bit his tongue in time, for as long as it
remained unsaid no accusation had been made, and no rebuttal was needed. He
would have liked to ask: How did you know? But he thought better of it. “Go,
then, if you have nothing more to say.”

“As
to that,” said Cadfael meaningly, “nothing more need be said. It’s over.” And
that was recognisable as a promise, but with uneasy implications, for plainly
on some other matter he still had a thing to say.

“My
lord, give some thought to this, for I was until now in your service, and wish
you no harm. Of those four who attended Prior Heribert on his way here, not one
carried arms. There was neither sword nor dagger nor knife of any kind among
the five of them.”