Chapter Eleven

SO THERE WENT SHREWSBURY’S PRIME SUSPECT, the man gossip had already hanged and buried, down the hall on his father’s heels, stumbling a little and dazed like a man in a dream, but beginning to shine as though a torch had been kindled within him; down to a place with his father at one of the tables, equal among equals. From a serving-maid’s by-blow, without property or privilege, he was suddenly become a free man, with a rightful place of his own in a kindred, heir to a respected sire, accepted by his prince. The threat that had forced him to take to his heels had turned into the greatest blessing of his life and brought him to the one place that was his by right in Welsh law, true son to a father who acknowledged him proudly. Here Anion was no bastard.

Cadfael watched the pair of them to their places, and was glad that something good, at least, should have come out of the evil. Where would that young man have found the courage to seek out his father, distant, unknown, speaking another language, if fear had not forced his hand, and made it easy to leap across a frontier? The ending was well worth the terror that had gone before. He could forget Anion now. Anion’s hands were clean.

“At least you’ve sent me one man,” observed Owain, watching thoughtfully as the pair reached their places, “in return for my eight still in bond. Not a bad figure of a man, either. But no training in arms, I doubt.”

“An excellent cattle-man,” said Cadfael. “He has an understanding with all animals. You may safely put your horses in his care.”

“And you lose, I gather, your chief contender for a halter. You have no after-thoughts concerning him?”

“None. I am sure he did as he says he did. He dreamed of avenging himself on a strong and overbearing man, and found a broken wreck he could not choose but pity.”

“No bad ending,” said Owain. “And now I think we might withdraw to some quieter place, and you shall tell us whatever you have to tell, and ask whatever you need to ask.”

In the prince’s chamber they sat about the small, wire-guarded brazier, Owain, Tudur, Einan ab Ithel and Cadfael. Cadfael had brought with him the little box in which he had preserved the wisps of wool and gold thread. Those precise shades of deep blue and soft rose could not be carried accurately in the mind, but must continually be referred to the eye, and matched against whatever fabric came to light. He had the box in the scrip at his girdle, and was wary of opening it where there might be even the faintest draught, for fear the frail things within would be blown clean away. A breath from a loophole could whisk his ominous treasures out of reach in an instant.

He had debated within himself how much he should tell, but in the light of Cristina’s revelation, and since her father was here in conference, he told all he knew, how Elis in his captivity had fallen haplessly in love with Prestcote’s daughter, and how the pair of them had seen no possible hope of gaining the sheriffs approval for such a match, hence providing reason enough why Elis should attempt to disturb the invalid’s rest – whether to remove by murder the obstacle to his love, as Melicent accused, or to plead his forlorn cause, as Elis himself protested.

“So that was the way of it,” said Owain, and exchanged a straight, hard look with Tudur, unsurprised, and forbearing from either sympathy or blame. Tudur was on close terms of personal friendship with his prince, and had surely spoken with him of Cristina’s confidences. Here was the other side of the coin. “And this was after Einon had left you?”

“It was. It came out that the boy had tried to speak with Gilbert, and been ordered out by Brother Edmund. When the girl heard of it, she turned on him for a murderer.”

“But you do not altogether accept that. Nor, it seems, has Beringar accepted it.”

“There is no more proof of it than that he was there, beside the bed, when Edmund came and drove him out. It could as well have been for the boy’s declared purpose as for anything worse. And then, you’ll understand, there was the matter of the gold pin. We never realised it was missing, my lord, until you had ridden for home. But very certainly Elis neither had it on him, nor had had any opportunity to hide it elsewhere before he was searched. Therefore someone else had been in that room and taken it away.”

“But now that we know what befell my pin,” said Einon, “and are satisfied Anion did not murder, does not that leave that boy again in danger of being branded for the killing of a sick and sleeping man? Though it sorts very poorly,” he added, “with what I know of him.”

“Which of us,” said Owain sombrely, “has never been guilty of some unworthiness that sorts very ill with what our friends know of us? Even with what we know, or think we know, of ourselves! I would not rule out any man from being capable once in his life of a gross infamy.” He looked up at Cadfael. “Brother, I recall you said, within there, that there was yet one more thing you must find, belore you would have found Prestcote’s murderer. What is that thing?”

“It is the cloth that was used to smother Gilbert. By its traces it will be known, once found. For it was pressed down over his nose and mouth, and he breathed it into his nostrils and drew it into his teeth, and a thread or two of it we found in his beard. No ordinary cloth. Elis had neither that nor anything else in his hands when he came from the infirmary. Once I had found and preserved the filaments from it, we searched for it throughout the abbey precincts, for it could have been a hanging or an altar-cloth, but we have found nothing to match these fragments. Until we know what it was, and what became of it, we shall not know who killed Gilbert Prestcote.”

“This is certain?” asked Owain. “You drew these threads from the dead man’s nostrils and mouth? You think you will know, when you find it, the very cloth that was used to stifle him?”

“I do think so, for the colours are clear, and not common dyes. I have the box here. But open it with care. What’s within is fine as cobweb.” Cadfael handed the little box across the brazier. “But not here. The up-draught from the warmth could blow them away.” Owain took the box aside, and held it low under one of the lamps, where the light would play into it. The minute threads quivered faintly, and again were still. “Here’s gold thread, that’s plain, a twisted strand. The rest – I see it’s wool, by the many hairs and the live texture. A darker colour and a lighter.” He studied them narrowly, but shook his head. “I could not say what tints are here, only that the cloth had a good gold thread woven into it. And I fancy it would be thick, a heavy weave, by the way the wool curls and crimps. Many more such fine hairs went to make up this yarn.”

“Let me see,” said Einon, and narrowed his eyes over the box. “I see the gold, but the colours … No, it means nothing to me.” Tudur peered, and shook his head. “We have not the light for this, my lord. By day these would show very differently.” It was true, by the mellow light of these oil, lamps the prince’s hair was deep harvest, gold, almost brown. By daylight it was the yellow of primroses. “It might be better,” agreed Cadfael, “to leave the matter until morning. Even had we better vision, what could be done at this hour?”

“This light foils the eye,” said Owain. He closed the lid over the airy fragments. “Why did you think you might find what you seek here?”

“Because we have not found it within the pale of the abbey, so we must look outside, wherever men have dispersed from the abbey. The lord Einon and two captains beside had left us before ever we recovered these threads, it was a possibility, however frail, that unknowingly this cloth had gone with them. By daylight the colours will show for what they truly are. You may yet recall seeing such a weave.” Cadfael took back the box. It had been a fragile hope at best, but the morrow remained. There was a man’s life, a man’s soul’s health, snared in those few quivering hairs, and he was their custodian.

“Tomorrow,” said the prince emphatically, “we will try what God’s light can show us, since ours is too feeble.”

In the deep small hours of that same night Elis awoke in the dark cell in the outer ward of Shrewsbury castle, and lay with stretched ears, struggling up from the dullness of sleep and wondering what had shaken him out of so profound a slumber. He had grown used to all the daytime sounds native to this place, and to the normal unbroken silence of the night. This night was different, or he would not have been heaved so rudely out of the only refuge he had from his daytime miseries. Something was not as it should have been, someone was astir at a time when there was always silence and stillness. The air quivered with soft movements and distant voices.

They were not locked in, their word had been accepted without question, bond enough to hold them. Elis raised himself cautiously on an elbow, and leaned to listen to Eliud’s breathing in the bed beside him. Deep asleep, if not altogether at peace. He twitched and turned without awaking, and the measure of his breathing changed uneasily, shortening and shallowing sometimes, then easing into a long rhythm that promised better rest. Elis did not want to disturb him. It was all due to him, to his pig, headed folly in joining Cadwaladr, that Eliud was here a prisoner beside him. He must not be drawn still deeper into question and danger, whatever happened to Elis.

There were certainly voices, at some small distance but muffled and made to sound infinitely more distant by the thick stone walls. And though at this remove there could not possibly be distinguishable words, yet there was an indefinable agitation about the exchanges, a quiver of panic on the air. Elis slid carefully from the bed, halted and held his breath a moment to make sure that Eliud had not stirred, and felt for his coat, thankful that he slept in shirt and hose, and need not fumble in the dark to dress. With all the grief and anxiety he carried about with him night and day, he must discover the reason of this added and unforeseen alarm. Every divergence from custom was a threat.

The door was heavy but well hung, and swung without a sound. Outside the night was moonless but clear, very faint starlight patterned the sky between the walls and towers that made a shell of total darkness. He drew the door closed after him, and eased the heavy latch into its socket gingerly. Now the murmur of voices had body and direction, it came from the guard-room within the gatehouse. And that crisp, brief clatter that struck a hidden spark on the ground was hooves on the cobbles. A rider at this hour?

He felt his way along the wall towards the sound, at every angle flattening himself against the stones to listen afresh. The horse shifted and blew. Shapes grew gradually out of the solid darkness, the twin turrets of the barbican showed their teeth against a faintly lighter sky, and the flat surface of the closed gate beneath had a tall, narrow slit of pallor carved through it, tall as a man on horseback, and wide enough for a horse to pass in haste. The rider’s wicket was open. Open because someone had entered by it with urgent news only minutes since, and no one had yet thought to close it.

Elis crept nearer. The door of the guard-room was ajar, a long sliver of light from torches within quivered across the dark cobbles. The voices emerged by fits and starts, as they were raised and again lowered, but he caught words clearly here and there.

“… burned a farm west of Pontesbury,” reported a messenger, still breathless from his haste, “and never withdrew … They’re camped overnight … and another party skirting Minsterley to join them.” Another voice, sharp and clear, most likely one of the experienced sergeants: “What numbers?”

“In all … if they foregather … I was told it might be as many as a hundred and fifty …”

“Archers? Lancers? Foot or horse?” That was not the sergeant, that was a young voice, a shade higher than it should have been with alarm and strain. They had got Alan Herbard out of bed. This was a grave matter.

“My lord, far the greater part on foot. Lancers and archers both. They may try to encircle Pontesbury … they know Hugh Beringar is in the north …”

“Halfway to Shrewsbury!” said Herbard’s voice, taut and jealous for his first command.

“They’ll not dare that,” said the sergeant. “Plunder’s the aim. Those valley farms … with new lambs …”

“Madog ap Meredith has a grudge to settle,” ventured the messenger, still short of breath, “for that raid in February. They’re close … but the pickings are smaller, there in the forest … I doubt …”

Halfway to Shrewsbury was more than halfway to the ford in the forest where that grudge had come to birth. And the pickings … Elis turned his forehead into the chill of the stone against which he leaned and swallowed terror. A parcel of women! He was more than paid for that silly flaunt, who had a woman of his own there to sweat and bleed for, young, beautiful, fair as flax, tall like a willow. The square dark men of Powys would come to blows over her, kill one another for her, kill her when they were done.

He had started out of his shelter under the wall before he even knew what he intended. The patient, drooping horse might have given him away, but there was no groom holding it, and it stood its ground silently, unstartled, as he stole past, a hand raised to caress and beseech acceptance. He did not dare take it, the first clatter of hooves would have brought them out like hornets disturbed, but at least it let him pass unbetrayed. The big body steamed gently, he felt its heat. The tired head turned and nuzzled his hand. He drew his fingers away with stealthy gentleness, and slid past towards the elongated wicket that offered a way out into the night.

He was through, he had the descent to the castle Foregate on his right, and the way up into the town on his left. But he was out of the castle, he who had given his word not to pass the threshold, he who was forsworn from this moment, false to his word, outcast. Not even Eliud would speak for him when he knew.

The town gates would not open until dawn. Elis turned left, into the town, and groped his way by unknown lanes and passages to find some corner where he could hide until the morning. He was none too sure of his best way out, and did not stop to wonder if he would ever manage to pass unnoticed. All he knew was that he had to get to Godric’s Ford before his countrymen reached it. He got his bearings by instinct, blundering blindly round towards the eastward gates. In Saint Mary’s churchyard, though he did not know it for that, he shrank into the shelter of a porch from the chill of the wind. He had left his cloak behind in his dishonoured cell, he was half-naked to shame and the night, but he was free and on his way to deliver her. What was his honour, more than his life, compared with her safety?

The town woke early. Tradesmen and travellers rose and made their way down to the gates before full daylight, to be out and about their proper business betimes. So did Elis ap Cynan, going with them discreetly down the Wyle, cloakless, weaponless, desperate, heroic and absurd, to the rescue of his Melicent.

Eliud put out his hand, before he was fully awake, to feel for his cousin, and sat up in abrupt shock to find Elis’s side of the bed empty and cold. But the dark red cloak was still draped over the foot of the bed, and Eliud’s sense of loss was utterly irrational. Why should not Elis rise early and go out into the wards before his bedfellow was awake? Without his cloak he could not be far away. But for all that, and however brief the separation, it troubled Eliud like a physical pain. Here in their imprisonment they had hardly been a moment out of each other’s company, as if for each of them faith in a final happy delivery depended upon the presence of the other.

Eliud rose and dressed, and went out to the trough by the well, to wash himself fully awake in the shock of the cold water. There was an unusual stir about the stables and the armoury, but he saw no sign of Elis anywhere in either place, nor was he brooding on the walls with his face towards Wales. The want of him began to ache like an amputation.

They took their meals in hall among their English peers, but on this clear morning Elis did not come to break his fast. And by this time others had remarked his absence.

One of the sergeants of the garrison stopped Eliud as he was leaving the hall. “Where is your cousin? Is he sick?”

“I know no more than you,” said Eliud. “I’ve been looking for him. He was out before I awoke, and I’ve seen nothing of him since.” And he added in jealous haste, seeing the man frown and give him the first hard stare of suspicion: “But he can’t be far. His cloak is still in the cell. There’s so much stirring here, I thought he might have risen early to find out what was all the to-do.”

“He’s pledged not to set foot out of the gates,” said the sergeant. “But do you tell me he’s given up eating? You must know more than you pretend.”

“No! But he’s here within, he must be. He would not break his word, I promise you.” The man eyed him hard, and turned abruptly on his heel to make for the gatehouse and question the guards. Eliud caught him entreatingly by the sleeve. “What is it brewing here? Is there news? Such activity in the armoury and the archers drawing arrows … What’s happened overnight?”

“What’s happened? Your countrymen are swarming in force along the Minsterley valley, if you want to know, burning farmsteads and moving in on Pontesbury. Three days ago it was a handful, it’s past a hundred tribesmen now.” He swung back suddenly to demand: “Did you hear aught in the night? Is that it? Has that cousin of yours run, broke out to join his ragamuffin kin and help in the killing? The sheriff was not enough for him?”

“No!” cried Eliud. “He would not! It’s impossible!”

“It’s how we got him in the first place, a murdering, looting raid the like of these. It suited him then, it comes very timely for him now. His neck out of a noose and his friends close by to bring him off safely.”

“You cannot say so! You don’t yet know but he’s here within, true to his word.”

“No, but soon we shall,” said the sergeant grimly, and took Eliud firmly by the arm. “Into your cell and wait. The lord Herbard must know of this.” He flung away at speed and Eliud, in desolate obedience, trudged back to his cell and sat there upon the bed with only Elis’s cloak for company. By then he was certain what the result of any search must be. Only an hour or two of daylight gone and there were endless places a man could be, if he felt no appetite either for food or for the company of his fellow, men, and yet the castle felt empty of Elis, as cold and alien as if he had never been there. And a courier had come in the night, it seemed, with news of stronger forces from Powys plundering closer to Shrewsbury, and closer still to the forest grange of the abbey of Polesworth at Godric’s Ford. Where all this heavy burden had begun and where, perhaps, it must end. If Elis had heard that nocturnal arrival and gone out to discover the cause, yes, then he might in desperation forget oath and honour and all. Eliud waited wretchedly until Alan Herbard came, with two sergeants at his heels. A long wait it had been. They would have scoured the castle by now. By their grim faces it was clear they had not found Elis.

Eliud rose to his feet to face them. He would need all his powers and all his dignity now if he was to speak for Elis. This Alan Herbard was surely no more than a year or two his senior, and being as harshly tested as he.

“If you know the manner of your cousin’s flight,” said Herbard bluntly, “you would be wise to speak. You shared this narrow space. If he rose in the night, surely you would know. For I tell you plainly, he is gone. He has run. In the night the wicket was opened for a man to enter. It’s no secret now that it let out a man – renegade, forsworn, self-branded murderer. Why else should he so seize this chance?”

“No!” said Eliud. “You wrong him and in the end it will be shown you wrong him. He is no murderer. If he has run, that is not the reason.”

“There is no if. He is gone. You know nothing of it? You slept through his flight?”

“I missed him when I awoke,” said Eliud. “I know nothing of how he went or when. But I know him. If he rose in the night because he heard your man arriving and if he heard then – is it so? – that the Welsh of Powys are coming too close and in dangerous numbers, then I swear to you he has fled only out of dread for Gilbert Prestcote’s daughter. She is there with the sisters at Godric’s Ford and Elis loves her. Whether she has discarded him or no, he has not ceased to love her, and if she is in danger he will venture life, yes and his honour with it, to bring her to safety. And when that is done,” said Eliud passionately, “he will return here, to suffer whatever fate may await him. He is no renegade! He has broken his oath only for Melicent’s sake. He will come back and give himself up. I pledge my own honour for him! My own life!”

“I would remind you,” said Herbard grimly, “you have already done so. Either one of you gave his word for both. At this moment you stand attainted as his surety for his treachery. I could hang you, and be fully justified.”

“Do so!” said Eliud, blanched to the lips, his eyes dilated into a blaze of green. “Here am I, still his warranty. I tell you, this neck is yours to wring if Elis proves false. I give you leave freely. You are mustering to ride, I’ve seen it. You go against these Welsh of Powys. Take me with you! Give me a horse and a weapon, and I will fight for you, and you may have an archer at my back to strike me dead if I make a false step, and a halter about my neck ready for the nearest tree after the Powysmen are hammered, if Elis does not prove to you the truth of every word I say.” He was shaking with fervour, strung taut like a bowstring. Herbard opened his eyes wide at such open passion, and studied him in wary surprise a long moment. “So be it!” he said then abruptly, and turned to his men. “See to it! Give him a horse and a sword, and a rope about his neck, and have your best shot follow him close and be ready to spit him if he plays false. He says he is a man of his word, that even this defaulting fellow of his is such. Very well, we’ll take him at his word.” He looked back from the doorway. Eliud had taken up Elis’s red cloak and was holding it in his arms. “If your cousin had been half the man you are,” said Herbard, “your life would be safe enough.” Eliud whirled, hugging the folded cloak to him as if applying balm to an unendurable ache. “Have you not understood even yet? He is better than I, a thousand times better!”