The Raven in the Foregate (25 page)

Cynric and his helpers hoisted the coffin, and fitted
the slings to lower it into the grave. Earth fell dully. The last prayer was
said. There was the inevitable stillness and hush, before everyone would sigh
and stir, and very slowly begin to move away. The sigh came like a sudden gust
of wind, it fell from so many throats. The stir followed like the rustle of
leaves in the gust. And Hugh said loudly and clearly, in a voice calculated to
arrest any movement on the instant:

“My lord abbot, Father prior… I must ask your pardon
for having placed a guard at your gate-outside your walls, but even so I beg
your indulgence. No one must leave here until I’ve made known my purpose. Hold
me excused that I must come at such a time, but there’s no help for it. I am here
in the name of the King’s law, and in pursuit of a murderer. I am here to take
into charge a felon suspected of the slaying of Father Ailnoth.”

Chapter Twelve

THERE WAS NOT VERY MUCH TO BE FOUND, but there was
enough. Cadfael stood on the rim of the high bank where Ailnoth’s body had
bobbed and nestled, held fast there by the slight side impulse from the
tail-race of the mill. The stump of the felled willow, no more than hip-high,
bristled with its whips of blanched green hair. Some broken shoots among them,
at the rim of the barren, dead surface, dried and cracked with time and jagged
from the axe. And a finger length of black thread fluttering, one end securely
held in the frayed ridge of dead wood. A finger length of unravelled woollen
braid, just enough to complete the binding of a black skull-cap. Frost and thaw
had come and gone, whitened and moistened and changed and obliterated whatever
else had once been there to be found, a smear of blood, perhaps, some minute
fragments of torn skin. Nothing left but a fluttering black roving, clawed
loose when the cap flew wide and went with the current into the reeds.

Cadfael went back in haste with the infinitesimal
scrap of wool in his hand. Halfway across the great court he heard the clamour
of voices howling protest, excitement and confusion, and slackened his pace,
for clearly there was no more need for haste. The trap was sprung, and must
hold whatever it caught. Too late to prevent, at least he could undo whatever
harm came of it, and if none came, so much the better. What he had to say and
to show would keep.

Ninian reached the open track and the bridge over the
Meole Brook in a glow from running most of the way, and remembered to slow to a
walk before he reached the highway, close to the end of the bridge into
Shrewsbury, and to haul up the hood of Sweyn’s capuchon to shadow his face. At
the turning into the Foregate he first checked in mild alarm, and then realised
his luck and took heart, for so many people were still hurrying out of the town
towards the abbey that it was very simple to mingle with them and be lost. He
went with the stream, ears pricked for every word uttered around him, and heard
his own name bandied back and forth with anticipatory relish. So that was the
arrest some of these were expecting, though it could hardly be what Hugh
Beringar had in mind, since he had lost the scent some days ago, and had no
reason to suppose that he would recover it today. But others spoke of the
woman, the priest’s servant, not even knowing a name by which to call her.
Others again were speculating wildly between two or three names unknown to
Ninian, but who had evidently suffered under Ailnoth’s unbending severities.

It seemed he had come only in time to join the
stragglers in the traffic from the town, those who had been late in hearing the
gossip, for the Foregate from the gatehouse of the abbey on was already
crowded. Just as Ninian reached the gatehouse the clergy were emerging from the
north door, and after them the coffin, and all the brothers in solemn
procession. This was the one danger he must avoid, at least until he knew
whether he had to face the worst, and deliver himself up of his own will. These
were the men, any one of whom might know him on sight if he caught a clear
glimpse of his face, indeed might be able to place him even by his build and
gait. He withdrew hastily, weaving between the curious watchers to the far side
of the street, and slipped into the mouth of the narrow alley until the monks
had all passed by. After them came those of the parish worthies whose dignity
had forbidden them to scurry first out of the church and secure a favourable
place in the cemetery garth. And after them streamed the watchers in the
Foregate, intent and avid as children and dogs after a travelling tumbler,
though not so candidly loud in their anticipation of wonders.

To be the last and alone would be as bad as thrusting
himself to the fore. Ninian slid out of concealment in time to join the rear
guard, and hung just within the fringes as the cortege made its way along the
Foregate to the corner by the horse-fair, and rounded it to the cemetery doors,
which stood wide open.

There were a few besides himself, it seemed, who
wanted to see everything there was to be seen, without making themselves
conspicuous, and likewise preferred to hang upon the fringes of the crowd
outside the gates, peering within. And that might be because two men of the
castle garrison stood one on either side the entrance, very casually, not
interfering with those who went in, but nevertheless to be eyed with caution.

Ninian halted in the wide opening, neither in nor out,
and peered forward, craning to see between the massed heads, and reach the
group gathered about the grave. Both abbot and prior were more than commonly
tall, he could see them clearly above the rest, and hear the prayers of the
committal ring aloud in prior Robert’s consciously mellifluous tones, to reach
every ear. The prior had a genuinely splendid voice, and loved to exercise it
in all the highly dramatic possibilities of the liturgy.

Edging a step or two to one side, Ninian caught a
glimpse of Diota’s face, a pale oval under her black hood. She stood close
beside the bier, her due as the only member of the priest’s household. The
curve of a shoulder pressed close to hers, the arm linked in her arm, could
only belong to Sanan, though no matter how he craned to one side and the other,
he could not get a view of the beloved face, taller heads moved always between.

There was a ripple of movement as the priests advanced
to the grave-side, the crowd swinging that way with them. The coffin was being
lowered, the last dismissal spoken. Under the high precinct wall the first
clods of earth fell on Father Ailnoth’s coffin. It was almost over, and nothing
had broken the decorum of the occasion. The first shuffle and rustle and stir
passed through the assembly, acknowledging an ending. Ninian’s heart settled in
him, cautiously hoping, and as suddenly seemed to heave over in his breast as
another voice, raised to carry clearly, spoke up from the grave-side:

“My lord abbot, Father Prior… I must ask your pardon
for having placed a guard at your gate…”

For the beating of the blood in his ears Ninian missed
what came next, but he knew the voice must belong to the sheriff, for who else
bore such authority even here, within the enclave? And the end he heard all too
clearly: “I am here to take into charge a felon suspected of the slaying of
Father Ailnoth.”

So the worst had fallen on them, after all, just as
rumour had foretold. There was a sudden stunned silence, and then a great buzz
of confusion and excitement that shook the crowd like a gale of wind. The next
words were lost, though Ninian held his breath and strained to hear. Some of
those standing with him outside the gate had pressed forward, to miss nothing
of this sensation, and no one had any ears for the clatter of hooves coming
briskly round the corner by the horse-fair, and heading towards them at a trot.
Within the walls there came a sudden wild outcry, a babel of voices exclaiming
and protesting, bombarding those before them with questions, passing back
probably inaccurate answers to those behind. Ninian braced himself to plunge in
and shoulder his way through to where his womenfolk stood embattled and
defenceless. For it was over, his liberty was forfeit, if not his life. He drew
breath deep, and laid his hand on the shoulder of the nearest body that barred
his way, for the curious had abandoned caution and filled up the open gateway.

The bellow of dismay and indignation that suddenly
rose from under the precinct wall stopped him in his tracks and hurled him back
almost physically from the doorway. A man’s voice, howling protests, calling
heaven to witness his innocence. Not Diota! Not Diota, but a man!

“My lord, I swear to you I know nothing of it… I never
saw hide or hair of him that day or that night. I was fast at home, my wife
will tell you so! I never harmed any man, much less a priest… Someone has lied
about me, lied! My lord abbot, as God sees me…”

The name was borne back to Ninian’s ears rank by rank
through the crowd. Jordan Achard… it was Jordan Achard… They’re seizing Jordan
Achard…”

Ninian stood trembling, weak with reaction, and so
neglectful of his own situation that he had let the hood of Sweyn’s capuchon
slip back from his head and lie in folds on his shoulders. Behind him the
hooves had halted, shifting lightly in the thin mud of the thaw.

“Hey, you, fellow!”

The butt of a whip jabbed him sharply in the back, and
he swung about, startled, to look up directly into the face of a rider who
leaned down to him from the saddle of a fine roan horse. A big, ruddy, sinewy
man in his fifties, perhaps, very spruce in his own gear and the accoutrements
of his mount, and with the nobleman’s authority in his voice and face. A
handsome face, bearded and strong-featured, now just beginning to run to flesh
and lose its taut, clear lines, but still memorable. The brief moment they
spent staring closely at each other was terminated by a second impatient but
good-natured prod of the whip’s butt against Ninian’s shoulder, and the brisk
order:

“Yes, you, lad! Hold my horse while I’m within, and
you shan’t be the loser. What’s afoot in there, do you know? Someone’s making a
fine noise about it.”

In the exuberance of relief from his terror for Diota,
Ninian rebounded into impudent glee, knuckled his forehead obsequiously, and
reached willingly for the bridle, once again the penniless peasant groom Benet
to the life. “I don’t rightly know, master,” he said, “but there’s some in
there saying a man’s been taken up for killing the priest…” He smoothed a hand
over the horse’s silken forehead and between the pricked ears, and the roan
tossed his head, turned a soft, inquisitive muzzle to breathe warmth at him,
and accepted the caress graciously. “A lovely beast my lord! I’ll mind him
well.”

“So the murderer’s taken, is he? Rumour told truth for
once.” The rider was down in a moment, and off through the quivering crowd like
a sickle cutting grass, a brusque, hard shoulder forward and a masterful tongue
ready to demand passage. Ninian was left with his cheek against a glossy
shoulder, and a tangle of feelings boiling within him, laughter and gratitude,
and the joyful anticipation of a journey now free from all regrets and
reservations, but also a small, bitter jet of sadness that one man was dead
untimely, and another now accused of his murder. It took him some little time
to remember to pull the hood over his head again, and well forward to shadow
his face, but luckily all attention was fixed avidly upon the hubbub within the
cemetery garth, and no one was paying any heed to a hind holding his master’s
horse in the street. The horse was excellent cover, but it did prevent him from
advancing again into the wide-open doorway, and even by straining his ears he
could make little sense out of the babel from within. The clamour of terrified
protest went on for some time, that was plain enough, and the shrill commentary
from the bystanders made a criss-cross of conflicting sounds around it. If
there were saner voices speaking, Hugh Beringar’s or the abbot’s, they were
drowned in the general chaos.

Ninian leaned his forehead against the warm hide that
quivered gently under his touch, and offered devout thanks for so timely a
deliverance.

In the heart of the tumult Abbot Radulfus raised a
voice that seldom found it necessary to thunder, and thundered to instant
effect.

“Silence! You bring shame on yourselves and desecrate
this holy place. Silence, I say!”

And there was silence, sudden and profound, though it
might as easily break out in fresh chaos if the rein was not tightened.

“So, and keep silence, all you who have nothing here
to plead or deny. Let those speak and be heard who have. Now, my lord sheriff,
you accuse this man Jordan Achard of murder. On what evidence?”

“On the evidence,” said Hugh, “of a witness who has
said and will say again that he lies in saying he spent that night at home.
Why, if he has nothing to hide, should he find it necessary to lie? On the
evidence also of a witness who saw him creeping out from the mill path and
making for his home at earliest light on Christmas morning. It is enough to
hold him upon suspicion,” said Hugh crisply, and motioned to the two sergeants,
who grasped the terrified Jordan almost tenderly by the arms. “That he had a
grievance against Father Ailnoth is known to everyone.”

“My lord abbot,” babbled Jordan, quaking, “on my soul
I swear I never touched the priest. I never saw him, I was not there… it’s
false… they lie about me…”