Dead Man's Ransom (18 page)

“I have killed,” said Eliud clearly. “God knows I am sorry! I had ridden with him, cared for him, watched him founder and urged his rest… And if ever he came home alive, then Elis was free… to go back to Cristina, to marry…” A great shudder went through him head to foot, and fetched a moan of pain out of him. “Cristina… I loved her always… from when we were children, but I did not, I did not speak of it, never, never… She was promised to him before ever I knew her, in her cradle. How could I touch, how could I covet what was his?”

“She also loved,” said Cadfael, nursing him along the way. “She let you know of it…”

“I would not hear, I dared not, I had no right… And all the while she was so dear, I could not bear it. And when they came back without Elis, and we thought him lost… Oh, God, can you conceive such trouble as was mine, half, praying for his safe return, half wishing him dead, for all I loved him, so that at last I might speak out without dishonour, and ask for my love… And then—you know it, it was you brought word… and I was sent here, my mouth stopped just when it was so full of words… And all that way I thought, I could not stop thinking, the old man is so sick, so frail, if he dies there’ll be none to exchange for Elis… If he dies I can return and Elis must stay… Even a little time and I could still speak… All I needed was a little time, now I was resolved. And that last day when he foundered… I did all I could, I kept him man alive, and all the time, all the time it was clamouring in me, let him die! I did not do it, we brought him still living…” He lay still for a minute to draw breath, and Cadfael wiped the corners of the lips that laboured against exhaustion to heave the worst burden from heart and conscience. “Rest a little. You try yourself too hard.”

“No, let me end it. Elis… I loved him, but I loved Cristina more. And he would have wed her, and been content, but she… He did not know the burning we knew. He knows it now. I never willed it… it was not planned, what I did. All I did was to remember the lord Einon’s cloak and I went, just as I was, to fetch it. I had his saddle, cloth on my arm, “ He closed his eyes against what he remembered all too clearly, and tears welled out from under the braised lids and ran down on either cheek. “He was so still, hardly breathing at all—so like death. And in an hour Elis would have been on his way home and I left behind in his place. So short a step to go! I did the thing I wish to God I had cut off my hands rather than do, I held the saddle, cloth over his face. There has not been a waking moment since when I have not wished it undone,” whispered Eliud, “but to undo is not so easy as to do. As soon as I understood my own evil I snatched my hands away, but he was gone. And I was cowardly afraid and left the cloak lying, for if I’d taken it, it would have been known I’d been there. And that was the quiet hour and no one saw me, going or coming.” Again he waited, gathering strength with a terrible, earnest patience to continue to the end. “And all for nothing—for nothing! I made myself a murderer for nothing. For Elis came and told me how he loved the lord Gilbert’s daughter and willed to be released from his bond with Cristina, as bitterly as she willed it, and I also. And he would go to make himself known to her father… I tried to stop him… I needed someone to go there and find my dead man, and cry it aloud, but not Elis, oh, not Elis! But he would go. And even then they still thought the lord Gilbert alive, only sleeping. So I had to fetch the cloak, if no one else would cry him dead—but not alone… a witness, to make the discovery. I still thought Elis would be held and I should go home. He longed to stay and I to go… This knot some devil tied,” sighed Eliud, “and only I have deserved it. All they three suffer because of me. And you, brother, I did foully by you…”

“In choosing me to be your witness?” said Cadfael gently. “And you had to knock over the stool to make me look closely enough, even then. Your devil still had you by the hand, for if you had chosen another there might never have been the cry of murder that kept you both prisoners.”

“It was my angel, then, no devil. For I am glad to be rid of all lies and known for what I am. I would never have let it fall on Elis—nor on any other man. But I am human and fearful,” he said inflexibly, “and I hoped to go free. Now that is solved. One way or another, I shall give a life for a life. I would not have let Elis bear it… Tell her so!” There was no need, she already knew. But the head of the cot was towards the door, and Eliud had seen nothing but the rough vault of the cell, and Cadfael’s stooping face. The lamp had not wavered, and did not waver now, as Melicent withdrew from the threshold very softly and carefully, drawing the door to by inches after her.

“They have taken away my halter,” said Eliud, his eyes wandering languidly over the bare little room. “They’ll have to find me another one now.”

When it was all told he lay drained, very weak and utterly biddable, eased of hope and grateful for contrition. He let himself be handled for healing, though with a drear smile that said Cadfael wasted his pains on a dead man. He did his best to help the handling, and bore pain without a murmur when his wounds were probed and cleansed and dressed afresh. He tried to swallow the draughts that were held to his lips, and offered thanks for even the smallest service. When he drifted into an uneasy sleep, Cadfael went to find the two men Hugh had left to run his errands, and sent one of them riding to Shrewsbury with the news that would bring Hugh back again in haste. When he returned into the precinct, Melicent was waiting for him in the doorway. She read in his face the mixture of dismay and resignation he felt at having to tell over again what had been ordeal enough to listen to in the first place, and offered instant and firm reassurance.

“I know. I heard. I heard you talking, and his voice… I thought you might need someone to fetch and carry for you, so I came to ask. I heard what Eliud said. What is to be done now?” For all her calm, she was bewildered and lost between father killed and lover saved, and the knowledge of the fierce affection those two foster-brothers had for each other, and every way was damage and every escape was barred. “I have told Elis,” she said. “Better we should all know what we are about. God knows I am so confused now, I doubt if I know right from wrong. Will you come to Elis? He’s fretting for Eliud.” Cadfael went with her in perplexity as great as hers. Murder is murder, but if a life can pay the debt for a life, there was Elis to level the account. Was yet another life demanded? Another death justifiable? He sat down with her beside the bed, confronted by an Elis wide awake and in full possession of his senses, for all he hesitated on the near edge of fever.

“Melicent has told me,” said Elis, clutching agitatedly at Cadfael’s sleeve. “But is it true? You don’t know him as I do! Are you sure he is not making up this story, because he fears I may yet be charged? May he not even believe I did it? It would be like him to shoulder all to cover me. So he has done in old times when we were children, so he might even now. You saw, you saw what he has already done for me! Should I be here alive now but for Eliud? I can’t believe so easily…” Cadfael went about hushing him the most practical way, by examining the dressing on his arm and finding it dry, unstained and causing him no pain, let well alone for the time being. The tight binding round his damaged rib had caused him some discomfort and shortness of breath, and might be slightly slackened to ease him. And whatever dose was offered him he swallowed almost absently, his eyes never shifting from Cadfael’s face, demanding answers to desperate questions. And there would be small comfort for him in the naked truth.

“Son,” said Cadfael, “there’s no virtue in fending off truth. The tale Eliud has told fits in every particular and it is truth. Sorry I am to say it, but true it is. Put all doubts out of your head.” They received that with the same white calm and made no further protest.

After a long silence Melicent said: “I think you knew it before.”

“I did know it, from the moment I set eyes on Einon ab Ithel’s brocaded saddle, cloth. That, and nothing else, could have killed Gilbert, and it was Eliud whose duty it was to care for Einon’s horse and harness. Yes, I knew. But he made his confession willingly, eagerly, before I could question or accuse him. That must count to him for virtue, and speak on his side.”

“God knows,” said Melicent, shutting her pale face hard between her hands, as if to hold her wits together, “on what side I dare speak, who am so torn. All I know is that Eliud cannot, does not carry all the guilt. In this matter, which of us is innocent?”

“You are!” said Elis fiercely. “How did you fail? But if I had taken a little thought to see how things were with him and with Cristina… I was too easy, too light, too much in love with myself to take heed. I’d never dreamed of such a love, I didn’t know… I had all to learn.” It had been no easy lesson for him, but he had it by heart now.

“If only I had had more faith in myself and my father,” said Melicent, “we could have sent word honestly into Wales, to Owain Gwynedd and to my father, that we two loved and entreated leave to marry…”

“If only I had been as quick to see what ailed Eliud as he always was to put trouble away from me…”

“If none of us ever fell short, or put a foot astray,” said Cadfael sadly, “everything would be good in this great world, but we stumble and fall, every one. We must deal with what we have. He did it, and all we must share the gall.”

Out of a drear hush Elis asked: “What will become of him? Will there be mercy? Surely he need not die?”

“It rests with the law, and with the law I have no weight.”

“Melicent relented to me,” said Elis, “before ever she knew I was clean of her father’s blood…”

“Ah, but I did know!” she said quickly. “I was sick in mind that ever I doubted.”

“And I love her the more for it. And Eliud has made confession when no man was accusing, and that must count for virtue to him, as you said, and speak on his side.”

“That and all else that speaks for him,” promised Cadfael fervently, “shall be urged in his defence. I will see to that.”

“But you are not hopeful,” said Elis bleakly, watching his face with eyes all too sharp.

He would have liked to deny it, but to what end, when Eliud himself had accepted and embraced, with resignation and humility, the inevitable death? Cadfael made what comfort he could, short of lying, and left them together. The last glimpse, as he closed the door, was of two braced, wary faces following his going with a steady, veiled stare, their minds shuttered and secret. Only the fierce alliance of hand clasping hand on the brychan betrayed them.

Hugh Beringar came next day in a hurry, listened in dour silence as Eliud laboured with desolate patience through the story yet again, as he had already done for the old priest who said Mass for the sisters. As Eliud’s soul faced humbly toward withdrawal from the world, Cadfael noted his misused body began to heal and find ease, very slowly, but past any doubt. His mind consented to dying, his body resolved to live. The wounds were clean, his excellent youth and health fought hard, whether for or against him who could say?

“Well, I am listening,” said Hugh somewhat wearily, pacing the bank of the brook with Cadfael at his side. “Say what you have to say.” But Cadfael had never seen his face grimmer.

“He made full and free confession,” said Cadfael, “before ever a finger was pointed at him, as soon as he felt he might die. He was in desperate haste to do justice to all, not merely Elis, who might lie under the shadow of suspicion because of him. You know me, I know you. I have said honestly, I was about to tell him that I knew he had killed. I swear to you he took that word clean out of my mouth. He wanted confession, penance, absolution. Most of all he wanted to lift the threat from Elis and any other who might be overcast.”

“I take your word absolutely,” said Hugh, “and it is something. But enough? This was no hot-blood squall blown up in a moment before he could think, it was an old man, wounded and sick, sleeping in his bed.”

“It was not planned. He went to reclaim his lord’s cloak. That I am sure is true. But if you think the blood was cold, dear God, how wrong you are! The boy was half, mad with the long bleeding of hopeless love, and had just come to the point of rebellion, and the thread of a life—one he had been nursing in duty!—cut him off from the respite his sudden courage needed. God forgive him, he had hoped Gilbert would die! He has said so honestly. Chance showed him a thread so thin it could be severed by a breath, and before ever he took thought, he blew! He says he has repented of it every moment that has passed since that moment, and I believe it. Did you never, Hugh, do one unworthy thing on impulse, that grieved and shamed you ever after?”

“Not to the length of killing an old man in his bed,” said Hugh mercilessly.

“No! Nor nothing to match it,” said Cadfael with a deep sigh and briefer smile. “Pardon me, Hugh! I am Welsh and you are English. We Welsh recognise degrees. Theft, theft absolute, without excuse, is our most mortal offence, and therefore we hedge it about with degrees, things which are not theft absolute—taking openly by force, taking in ignorance, taking without leave, providing the offender owns to it, and taking to stay alive, where a beggar has starved three days—no man hangs in Wales for these. Even in dying, even in killing, we acknowledge degrees. We make a distinction between homicide and murder, and even the worst may sometimes be compounded for a lesser price than hanging.”

“So might I make distinctions,” said Hugh, brooding over the placid ford. “But this was my lord, into whose boots I step, for want of my king to give orders. He was no close friend of mine, but he was fair to me always, he had an ear to listen, if I was none too happy with some of his more austere judgments. He was an honourable man and did his duty by this shire of mine as he best knew, and his death fetters me.” Cadfael was silent and respectful. It was a discipline removed now from his, but once there had been such a tie, such a fealty, and he remembered it, and they were none so far apart.

“God forbid,” said Hugh, “that I should hurl out of the world any but such as are too vile to be let live in it. And this is no such monster. One mortal error, one single vileness, and a creature barely—what’s his age? Twenty-one? And driven hard, but which of us is not? He shall have his trial and I shall do what I must,” said Hugh hardly. “But I would to God it was taken out of my hands!”