The Raven in the Foregate (8 page)

“And had better let pass by?” said Benet, ruefully
smiling in acknowledgement of a plain warning. “Not for me?” He burst into the
glowing grin to which Cadfael was becoming accustomed, and which sometimes gave
him such qualms on behalf of his protégé, who was far too rash in the
indulgence of his flashing moods. Benet laughed, and flung his arms about his
mentor in a bear’s hug. “What will you wager?”

Cadfael freed an arm, without much ado, and held off
his boisterous aggressor by a fistful of his thick curls.

“Where you’re concerned, you madcap, I would not risk
a hair that’s left me. But watch your gait, you move out of your part. There
are others here have keen eyes.”

“I do know,” said Benet, brought up short and sharp,
his smile sobered into gravity. “I do take care.”

How had they come by this secret and barely expressed
understanding? Cadfael wondered as he went to Vespers. A kind of tacit
agreement had been achieved, with never a word said of doubt, suspicion or
plain, reckless trust. But the changed relationship existed, and was a factor
to be reckoned with.

Hugh was gone, riding south for Canterbury in
uncustomary state, well escorted and in his finery. He laughed at himself, but
would not abate one degree of the dignity that was his due. “If I come back
deposed,” he said, “at least I’ll make a grand departure, and if I come back
sheriff still, I’ll do honour to the office.”

After his going Christmas seemed already on the
doorstep, and there were great preparations to be made for the long night vigil
and the proper celebration of the Nativity, and it was past Vespers on
Christmas Eve before Cadfael had time to make a brief visit to the town, to
spend at least an hour with Aline, and take a gift to his two-year-old godson,
a little wooden horse that Martin Bellecote the master-carpenter had made for
him, with gaily coloured harness and trappings fit for a knight, made out of
scraps of felt and cloth and leather by Cadfael himself.

A soft, sleety rain had fallen earlier, but by that
hour in the evening it was growing very cold, and there was frost in the air.
The low, moist sky had cleared and grown infinitely tall, there were stars
snapping out in it almost audibly, tiny but brilliant. By the morning the roads
would be treacherous, and the frozen ruts a peril to wrenched ankles and unwary
steps. There were still people abroad in the Foregate, most of them hurrying
home by now, either to stoke up the fire and toast their feet, or to make ready
for the long night in church. And as Cadfael crossed the bridge towards the
town gate, the river in full, silent dark motion below, there was just enough
light left to put names to those he met, coming from their shopping laden and
in haste to get their purchases home. They exchanged greetings with him as they
passed, for he was well known by his shape and his rolling gait even in so dim
a light. The voices had the ring of frost about them, echoing like the chime of
glass.

And here, striding across the bridge towards the
Foregate, just within the compass of the torches burning under the town gate,
came Ralph Giffard, on foot. Without the sidelong fall of the torchlight he
would not have been recognised, but thus illuminated he was unmistakable. And
where could Giffard be going at this time of the evening, and out of the town?
Unless he meant to celebrate Christmas at the church of Holy Cross instead of
in his own parish of Saint Chad. That was possible, though if so he was
over-early. A good number of the wealthier townsfolk would also be making for
the abbey this night.

Cadfael went on up the long curve of the Wyle, between
the sparkling celestial darkness and the red, warm, earthy torchlight, to
Hugh’s house close by Saint Mary’s church, and in through the courtyard to the
hall door. No sooner had he set foot within than the excited imp Giles bore
down upon him, yelling, and embraced him cripplingly round the thighs, which
was as high as he could reach. To detach him was easy enough. As soon as the
small, cloth-wrapped parcel was lowered into his sight he held up his arms for
it gleefully, and plumped down in the rushes of the hall floor to unwrap it
with cries of delight. But he did not forget, once the first transports were
over, to make a rush for his godfather again, and clamber into his lap by the
fireside to present him with a moist but fervent kiss in thanks. He had Hugh’s
self-reliant nature, but something also of his mother’s instinctive sweetness.

“I can stay no more than an hour,” said Cadfael, as
the boy scrambled down again to play with his new toy. “I must be back for
Compline, and very soon after that begins Matins, and we shall be up all the
night until Prime and the dawn Mass.”

“Then at least rest an hour, and take food with me,
and stay until Constance fetches my demon there away to his bed. Will you
believe,” said Aline, smiling indulgently upon her offspring, “what he says of
this house without Hugh? Though it was Hugh told him what to say. He says he is
the man of the house now, and asks how long his father will be away. He’s too
proud of himself to miss Hugh. It pleases his lordship to be taking his
father’s place.”

“You’d find his face fall if you told him longer than
three or four days,” said Cadfael shrewdly. “Tell him he’s gone for a week, and
there’ll be tears. But three days? I daresay his pride will last out that
long.”

At that moment the boy had no attention to spare for
his dignity as lord of the household or his responsibilities as its protector
in his father’s absence, he was wholly taken up with galloping his new steed
through the open plain of rushes, on some heroic adventure with an imaginary
rider. Cadfael was left at liberty to sit with Aline, take meat and wine with
her, and think and talk about Hugh, his possible reception at Canterbury, and
his future, now hanging in the balance.

“He has deserved well of Stephen,” said Cadfael
firmly, “and Stephen is not quite a fool, he’s seen too many change their
coats, and change them back again when the wind turned. He’ll know how to value
one who never changed.”

When he noted the sand in the glass and rose to take
his leave, he went out from the hall into the bright glitter of frost, and a
vault of stars now three times larger than when first they appeared, and
crackling with brilliance. The first real frost of the winter. As he made his
way cautiously down the Wyle and out at the town gate he was thinking of the hard
winter two years earlier, when the boy had been born, and hoping that this
winter there would be no such mountainous snows and ferocious winds to drive
it. This night, the eve of the Nativity, hung about the town utterly still and
silent, not a breath to temper the bite of the frost. Even the movements of
such men as were abroad seemed hushed and almost stealthy, afraid to shake the
wonder.

The bridge had a sheen of silver upon it after the
earlier fine rain. The river ran dark and still, with too strong a flow for
frost to have any hold. A few voices gave him good night as he passed. In the
rutted road of the Foregate he began to hurry, fearing he had lingered a little
too long. The trees that sheltered the long riverside level of the Gaye loomed
like the dark fur of the earth’s winter pelt on his left hand, the flat, pale
sheen of the mill-pond opened out on his right, beyond the six little abbey
houses of grace, three on either side the near end of the water, a narrow path
slipping away from the road to serve each modest row. Silver and dark fell
behind, he saw the torchlight glow from the gatehouse golden before him.

Still some twenty paces short of the gate he glimpsed
a tall black figure sweeping towards him with long, rapid, fierce strides. The
sidelong torchlight snatched it into momentary brightness as it strode past,
the darkness took it again as it swept by Cadfael without pause or glance, long
staff ringing against the frosty ruts, wide black garments flying, head and
shoulders thrusting forward hungrily, long pale oval of face fixed and grim,
and for one instant a vagrant light from the opened door of the nearest house
by the pool plucked two crimson sparks of fire from the dark pits of the eyes.

Cadfael called a greeting that was neither heeded nor
heard. Father Ailnoth swept by, engendering round him the only turbulence in
the night’s stillness, and was lost in the dark. Like an avenging fury, Cadfael
thought later, like a scavenging raven swooping through the Foregate to hunt
out little venial sins, and consign the sinners to damnation.

In the church of Saint Chad, Ralph Giffard bent the
knee with a satisfactory feeling of a duty done and fences securely mended. He
had lost one manor through loyalty to the cause of his overlord FitzAlan and his
sovereign, the Empress Maud, and it had taken him a good deal of cautious
treading and quiet submission to achieve the successful retention of what
remained. He had but one cause that mattered to him now, and that was to
preserve his own situation and leave his remaining estate intact to his son.
His life had never been threatened, he had not been so deeply involved as to
invite death. But possessions are possessions, and he was an ageing man, by no
means minded to abandon his lands and flee either abroad, to Normandy or Anjou,
where he had no status, or to Gloucester, to take up arms for the liege lady
who had already cost him dear. No, better far to sit still, shun every tempter,
and forget old allegiance. Only so could he ensure that young Ralph, busy this
Christmas happily playing lord of the manor at home, should survive this long
conflict for the crown without loss, no matter which of the two claimants
finally triumphed.

Ralph welcomed midnight with deep and genuine
gratitude for the mercies shown forth upon men, and not least upon Ralph
Giffard.

Benet slipped into the abbey church by the parish
door, and made his way softly forward towards a spot where he could look
through into the choir, and see the monks in their stalls, faintly lit by the
yellow sheen of candles and the red glow of the altar lamps. The chanting of
psalms came out into the nave muted and mild. Here the lighting was dim, and
the cloaked assembly of the Foregate laity shifted and stirred, kneeled and
rose again, every man nameless. There was a little while yet to wait before
Matins began at the midnight hour, the celebration of God made flesh,
virgin-born and wonderful. Why should not the Holy Spirit engender, as fire
kindles fire and light light, the necessary instrument of flesh no more than
the fuel that renders its substance to provide warmth and enlightenment? He who
questions has already denied himself any answer. Benet did not question. He was
breathing hard with haste and excitement, and even elation, for risk was meat
to him. But once within here, in the obscurity that was at once peopled and
isolated, he lost himself in awe, like the child he would never quite outgrow.
He found himself a pillar, rather to brace himself by than to hide behind, and
laid a hand to the cold stone, and waited, listening. The matched voices, soft
as they were, expanded to fill the vault. The stone above, warmed by the music,
reflected its arching radiance to the stone below.

He could see Brother Cadfael in his stall, and moved a
little to have him more clearly in view. Perhaps he had chosen this spot purely
to have in his sights the person most near to him in this place, a man already
compromised, already tolerant, and all without any intent, on either part, to
invade another’s peace of mind. Only a little while, thought Benet, and you
shall be free of me. Will you regret it, now and then, if you never again hear
of me? And he wondered if he ought to say something clearly, something to be
remembered, while there was still time.

A soft voice, just avoiding the sibilance of a
whisper, breathed in his ear: “He did not come?”

Benet turned his head very slowly, entranced and
afraid, for surely it could not be the same voice, heard only once before, and
briefly, but still causing the strings of his being to vibrate. And she was
there, close at his right shoulder, the veritable the unforgettable she. A dim,
reflected light conjured her features out of the dark hood, broad brow,
wide-set eyes, deeply blue. “No,” she said. “He didn’t come!” And having
answered herself, she heaved a great sigh. “I never thought he would. Don’t
move-don’t look round at me.”

He turned his face obediently towards the parish altar
again. The soft breath fanned his cheek as she leaned close. “You don’t know
who I am, but I know you.”

“I do know you,” said Benet as softly. Nothing more,
and even that was uttered like a man in a dream.

Silence for a moment; then she said: “Brother Cadfael
told you?”

“I asked.

Silence again, with some soft implication of a smile
in it, as though he had said something to please her, even distract her for a
moment from whatever purpose had brought her here to his side.

“I know you, too. If Giffard is afraid, I am not. If
he won’t help you, I will. When can we two talk?”

“Now!” he said, suddenly wide awake and grasping with
both hands at an opportunity for which he had never dared to hope. “After
Matins some people will be leaving, so may we. All the brothers will be here
until dawn. As good a time as any!”

He felt her warm at his back, and knew when she shook
softly with silent, excited laughter. “Where?”

“Brother Cadfael’s workshop.” It was the place he knew
best as a possible solitude, while its proprietor kept the Christmas vigil here
in the church. The brazier in the hut was turfed down to burn slowly through
the night, he could easily blow it into life again to keep her warm. Clearly he
could not take advantage of this delicate young being’s partisan loyalty so far
as to put her in peril, but at least this once he could speak with her alone,
feast his eyes on her grave, ardent face, share with her the confidences of
allies. Something to remember lifelong, if he never saw her again.