The Confession of Brother Haluin (19 page)

“My
lord, there’s more to be told. Sir,” he appealed to his father passionately,
“tell him! If she did make for Elford, where can she be now? My lord, Helisende
is gone, she has ridden out alone, my father believes she must have set out for
Elford—because of me! But I rode here by the rough track and saw nothing of
her. Has she indeed come safely to you? Put me out of this anxiety—did she go
by the highroad? Is she safe at Elford now?”

“She
is not!” Brought up short against this new vexation, Audemar looked sharply
from son to father and back again, well aware of the tensions that plagued
them. “We have just come by the highroad and never a sign of her or any woman
have we seen. One road or the other, one of us would have met with her. Come,
now!” he said, sweeping Cenred along with him in his free arm. “Let’s within,
the few of us, and see what knowledge we can put together, to be used with good
sense tomorrow by daylight. Madam, you should take some rest, all’s done that
you can do before morning, and I will make myself accountable from this on. No
need for you to watch out the night.”

There
was no question now as to who was master here. At his bidding Emma folded her
hands thankfully, shared a glance of harried affection between her husband and
her son, and departed docilely to such rest as she could hope to get before
dawn. Audemar looked round once from within the solar, a sweeping glance
amiable enough but unmistakable in its dominance, that dismissed all further
attendance. His eye lit upon the two Benedictines, waiting unobtrusively on the
edge of the scene, recognized them with a nod of easy reverence for their
habit, and smiled.

“Good
night, Brothers!” said Audemar, and drew the solar door firmly closed at his
back, shutting himself in with the troubled Vivers household and their aspiring
kinsman.

Chapter Ten

“HE
IS RIGHT!” SAID BROTHER HALUIN, stretched on his bed in the predawn twilight,
wakeful still and loosed now from his long silence on the fringe of other men’s
chaos. “Good night. Brothers, and goodbye! There will be no marriage. There can
be no marriage, there is now no bride. And even if she should come back, this
match cannot now go forward as if nothing had happened to cast it into such
bitter doubt. When I accepted the burden—for even so it was burdensome—there
was no call to question that it was for the best, grievous though it might be.
There is good reason to question now.”

“I
think,” said Cadfael, listening to the muted, deliberate voice, as Haluin felt
his way towards a resolution, “you are not sorry to be delivered from your
promise.”

“No,
I am not sorry. Sorry enough, God knows, that a woman has died, sorry that
these children should suffer unhappiness without remedy. But I could not now be
answerable to God for joining the girl to any man unless I could recover the
certainty I have lost. As well that she is gone, and I pray into some safe
refuge. And now it only remains,” said Brother Haluin, “for us to take our
leave. We no longer have any part to play here. De Clary has plainly told us
so. And Cenred will be glad to see us go.”

“And
you have a vow to complete, and no further cause to delay. True!” said Cadfael,
torn between relief and regret.

“I
have delayed too long already. It is time I acknowledged,” said Haluin
inflexibly, “how small are my own griefs, and how great the part I have chosen.
I made the choice for my own craven sake. Now with what life I have left I will
make it good for a worthier reason.”

So
this journey, thought Cadfael, has not been in vain. For the first time since
his flight from the world, sick with his guilt and loss, he has ventured back
into the world, and found it full of pain, into which his own pain has fallen
and been lost, like a raindrop in the sea. All these years he has been
outwardly dutiful, keeping every scruple of the Rule, and agonized in solitude
within. His true vocation begins now. Once enlightened, Haluin may well prove
the stuff of which saints are made. As for me, I am unregenerate man.

For
in his heart he did not want to leave Vivers thus, with nothing resolved.
Everything Haluin said was true. The bride was gone, there could be no
marriage, they had no excuse for remaining here any longer, nor had Cenred any
further use for them. He would indeed be glad to see them go. But Cadfael would
not go gladly, turning his back upon a murder unavenged, justice out of kilter,
a wrong that might never be set right.

True
also, Audemar de Clary was overlord here, a man of force and decision, and with
such crimes as fell within his writ he must deal. There was nothing Cadfael
could tell him that Cenred would not already have told him.

And
what, after all, did Cadfael really know in this matter? That Edgytha had been
absent several hours before she died, since there was already snow on the
ground when she fell. That she must have been on her way back to Vivers, as she
had intended. That she had had ample time to go as far as Elford. That she had
not been robbed. The murderer had simply killed and left her, not the way of footpads
living wild. If not to stop her from warning Roscelin—for that would have been
credible only on the outward journey—then to stop her mouth for another reason,
before ever she could get back to Vivers. Yet what connection was there between
Elford and Vivers except young Roscelin’s banishment to Audemar’s service? What
other secret to fear betrayal but that of the planned marriage?

But
Edgytha had never reached Roscelin, never had speech with him, nor had she gone
to Audemar or any of his household. So if she had been to Elford, why had no
one there seen her? And if she had not been to Elford, where had she been?

So
if it was not what he along with his host and hostess had supposed, what was
the cat Edgytha had gone to find, to put among Cenred’s pigeons?

And
in all probability he would never learn the answers to these questions, or
learn what fortune awaited the lost girl and the unhappy boy, and the elders
distressed and torn with concern for both of them. A pity! But no help for it,
they could no longer trespass on Cenred’s disrupted family and burdened
hospitality. As soon as the household was astir they must take their leave and
set out for Shrewsbury. No one would miss them. And it was high time they went
home.

The
morning came greyly, under a sky lightly clouded over but lofty, and
threatening no further falls of snow. Only a few threads and traceries of white
lingered along the bases of walls and under the trees and bushes, and the frost
was yielding. It would not be a bad day for travelers.

The
household was up and in ferment early. Cenred’s servants rolled out of their
brief sleep bleary-eyed and grim, well aware that there would be no rest for
them that day. Whatever else had been decided in the solemn conference in the
solar overnight, whatever possible asylums had been suggested as safe havens
for Helisende, it was certain that Audemar would have patrols working every
road in the countryside, and inquiring at every cottage, in case someone,
somewhere, had seen and spoken with Edgytha, or seen anything of a solitary and
furtive figure lurking along the path she had taken. They were already
gathering in the courtyard, saddling up, tightening girths and waiting
stoically for their orders, when Cadfael and Haluin, booted and girded for the
road, presented themselves before Cenred.

He
was deep in colloquy with his steward in the middle of the bustle in the hall,
when they approached him, and he turned to them courteously but blankly for a
moment, as if in these graver preoccupations he had forgotten he had ever
before set eyes on them. Recollection came at once, but brought him no
pleasure, only a gesture of hospitable compunction.

“Brothers,
I ask your pardon, you have been neglected. If we have troubles here to deal
with, don’t let that disturb you. Use my home as your own.”

“My
lord,” said Haluin, “we owe you thanks for all your kindness, but we must be on
our way. There is now no way I can serve you. There is no more haste, since
there is no more secrecy. And we have duties waiting for us at home. We are
come to take our leave.”

Cenred
was too honest to pretend any reluctance to part with them, and made no demur.
“I have delayed your return for my own ends,” he said ruefully, “and all to no
purpose. I am sorry I ever drew you into so vexed a business. Believe me, at
least, that my intent was good. And go with my goodwill, I wish you a peaceful
journey.”

“And
to you, sir, the safe recovery of the lady, and the guidance of God through all
perplexities,” said Haluin.

Cenred
did not offer horses for the first stage of the journey, as Adelais had done
for the whole of it. He had need here of all the horses at his disposal. But he
watched the two habited figures, the hale and the lame, make their way slowly
down the steps from the hall door, Cadfael’s hand at Haluin’s elbow ready to
support him at need, Haluin’s hands, calloused now from gripping the staves of
his crutches, braced and careful at every tread. In the courtyard they threaded
the bustle of preparation, and drew near to the gate. Cenred took his eyes from
them with relief at being rid of one complication, and turned his face doggedly
if wearily upon those remaining.

Roscelin,
chafing at delay, stood bridle in hand at the gate, shifting restlessly from
foot to foot, and peering impatiently back for his father or Audemar to give
the word to mount. He gave the two monks a preoccupied glance as they drew
near, and then, warming, bade them a good-morning, and even smiled through the
grey, distorting mask of his own anxiety.

“You’re
away for Shrewsbury? It’s a good step. I hope you’ll have easy traveling.”

“And
you a blessed end to your search,” said Cadfael.

“Blessed
for me?” said the boy, again clouding over. “I don’t look for it.”

“If
you find her safe and well, and no man’s wife until she so pleases, that’s a
fair measure of blessing. I doubt if you may ask for more. Not yet,” said
Cadfael cautiously. “Take the day’s measure of good, and be thankful, and who
knows but more may be added?”

“You
talk of impossibilities,” said Roscelin implacably, “But you mean me well, and
I take it as you mean it.”

“Where
will you ride first, to look for Helisende?” asked Brother Haluin.

“Some
of us back to Elford, to make sure she has not slipped between us and made her
way there, after all. And to every manor around, for any word of her, or of
Edgytha. She cannot have gone far.” He had truly grieved and been angry for
Edgytha, but the “she” that drove all others from his mind was Helisende.

They
left him chafing and agonizing, more restless than the horse that shifted and
stamped to be off. When they looked back from outside the gate his foot was
already in the stirrup, and behind him the rest of the hunters were gathering
the reins and mounting. Back to Elford first, in case Helisende had slipped
through their fingers, eluding the riders on both tracks, and come safe to
shelter. Cadfael and Haluin must go in the opposite direction, towards the
west. They had turned some way north from the highroad to reach the lights of
the manor. They did not return that way, but turned due west at once, on a
trodden path that skirted the manor fence. From the limit of the enclave they
heard Audemar’s hunters ride forth, and turned to watch them stream out from
the gate and lengthen out into a long, many-colored thread, dwindling into the
east and vanishing among the trees of the first belt of woodland.

“And
is that the end of it?” wondered Haluin, suddenly grieved. “And we shall never
know what comes of it all! Poor lad, and his own case beyond hope. All his
comfort in this world must be to see her happy, if that will ever be possible
without him. I know,” said Brother Haluin, in compassion untainted by any
lingering self-pity, “what they suffer.”

But
it seemed that it was indeed over for them, and there was no sense in looking
back. They set their faces towards the west, and went forward steadily on this
untested path, with the rising sun behind them, casting their elongated shadows
along the moist grass.

“By
this way,” said Cadfael, taking his bearings thoughtfully when they halted to
eat their midday bread and cheese and strip of salt bacon in the lee of a bushy
bank, “I think we shall miss Lichfield. I judge we’re already passing to the
north of it. No matter, we shall find a bed somewhere before nightfall.”

Meantime,
the day was clear and dry, and the country through which they made their way
was pleasant, but sparsely populated, and afforded them fewer human encounters
than they had met with on the direct highway through Lichfield. Having had so
little sleep they made no haste, but went steadily, and took whatever rests
offered along the way, wherever a solitary assart provided the hospitality of a
bench by the hearth, and a few minutes of neighborly gossip in passing.

A
light wind sprang up with the approach of evening, warning them it was time to
look for a night’s shelter. They were in country still wasted from harsh usage
fifty years past. The people of these parts had not taken kindly to the coming
of the Normans, and had paid the price for their obduracy. There were the
relics of deserted holdings to be seen here and there, collapsing into grass
and brambles, and the ruins of a mill rotting gently into its own overgrown
stream. Hamlets were few and far between. Cadfael began to scan the landscape
round for any sign of an inhabited roof.