The Confession of Brother Haluin (11 page)

“In
God’s name, man,” said the young man Roscelin impatiently, “must you use
yourself so hardly when you have already enough for any sane man to carry?”

Haluin
was too startled, and his mind still too far away, to be capable of grasping
that, much less answering it. And if Cadfael privately considered it a
perfectly sensible reaction, aloud he said practically, “Keep firm hold of him
so, while I pick up his crutches. And God bless you for appearing so aptly.
Spare to scold him, you’d be wasting your breath. He’s under vow.”

“A
foolish vow!” said the boy with the arrogant certainty of his years. “Who’s the
better for this?” But for all his disapproval he held Haluin warmly and firmly,
and looked at him sidelong with a frown at least as anxious as it was
exasperated,

“He
is,” said Cadfael, propping the crutches under Haluin’s armpits, and setting to
work to chafe life back into the cold hands that could not yet grip the staves.
“Hard to believe, but you had better credit it. There, you can let him lean on
his props now, but hold him steady. Well for you at your years, you can sleep
easy, with nothing to regret and nothing to ask pardon for. How did you come to
look in here so timely?” he asked, eyeing the young man with fresh interest,
thus at close quarters. “Were you sent?”

For
this boy seemed an unlikely instrument for Adeiais to use in shepherding her
inconvenient guests in and out of Elford—too young, too blunt, too innocent.

“No,”
said Roscelin shortly, and relented to add with better grace, “I was plain
curious.”

“Well,
that’s human,” admitted Cadfael, recognizing his own besetting sin.

“And
this morning Audemar has no immediate work for me, he’s busy with his steward.
Had we not better get this brother of yours back to his lodging, where it’s
warmer? How shall we do? I can fetch a horse for him if we can get him
mounted.”

Haluin
had come back from his distant place to find himself being discussed and
handled as if he had no mind of his own, and no awareness of his surroundings.
He stiffened instinctively against the indignity. “No,” he said, “I thank you,
but I can go now. I need not trespass on your kindness further.” And he flexed
his hands and gripped the staves of his crutches, and took the first cautious
steps away from the tomb.

They
followed closely, one at either elbow in case he faltered, Roscelin going
before up the shallow steps and through the doorway to prevent a possible
stumble, Cadfael coming close behind to support him if he reeled backward. But
Haluin had gathered to his aid a will refreshed and strengthened by
achievement, and was resolute to manage this walk alone, at whatever cost. And
there was no haste. When he felt the need he could rest on his crutches to draw
breath, and so he did three times before they reached Audemar’s courtyard,
already populous and busy about bakery and mews and wellhead. It said much for
young Roscelin’s quickness and delicacy of mind, Cadfael reflected, that he waited
without comment or impatience at every pause, and refrained from offering a
hand in help until help should be invited. So Haluin came back to the lodging
in Audemar’s courtyard as he would have wished, on his own misshapen feet, and
could feel that he had earned the ease of his bed.

Roscelin
followed them in, still curious, in no haste to go in search of whatever duties
awaited him. “Is that all, then?” he said, watching Haluin stretch out his
still-numbed limbs gratefully, and draw the brychan over them. “Then where do
you go when you leave us? And when? You’ll not set out today?”

“We
go back to Shrewsbury,” said Cadfael. “Today—that I doubt. A day’s rest would
be wisdom.” By the weary ease of Haluin’s face, and the softened gaze turned
inward, it would not be long before he fell asleep, the best and best-earned
sleep since he had made confession.

“I
saw you ride in with the lord Audemar yesterday,” said Cadfael, studying the
youthful face before him. “The lady mentioned your name. Are you kin to the de Clarys?”

The
boy shook his head. “No. My father is tenant and vassal to him, they’ve always
been good friends, and there’s a marriage tie, a while back now. No, I’m sent
here to Audemar’s service at my father’s order.”

“But
not at your wish,” said Cadfael, interpreting the tone rather than the words,

“No!
Much against my wish!” said Roscelin abruptly, and scowled at the floorboards
between his booted feet.

“Yet
to all appearances as good a lord as you could hope for,” suggested Cadfael
mildly, “and better than most.”

“He’s
well enough,” the boy owned fairly. “I’ve no complaint of him. But I grudge it
that my father has sent me away here to be rid of me out of the house, and
that’s the truth of it.”

“Now,
why,” wondered Cadfael, curious but not quite asking, “why should any father
want to be rid of you?” For here was undoubtedly the very picture of a
presentable son, upstanding, well formed, well conducted, and decidedly
engaging in his fair-haired, smooth-cheeked comeliness, a son any father would
be glad to parade before his peers. Even in sullenness his face was pleasing,
but it was certainly true that he had not the look of one happy in his service.

“He
has his reasons,” said Roscelin moodily. “You’d say good reasons, too, I know
that. And I’m not so estranged from him that I could refuse him the obedience
due. So I’m here, and pledged to stay here unless lord and father both give me
leave to go. And I’m not such a fool as not to admit I could be in far worse
places. So I may as well get all the good I can out of it while I’m here.”

It
seemed that his mind had veered into another and graver quarter, for he sat for
some moments silent, staring down into his clasped hands with a frowning brow,
and looked up only to measure Cadfael earnestly, his eyes dwelling long upon
the black habit and the tonsure.

“Brother,”
he said abruptly, “I wondered, now and then—about the monkish life. Some men
have taken to it, have they not, because what they most wanted was forever
impossible—forbidden them! Is that true? Can it provide a life, if… if the life
a man wants is out of reach?”

“Yes,”
said Brother Haluin’s voice, gently and quietly out of a waking dream now very
close to sleep. “Yes, it can!”

“I
would not recommend entering it as a second-best,” said Cadfael stoutly. Yet that
was what Haluin had done, long ago, and he spoke now as one recording a
revelation, the opening of his inward eyes just as they were heavy and closing
with sleep.

“The
time might be long, and the cost high,” said Haluin with gentle certainty, “but
in the end it would not be second-best.”

He
drew in a long breath, and spent it in a great healing sigh, turning his head
away from them on the pillow. They were both so intent on him, doubting and
wondering, that neither of them had noted the approach of brisk footsteps
without, and they started round in surprise as the door was thrown wide open to
admit Lothair, carrying a basket of food and a pitcher of small ale for the
guests. At sight of Roscelin seated familiarly upon Cadfael’s pallet, and
apparently on good terms with the brothers, the groom’s weathered face
tightened perceptibly, almost ominously, and for an instant a deeper spark
flashed and vanished again in his pale eyes.

“What
are you doing here?” he demanded with the bluntness of an equal, and the
uncompromising authority of an elder. “Master Roger’s looking for you, and my
lord wants you in attendance as soon as he’s broken his fast. You’d best be
off, and sharp about it, too.”

It
could not be said that Roscelin showed any alarm at this intelligence, or
resentment at the manner in which it was delivered; rather the man’s assurance
seemed to afford him a little tolerant amusement. But he rose at once, and with
a nod and a word by way of farewell went off obediently but without haste to
his duty. Lothair stood narrow-eyed in the doorway to watch him go, and did not
come fully into the room with his burdens until the boy had reached the steps
to the hall door.

Our
guard dog, thought Cadfael, has his orders to ward off any others who come too
close, but he had not reckoned with having to do as much for young Roscelin.
Now, could there, I wonder, be some reason why that contact in particular
should cause him consternation? For that’s the first spark I’ve seen struck
from his steel!

Chapter Six

ADELAIS
HERSELF PAID A GRACIOUS VISIT to her monastic guests after Mass, with
solicitous inquiries after their health and well-being. It was possible,
Cadfael reflected, that Lothair had reported back to her the inconvenient and
undesirable incursion of the young man Roscelin into a preserve she clearly
wished to keep private. She appeared in the doorway of their small chamber,
prayer book in hand, alone, having sent her maid on ahead to her dower house.
Haluin was awake, and made to rise from his pallet in respectful acknowledgment
of her coming, reaching in haste for his crutches, but she motioned him back
with a wave of her hand.

“No,
be still! No ceremony is needed between us. How do you find yourself now—now
that your vow is accomplished? I hope you have experienced grace, and can
return to your cloister in peace. I wish you that mercy. An easy journey and a
safe arrival!”

And
above all, thought Cadfael, an early departure. And small blame to her. It’s
what I want, too, and so must Haluin. To have this matter finished, neatly and
cleanly, with no more harm to any creature, with mutual forgiveness, once
spoken, and thereafter silence.

“You
have had little rest,” she said, “and have a long journey back to Shrewsbury.
My kitchen shall supply you with food for the first stages of the way. But I
think you should also accept horses. I have said so to Brother Cadfael already.
The stables here can spare you mounts, and I will send for them to Hales when I
return there. You should not attempt to go back all that way on foot.”

“For
the offer, and for all your kindness, we are grateful,” said Haluin in instant
and hasty protest. “But this I cannot accept. I undertook both to go and to
return on foot, and I must make good what I vowed. It is a pledge of faith that
I am not so crippled as to be utterly useless and unprofitable hereafter, to
God and man. You would not wish me to go home shamed and forsworn.”

She
shook her head over his obstinacy with apparent resignation. “So your fellow
here warned me you would argue, when I spoke of it to him, but I hoped you
would see better reason. Surely you are also pledged to return to your duty at
the abbey as soon as may be. Has that no force? If you insist on going afoot
you cannot set out at least until tomorrow, after so hard a night on the
stones.”

To
Haluin, no doubt, that sounded like true solicitude, and an invitation to delay
until he was fully rested. To Cadfael it had the sound of a subtle dismissal.

“I
never thought that it would be easy,” said Haluin, “to perform what I swore.
Nor should it be. The whole virtue, if there is any virtue in it at all, is to
endure the hardship and complete the penance. And so I can and shall. You are
right, I owe it to my abbot and my brothers to get back to my duty as soon as I
may. We must set out today. There are still hours of daylight left, we must not
waste them.”

To
do her justice, she did seem to be taken aback at such ready compliance with
what she wished, even if she had not expressed the wish. She urged, though
without warmth, the necessity of rest, but gave way pliantly before Haluin’s
stubborn insistence. Things had gone as she wished, and at the last moment she
could afford one brief convulsion of pity and regret.

“It
must be as you wish,” she said. “Very well, Luc shall bring you food and drink
before you go, and fill your scrip for you. As for me, I part from you in
goodwill; Now and hereafter, I wish you well.”

When
she was gone, Haluin sat silent for a while, shivering a little in the recoil
from the finality of this ending. It was as he had hoped, and yet it left him
shaken.

“I
have made things needlessly hard for you,” he said ruefully. “You must be weary
as I am, and I have committed you to leaving thus, without sleep. She wanted us
gone, and for my part I heartily wish to be gone. The sooner severed, the
better for us all.”

“You
did right,” said Cadfael. “Once out of here we need not go far. You are in no
case to attempt it today. But to be out of here is all we need.

They
left Audemar de Clary’s manor gates in midafternoon, under a sky heavy with
grey cloud, and turned westward along the track through Elford village, with a
chill, insidious wind in their faces. It was over. From this point on, with
every step taken they were returning to normality and safety, to the monastic
hours and the blessed daily round of work, worship, and prayer.

From
the highroad Cadfael looked back once, and saw the two grooms standing in the
gateway to watch the guests depart. Two solid, sturdy figures, taciturn and
inscrutable, following the withdrawal of the interlopers with light, fierce
northern eyes. Making sure, thought Cadfael, that the disquiet we brought to
that lady departs with us, and leaves no shadow behind.