Sanctuary Sparrow (16 page)

“And there was no other soul stirring then? No one within hand’s-touch of her, there above?”

“Oh no, no one. She dropped the lamp just as she fell.” The little snake of fire, spitting sparks and sudden leaping flame as it found the end of tow, seemed to Rannilt to have nothing to do with what had happened. “And then it was dark, and the mistress said keep still, and went for a light.”

Certain, then, yes quite certain she fell. No one was there to help her fall, the only witnesses were below. And if they had not gone to her aid at once, and sent as promptly for him, he would never have arrived here in time to see Dame Juliana die. Let alone hear the only words she had spoken before dying. For what they were worth! “I bred them all… For all that, I should have liked to hold my great-grandchild…”

Well, her grandson, the only being she was reported to dote upon, was now a husband, her proud old mind might well strain forward to embrace a future generation.

“No, don’t come out into the lane, child, time for you to be withindoors, and I know my way.”

She went, shy, wild and silent. And Cadfael made his way back thoughtfully to his own cell in the dortoir and took what comfort he might, and what enlightenment, but it was not much. In this death, at least, there was no question of foul play. Juliana had fallen when no other person was near by, and in an unquestionable seizure such as she had suffered twice before. The dissensions within the house, moreover, had broken out in a disturbing form that same day, cause enough for an old woman’s body and heart and irascible nature to fail her. The wonder was this had not happened earlier. Yet for all he could do, Cadfael’s mind could not separate this death from the first, nor that from the felony of which Liliwin stood accused. There was, there must be, a thread that linked them all together. Not by freakish chance was an ordinary burgess household thus suddenly stricken with blow after blow. A human hand had set off the chain; from that act all these later events stemmed, and where the impetus would finally run out and the sequence of fatalities end was a speculation that kept Cadfael awake half the night.

In Dame Juliana’s death chamber the single lamp burned, a steady eye of fire, at the head of the bed. The night hung deep and silent over the town, past the mid-point between dusk and dawn. On a stool on one side Susanna sat, her own hands folded in her lap, quiet at last. Rannilt crouched at the foot of the bed, very weary but unwilling to go to her humble place, and certain that sleep would not come to her if she did. The lofty timbers of the roof soared above them into deep darkness. The three women, two living and one dead, were drawn together into a close, mute intimacy, for these few hours islanded from the world.

Juliana lay straight and austere, her grey hair combed into smooth order, her face uncovered, the sheet folded at her chin. Already the contortion was beginning to ease out of her features, and leave her at peace.

Neither of the two who watched beside her had spoken a word since their work was finished. Susanna had made no bones about dismissing Margery’s reluctant offer of help, and had no difficulty in getting rid of all three of her kin. They were not sorry to return to their beds and leave all to her. Mistress and maid had the vigil to themselves.

“You’re cold,” said Rannilt, breaking the silence very softly as she saw Susanna shiver. “Shall I fetch up your cloak? You felt the want of it even about the store, when you were on the move, and now we sit here, and the night chiller than then. I’ll creep down for it.”

“No,” said Susanna absently. “It was a goose walking over my grave. I’m warm enough.” She turned her head and gave the girl a long, sombre stare. “Were you so vexed for me that you must wake and watch into the night with me? I thought you came very quickly. Did you see and hear all?”

Rannilt trembled at the thought of having intruded uninvited, but Susanna’s voice was equable and her face calm. “No. I wasn’t listening, but some part I couldn’t help hearing. She praised your providing. Perhaps she was sorry then… It was strange she should take to thinking on such things, and suddenly take pride that you should still have the oatmeal crock above half-full… That I heard. Surely she was sorry in the end that you should be so misprised. She thought better of you than of any other.”

“She was returning to the days when she ruled all,” said Susanna, “and had all on her shoulders, as I have had. The old go back, before the end.” Her eyes, large and intent upon Rannilt’s face, gleamed in the dim, reflected light from the lamp. “You’ve burned your hand,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” said Rannilt, removing her hands hurriedly from sight into her lap. “I was clumsy. The tow flared. It doesn’t hurt.”

“The tow…?”

“Tied round the bundle that was lying there. It had a frayed end and took the flame before I was aware.”

“A pity!” said Susanna, and sat silent for some moments, watching her grandmother’s dead face. The corners of her lips curved briefly in what hardly had time to become a smile. “There was a bundle there, was there? And I was wearing my cloak… yes! You noticed much, considering the fright we must have given you, between us.”

In the prolonged silence Rannilt watched her lady’s face and went in great awe, having trodden where she had no right to go, and feeling herself detected in a trespass she had never intended.

“And now you are wondering what was in that bundle, and where it vanished to before ever we began lighting candles. Along with my cloak!” Susanna fixed her austere, half-smiling regard upon Rannilt’s daunted face. “It is only natural you should wonder.”

“Are you angry with me?” ventured Rannilt in a whisper.

“No. Why should I be angry? I believe, I do believe, you have sometimes felt for me as a woman for a woman. Is that true, Rannilt?”

“This morning…” faltered Rannilt, half-afraid, “I could not choose but grieve…”

“I know. You have seen how I am despised here.” She went very gently and quietly, a woman speaking with a child, but a child whose understanding she valued. “How I have always been despised. My mother died, my grandmother grew old, I was of value until my brother should take a wife. Yes, but barely a day longer. All those years gone for nothing, and I am left here husbandless and barren and out of office.”

There was another silence, for though Rannilt felt her breast bursting with indignant sympathy, her tongue was frozen into silence. In the lofty darkness of the roof-beams the faint, soft light quivered in a passing draught.

“Rannilt,” said Susanna gravely and softly, “can you keep a secret?”

“Your secret I surely can,” whispered Rannilt.

“Swear never to breathe a word to any other, and I’ll tell you what no one else knows.”

Rannilt breathed her vow devotedly, flattered and warmed at having such trust placed in her.

“And will you help me in what I mean to undertake? For I should welcome your help… I need your help!”

“I’ll do anything in my power for you.” No one had ever expected or required of her such loyalty, no one had ever considered her as better than menial and impotent, no wonder her heart responded.

“I believe and trust you.” Susanna leaned forward into the light. “My bundle and my cloak I made away out of sight before I brought the candle, and hid them in my bedchamber. Tonight, Rannilt, but for this mortal stay, I meant to leave this place, to quit this house that has never done me right, and this town in which I have no honourable place. Tonight God prevented. But tomorrow night… tomorrow night I am going! If you will help me I can take with me more of my poor possessions than I can carry the first short piece of the way alone. Come nearer, child, and I’ll tell you.” Her voice was very low and soft, a confiding breath in Rannilt’s ear. “Across the bridge, at my father’s stable beyond Frankwell, someone who sets a truer value on me will be waiting…”

Chapter Eleven

Friday: from morning to late evening

SUSANNA CAME TO THE TABLE as the subdued household assembled next morning, with the keys at her girdle, and with deliberation unfastened the fine chain that held them, and laid them before Margery.

“These are now yours, sister, as you wished. From today the management of this house belongs to you, and I will not meddle.”

She was pale and heavy-eyed from a sleepless night, though none of them were in much better case. They would all be glad to make an early night of it as soon as the day’s light failed, to make up for lost rest.

“I’ll come round kitchen and store with you this morning, and show you what you have in hand, and the linen, and everything I’m handing over to you. And I wish you well,” she said.

Margery was almost out of countenance at such magnanimity, and took pains to be conciliatory as she was conducted remorselessly round her new domain.

“And now,” said Susanna, shaking off that duty briskly from her shoulders, “I must go and bring Martin Bellecote to see about her coffin, and father will be off to visit the priest at Saint Mary’s. But then—you’ll hold me excused—I should like to get a little sleep, and so must the girl there, for neither of us has closed an eye.”

“I’ll manage well enough alone,” said Margery, “and take care not to disturb you in that chamber for today. If I may take out what’s needed for the dinner now, then you can get your rest.” She was torn between humility and exultation. Having death in the house was no pleasure, but the gloom would lie heavy for only a few days, and then she was rid of all barriers to her own plans, free of the old, censorious eyes watching and disparaging her best efforts, free of this ageing virgin, who would surely absent herself from all participation in the running of the house hereafter, and mistress of a tamed husband who would dance henceforth to her piping.

Brother Cadfael spent the early part of that afternoon in the herb-garden, and having seen everything left in order there, went out to view the work along the Gaye. The weather continued sunny and warm, and the urchins of the town and the Foregate, born and bred by the water and swimmers almost before they could walk, were in and out of the shallows, and the bolder and stronger among them even venturing across where the Severn ran smoothly. The spring spate from the mountains was over now, the river showed a bland face, but these water-children knew its tricks, and seldom trusted it too far.

Cadfael walked through the flowering orchard, very uneasy in his mind after the night’s alarms, and continued downstream until he stood somewhere opposite the gardens of the burgages along the approach to the castle. Halfway up the slope the tall stone barrier of the town wall crossed, its crest crumbled into disrepair in places, not yet restored after the rigours of the siege two years ago. Within his vision it was pierced by two narrow, arched doorways, easily barred in dangerous times. One of the two must be in the Aurifaber grounds, but he could not be sure which. Below the wall the greensward shone fresh and vivid, and the trees were in pale young leaf and snowy flower. The alders leaned over the shallows lissome and rosy with catkins. Willow withies shone gold and silver with the fur-soft flowers. So sweet and hopeful a time to be threatening a poor young man with hanging or bludgeoning a single household with loss and death.

The boys of the Foregate and the boys of the town were rivals by tradition, earring into casual warfare the strong local feeling of their sires. Their water-games sometimes became rough, though seldom dangerous, and if one rash spirit overstepped the mark, there was usually an older and wiser ally close by, to clout him off and haul his victim to safety. There was some horse-play going on in the shallows opposite as Cadfael watched. An imp of the Foregate had ventured the crossing, plunged into a frolic of town children before they were aware, and ducked one of them spluttering below the surface. The whole incensed rout closed on him and pursued him some way downstream, until he splashed ashore up a slope of grass to escape them, falling flat in the shallows in his haste, and clawing and scrambling clear in a flurry of spray. From a smooth greensward where he certainly had no right to be, he capered and crowed at them as they drew off and abandoned the chase.

It seemed that he had fished something up with him out of the shallow water and gravel under the bushes. He sat down and scrubbed at it in his palm, intent and curious. He was still busy with it when another boy hardly older than himself came naked out of the orchard above, dropping his shirt into the grass, and trotting down towards the water. He saw the intruder, and checked at gaze, staring.

The distance was not so great but Cadfael knew him, and knew, in consequence, at whose extended burgage he was looking. Thirteen years old, well-grown and personable; Baldwin Peche’s simpleton boy, Griffin, let loose from his labours for an hour to run down through the wicket in the wall, and swim in the river like other boys.

Griffin had seen, far better than Cadfael across the river could hope to see, whatever manner of trophy the impudent invader from the Foregate had discovered in the shallows. He let out an indignant cry, and came running down the grass to snatch at the cupped hand. Something dropped, briefly glinting, into the turf, and Griffin fell upon it like a hawk swooping and caught it up jealously. The other boy, startled, leaped to his feet and made to grab at it in his turn, but gave back before a taller challenger. He was not greatly disturbed at losing his toy. There was some exchange, light-hearted on his side, slow and sober on Griffin’s. The two youthful voices floated light, excited sounds across the water. The Foregate urchin shrilled some parting insult, dancing backwards towards the river, jumped in with a deliberate splash, and struck out for his home waters, sudden and silvery as a trout.

Cadfael moved alertly to where the child must come ashore, but kept one eye on the slope opposite also, and saw how Griffin, instead of plunging in after his repulsed rival, went back to lay his trophy carefully in the folds of the shirt he had discarded by the bushes. Then he slid down the bank and waded out into the water, and lay facedown upon the current in so expert and easy a fashion that it was plain he had been a swimmer from infancy. He was rolling and playing in the eddies when the other boy hauled himself ashore into the grass of Cadfael’s bank, shedding water and glowing from his play, and began to caper and clap his arms about his slender body in the sunny air. Grown men would hardly be trying that water for a month or so yet, but the young have energy enough to keep them warm, and as old men tend to say tolerantly, where there’s no sense there’s no feeling.

“Well, troutling,” said Cadfael, knowing this imp as soon as he drew close, “what was that you fished out of the mud over yonder? I saw you take to the land. Not many yards ahead of the vengeance, either! You picked the wrong haven.”

The boy had aimed expertly for the place where he had left his clothes. He darted for his cotte, and slung it round his nakedness, grinning. “I’m not afeared of all the town hobbledehoys. Nor of that big booby of the locksmith’s, neither, but he’s welcome to his bit of trumpery. Knew it for his master’s, he said! Just a little round piece, with a man’s head on it with a beard and a pointed hat. Nothing to fall out over.”

“Besides that Griffin is bigger than you,” said Cadfael innocently.

The imp made a scornful face, and having scrubbed his feet and ankles through the soft grass, and slapped his thighs dry, set to work to wriggle into his hose. “But slow, and hasn’t all his wits. What was the thing doing drifted under the gravel in the water there, if there was any good in it? He can have it for me!”

And he was off at an energetic run to rejoin his friends, leaving Cadfael very thoughtful. A coin silted into the gravel under the bank there, where the river made a shallow cove, and clawed up in the fist of a scrambling urchin who happened to sprawl on his face there in evading pursuit. Nothing so very strange in that. All manner of things might turn up in the waters of Severn, queerer things than a lost coin. All that made it notable was that this one should turn up in that particular place. Too many cobweb threads were tangling around the Aurifaber burgage, nothing that occurred there could any longer be taken as ordinary or happening by chance. And what to make of all these unrelated strands was more than Cadfael could yet see.

He went back to his seedlings, which at least were innocent of any mystery, and worked out the rest of the afternoon until it drew near the time to return for Vespers; but there was still a good half-hour in hand when he was hailed from the river, and looked round to see Madog rowing upstream, and crossing the main current to come to shore where Cadfael was standing. He had abandoned his coracle for a light skiff, quite capable, as Cadfael reflected with a sudden inspiration, of ferrying an inquisitive brother across to take a look for himself at that placid inlet where the boy had dredged up the coin of which he thought so poorly.

Madog brought his boat alongside, and held it by an oar dug into the soft turf of the bank. “Well, Brother Cadfael, I hear the old dame’s gone, then. Trouble broods round that house. They tell me you were there to see her set out.”

Cadfael owned it. “After fourscore years I wonder if death should be accounted troublous. But yes, she’s gone. Before midnight she left them.” Whether with a blessing or a curse, or only a grim assertion of her dominance over them and defence of them, loved or unloved, was something he had been debating in his own mind. For she could have spoken, but had said only what she thought fit to say, nothing to the point. The disputes of the day, surely relevant, she had put clean away. They were her people. Whatever needed judgement and penance among them was her business, no concern of the world outside. And yet those few enigmatic words she had deliberately let him hear. Him, her opponent, physician and—was friend too strong a word? To her priest she had responded only with the suggested movements of her eyelids saying yea and nay, confessing to frailties, agreeing to penitence, desiring absolution. But no words.

“Left them at odds,” said Madog shrewdly, his seamed oak face breaking into a wry smile. “When have they been anything else? Avarice is a destroying thing, Cadfael, and she bred them all in her own shape, all get and precious little give.”

“I bred them all,” she had said, as though she admitted a guilt to which her eyelids had said neither yea nor nay for the priest.

“Madog,” said Cadfael, “row me over to the bank under their garden, and as we go I’ll tell you why. They hold the strip outside the wall down to the waterside. I’d be glad to have a look there.”

“Willingly!” Madog drew the skiff close. “For I’ve been up and down this river from the water-gate, where Peche kept his boat, trying to find any man who can give me word of seeing it or him after the morning of last Monday, and never a glimpse anywhere. And I doubt Hugh Beringar has done better enquiring in the town after every fellow who knew the locksmith, and every tavern he ever entered. Come inboard, then, and sit yourself down steady, she rides a bit deeper and clumsier with two aboard.”

Cadfael slid down the overhanging slope of grass, stepped nimbly upon the thwart, and sat. Madog thrust off and turned into the current. “Tell, then! What is there over there to draw you?”

Cadfael told him what he had witnessed, and in the telling it did not seem much. But Madog listened attentively enough, one eye on the surface eddies of the river, running bland and playful now, the other, as it seemed, on some inward vision of the Aurifaber household from old matriarch to new bride.

“So that’s what’s caught your fancy! Well, whatever it may mean, here’s the place. That Foregate lad left his marks, look where he hauled his toes up after him, and the turf so moist and tender.”

A quiet and almost private place it was, once the skiff was drawn in until its shallow draught gravelled. A little inlet where the water lay placid, clean speckled gravel under it, and even in that clear bottom the boy’s clutching hands had left small indentations. Out of one of those hollows—the right hand, Cadfael recalled—the small coin had come, and he had brought it ashore with him to examine at leisure. Withies of both willow and alder grew out from the very edge of the water on either side of the plane of grass which opened out above into a broad green slope, steep enough to drain readily, smooth enough to provide an airy cushion for bleaching linen. Only from across the river could this ground be viewed, on this town shore it was screened both ways by the bushes. Clean, washed, white pebbles, some of considerable size, had been piled inshore of the bushes for weighting down the linens spread here to dry on washing days when the weather was favourable. Cadfael eyed them and noted the one larger stone, certainly fallen from the town wall, which had not their water-smoothed polish, but showed sharp corners and clots of mortar still adhering. Left here as it had rolled from the crest, perhaps used sometimes for tying up boats in the shallows.

“D’you see ought of use to you?” asked Madog, holding his skiff motionless with an oar braced into the gravel. The boy Griffin had long since enjoyed his bathe, dried and clothed himself, and carried away his reclaimed coin to the locksmith’s shop where John Boneth now presided. He had known John for a long time as second only to his master; for him John was now his master in succession.

“All too much!” said Cadfael.

There were the boy’s traces, clutching hands under the clear water, scrabbling toes above in the grass. Down here he had found his trophy, above he had sat to burnish and examine it, and had it snatched from him by Griffin. Who knew it as his master’s, and was honest as only the simple can be. Here all round the boat the withies crowded, there above in the sward lay the pile of heavy pebbles and the fallen stone. Here swaying alongside danced the little rafts of water-crowfoot, under the leaning alders. And most ominous of all, here in the sloping grass verge, within reach of his hand, not one, but three small heads of reddish purple blossoms stood up bravely in the grass, the fox-stones for which they had hunted in vain downstream.