Holy Thief (34 page)

He
was gone only a few moments, and he emerged through the south door and the
cloister alone.

“She
is gone,” said Brother Cadfael, his tone temperate and his face expressionless.
“There is no one in the church but Cynric, Father Boniface’s verger, trimming
the candles on the parish altar, and he has seen no one come or go within the
past halfhour.”

Afterwards
he sometimes wondered whether Robert Bossu had been expecting it. He was a man
of very dangerous subtlety, and could appreciate subtlety in others, and see
further into a man at short acquaintance than most people. Nor was he at all
averse to loosing cats among pigeons. But no, probably not. He had not known
her long enough for that. If she had ever reached his Leicester household, and
been in his sight a few weeks, he would have known her very well, and been well
able to assess her potentialities in other pursuits besides music. But at the
least, this was no great surprise to him. It was not he, but Rémy of Pertuis,
who raised the grieving outcry: “No! She cannot be gone. Where could she go?
She is mine! You are sure? No, she must be there, you have not had time to look
for her...”

“I
left her there more than an hour ago,” said Cadfael simply, “by Saint
Winifred’s altar. She is not there now. Look for yourself. Cynric found the
church empty when he came to dress the altar.”

“She
has fled me!” mourned Rémy, whitefaced and stricken, not simply protesting at
the loss of his most valuable property, and certainly not lamenting a creature
greatly loved. She was a voice to him, but he was true Provençal and true
musician, and a voice was the purest of gold to him, a treasure above rubies.
To own her was to own that instrument, the one thing in her he regarded. There
was nothing false in his grief and dismay. “She cannot go. I must seek her. She
is mine, I bought her. My lord, only delay until I can find her. She cannot be
far. Two days longer... one day...”

“Another
search? Another frustration?” said the earl and shook his head decisively. “Oh,
no! I have had dreams like this, they never lead to any ending, only barrier
after barrier, baulk after baulk. She was indeed, she is, a very precious
asset, Rémy, a lovely peal in her throat, and a light, true hand on organetto
or strings. But I have been truant all too long, and if you want my alliance
you had best ride with me now, and forget you paid money for what is beyond
price. It never profits. There are others as gifted, you shall have the means
to find them and I’ll guarantee to keep them content.”

What
he said he meant, and Rémy knew it. It took him a great struggle to choose
between his singer and his future security, but the end was never in doubt.
Cadfael saw him swallow hard and half-choke upon the effort, and almost felt
sorry for him at that moment. But with a patron as powerful, as cultivated and
as durable as Robert Beaumont, Rémy of Pertuis could hardly be an object for sympathy
very long.

He
did look round sharply for a reliable agent here, before he gave in. “My lord
abbot, or you, my lord sheriff, I would not like her to be solitary and in
want, ever. If she should reappear, if you hear of her, I beg you, let me have
word, and I will send for her. She has always a welcome with me.”

True
enough, and not all because she was valuable to him for her voice. Probably he
had never realized until now that she was more than a possession, that she was
a human creature in her own right, and might go hungry, even starve, fall
victim to villains on the road, come by harm a thousand different ways. It was
like the flight of a nun from childhood, suddenly venturing a terrible world
that gave no quarter. So, at least, he might think of her, thus seeing her
whole in the instant when she vanished from his sight. How little he knew her!

“Well,
my lord, I have done what I can. I am ready.”

They
were gone, all of them, streaming out along the Foregate towards Saint Giles,
Robert Beaumont, earl of Leicester, riding knee to knee with Sub-Prior Herluin
of Ramsey, restored to good humour by the recovery of the fruits of his labours
in Shrewsbury, and gratified to be travelling in company with a nobleman of
such standing; Robert’s two squires riding behind, the younger a little
disgruntled at having to make do with an unfamiliar mount, but glad to be going
home; Herluin’s middle-aged layman driving the baggage cart, and Nicol bringing
up the rear, well content to be riding instead of walking. Within the church
their hoofbeats were still audible until they reached the corner of the
enclave, and turned along the Horse Fair. Then there was a grateful silence,
time to breathe and reflect. Abbot Radulfus and Prior Robert were gone about
their lawful business, and the brothers had dispersed to theirs. It was over.

“Well,”
said Cadfael thankfully, bending his head familiarly to Saint Winifred, “an
engaging rogue, and harmless, but not for the cloister, any more than she was
for servility, so why repine? Ramsey will do very well without him, and
Partholan’s queen is a slave no longer. True, she’s lost her baggage, but that
she would probably have rejected in any case. She told me, Hugh, she owned
nothing, not even the clothes she wore. Now it will please her that she has
stolen only the few things on her back.”

“And
the boy,” said Hugh, “has stolen only a girl.” And he added, glancing aside at
Cadfael’s contented face: “Did you know he was there, when you followed her
in?”

“I
swear to you, Hugh, I saw nothing, I heard nothing. There was nothing whatever
even to make me think of him. But yes, I knew he was there. And so did she from
the instant she came in. It was rather as though it was spoken clearly into my
ear: Go softly. Say nothing. All things shall be well. She was not asking so
very much, after all. A little while alone. And the parish door is always
open.”

“Do
you suppose,” asked Hugh, as they turned towards the south door and the
cloister together,”that Aldhelm could have revealed anything against Bénezet?”

“Who
knows? The possibility was enough.”

They
came out into the full light of early afternoon, but after the turmoil and
passion this quietness and calm left behind spoke rather of evening and the
lovely lassitude of rest after labour and stillness after storm. “It was easy
to get fond of the boy,” said Cadfael, “but dangerous, with such a
flibbertigibbet. As well to be rid of him now rather than later. He was
certainly a thief, though not for his own gain, and as certainly a liar when he
felt it necessary. But he was truly kind to Donata. What he did for her was
done with no thought of reward, and from an unspoiled heart.”

There
was no one left in the great court as they turned towards the gatehouse. A
space lately throbbing with anger and agitation rested unpeopled, as if a
lesser creator had despaired of the world he had made, and erased it to clear
the ground for a second attempt.

“And
have you thought,” asked Hugh, “that those two will certainly be heading
southwest by the same road Bénezet took? South to the place where it crosses
the old Roman track, and then due west, straight as a lance, into Wales. With
the luck of the saints, or the devil himself, they may happen on that lost
horse, there in the forest, and leave nothing for Alan to find tomorrow.”

“And
that unlucky lad’s saddlebags still there with the harness,” Cadfael realized,
and brightened at the thought. “He could do with some rather more secular
garments than the habit and the cowl, and from what I recall they should be
much the same size.”

“Draw
me in no deeper,” said Hugh hastily.

“Finding
is not thieving.” And as they halted at the gate, where Hugh’s horse was
tethered, Cadfael said seriously: “Donata understood him better than any of us.
She told him his fortune, lightly it may be, but wisely. A troubadour, she
said, needs three things, and three things only, an instrument, a horse, and a
ladylove. The first she gave him, an earnest for the rest. Now, perhaps, he has
found all three.”

About
the Author

ELLIS PETERS is
the
nom-de-crime
of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of
books under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award,
conferred by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted
Edgar, awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well
known as a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded
the Gold Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for
her services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at
home in her beloved Shropshire.