The Raven in the Foregate (24 page)

At the doorway, poised to run, he was stricken with
another qualm, and turned to clutch again at the herdsman’s arm. “Sweyn, if I’m
taken—Sanan will see you shan’t be the loser. Your good clothes—I’ve no right…”

“Ah, go on with you!” said Sweyn, half-affronted, and
gave him a shove out into the field and towards the trees. “I can go in sacking
if needs must. You bring yourself back safe, or the young mistress will have my
head for it. And put up your hood, fool boy, before you come near the road!”

Ninian ran, across the meadow and into the slope of
trees, heading for the track that would bring him, within a mile or so, to the
Meole Brook, and across it into the Foregate, close by the bridge into the
town.

Word of the fat rumour that was running round Shrewsbury
reached Ralph Giffard some time later, none of his household having been abroad
in the town before nine o’clock, when a maidservant went out to fetch a pitcher
of milk, and was a long time about it by reason of the juicy gossip she learned
on her errand. Even when she returned to the house the news took some time to
be carried from the kitchen to the clerk, who had come to see what all the
chatter was about, and thence to Giffard himself, who was at that moment
reflecting whether it was not time to leave the town house to the caretaker and
make for his chief manor in the north-east. It was pleasant to prolong the
comfortable stay here, and he had taken pleasure in falling in with his young
son’s wish to practise the skills of managing a manor for himself,
unsupervised. The boy was sixteen, two years younger than his step-sister, and
somewhat jealous of her show of maturity and responsibility in running the
distaff side of the household. He was already affianced, a good match with a
neighbour’s daughter, and naturally he was eager to try his wings. And no doubt
he would be doing well enough, and proud of his prowess, but still a father
would be only prudent to keep an eye on affairs. There was no bad blood between
boy and girl, but for all that, young Ralph would not be sorry to have Sanan
safely married and out of the house. If only her marriage did not threaten to
cost so much!

“My lord,” said the old clerk, coming in upon his
ponderings towards mid morning, “I think you are rid of your incubus this day,
or soon will be. It seems it’s all round the town, being bandied across every
counter and every doorstep, that Beringar has his murderer known and proved,
and means to take him at the priest’s burial. And who can it be but that
youngster of FitzAlan’s? He may have made his escape once, but it seems they’ve
run him to earth this time.”

He brought it as good news, and as such Giffard
received it. Once the troublesome fellow was safely in hold, and his own part
in the matter as clearly decorous and loyal, he could be at ease. While the
rogue ran loose, there might still be unpleasant echoes for any man who had had
to do with him.

“So I did well to uncover him,” he said, breathing
deeply. “I might still have been suspect else, when they lay hands on him. Well,
well! So the thing’s as good as over, and no harm done.”

The thought was very satisfying, even though he would
have been just as pleased if it could have been achieved without the act of
betrayal with which a lingering scruple in his own mind still reproached him.
But now, if it was to be proven that the young fellow really had murdered the
priest, then there was no longer need to feel any qualms on his behalf, for he
had his deserts.

It was some last superstition that something might yet
go wrong, added to a contradictory desire to see the successful consummation in
person, that made him think again, and make up his mind, somewhat belatedly, to
be in at the death. To make sure, and to wring the fullest savour out of his
own preservation.

“After the parish Mass, this was to be? They’ll be
well into the abbot’s sermon by now. I think I’ll ride down and see the end of
it.” And he was out of his chair and shouting across the yard for the groom to
saddle his horse.

Abbot Radulfus had been speaking for some time,
slowly, with the high, withdrawn voice of intense thought, every word measured.
In the choir it was always dim, a parable of the life of man, a small, lighted
space arched over by a vast shadowy darkness, for even in darkness there are
degrees of shadow. The crowded nave was lighter, and with so many people in
attendance not even notably cold. When choir monks and secular congregation met
for worship together, the separation between them seemed accentuated rather
than softened. We here, you out there, thought Brother Cadfael, and yet we are
all like flesh, and our souls subject to the same final judgement.

“The company of the saints,” said Abbot Radulfus, his
head raised so that he looked rather into the vault than at those he addressed,
“is not to be determined by any measure within our understanding. It cannot be
made up of those without sin, for who that ever wore flesh, except one, can
make so high a claim? Surely there is room within it for those who have set
before themselves lofty aims, and done their best to reach them, and so, we
believe, did our brother and shepherd here dead. Yes, even though they fail of
attaining their aims, more, even though those aims may have been too narrow,
the mind that conceived them being blinded by prejudice and pride, and
channelled too greedily towards a personal excellence. For even the pursuit of
perfection may be sin, if it infringes the rights and needs of another soul.
Better to fail a little, by turning aside to lift up another, than to pass by
him in haste to reach our own reward, and leave him to solitude and despair.
Better to labour in lameness, in fallibility, but holding up others who falter,
than to stride forward alone.

“Again, it is not enough to abstain from evil, there
must also be an outgoing goodness. The company of the blessed may extend
justifiably to embrace even men who have been great sinners, yet also great
lovers of their fellow men, such as have never turned away their eyes from
other men’s needs, but have done them such good as they might, and as little
harm as they must. For in that they saw a neighbour’s need, they saw God’s
need, as he himself has shown us, and inasmuch as they saw a neighbour’s face
more clearly than their own, so also they saw God’s face.

“Further, I show you certainly that all such as are
born into this world and die untainted by personal sin partake of the martyred
purity of the Holy Innocents, and die for Our Lord, who also will embrace them
and quicken them living, where they shall no more partake of death. And if they
died without name here, yet their name is written in his book, and no other
need know it, until the day come.

“But we, all we who share the burden of sin, it
behoves us not to question or fret concerning the measure dealt out to us, or
try to calculate our own merit and deserving, for we have not the tools by
which to measure values concerning the soul. That is God’s business. Rather it
behoves us to live every day as though it were our last, to the full of such
truth and kindness as is within us, and to lie down every night as though the
next day were to be our first, and a new and pure beginning. The day will come
when all will be made plain. Then shall we know, as now we trust. And in that
trust we commit our pastor here to the care of the shepherd of shepherds, in
the sure hope of the resurrection.”

He uttered the blessing with his face lowered at last
to those who listened. Probably he wondered how many had understood, and how
many, indeed, had need of understanding.

It was over here, people stirred stealthily in the
nave, sliding towards the north door to be first out and secure a good place
ahead of the procession. In the choir the three ministering priests, abbot,
prior and sub-prior, descended to the bier, and the brothers formed silent
file, two by two, after them. The party of bearers took up the burden, and made
towards the open north doorway into the Foregate. How is it, thought Cadfael,
watching, and glad of a distraction, however sinful at such a moment, how is it
that there is always one out of step, or just a little too short in height and
stride to match the others? Is it so that we should not fall into the error of
taking even death too seriously?

It was no great surprise to find the Foregate crowded
when the procession issued from the north porch and turned to the right along
the precinct wall, but at first glance it did come as a surprise to find half
the townspeople among the starers, as well as the men of the parish. Then
Cadfael understood the reason. Hugh had had discreet whispers of his plans
leaked within the town walls, too late for them to be carried out here to the
folk most concerned, and give warning, but in time to bring the worthies of
Shrewsbury—or perhaps even more surely the un-worthies, who had time to waste
on curiosity—hurrying here to be witnesses of the ending.

Cadfael was still wondering what that ending was to
be. Hugh’s device might provoke some man’s conscience and make him speak out,
to deliver a neighbour mistakenly accused, but equally it might come as an
immense relief to the guilty, and be accepted as a gift—certainly not from
heaven, rather from the other place! At every step along the Foregate he
fretted at the tangle of details churning in his mind, and found no coherence
among them. Not until the little jar of ointment he had thrust into the breast
of his habit nodded against his middle as his foot slid in a muddy rut. The
touch was like an impatient nudge at his mind. He saw it again, resting in the
palm of a shapely but work-worn hand, as Diota held it out to him. A hand
seamed with the lines proper to the human palm, graven deep with lifelong use,
but also bearing thread-like white lines that crossed these, fanning from wrist
to fingers, barely visible now, soon to vanish altogether.

An icy night, certainly, he had trodden cautiously
through it himself, he knew. And a woman slipping as she turned to step back on
to the frozen doorstone of a house, and falling forward, naturally puts out her
hands to save herself, and her hands take the rough force of the fall, even
though they may not quite save her head. Except that Diota had not fallen. Her
head injury was sustained in quite a different way. She had fallen on her knees
that night, yes, but of desperate intent, with hands clutching not at frozen
ground, but at the skirts of Ailnoth’s cassock and cloak. So how did she get
those scored grazes in both palms?

In innocence she had told him but half a story,
believing she told him all. And here was he helpless now, he must hold his
place in this funeral procession, and she must hold hers, and he could not get
to her, to probe the corners of memory which had eluded her then. Not until
this solemn rite was over and done would he be able to speak again with Diota.
No, but there were other witnesses, mute by their nature but possibly eloquent
in what they might be able to demonstrate. He walked on perforce, keeping pace
with Brother Henry along the Foregate and round the corner by the horse-fair
ground, unable to break the decorum of burial. Not yet! But perhaps within? For
there would be no procession through the street afterwards, not for the
brethren. They would be already within their chosen enclave, to disperse
severally to their ablutions and their dinner in the refectory. Once within,
why should he be missed if he slipped quietly away?

The broad double doors in the precinct wall stood wide
open to let the mourning column into the wide prospect of the cemetery garth,
giving place on the left to kitchen gardens, and beyond, the long roof of the
abbot’s lodging, and the small enclosed flower garden round it. The brothers
were buried close under the east end of the church, the vicars of the parish a
little removed from them, but in the same area. The number of graves as yet was
not large, the foundation being no more than fifty-eight years old, and though
the parish was older, it had then been served by the small wooden church Earl
Roger had replaced in stone and given to the newly founded abbey. There were
trees here, and grass, and meadow flowers in the summer, a pleasant enough
place. Only the dark, raw hole close to the wall marred the green enclosure.
Cynric had placed trestles to receive the coffin before it was lowered into the
grave, and he was stooped over the planks he had just removed, stacking them
tidily against the wall.

Half the Foregate and a good number of the inhabitants
of the town came thronging through the open doors after the brothers, crowding
close to see all there was to be seen. Cadfael drew back from his place in the
ranks, and contrived to be swallowed up by their inquisitive numbers. No doubt
Brother Henry would eventually miss him from his side, but in the circumstances
he would say no word. By the time Prior Robert had got out the first sonorous
phrases of the committal, Cadfael was round the corner of the chapter house and
scurrying across the great court towards the wicket by the infirmary, that led
through to the mill.

Hugh had brought down with him from the castle two
sergeants and two of the young men of the garrison, all mounted, though they
had left their horses tethered at the abbey gatehouse, and allowed the funeral
procession to make its way along the Foregate to the cemetery before they
showed themselves. While all eyes were on the prior and the coffin Hugh posted
two men outside the open doors, to make a show of preventing any departures,
while he and the sergeants went within, and made their way unobtrusively
forward through the press. The very discretion with which they advanced, and
the respectful silence they preserved when they had drawn close to the bier,
which should have kept them inconspicuous, perversely drew every eye, so that
by the time they were where Hugh had designed they should be, himself almost
facing the prior across the coffin, the sergeants a pace or two behind Jordan
Achard, one on either side, many a furtive glance had turned on them, and there
was a wary shifting and staring and stealthy shuffling of feet on all sides.
But Hugh held his hand until all was over.