The Raven in the Foregate (3 page)

“He’s brought back with him a priest, a fine tall
fellow—not above thirty-five years or so I’d guess him to be. He’s bedded now
in the guest hall, they rode hard today to get home before dark. Not a word has
Father Abbot said to me, beyond giving me my orders to let Brother Denis know
he has a guest for the night, and to take care of the other two. For there’s a
woman come with the priest, a decent soul going grey and very modestly
conducted, that I take to be some sort of aunt or housekeeper to the priest,
for I was bidden get one of the lay grooms to show her the way to Father Adam’s
cottage, and that I did. And not the woman alone, there’s another young servant
lad with her, that waits on the pair of them and does their errands. A widow
and her son they could be, in the priest’s service. Off he goes with only
Brother Vitalis, as always, and comes back with three more, and two extra horses.
The young lad brought the woman pillion behind him. And what do you make of all
that?”

“Why, there’s but one way of it,” said Cadfael, after
giving the matter serious thought. “The lord abbot has brought back a priest
for Holy Cross from the southlands, and his household with him. The man himself
is made comfortable in the guest hall overnight, while his domestics go to open
up the empty house and get a good fire going for him, and food in store, and
the place warmed and ready. And tomorrow at chapter, no doubt, we shall hear
how the abbot came by him, and which of all the bishops gathered there
recommended him to the benefice.”

“It’s what I myself was thinking,” agreed the porter,
“though it would have been more to the general mind, I fancy, if a local man
had been advanced to the vacancy. Still, it’s what a man is that counts, not
his name nor where he came from. No doubt the lord abbot knows his business
best.” And he went off briskly, probably to whisper the news into one or two
other discreet ears before Compline. Certainly several of the brothers came to
the next morning’s chapter already forewarned and expectant, alertly waiting
for the new man to be first heralded, and then produced for inspection. For
though it was very unlikely that anyone would raise objections to a man chosen
by Abbot Radulfus, yet the whole chapter had rights in the presentation to the
living, and Radulfus was not the man to infringe its privileges.

“I have made all possible haste to return to you,” the
abbot began, when the normal routine matters had been quickly dealt with. “In
brief, I must report to you of the legatine council held at Westminster, that
the discussions and decisions there have brought the Church back into full
allegiance to King Stephen. The King himself was present to confirm the
establishment of this relationship, and the legate to declare him blessed by
the countenance of the Apostolic See, and the followers of the Empress, if they
remain recalcitrant, as enemies of King and Church. There is no need,” said the
abbot, somewhat drily, “to go into further detail here.”

None, thought Cadfael, attentive in his chosen stall,
conveniently sheltered behind a pillar in case he nodded off when material
matters became tiresome. No need for us to hear the spiral manipulations by
which the legate extricated himself from all his difficulties. But beyond
doubt, Hugh would get a full account of all.

“What does more nearly concern this house,” said
Radulfus, “is certain conference I had with Bishop Henry of Winchester in private.
Knowing of the cure left vacant here at Holy Cross, he recommended to me a
priest of his own following, at present waiting for a benefice. I have talked
with the man in question, and found him in every way able, scholarly and fitted
for advancement. His personal life is austere and simple, his scholarship I
have myself tested.”

It was a point powerful enough, by contrast with
Father Adam’s want of learning, though it would count for more with the
brothers here than with the folk of the Foregate.

“Father Ailnoth is thirty-six years of age,” said the
abbot, “and comes rather late to a parish by reason of having served as a clerk
to Bishop Henry, loyally and efficiently, for four years, and the bishop
desires to reward his diligence now by seeing him settled in a cure. For my
part, I am satisfied that he is both suitable and deserving. But if you will
bear with me so far, brothers, I will have him called in to give account of
himself, and answer whatever you may wish to ask him.”

A stir of interest, consent and curiosity went round
the chapter house, and Prior Robert, surveying the heads nodding in
anticipation and obeying the abbot’s glance, went out to summon the candidate.

Ailnoth, thought Cadfael, a Saxon name, and reported
as a fine, tall fellow. Well, better than some Norman hanger-on from the
fringes of the court. And he formed a mental picture of a big young man with
fresh, ruddy skin and fair hair, but dismissed it in a breath when Father
Ailnoth came in on Prior Robert’s heels, and took his stand with composed grace
in the middle of the chapter house, where he could be seen by all.

He was indeed a fine, tall fellow, wide-shouldered,
muscular, fluent and rapid in gait, erect and very still when he had taken his
stand. And a very comely man, too, in his own fashion, but so far from Saxon
pallor that he was blacker of hair and eye than Hugh Beringar himself. He had a
long, patrician countenance, olive-skinned and with no warmer flush of red in
his well-shaven cheeks. The black hair that ringed his tonsure was straight as
wire, and thick, and clipped with such precision that it looked almost as if it
had been applied with black paint. He made an austere obeisance to the abbot,
folded his hands, which were large and powerful, at the waist of his black gown,
and waited to be catechised.

“I present to this assembly Father Ailnoth,” said
Radulfus, “whom I propose we should prefer to the cure of Holy Cross. Examine
him of his own wishes in this matter, his attainments and his past service, and
he will answer freely.”

And freely indeed he did answer, launched by a first
gracious word of welcome from Prior Robert, who clearly found his appearance
pleasing. He answered questions briefly and fluently, like one who never has
had and never expects to have any lack of confidence or any time to waste, and
his voice, pitched a shade higher than Cadfael had expected from so big a man
and so broad a chest, rang with an assured authority. He accounted for himself
forcefully, declared his intent to pursue his duty with energy and integrity,
and awaited the verdict upon himself with steely confidence. He had excellent
Latin, some Greek, and was versed in accountancy, which promised well for his
church management. His acceptance was assured.

“If I may make one request, Father Abbot,” he said
finally, “I should be greatly thankful if you could find some work here among
your lay servants for the young man who has travelled here with me. He is the
nephew and only kin of my housekeeper, the widow Hammet, and she entreated me
to let him come here with her and find some employment locally. He is landless
and without fortune. My lord abbot, you have seen that he is healthy and sturdy
and not afraid of hard work, and he has been willing and serviceable to us all
on the journey. He has, I believe, some inclination to the cloistered life,
though as yet he is undecided. If you could give him work for a while it might
settle his mind.”

“Ah, yes, the young man Benet,” said the abbot. “He
seems a well-conditioned youth, I agree. Certainly he may come, upon probation,
no doubt work can be found for him. There must be a deal of things to be done
about the grange court, or in the gardens…”

“Indeed there is, Father,” Cadfael spoke up heartily.
“I could make good use of a younger pair of hands, there’s much of the rough
digging for the winter still to be done, some of the ground in the kitchen
garden has only now been cleared. And the pruning in the orchard—heavy work.
With the winter coming on, short days, and Brother Oswin gone to Saint Giles,
to the hospice, I shall be needing a helper. I should shortly have been asking
for another brother to come and work with me, as is usual, though through the
summer I’ve managed well enough.”

“True! And some of the ploughing in the Gaye remains
to be done, and around Christmas, or soon after, the lambing will begin in the
hill granges, if the young man is no longer needed here. Yes, by all means send
Benet to us. Should he later find other employment more to his advantage, he
may take it with our goodwill. In the meantime hard labour here for us will do
him no harm.”

“I will tell him so,” said Ailnoth, “and he will be as
thankful to you as I am. His aunt would have been sad at leaving him behind,
seeing he is the only younger kinsman she has, to be helpful to her. Shall I
send him here today?”

“Do so, and tell him he may ask at the gatehouse for
Brother Cadfael. Leave us now to confer, Father,” said the abbot, “but wait in
the cloister, and Father Prior will bring you word of our decision.”

Ailnoth bowed his head with measured reverence,
withdrew a respectful pace or two backwards from the abbot’s presence, and
strode out of the chapter house, his black, handsome head erect and confident.
His gown swung like half-spread wings to the vigour of his stride. He was already
sure, as was everyone present, that the cure of Holy Cross was his.

“It went much as you have probably supposed,” said
Abbot Radulfus, somewhat later in the day, in the parlour of his own lodging,
with a modest fire burning on the chimney stone, and Hugh Beringar seated
opposite him across the glow. The abbot’s face was still a little drawn and
grey with tiredness, his deep-set eyes a little hollow. The two knew each other
very well by this time, and had grown accustomed to sharing with complete
confidence, for the sake of order and England, whatever they gathered of events
and tendencies, without ever questioning whether they shared the same opinions.
Their disciplines were separate and very different, but their acceptance of
service was one, and mutually recognised.

“The bishop had little choice,” said Hugh simply.
“Virtually none, now the King is again free, and the Empress again driven into
the west, with little foothold in the rest of England. I would not have wished
myself in his shoes, nor do I know how I would have handled his difficulties.
Let him who is certain of his own valour cast blame, I cannot.”

“Nor I. But for all that can be said, the spectacle is
not edifying. There are, after all, some who have never wavered, whether
fortune favoured or flayed them. But it is truth that the legate had received
the Pope’s letter, which he read out to us in conference, reproving him for not
enforcing the release of the King, and urging him to insist upon it above all
else. And who dares wonder if he made the most of it? And besides, the King
came there himself. He entered the hall and made formal complaint against all
those who had sworn fealty to him, and then suffered him to lie in prison, and
come near to slaying him.”

“But then sat back and let his brother use his
eloquence to worm his way out of the reproach,” said Hugh, and smiled. “He has
the advantage of his cousin and rival, he knows when to mellow and forget. She
neither forgets nor forgives.”

“Well, true. But it was not a happy thing to hear.
Bishop Henry made his defence, frankly owning he had had no choice open to him
but to accept the fortune as it fell, and receive the Empress. He said he had
done what seemed the best and only thing, but that she had broken all her
pledges, outraged all her subjects, and made war against his own life. And to
conclude, he pledged the Church again to King Stephen, and urged all men of
consequence and goodwill to serve him. He took some credit,” said Abbot
Radulfus with sad deliberation, “for the liberation of the King to himself. And
outlawed from the Church all those who continued to oppose him.”

“And mentioned the Empress, or so I’ve heard,” said
Hugh equally drily, “as the countess of Anjou.” It was a title the Empress
detested, as belittling both her birth and her rank by her first marriage, a
king’s daughter and the widow of an emperor, now reduced to a title borrowed
from her none-too-loved and none-too-loving second husband, Geoffrey of Anjou,
her inferior in every particular but talent, common sense and efficiency. All
he had ever done for Maud was give her a son. Of the love she bore to the boy
Henry there was no doubt at all.

“No one raised a voice against what was said,” the
abbot mentioned almost absently. “Except an envoy from the lady, who fared no
better than the one who spoke, last time, for King Stephen’s queen. Though this
one, at least, was not set upon by assassins in the street.”

Inevitably those two legatine councils, one in April,
one in December, had been exact and chilling mirror-images, fortune turning her
face now to one faction, now to the other, and taking back with the left hand
what she had given with the right. There might yet be as many further reversals
before ever there was an end in sight.

“We are back where we began,” said the abbot, “and
nothing to show for months of misery. And what will the King do now?”

“That I shall hope to find out during the Christmas
feast,” said Hugh, rising to take his leave. “For I’m summoned to my lord,
Father, like you. King Stephen wants all his sheriffs about him at his court at
Canterbury, where he keeps the feast, to render account of our stewardships. Me
among them, as his sheriff here for want of a better. What he’ll do with his
freedom remains to be seen. They say he’s in good health and resolute spirits,
if that means anything. As for what he means to do with me—well, that, no
doubt, I shall discover, in due time.”