The Confession of Brother Haluin (10 page)

The
elder groom came again later in the afternoon, with a message not for Haluin
but for Cadfael. It so happened that Haluin had fallen asleep on his pallet,
and the man’s entrance, light and soft as a cat for all his bulk, did not
disturb his rest, for which Cadfael was grateful. There was a long and
unrestful night to come. He motioned to the groom to wait, and went out into
the courtyard to him, closing the door softly after him.

“Let
him lie. He’ll need to be wakeful later.”

“My
lady told us how he means to spend the night,” said the groom. “It’s you she
bids to her, if you’ll come with me now. Let the other brother rest, she says,
for he’s been mortal sick. I grant him a man’s guts, or he’d never have come so
far on those feet. This way, Brother!”

Her
dower dwelling was built into a corner of the curtain wall, sheltered from the
prevailing winds, small, but enough for such occasional visits as she chose to
make to her son’s court. A narrow hall and chamber, and a kitchen built lean-to
against the wall outside. The groom strode in and through the hall with simple
authority, as one having privilege here, and entered his mistress’s presence
much as a son or brother of hers might have done, trusting and trusted. Adelais
de Clary was well served, but without subservience.

“Here
is Brother Cadfael from Shrewsbury, my lady. The other one’s asleep.”

Adelais
was sitting at a distaff loaded with deep blue wool, spinning the spindle with
her left hand, but at their entrance she ceased to turn it, and lodged it
carefully against the foot of the distaff to prevent the yarn from uncoiling.

“Good!
It’s what he needs. Leave us now, Lothair, our guest will find his own way
back. Is my son home yet?”

“Not
yet. I’ll be looking out for him when he comes.”

“He
has Roscelin with him,” she said, “and the hounds. When they’re all home and
kenneled and stalled, take your ease, it’s well earned.”

He
merely nodded by way of acknowledgment, and departed, taciturn and uneffusive
as ever, and yet there was a tone in their exchange of invulnerable assurance,
secure as rooted rock. Adelais said no word until the door of her chamber had
closed after her servant. She was eyeing Cadfael with silent attention, and the
faint shadow of a smile.

“Yes,”
she said, as if he had spoken. “More than an old servant. He was with my lord
all the years he fought in Palestine. More than once he did Bertrand that small
service, to keep him man alive. It is another manner of allegiance, not a
servant’s. As bound in fealty as ever lord is to his overlord. I inherited what
was my lord’s before me. Lothair, he’s called. His son is Luc. Born and bred in
the some mold. You’ll have seen the likeness, God knows it can hardly be
missed.”

“I
have seen it,” said Cadfael. “And I knew where Lothair got that copper skin he
wears.”

“Indeed?”
She was studying him with concentrated interest now, having gone to the trouble
to see him for the first time.

“I
was some years in the east myself, before his time. If he lives long enough his
brown will fade as mine has faded, but it takes a long while.”

“Ah!
So you were not given to the monks in childhood? I thought you had not the look
of such virgin innocents,” said Adelais.

“I
entered of my own will,” said Cadfael, “when it was time.”

“So
did he—of his own will, though I think it was not time.” She stirred and
sighed. “I sent for you only to ask if you have everything you need—if my men
have taken proper care of you.”

“Excellent
care. And for their kindness and yours we are devoutly grateful.”

“And
to ask you of him—of Haluin. I have seen in what sad case he is. Will it ever
be better for him?”

“He
will never walk as he did before,” said Cadfael, “but as his sinews gain time
and strength he will improve. He believed he was dying, so did we all, but he
lives and will yet find much good in life—once his mind is at peace.”

“And
will it be at peace after tonight? Is this what he needs?”

“I
believe he will. I believe it is.”

“Then
it has my blessing. And then you will take him back to Shrewsbury? I can
provide you horses,” she said, “for the way back. Lothair can fetch them to
Hales when we return.”

“That
kindness he will surely refuse,” said Cadfael. “He has sworn to complete this
penance on foot.”

She
nodded understanding. “I will ask him, nonetheless. Well—that is all, Brother.
If he will not, I can do no more. Yes, one thing I can! I am coming to Vespers
tonight. I will speak to the priest, and make certain that no one—no one!—shall
question or trouble his vigil. You understand, nothing must be let slip to any
soul but us who already know all too well. Tell him so. What remains is between
him and God.”

The
master of the house was just riding in at the gate as Cadfael walked back to
the lodging where Haluin lay sleeping. The ring of harness and hooves and
voices entered ahead of the cavalcade, a lively sound, bringing out grooms and
servants like bees from a disturbed hive to attend on their lord’s arrival. And
here he came, Audemar de Clary, on a tall chestnut horse, a big man in dark,
plain, workmanlike riding clothes, without ornament, and needing none to mark
him out as having authority here. He rode in with head uncovered, the hood of
his short cloak flung back on his shoulders, and his shock of crisp hair was as
dark as his mother’s, but the powerful bones of his face, high-bridged nose,
thrusting cheekbones, and lofty forehead he surely had from his Crusader
father.

He
could not, Cadfael thought, be yet forty years old. The vigor of his movements
as he dismounted, the spring of his step on the ground, the very gestures of
his hands as he stripped off his gloves, all were young. But the formidable
features of his face and the mastery that was manifest all about him, in the
efficiency of his management here and the prompt and competent service he
expected and got, made him seem older in dominance than he was in years. He had
been master, Cadfael recalled, in his father’s long absence, beginning early,
probably before he was twenty, and the de Clary honor was large and scattered.
He had learned his business well. Not a man to be crossed lightly, but no one
here feared him. They approached him cheerfully and spoke with him boldly. His
anger, when justified, might be withering, even perilous, but it would be just.

He
had a young fellow, page or squire, riding close at his elbow, a youth of
seventeen or eighteen, fresh-faced and flushed with open air and exercise, and
after them came two kennelmen on foot with the hounds on leash after their run.
Audemar handed over his bridle to the groom who came running, and stood
stamping his booted feet as he shed his cloak into the young man’s ready hands.
The brief flurry of activity was over in a few minutes, the horses on their way
across the court to the stables, the hounds away to the kennels. The young
groom Luc came out of the stableyard and spoke to Audemar, apparently to
deliver a message from Adelais, for Audemar at once looked round toward the
lady’s lodging, nodded understanding, and came striding towards her door. His
eyes fell on Cadfael, standing discreetly aside from his path, and for an
instant he checked as though to stop and speak, but then changed his mind and
went on, to vanish into the deep doorway.

Judging
by the time that she and her grooms and her maid had passed by in the forest, Cadfael
reckoned, Adelais must have arrived here that same day, two days previously.
They would have no need to halt for a night between Chenet and Elford, for on
horseback the distance was easy. Therefore she must already have seen and
talked with her son. What she had to communicate to him now, as soon as he
returned from riding, might well have to do with whatever was news this day at
the manor of Elford. And what was new but the arrival of the two monks from
Shrewsbury, and their reason for being here, a reason she would interpret with
discretion for his ears. For he had been here at Elford when his sister died in
Hales, for the world’s ears—and her brother’s also?—of a fever. That must be
all he had ever known of it, a simple, sad death, such as may happen in any
household, even to one in the bloom of youth. No, that strong and resolute
woman would never have let her son into the secret. An old, trusted,
confidential maidservant, maybe. She must have needed such a one, now perhaps
dead. But her young son, no, never.

And
if that was true, no wonder Adelais was taking every precaution to smooth
Haluin’s way to his atonement, and be rid of him as quickly as possible,
warding off all inquiry, even from the priest, offering horses to hasten the
departure, and pledging the two pilgrims not to reveal anything of the past to
any other being, not to say one word of the import of their errand, or mention
the name of Bertrade.

Something,
at least, I begin to understand, thought Cadfael. Wherever we turn, there is
Adelais between us and all others. She houses us, she feeds us, it is her most
loyal servants who approach and wait on us, not any from her son’s household.
My daughter’s name and fame are safe enough under the stone, she had said, let
them lie quiet there. Small blame to her for making sure, and no wonder she had
ridden in haste to reach Elford beforehand and be ready for them.

And
go we will, he thought, tomorrow morning if Haluin is fit to set out, and she
can set her mind at rest. We can find another halting place a mile or two from
here, if we must, but at all costs we’ll quit these walls, and she need never
see or think of Haluin again.

The
young squire had remained standing to watch his lord cross to the lady’s door,
Audemar’s cloak flung over his shoulder, his bare head almost flaxen against
the dark cloth. He had still the coltish, angular grace of youth. In a year or
two his slenderness would fill out into solid and shapely manhood, with every
movement under smooth control, but as yet he retained the vulnerable
uncertainty of a boy. He looked after Audemar with surprised speculation,
stared at Cadfael in candid curiosity, and turned slowly towards the door of
Audemar’s hall.

So
this must be the Roscelin to whom Adelais had referred, thought Cadfael, watching
him go. Not a son of the house, by the cut of him and the coloring, but not a
servant, either. Doubtless a youngster from the family of one of Audemar’s
tenants, sent here to his overlord to get his training in arms, and acquire the
skills and practices of a small court, in preparation for the wider world. Such
apprentice lordlings proliferated in every great barony, the de Clary honor
might well be patron to one or two of the same kind.

The
early evening had turned cold, and there was a biting wind rising, with a few
fine needles of sleet stinging in its touch. The hour of Vespers was not far
away. Cadfael went in thankfully from the chill, to find Brother Haluin awake
and waiting, silent and tense, for his hour of fulfillment.

Adelais
had evidently made her dispositions well. No one intruded upon their privacy,
no one asked any question or showed any curiosity. The young groom Luc brought
them food before Vespers, and at the end of the office they were left alone in
the church to conduct their vigil as they pleased. Doubtful if any among the
household wondered about them at all, being accustomed to random visitors of
all kinds, with differing needs, and the devotions of a pair of itinerant
Benedictines surprised no one. If monks of the abbey of Saint Peter elected to
spend a night in prayer in a church of Saint Peter, that was no special wonder,
and concerned no one else.

So
Brother Haluin had his will, and redeemed his vow. He would have no softening
of the stone, no extra cloak to ward off the cold of the night, nothing to
abate the rigors of his penance. Cadfael helped him to his knees, within reach
of the solid support of the tomb, so that if faintness or dizziness came over
him he could at least hold fast by it to break his fall. The crutches were laid
at the foot of the stone. There was no more he would permit anyone to do for
him. But Cadfael kneeled with him, withdrawn into shadow to leave him solitary
with his dead Bertrade and a God doubtless inclining a compassionate ear.

It
was a long night, and cold. The altar lamp made an eye of brightness in the
gloom, at least ruddy like fire if it gave no warmth. The silence carried hour
by hour, like an infinitesimal ripple vibrating through it, the gradual heave
of Haluin’s breathing and the constant whisper of his moving lips, felt in the
blood and the bowels rather than audible with the ear. From somewhere within
him he drew an inexhaustible wealth of words to be spent for his dead Bertrade.
Their tension and passion kept him erect and oblivious to pain, though pain
took fast hold of him before midnight, and never left him until his rapture and
his ordeal ended together with the coming of light.

When
he opened his eyes at last to the full light of a frosty morning, and
laboriously unlocked his cold, clasped hands, the sounds of the customary early
activity were already audible from the outside world. Haluin stared dazedly
upon the waking day, returning from some place very far off, very deep within.
He essayed to move, to grip the rim of the stone, and his fingers were so
numbed they could not feel, and his arms so stiff they could give him no help
to raise himself. Cadfael wound an arm about him to lift him, but Haluin could
not straighten his stiff knees to set his better foot to the ground, but hung a
dead weight on the encircling arm. And suddenly there was a flurry of light
footsteps, and another arm, young and strong, embraced the helpless body from
the other side, a fair head stooped to Haluin’s shoulder, and between his two supporters
he was hauled upright, and held so as the blood flowed back achingly into his
numbed legs.