Holy Thief (14 page)

“There
will be more now, with one cause in the ascendant here and the other there. But
we have a problem of our own here, Hugh, and even if the earl is only diverting
himself, be sure Herluin is not. If I’d known,” said Cadfael dubiously, “that
you were going to bring her back safely, and no great harm done, I might not
have been so busy about worrying out how she ever went astray.”

“I
doubt if you’d have had any choice,” said Hugh with sympathy, “and certainly
you have none now.”

“None!
I’ve sent for the lad from the Upton manor, as I told Radulfus I would, and
before Compline he’ll be here, and the truth will surely be out. Every man of
us knows now how the reliquary was filched and borne away, it wants only this
boy’s testimony to give the thief a face and a name. A small figure and a young
voice, says Aldhelm, who was tricked into helping him, and saw his face close.
It hardly needs confirming,” admitted Cadfael, “except that justice must be
seen to proceed on absolute certainty. Herluin is neither small nor young. And
why should any brother of Shrewsbury want to see our best patroness carted away
to Ramsey? Once the method was out, as today it is, who could it be but
Tutilo?”

“A
bold lad!” remarked Hugh, unable to suppress an appreciative grin. “He’ll be
wasted in a cowl. And do you know, I very much doubt whether Herluin would have
raised any objection to a successful theft, but he’ll have the youngster’s hide
now it’s proved a failure.” He rose to leave, stretching limbs still a little
stiff from the long ride. “I’m away home. I’m not needed here until this
Aldhelm has played his part and pointed the finger at your Tutilo, as I take it
you’re certain he will before the night’s out. I’d as soon not be here. If
there’s a part for me, let it be left until tomorrow.”

Cadfael
went out with him only into the herb garden, for he still had work to do here.
Brother Winfrid, big and young and wholesome, was leaning on his spade at the
edge of the vegetable patch beyond, and gazing after a diminutive figure that
was just scuttling away round the corner of the box hedge towards the great
court.

“What
was Brother Jerome doing, lurking around your workshop?” asked Brother Winfrid,
coming to put away his tools when the light began to fail.

“Was
he?” said Cadfael abstractedly, pounding herbs in a mortar for a linctus. “He
never showed himself.”

“No,
nor never intended to,” said Winfrid in his usual forthright fashion. “Wanting
to know what the sheriff had to say to you, I suppose. He was some minutes
there outside the door, until he heard you stirring to come out, then he was
off in a hurry. I doubt he heard any good of himself.”

“He
can have heard nothing of himself at all,” said Cadfael contentedly. “And
nothing that can do him any good, either.”

Rémy
of Pertuis had as good as made up his mind to leave that day, but the arrival
of the earl of Leicester caused him to think again, and countermand his orders
to Bénezet and Daalny to begin packing. The lame horse was fit and ready for
action. But now might it not be wise to wait a few days, and examine the
possibilities suggested by this magnate who had appeared so providentially?
Rémy had no personal knowledge of Ranulf, earl of Chester, and could not be
sure what kind of welcome he would get in the north. Whereas rumour led him to
believe that Robert Beaumont was a cultivated man, likely to appreciate music.
At least he was here, lodged in the same guesthall, dining at the same table.
Why abandon an opportunity present and promising, to go after a distant and
unproven one?

So
Rémy set out to explore the situation, and laid himself out to please, and his
gifts and graces, when he tried, were considerable. Bénezet had been in his
service long enough to understand his own part in the operation in hand without
having to be told. He made himself agreeable to the earl’s squires in the
stableyard, and kept his ears open for any revealing mentions of Robert Bossu’s
tastes, temperament and interests, and what he garnered was encouraging. Such a
patron would be a complete protection, a life of comparative luxury, and a very
congenial employment. Bénezet was sauntering back to the guesthall with his
gleanings, when he observed Brother Jerome rounding the box hedge from the
garden, head-down and in a hurry. Also, it seemed to Bénezet, in some
excitement, and in haste to unburden himself to someone about whatever was on
his mind. There was only one person to whom Jerome would be reporting with so
much fervour; Bénezet, naturally curious about anything that might serve his
turn or redound to his profit, was not averse to picking up a few crumbs of
useful information by the way. He slowed his pace to observe where Jerome went,
and followed him without haste into the cloister.

Prior
Robert was replacing a book in the aumbry cupboard at the end of the
scriptorium. Jerome made for him, heavy and urgent with news. Bénezet slipped
into a carrel as near as he could approach unnoticed, and made himself
invisible in the shadows. A convenient time, with the light fading, for all the
brothers who were engaged in copying or reading had abandoned their books for
the evening, leaving the prior to ensure that everything was decently replaced
exactly where it should be. In the twilit quietness voices carried, and Jerome
was excited, and Robert never one to subdue a voice he was fond of hearing.
Crumbs of advantage, Bénezet had found, may be picked up in the most unexpected
places.

“Father
Prior,” said Brother Jerome, between outrage and satisfaction,”something has
come to my notice that you should know. It seems that there is one man who
helped to carry Saint Winifred’s reliquary to the cart for Ramsey, in all
innocence, being asked by a habited brother of the Order. He has said he can
recognize the man, and is coming here tonight to make the assay. Father, why
has no word been said to us of this matter?”

“I
do know of it,” said the prior, and closed the door of the aumbry upon the
piety and wisdom within. “The lord abbot told me. It was not made public
because that would have been to give warning to the culprit.”

“But,
Father, do you see what this means? It was the wickedness of men that removed
her from our care. And I have heard a name given already to the impious thief
who dared disturb her. I heard Brother Cadfael name him. The seeming innocent,
the novice from Ramsey, Tutilo.”

“That
was not said to me,” reflected Robert with slightly affronted dignity. “No
doubt because the abbot would not accuse a man until a witness gives proof
positive of the felon’s guilt. We have only to wait until tonight, and we shall
have that proof.”

“But,
Father, can one believe such wickedness of any man? What penance can possibly
atone? Surely the lightning stroke of heaven should have fallen upon him and
destroyed him in the very deed.”

“Retribution
may be delayed,” said Prior Robert, and turned to lead the way out from the
scriptorium, his agitated shadow at his heels. “But it will be certain. A few
hours only, and the illdoer will get his due penalty.”

Brother
Jerome’s vengeful and unsatisfied mutterings trailed away to the south door,
and out into the chill of the evening. Bénezet let him go, and sat for some
moments considering what he had heard, before he rose at leisure, and walked
back thoughtfully to the guesthall. An easy evening awaited him; both he and
Daalny were excused all service, for Rémy was to dine with the abbot and the
earl, the first fruits of his campaign in search of place and status. No
servant need attend him, and though there might well be music made before the
evening ended, a girl singer could not fittingly be a part of the entertainment
in the abbot’s lodging. They were both free to do whatever they wished, for
once.

“I
have a thing to tell you,” he said, finding Daalny frowning over the tuning of
a rebec under one of the torches in the hall. “There’s a hunt afoot tonight
that I think your Tutilo would be well advised to avoid.” And he told her what
was in the wind. “Get the good word to him if you so please,” he said amiably,
“and let him make himself scarce. It might only postpone the day, but even one
day is breathing space, and I fancy he’s sharp enough to make up a plausible
story, once he knows the odds, or to persuade this witness to a different tale.
Why should I wish the lad any worse harm than he’s let himself in for already?”

“He
is not my Tutilo,” said Daalny. But she laid down the rebec on her knees, and
looked up at Bénezet with a fiercely thoughtful face. “This is truth you’re
telling me?”

“What
else? You’ve heard all the to-ing and fro-ing there’s been, this is the latter
end of it. And here you are free as a bird, for once, provided you come back to
your cage in time. You do as you please, but I would let him know what’s
threatening. And as for me, I’m going to stretch my legs in the town, while I
can. I’ll say nothing, and know nothing.”

“He
is not my Tutilo,” she repeated, almost absently, still pondering.

“By
the way he avoids looking at you, he easily could be, if you wanted him,” said
Bénezet, grinning. “But leave him to stew, if that’s your humour.”

It
was not her humour, and he knew it very well. Tutilo would be warned of what
was in store for him by the end of Vespers, if not before.

Sub-Prior
Herluin, on his way to dine with Abbot Radulfus and the distinguished company
at his lodging, and pleasantly gratified at the invitation, was confronted in
mid-court with a meek petitioner in the shape of Tutilo, all duty and service,
asking leave of absence to visit the Lady Donata at Longner.

“Father,
the lady asks that I will go and play to her, as I have done before. Have I
your permission to go?”

Herluin’s
mind was rather on his forthcoming dinner, and the marshalling of his arguments
in the matter of Saint Winifred. Not a word had been said to him of any
untoward suspicions, or of the threat of an eyewitness coming to judgement this
very night. Tutilo got his permission with almost dismissive ease. He left by
the gatehouse, openly, and took the road along the Foregate, in case anyone
happened to notice and check that he set off in the appropriate direction. He
was not going far, by no means as far as Longner, but far enough to be absent
when the immediate danger threatened. He was not so simple as to believe that
the danger would be over when Aldhelm went home frustrated, but what followed
he would have to encounter and parry when it came. Sufficient unto the day was the
evil thereof, and he had considerable confidence in his own ingenuity.

The
news worked its way round by devious stages to the ears of Brother Jerome, that
the bird he desired with all his narrow might to ensnare had taken flight to a
safe distance. He was sick and sour with rage. Clearly there was no justice to
be had, even from heaven. The devil was all too efficiently looking after his
own.

He
must have sickened on his own gall, for he disappeared for the rest of the
evening. It cannot be said that he was missed. Prior Robert was conscious of
his shadow only when he had an errand for him to run, or need of his obsequious
presence to restore a balance when someone had managed to scar the priorial
dignity. Most of the brothers were all too well aware of him, but in his
absence relaxed, gave thanks and forgot him; and the novices and schoolboys
evaded being in his proximity at all, so far as was possible. It was not until
Compline that his non-appearance provoked wonder, comment and finally uneasiness,
for he was unrelenting in observance, whatever else might be said of him.
Sub-Prior Richard, a kindly soul even to those for whom he had no particular
liking, grew anxious, and went to look for the stray, and found him on his bed
in the dortoir, pallid and shivering, pleading sickness and looking pinched,
grey and cold.

Since
he was inclined to be dyspeptic at the best of times, no one was greatly
surprised, unless perhaps at the severity of this attack. Brother Cadfael
brought him a warming drink, and a draught to settle his stomach, and they left
him to sleep it off.

That
was the last mild sensation of the evening, for the final one, still to come,
certainly could not be described as mild, and occurred somewhat after midnight.
The halfhour after Compline seemed to be declining into total anticlimax. For
the young man from the Upton manor, the anxiously awaited witness who was to
uncover truth at last, did not come.

The
abbot’s guests had dispersed decorously, Rémy and Earl Robert in amicable company
to the guesthall, where Bénezet was already returned from his evening in the
town, in good time to attend his lord, as the earl’s two squires stood ready
and waiting for theirs. Daalny was shaking out and combing her long black hair
in the women’s rooms, and listening to the chatter of a merchant’s widow from
Wem, who had availed herself of a night’s lodging here on her way to Wenlock
for her daughter’s lying-in. Everything within the walls was preparing for
sleep.

But
Aldhelm did not come. And neither did Tutilo return from his visit to the lady
of Longner.

The
order of the day’s observances being immutable, whoever fell ill and whoever
defaulted, the bell for Matins sounded in the dortoir as it did every midnight,
and the brothers arose and went sleepily down the night stairs into the church.
Cadfael, who could sleep or wake virtually at will, always felt the particular
solemnity of the night offices, and the charged vastness of the darkened vault
above, where the candle-light ebbed out and died into lofty distances that
might or might not stretch into infinity. The silence, also, had an added
dimension of cosmic silence in the midnight hours, and every smallest sound
that disrupted the ordained sounds of worship seemed to jar the foundations of
the earth. Such, he thought, in the pause for meditation and prayer between
Matins and Lauds, as the faint, brief creak of the hinges of the south door
from the cloister. His hearing was sharper than most, and as yet unmarred by
the years; probably few of the others heard it. Yet someone had come in by that
door, very softly, and was now motionless just within it, hesitating to advance
into the choir and interrupt the second office of the day. And in a few moments
a voice from that quarter, low and breathy, joined very softly in the
responses.