Chapter Ten

CHAPTER WAS NEARLY OVER, NEXT MORNING, when Girard of Lythwood presented himself at the gatehouse, requesting a hearing before the lord abbot. As a man of consequence in the town, and like his late uncle a good patron of the abbey, he came confidently, aware of his own merit and status. He had brought his foster daughter Fortunata with him, and they both came roused and girded, if not for battle, at least for possible contention, to be encountered courteously but with determination.

“Certainly admit them,” said Radulfus. “I am glad Master Girard is home again. His household has been greatly troubled and needs its head.”

Cadfael watched their entry into the chapter house with fixed attention. They were both in their best, adorned to cut the most impressive figure possible, the ideal respected citizen and his modest daughter. The girl took her stance a pace behind her father, and kept her eyes devoutly lowered in this monastic assembly, but when they opened wide for an instant, to flash a glance round the room and take a rapid estimate of possible friends and enemies, they were very shrewd, fierce, and bright. The first calculating glance had noted the continuing presence of Canon Gerbert, and recorded it with regret. In his presence she would contain her grief, anger, and anxiety on Elave’s behalf, and let Girard speak for her. Gerbert would deplore a froward woman, and Fortunata had certainly primed her father by this time in every detail. They must have spent the remainder of the past evening, after Cadfael’s departure, preparing what they were now about to propound.

The significance of one detail was not yet apparent, though it did suggest interesting possibilities. Girard carried under his arm, polished to that lovely dark patina by age and handling, and with the light caressing the gilded curves of its carving, the box that contained Fortunata’s dowry.

“My lord,” said Girard, “I thank you for this courtesy. I come in the matter of the young man you have detained here as a prisoner. Everyone here knows that his accuser was done to death, and though no charge has been made against Elave on that count, your lordship must know that it has been the common talk everywhere that he must be the murderer. I trust you have now heard from the lord sheriff that it is not so. Aldwin was still alive and well when Elave was taken and made prisoner here. In the matter of the murder he is proven innocent. There is the word of a priest to vouch for him.”

“Yes, this has been made known to us,” said the abbot. “On that head Elave is cleared of all blame. I am glad to publish his innocence.”

“And I welcome your good word,” said Girard with emphasis, “as one who has a right to speak in all this, and to be heard, seeing that both Aldwin and Elave were of my uncle’s household, and now of mine, and the weight of both falls upon me. One man of mine has been killed unlawfully, and I want justice for him. I do not approve all that he did, but I understand his thinking and his actions, knowing his nature as I do. For him I can at least do this much, bury him decently, and if I can, help to run to earth his murderer. I have a duty also to Elave, who is living, and against whom the mortal charge now falls to the ground. Will you hear me on his behalf, my lord?”

“Willingly,” said Radulfus. “Proceed!”

“Is this the time or place for such a plea?” objected Canon Gerbert, shifting impatiently in his stall and frowning at the solid burgess who stood straddling the flags of the floor so immovably. “We are not now hearing this man’s case. The withdrawal of one charge–”

“The charge of murder was never made,” said Radulfus, cutting him off short, “and as now appears, never can be made.”

“The withdrawal of one suspicion,” snapped Gerbert, “does not affect the charge which has been made, and which awaits judgment. It is not the purpose of chapter to hear pleas out of place, which may prejudice the case when the bishop declares his wishes. It would be a breach of form to allow it.”

“My lords,” said Girard with admirable smoothness and calm, “I have a proposition to make, which I feel to be reasonable and permissible, if you find yourselves so minded. To put it before you I needs must speak as to my knowledge of Elave, of his character, and the service he has done my household. It is relevant.”

“I find that reasonable,” said the abbot imperturbably. “You shall have your hearing, Master Girard. Speak freely!”

“My lord, I thank you! You must know, then, that this young man was in the employ of my uncle for some years, and proved always honest, reliable, and trustworthy in all matters, so that my uncle took him with him as servant, guard, and friend on his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Rome, and Compostela, and throughout those years of traveling the lad continued always dutiful, tended his master in illness, and when the old man died in France, brought back his body for burial here. A long and devoted service, my lords. Among other charges faithfully carried out, at his master’s wish he brought back this treasury, here in this casket, as a dowry for William’s foster daughter here, now mine.”

“This is not disputed,” said Gerbert, shifting restlessly in his seat, “but it is hardly to the purpose. The charge of heresy remains, and cannot be set aside. In my view, having seen elsewhere to what horrors it can lead, it is graver than that of murder. We know, do we not, how this poison can exist in vessels otherwise seen by the world as pure and virtuous, and yet contaminate souls by the thousand. A man cannot prevail by good works, only by divine grace, and who strays from the true doctrine of the Church has repudiated divine grace.”

“Yet we are told a tree shall be known by its fruit,” remarked the abbot dryly. “Divine grace, I think, will know where to look for a responsive human grace, without instruction from us. Go on, Master Girard. I believe you have a proposal to make.”

“I have, Father. At the least it is now known that my clerk’s death happened through no fault of Elave, who never coveted his place or tried to oust him, nor did him any harm. Yet there is the place vacant now, nonetheless. And I, who have known Elave and trusted him, say that I am prepared to take him back in Aldwin’s place, and advance him in my business. If you will release him into my charge, I make myself his guarantor that he shall not leave Shrewsbury. I engage that he shall remain in my house, and be available whenever your lordships shall require him to attend, until his case is heard and justly judged.”

“And regardless,” asked Radulfus mildly, “of what the verdict may be?”

“My lord, if the judging is just, so will the verdict be. And after that day he will need no guarantor.”

“It is presumptuous,” Gerbert said coldly, “to be so certain of your own rightness.”

“I speak as I have found. And I know as well as any man that in the heat of argument or ale, words can be spoken beyond what was ever meant, but I do not think God would condemn a man for folly, not beyond the consequences of folly, which can be punishment enough.”

Radulfus was smiling behind his austere mask, though only those who had grown close and familiar with him would have known it. “Well, I appreciate the kindliness of your intentions,” he said. “Have you anything more to add?”

“Only this voice to add to mine, Father. Here in this casket are five hundred and seventy silver pence, the dowry sent by my uncle for the girl-child he took as his daughter. As Elave took great pains to deliver it to her safely, so Fortunata desires, in reverence to William who sent it, to use it now for Elave’s deliverance from prison. Here she offers it in bail for him, and I will guarantee that when the time comes he shall answer to it.”

“Is this indeed your own wish, child?” asked the abbot, studying Fortunata’s demure and wary calm with interest. “No one has persuaded you to this offer?”

“No one, Father,” she said firmly. “The thought was mine.”

“And you do know,” he insisted gently, “that all those who go bail for another do take the risk of loss?”

She raised her ivory eyelids, lofty and smooth, for one brief and brilliant flash of hazel eyes. “Not all, Father,” she said, uttering defiance in the soft, discreet voice of daughterly submission. And to Cadfael, watching, it was plain that Radulfus, even if he kept his formidable countenance, was not displeased.

“You may not know, Father,” explained Girard considerately, and even somewhat complacently, “that women stake only on certainties. Well, that is what I propose, and I promise you I will fulfill my part of it, if you agree to release him into my custody. At any time you may be assured you will find him at my house. I am told he would not run from you when he was loose before, and he certainly will not this time, when Fortunata stands to lose by him. As you suppose,” he added generously, “for I am in no doubt.”

Radulfus had Canon Gerbert on his right hand, and Prior Robert on his left, and knew himself between two monuments of orthodoxy in more than doctrine. The precise letter of canon law was sacred to Robert, and the influence of an archbishop, distilled through his confidential envoy, hung close and convincing at his elbow, stiffening a mind already disposed to rigidity. As between his abbot and Theobald’s vicarious presence Robert might be torn, and would certainly endeavour to remain compatible with both, but in extremes he would go with Gerbert. Cadfael, watching him manipulating inward argument, with devoutly folded hands, arched silver brows, and tightly pursed mouth, could almost find the words in which he would endorse whatever Gerbert said, while subtly refraining from actually echoing it. And if he knew his man, so did the abbot. As for Gerbert himself, Cadfael had a sudden startling insight into a mind utterly alien to his own. For the man really had, somewhere in Europe, glimpsed yawning chaos and been afraid, seen the subtleties of the devil working through the mouths of men, and the fragmentation of Christendom in the eruption of loud-voiced prophets bursting out of limbo like bubbles in the scum of a boiling pot, and the dispersion into the wilderness in the malignant excesses of their deluded followers. There was nothing false in the horror with which Gerbert looked upon the threat of heresy, though how he could find it in an open soul like Elave remained incomprehensible.

Nor could the abbot afford to oppose the archbishop’s representative, however true it might be that Theobald probably held a more balanced and temperate opinion of those who felt compelled to reason about faith than did Gerbert. A threat that troubled Pope, cardinals, and bishops abroad, however nebulous it might feel here, must be taken seriously. There is much to be said for being an island off the main. Invasions, curses, and plagues are slower to reach one, and arrive so weakened as to be almost exhausted beforehand. Yet even distance may not always be a perfect defence.

“You have heard,” said Radulfus, “an offer which is generous, and comes from one whose good faith may be taken for granted. We need only debate what is right for us to do in response. I have only one reservation. If this concerned only my monastic household, I should have none. Let me hear your view, Canon Gerbert.”

There was no help for it, he would certainly be expressing it very forcibly, as well compel him to speak first, so that his rigors could at least be moderated afterward.

“In a matter of such gravity,” said Gerbert, “I am absolutely against any relaxation. It is true, and I acknowledge it, that the accused has been at liberty once, and returned as he was pledged to do. But that experience may itself cause him to do otherwise if the chance is repeated. I say we have no right to take any risk with a prisoner accused of such a perilous crime. I tell you, the threat to Christendom is not understood here, or there would be no dispute, none! He must remain under lock and key until the cause is fully heard.”

“Robert?”

“I cannot but agree,” said the prior, looking studiously down his long nose. “It is too serious a charge to take even the least risk of flight. Moreover, the time is not wasted while he remains in our custody. Brother Anselm has been providing him with books, for the better instruction of his mind. If we keep him, the good seed may yet fall on ground not utterly barren.”

“True,” said Brother Anselm without detectable irony, “he reads, and he thinks about what he reads. He brought back more than silver pence from the Holy Land. An intelligent man’s baggage on such a journey must be light, but in his mind he can accumulate a world.” Wisely and ambiguously he halted there, before Canon Gerbert should wind his slower way through this speech to understanding, and spy an infinitesimal note of heresy in it. It is not wise to tease a man with no humour in him.

“It seems I should be outvoted if I came down on the side of release,” said the abbot dryly, “but it so chances that I, too, am for continuing to hold the young man here in the enclave. This house is my domain, but jurisdiction has already passed out of my hands. We have sent word to the bishop, and expect to hear his will very soon. Therefore the judgment is now with him, and our part is simply to ensure that we hand over the accused to him, or to his representatives, as soon as he makes his will known. I am now no more in this matter than the bishop’s agent. I am sorry, Master Girard, but that must be my answer. I cannot take you as bail, I cannot give you custody of Elave. I can promise you that he shall come to no harm here in my house. Nor suffer any further violence,” he added with intent, if without emphasis.

“Then at least,” said Girard quickly, accepting what he saw to be unalterable, but alert to make the most of what ground was left to him, “can I be assured that the bishop will give me as fair a hearing, when it comes to a trial, as you have given me now?”

“I shall see to it that he is informed of your wish and right to be heard,” said the abbot.

“And may we see and speak with Elave, now that we are here? It may help to settle his mind to know that there is a roof and employment ready for him, when he is free to accept them.”

“I see no objection,” said Radulfus.

“In company,” added Gerbert quickly and loudly. “There must be some brother present to witness all that may be said.”

“That can quite well be provided,” said the abbot. “Brother Cadfael will be paying his daily visit to the young man after chapter, to see how his injuries are healing. He can conduct Master Girard, and remain throughout the visit.” And with that he rose authoritatively to cut off further objections that might be forming in Canon Gerbert’s undoubtedly less agile mind. He had not so much as glanced in Cadfael’s direction. “This chapter is concluded,” he said, and followed his secular visitors out of the chapter house.

Elave was sitting on his pallet under the narrow window of the cell. There was a book open on the reading desk beside him, but he was no longer reading, only frowning over some deep inward consideration drawn from what he had read, and by the set of his face he had not found much that was comprehensible in whichever of the early fathers Anselm had brought him. It seemed to him that most of them spent far more time in denouncing one another than in extolling God, and more venom on the one occupation than fervour on the other. Perhaps there were others who were less ready to declare war at the drop of a word, and actually thought and spoke well of their fellow-theologians, even when they differed, but if so all their books must have been burned, and possibly they themselves into the bargain.

“The longer I study here,” he had said to Brother Anselm bluntly, “the more I begin to think well of heretics. Perhaps I am one, after all. When they all professed to believe in God, and tried to live in a way pleasing to him, how could they hate one another so much?”

In a few curiously companionable days they had arrived at terms on which such questions could be asked and answered freely. And Anselm had turned a page of Origen and replied tranquilly: “It all comes of trying to formulate what is too vast and mysterious to be formulated. Once the bit was between their teeth there was nothing for it but to take exception to anything that differed from their own conception. And every rival conception lured its conceiver deeper and deeper into a quagmire. The simple souls who found no difficulty and knew nothing about formulae walked dry-shod across the same marsh, not knowing it was there.”

“I fancy that was what I was doing,” said Elave ruefully, “until I came here. Now I’m bogged to the knees, and doubt if I shall ever get out.”

“Oh, you may have lost your saving innocence,” said Anselm comfortably, “but if you are sinking it’s in a morass of other men’s words, not your own. They never hold so fast. You have only to close the book.”

“Too late! There are things I want to know now. How did Father and Son first become three? Who first wrote of them as three, to confuse us all? How can there be three, all equal, who are yet not three but one?”

“As the three lobes of the clover leaf are three and equal but united in one leaf,” suggested Anselm.

“And the four-leaved clover, that brings luck? What is the fourth, humankind? Or are we the stem of the threesome, that binds all together?”

Anselm shook his head over him, but with unperturbed serenity and a tolerant grin. “Never write a book, son! You would certainly be made to burn it!”

Now Elave sat in his solitude, which did not seem to him particularly lonely, and thought about this and other conversations which had passed between precentor and prisoner during the past few days, and seriously considered whether a man was really the better for reading anything at all, let alone these labyrinthine works of theology that served only to make the clear and bright seem muddied and dim, by clothing everything they touched in words obscure and shapeless as mist, far out of the comprehension of ordinary men, of whom the greater part of the human creation is composed. When he looked out from the cell window, at a narrow lancet of pale blue sky fretted with the tremor of leaves and feathered with a few wisps of bright white cloud, everything appeared to him radiant and simple again, within the grasp of even the meanest, and conferring benevolence impartially and joyously upon all.

He started when he heard the key grate in the lock, not having associated the murmur of voices outside with his own person. The sounds of the outer world came in to him throughout the day by the window, and the chime of the office bell marked off the hours for him. He was even becoming used to the horarium, and celebrated the regular observances with small inward genuflections of his own. For God was no part of the morass or the labyrinth, and could not be blamed for what men had made of a shining simplicity and certainty.

But the turning of the key in the lock belonged to his own practical workaday world, from which this banishment could only be temporary, possibly for a purpose, a halting place for thought after the journey half across the world. He sat watching the door open upon the summer day outside, and it was not opened inch by cautious inch, but wide and generously, back to touch the wall, as Brother Cadfael came in.

“Son, you have visitors!” He waved them past him into the small, stony room, watching the sudden brightness flood over Elave’s dazzled face and set him blinking. “How is your head this morning?”

The head in question had shed its bandages the previous day, only a dry scar left in the thick hair. Elave said in a daze: “Well... very well!”

“No aches and pains? Then that’s my business done. And now,” said Cadfael, withdrawing to perch on the foot of the bed with his back to the room, “I am one of the stones of the wall. I am ordered to stay with you, but you may regard me as deaf and mute.”

It seemed that he had made mutes of two of the three thus unceremoniously brought together, for Elave had come to his feet in a great start, and stood staring at Fortunata as she was staring at him, flushed and great-eyed, and stricken silent. Only their eyes were still eloquent, and Cadfael had not turned his back so completely that he could not observe them from the corner of his own eye, and read what was not being said. It had not taken those two long to make up their minds. Yet he must remember that this was not so sudden, except in its discovery. They had known each other and lived in the same household from her infancy until her eleventh year, and in another fashion there had surely been a strong fondness, indulgent and condescending, no doubt, on his part, probably worshipping and wistful on hers, for girls tend to achieve grown-up and painful affections far earlier than boys. She had had to wait for her fulfillment until he came home, to find the bud had blossomed, and to stand astonished at its beauty.

“Well, lad!” Girard said heartily, eyeing the young man from head to foot and shaking him warmly by both hands. “You’re home at last after all your ventures, and I not here to greet you! But greet you I do now, and gladly. I never looked to see you in this trouble, but God helping, it will all pass off safely in the end. From all accounts you did well by Uncle William. So far as is in us, we’ll do well by you.”

Elave drew himself out of his daze with an effort, gulped, and sat down abruptly on his bed. “I never thought,” he said, “they would have let you in to me. It was good of you to trouble for me, but take no chances on my behalf. Touch no pitch, and it can’t stick to you! You know what they’re holding against me? You should not come near me,” he said vehemently, “not yet, not until I’m freed. I’m contagious!”

“But you do know,” said Fortunata, “that you’re not suspect of ever harming Aldwin? That’s over, proven false.”

“Yes, I know. Brother Anselm brought me word, after Prime. But that’s but the half of it.”

“The greater half,” said Girard, plumping himself down on the small, high stool, which his amplitude overflowed on every side.

“Not everyone within here thinks so. Fortunata has already put herself in disfavour with some because she was not hot enough against me when they questioned her. I would not for the world,” said Elave earnestly, “bring harm upon her or upon you. Stay from me, I shall be easier in my mind.”

“We have the abbot’s leave to come,” said Girard, “and for all I could see, his goodwill, too. We came here to chapter, Fortunata and I, to make an offer on your behalf. And if you think we shall either of us draw off and leave you unfriended for fear of a few overzealous sniffers-out of evil, with tongues that wag at both ends, you’re mistaken in us. My name stands sturdy enough in this town to survive a deal of buffeting by gossips. And so shall yours, before this is over. What we hoped was to have you released to come home with us, on my guarantee of your good behaviour. I pledged you to answer to your bail when you were called, and told them there’s now a place for you in my employ. Why not? You had no hand in Aldwin’s death and neither did I, nor would either of us ever have turned him off to make way for you. But for all that, it’s done! The poor soul’s gone, I need a clerk, and you need somewhere to lay your head when you get out of here. Where better than in the house you know, dealing with a business you used to know well, and can soon master again? So if you’re willing, there’s my hand on it, and we’re both bound. What do you say?”

“I say there’s nothing in the world I’d like better!” Elave’s face, carefully composed these last days into a wary calm, had slipped its mask and flushed into a warmth of pleasure and gratitude that made him look very young and vulnerable. It would cost him something to reassemble his breached defences when these two were gone, Cadfael reflected. “But we should not be talking of it now. We must not!” Elave protested, quivering. “God knows I’m grateful to you for such generosity, but I dare hardly think of the future until I’m out of here. Out of here, and vindicated! You have not told me what they answered, but I can guess at it. They would not turn me loose, not even into your charge.”

Girard owned it regretfully. “But the abbot gave us leave to come and see you, and tell you what I propose for you, so that you may at least know you have friends who are stirring for you. Every voice raised in your support must be of some help. I’ve told you what I am keeping for you. Now Fortunata has somewhat to say to you on her own account.”

Girard on entering had sensibly laid down the burden he was carrying upon the pallet beside Elave. Fortunata stirred out of her tranced stillness, and leaned to take it up and sit down beside him, nursing the box on her knees.

“You remember how you brought this to our house? Father and I brought it here today to pledge as bail for your release, but they would not let you go. But if we could not buy your liberty with it one way,” she said in a low, deliberate voice, “there are other ways. Remember what I said to you when last we were together.”

“I do remember,” he said.

“Such matters need money,” said Fortunata, choosing her words with aching care. “Uncle William sent me a lot of money. I want it to be used for you. In whatever way may be needful. You’ve given no parole now. The one you did give they violated, not you.”

Girard laid a restraining hand upon her arm, and said in a warning whisper, which nevertheless found a betraying echo from the stone walls: “Gently, my girl! Walls have ears!”

“But no tongues,” said Cadfael as softly. “No, speak freely, child, it’s not me you need fear. Say all you have to say to him, and let him answer you. Expect no interference from me, one way or the other.”

For answer Fortunata took up the box she was nursing, and thrust it into Elave’s hands. Cadfael heard the infintesimal chink of small coins shifting, and turned his head in time to see the slight start Elave made as he received the weight, the stiffening of the young man’s shoulders and the sharp contraction of his brows. He saw him tilt the box between his hands to elicit a fainter echo of the same sound, and weigh it thoughtfully on his palms.

“It was money Master William sent you?” said Elave consideringly. “I never knew what was in it. But it’s yours. He sent it for you, I brought it here for you.”

“If it profits you, it profits me,” said Fortunata. “Yes, I will say what I came to say, even though I know Father does not approve. I don’t trust them to do you justice. I am afraid for you. I want you far away from here, and safe. This money is mine, I may do what I choose with it. It can buy a horse, shelter, food, perhaps even a man to turn the key and open the door. I want you to accept it–to accept the use of it, and whatever I can buy with it for you. I’m not afraid, except for you. I’m not ashamed. And wherever you may go, however far, I’ll follow you.”

She had begun in a bleak, defiant calm, but she ended with contained and muted passion, her voice still level and low, her hands clenched together in her lap, her face very pale and fierce. Elave’s hand shook as he closed it tightly over hers, pushing the box aside on his bed. After a long pause, not of hesitation, rather of an unbending resolution that had difficulty in finding the clearest but least hurtful words in which to express himself, he said quietly: “No! I cannot take it, or let you make such use of it for my sake. You know why. I have not changed, I shall not change. If I ran away from this charge I should be opening the door to devils, ready to bay after other honest men. If this fight is not fought out to the end now, heresy can be cried against anyone who offends his neighbour, so easy it is to accuse when there are those willing to condemn for a doubt, for a question, for a word out of place. And I will not give way. I will not budge until they come to me and tell me they find no blame in me, and ask me civilly to come forth and go my way.”

She had known all along, in spite of her persistence, that he would say no. She withdrew her hand from his very slowly, and rose to her feet, but could not for a moment bring herself to turn away from him, even when Girard took her gently by the arm.

“But then,” said Elave deliberately, his eyes holding hers, “then I will take your gift–if I can also have the bride who comes with it.”