The Raven in the Foregate (23 page)

Chapter Eleven

THE FIRST DAY OF THE NEW YEAR, 1142, dawned grey and
moist, but with a veiled light that suggested the sun might come through
slowly, and abide for an hour or so in the middle of the day, before mist again
closed in towards nightfall. Cadfael, who was often up well before Prime,
awakened this morning only when the bell sounded, and made his way down the
night stairs with the others still drowsy from so short a rest. After Prime he
went to make sure that all was well in the workshop, and brought away with him
fresh oil for the altar lamps. Cynric had already trimmed the candles, and gone
out through the cloister to the graveyard, to see all neat and ready where the
open grave waited under the precinct wall, covered decorously with planks. The
body in its wooden coffin rested on a bier before the parish altar, decently
draped. After the Mass it would be carried in procession from the north door,
along the Foregate, and in at the great double gate just round the corner from
the horse-fair ground, where the laity had access, instead of through the
monastic court. A certain separateness must be preserved, for the sake of the
quietude necessary to the Rule.

There was a subdued bustle about the great court well
before the hour for Mass, brothers hurrying to get their work ready for the
rest of the day, or finish small things left undone the previous day. And the
people of the Foregate began to gather outside the great west door of the
church, or hover about the gatehouse waiting for friends before entering. They
came with faces closed and shuttered, dutifully grave and ceremonious, but with
quick and careful eyes watching from ambush, uncertain still whether they were
really out of the shadow of that resented presence. Perhaps after today they
would draw breath and come out of hiding, no longer wary of speaking openly to
their neighbours. Perhaps! But what if Hugh should spring his trap in vain?

Cadfael was uneasy about the entire enterprise, but
even more dismayed at the thought of this uncertainty continuing for ever,
until distrust and fear died at last only from attrition and forgetfulness.
Better to have it out into the light, deal with it, and be done. Then at least
all but one could be at peace. No—he, too! He most of all!

The notabilities of the Foregate had begun to appear,
Erwald the reeve, sombre-faced and aware of his dignity, as befitted and almost
justified his use of the title of provost. The smith from his forge, Rhys ab
Owain the Welsh farrier—several of the craftsmen of the Foregate were
Welsh—Erwald’s shepherd kinsman, and Jordan Achard the baker, big and burly and
well-fleshed, wooden-faced like the rest but nevertheless with a sort of glossy
content about him, having survived to bury his detractor. And the little
people, too. Aelgar who had worked for the priest and been affronted by the
doubt whether he was villein or free, Eadwin whose boundary stone had been shifted
by Ailnoth’s too close ploughing, Centwin whose child had been buried in
unblessed ground and abandoned as lost, the fathers of boys who had learned the
hard way to stay out of range of the ebony staff, and shivered in their shoes
at having to attend Ailnoth’s lessons. The boys themselves gathered at a little
distance from their elders, whispering, shuffling, shifting to get a view
within but never entering, and sometimes their wary faces showed a sudden
fleeting grin here and there, and sometimes their whispering turned briefly to
sniggering, half from bravado and half from involuntary awe. The Foregate dogs,
sensing the general excitement and unease, ran about between the crowding
watchers, snapped edgily at the hooves of passing horses, and loosed volleys of
high-pitched barking at every sudden noise.

The women, for the most part, had been left at home.
No doubt Jordan’s wife was looking after his bakery, raking out the ashes from
the early morning firing, and making ready for the second batch, the loaves
already shaped and waiting. Just as well for her to be at a safe distance from
what was to come, though surely Hugh would not involve the poor soul, when she
had only admitted her husband’s sleeping abroad in order to save him from this
worse accusation. Well, that must be left to Hugh, and Hugh was usually adroit
about his manipulations of people and events. But some of the women were here,
the elders, the matrons, the widows of solid craftsmen, those who upheld the
church even when others became backsliders. The stalwarts at all the least
timely services, attending doggedly even at the monastic Vespers as well as the
parish Mass, were mostly these sturdy she-elders in their decent black, like
lay members of the community itself. They would not miss the ceremonies of this
day.

Cadfael was watching the arrivals with a
half-attentive gaze and his mind elsewhere, when he saw Diota Hammet come in at
the gate, with Sanan’s hand solicitous at her elbow. It came both as an anxious
reminder and a pleasant refreshment to his eyes, two comely women thus linked
in a carefully groomed and perhaps brittle dignity, very calm and stiff with
resolution. Autumn and spring came gallantly supporting each other. Ninian in
his banishment and solitude would require a full account, and never have an
easy moment until he got it. Two hours more and the thing would be done, one
way or the other.

They had come in through the gate to the court, and
were looking about them, clearly seeking someone. It was Sanan who saw him
first, and brightened as she turned to speak quickly into Diota’s ear. The
widow turned to look, and at once started towards him. He went to meet them,
since it seemed he must be the one they were seeking.

“I’m glad to have found you thus before the service,”
said the widow. “The ointment you gave me—there’s the half of it left, and you
see I don’t need it any more. It would be a shame to waste it, you must have a
deal of call for it in this wintry weather.” She had it put away safely in the
little bag slung from her girdle, and had to fumble under her cloak to get it
out. A small, rough pottery jar, with a wooden lid stoppered tightly into the
neck to seal it. She held it out to him on her open palm, and offered him with
it a pale but steady smile. “All my grazes are gone, this can still serve
someone else. Take it, with my thanks.”

The last of her grazes, faded now almost to
invisibility, hair-fine threads of white, showed elusively round the jar in her
palm. The mark on her temple was merely a hyacinth oval, the bruise all but
gone.

“You could have kept it against future need, with all
my goodwill,” said Cadfael, accepting the offering.

“Well, should I ever have need again, I hope I shall
still be here, and able to send to you,” said Diota.

She made him a small, dignified reverence, and turned
back towards the church. Over her shoulder Cadfael caught Sanan’s confiding
blue gaze, harebell-soft and sky-bright, almost as intimate as a signal between
conspirators. Then she, too, turned, taking the older woman’s arm, and the two
of them walked away from him, across the court to the gate, and in at the west
door of the church.

Ninian awoke when it was full daylight, thick-headed
and slow to collect his wits from having lain half the night wakeful, and then
fallen into too profound a slumber. He rose, and swung himself down from the
loft without using the ladder, and went out into the fresh, chill, moist
morning to shake off the lingering cobwebs. The stalls below were empty.
Sanan’s man Sweyn had been here already from his own cottage nearer the town,
and turned out the two horses into the fenced paddock. They needed a little
space for exercise, after the harder frosts when they had been kept indoors,
and they were making good use of their freedom, glad of the air and the light.
Young and high-spirited and short of work, they would not easily let themselves
be caught and bridled, but it was unlikely they would be needed this day.

The cattle byre was still peopled, they would not be
let out to the grazing along the riverside until Sweyn was near to keep an eye
on them. The byre and stable stood in a large clearing between slopes of
woodland, with an open side only to the river, pleasantly private, and under
the western stand of trees a little stream ran down to the Severn. Ninian made
for it sleepily, stripped off coat and shirt, shivering a little, and plunged
head and arms into the water, flinching and drawing in hissing breath at the
instant coldness, but taking pleasure in feeling his wits start into warm
wakefulness. Shaking off drops from his face and wringing his hands through his
thick thatch of curls, he ran a couple of circuits of the open grass at full
gallop, caught up his discarded clothes and ran back with them into the shelter
of the stable, to scrub himself vigorously with a clean sack until he glowed,
and dress himself to face the day. Which might be long and lonely and full of
anxieties, but at this moment felt bracing and hopeful.

He had combed his hair into such order as his fingers
could command, and was sitting on a bale of straw eating a hunk of bread and an
apple from the store Sanan had provided, when he heard the herdsman come along
the rough path towards the door. Or was this some other man, and not Sweyn at
all? Ninian stiffened to listen, with his cheek bulging with apple, and his
jaws motionless. No whistling, and Sweyn always whistled, and these feet came
in unusual haste, clearly audible in the rough grass and small stones. Ninian
was up in still greater haste, and swung himself up into the loft and hung
silent over the hatch, ready for whoever should come.

“Young master…” called a voice in the open doorway,
without any suggestion of caution. Sweyn, after all, but a Sweyn who had been
hurrying, was a little out of breath, and had no thought to spare for whistling
this morning. “Lad, where are you? Come down!”

Ninian let out his breath in a great gust, and slid
back through the hatch to hang at arm’s length and drop beside the herdsman.
“God’s love, Sweyn, you had me reaching for a knife then! I never thought it
was you. I thought I had you by heart, by this time, but you came like a
stranger. What is it?” He flung an arm about his friend and ally boisterously
in his relief, and as quickly held him off to look him up and down from head to
foot. “Lord, lord, in your best, too! In whose honour?”

Sweyn was a thickset, grizzled man of middle age, with
a ragged brown beard and a twinkling glance. Whatever warm clothing he put on
against the winter he must have put on underneath, for he had but the one stout
pair of cloth hose, and Ninian had never yet seen him in any coat but the
much-mended drab brown, but evidently he possessed another, for this morning he
had on a green coat, unpatched, and a dark brown capuchon protecting head and
shoulders.

“I’ve been into Shrewsbury,” he said shortly,
“fetching a pair of shoes my wife left to be clouted at Provost Corviser’s. I
was here at first light and let out the horses, they’ve been penned long
enough, and then I went back to fettle myself for the town, and I’ve had no
time to put on my working gear again. There’s word going round the town,
master, that the sheriff means to attend the Foregate priest’s funeral, and
fetch a murderer away with him. I thought I’d best bring you word as fast as I
could. For it may be true.”

Ninian stood gaping at him aghast for a moment in
stricken silence. “No! He’s going to take her? Is that the word? Oh, God, not
Diota! And she there to be seized,—all unsuspecting. And I not there!” He
clutched earnestly at Sweyn’s arm. “Is this certain?”

“It’s the common talk about the town. Folks are all
agog, there’ll be a stream of them making haste over the bridge to see it done.
They don’t say who—leastways, they guess at it, two or three ways, but they all
agree it’s coming, be the poor wretch who he may.”

Ninian flung away the apple he had still been holding,
and beat his fists together in frantic thought. “I must go! The parish Mass
won’t be until ten, there’s still time…”

“You can’t go. The young mistress said—”

“I know what she said, but this is my business now. I
must and will get Diota out of it. Who else can it be the sheriff means to
accuse? But he shan’t have her! I won’t suffer it!”

“You’ll be known! It may not be your woman he has in
mind, how then? He may have the rights of it, and know well what he’s doing.
And you’ll have thrown yourself away for nothing,” urged the herdsman
reasonably.

“No, I needn’t be known. One in a crowd—and only the
people of the abbey and a few in the Foregate know me well by sight. In any
case,” said Ninian grimly, “let anyone lay a hand on her and I will be known,
and with a vengeance, too. But I can be lost among a crowd, why not? Lend me
that coat and capuchon, Sweyn, who’s to know me under a hood? And they’ve never
seen me but in this gear, yours is far too fine for the Benet they’ve seen
about the place…”

“Take the horse,” said Sweyn, stripping off his
capuchon without protest, and hoisting the loose cotte over his head.

Ninian did cast one glance out into the field where
the two horses kicked up their heels, happy to be at large. “No, no time! I can
do it as fast afoot. And I’d be more noticeable, mounted. How many horsemen
will there be about Ailnoth’s funeral?” He thrust his way into the over-ample
garment already warmed for him, and emerged ruffled and flushed. “I daren’t
show a sword. But the dagger I can hide about me.” He was up into the loft to
fetch it, and fasten it safely out of sight under his coat, secure in the belt
of his hose.