Virgin in the Ice (22 page)

Evrard hung for one long moment motionless, drawn up tall like a strung doll between the woman before him and the men behind. Then he shrank and sank, with a long, despairing moan, and collapsed on his knees on the tiles of the nave, fists clutched hard to his heart, and fair hair fallen forward over his face, the palest point in the bar of light where he kneeled.

“Oh, God forgive, God forgive… I only meant to hush her, not to kill… not to kill…”

“And it may even be true,” said Ermina sitting hunched and stiff by the fire in the hall, the storm of her tears past, and nothing left but a great weariness. “He may not have meant to kill. What he says may be sooth.”

What he had said, bestirring himself out of despair to make the best case he could for his life, was that he had turned for home again from his search by reason of the blizzard, and been driven to take shelter through the worst of it when he came to the hut, never thinking to find anyone there before him. But presented with a sleeping woman at his mercy, he had taken her out of spite and rage against all women for Ermina’s sake. And when she awoke and fought him, he owned he had not been gentle. But he never meant to kill! Only to silence her, with the skirts of her habit pressed over her face. And then she lay limp and lifeless, and he could not revive her, and he stripped the gown from her, and hid all the garments under the straw, and took her with him as far as the brook, to make of her merely one more victim of the outlaws who had sacked Callowleas.

“Where he first came by that eloquent wound,” said Brother Cadfael, watching her pale face, and marking the convulsion of a bitter smile, that came and went like a grimace of pain on her mouth.

“I know—so he told you! And I let it stand! In gallant defense of his manor and his men! I tell you, he never drew sword, he left his people to be slaughtered, and ran like a rat. And forced me with him! No man of my blood ever before turned his back and abandoned his own people to die! This he did to me, and I cannot forgive it. And I had thought I loved him! I will tell you,” she said, “how he got that wound of his that betrayed him in the end. All that first day at Ledwyche he drove his men at cutting fence-pales and building barricades, and he with never a scratch on him. And all that day I brooded and was shamed, and in the evening, when he came, I told him I would not marry him, that I would not match with a coward. He had not touched me until then, he had been all duty and service, but when he saw he would lose both me and my lands, then it was another story.”

Cadfael understood. Marriage by rape, once the thing was done, and privately, would be accepted by most families as preferable to causing an ugly scandal and starting a feud. No uncommon practice to take first and marry after.

“I had a dagger,” she said grimly. “I have it still. It was I who wounded him, and I struck for his heart, but it went astray and ripped down from shoulder to arm. Well, you have seen…” She looked down at the folded habit that lay beside her on the bench. “And while he was raving and cursing and dripping blood, and they were running to staunch his wound and bandage him, I slipped out into the night and ran. He would follow me, that I knew. He could not afford to let me escape him, after that, marry or bury were the only ways. He would expect me to run towards the road and the town. Where else? So I did, but only until the woods covered my traces, and then I circled back and hid. I told you, I saw him ride out, weakened as he was, in a great rage, the way I knew he would go.”

“Alone?”

“Of course alone. He would not want witnesses for either rape or murder. Those within had their orders. And I saw him ride back, freshly bloodied through his bandages, though I thought nothing of it then but that he had exerted himself too rashly.” She shuddered at the thought of that exertion. “When he was cheated of me, he took out his venom on the first woman who fell in his way, and so avenged himself. For myself I would not have accused him. I had the better of him, and I had brought it on myself. But what had she done?”

It was the eternal question, and the one to which there exists no answer. Why do the innocent suffer?

“And yet,” she said doubtfully, “it may be true what he says. He was not used to being thwarted, it made him mad… He had a devil’s temper. God forgive me, I used almost to admire him for it once…”

Yes, it might be true that he had killed without meaning to, and in panic sought to cover up his deed. Or it might be that he had reasoned coldly that a dead woman could never accuse him, and made sure of her eternal silence. Let those judge who were appointed to do the judging, here in this world.

“Don’t tell Yves!” said Ermina. “I will do that, when the time comes. But not here. Not now!”

No, there was no need to say any word to the boy of the battle that was over. Evrard Boterel was gone to Ludlow under armed escort, and there was no sign in the great court that ever a crime had been uncovered. Peace came back to Bromfield very softly, almost stealthily. In less than half an hour it would be time for Vespers.

“After supper,” said Cadfael, “you should go to your bed, and get some hours of sleep, and the boy also. I will keep watch and let your squire in.”

He had chosen his words well. It was like the coming of the thaw outside. She lifted her face to him like a flower opening, and all the bitter sadness of guilt and folly regretted melted away and fell from her before such a radiance that Cadfael’s eyes dazzled. From death and the past she leaned eagerly to life and the future. He did not think she was making any mistake this time, nor that any power would now turn her from her allegiance.

There was a small congregation in the parish part of the church even at Compline that night, a dozen or so goodmen of the district, come to offer devout thanks for deliverance from terror. Even the weather partook of the general grace, for there was barely a touch of frost in the air, and the sky was clear and starry. Not a bad night for setting out on a journey.

Cadfael knew what to look for by now, but for all that it took him a little time to single out the bowed black head for which he was searching. Marvelous that a creature so remarkable could become at will so unremarked. When Compline ended, it was no surprise to count the villagers leaving, and make them one less than had entered. Olivier could not only look like a local lad when he pleased, he could also vanish into shadow without a sound, and remain as still as the stones about him.

They were all gone, the villagers to their homes, the brothers to the warming-room for half an hour of relaxation before bed. The chill dark bulk of the church was silent.

“Olivier,” said Brother Cadfael, “come forth and be easy. Your wards are getting their rest until midnight, and have trusted you to me.”

The shadows stirred, and gave forth the shape of a lean, lissome, youthful body, instantly advancing to be seen. He had not thought wise or fit to bring his sword with him into a sacred place. He trod without sound, light as a cat. “You know me?”

“From her I know you. If the boy promised silence, be content, he has kept his word. She chose to trust me.”

“Then so can I,” said the young man, and drew nearer. “You have privilege here? For I see you come and go as you please.”

“I am not a brother of the house, but of Shrewsbury. I have a patient here mending, my justification for an irregular life. At the battle up there you saw him—the same distraught soul who marched into peril of his life and gave Yves the chance to break free.”

“I am much in his debt.” The voice was low, earnest and assured. “And in yours, too, I think, for you must be the brother to whom the boy ran, the same of whom he spoke, the one who first brought him safe to this house. The name he gave you I do not remember.”

“My name is Cadfael. Wait but a moment, till I look out and see if all are within…” In the sinking glow of torchlight, the last of the evening, the court showed its pattern of black and white as the paths crossed, empty, quiet and still. “Come!” said Cadfael. “We can offer you a warmer place to wait, if not a holier. I advised leaving while the brethren are at Matins and Lauds, for the porter will also attend, and I can let you out at the wicket in peace. But your horses?”

“They are handy, and in shelter,” said Olivier serenely. “There is a boy goes with me, orphaned at Whitbache, he has them in charge. He will wait until we come. I will go with you, Brother Cadfael.” He tasted the name delicately if inaccurately, finding it strange on his tongue. He laughed, very softly, surrendering his hand to be led half-blind wherever his guide wished. Thus hand in hand they went out by the cloister, and threaded the maze to the infirmary door.

In the inner room Brother Elyas lay monumentally asleep, long, splendid and calm, stretched on his back, with lean hands easy on his breast, and face serene and handsome. A tomb-figure carved to flatter and ennoble the dead man beneath, but this man lived and breathed evenly, and the large, rounded lids over his sleeping eyes were placid as a child’s. Brother Elyas gathered within him the grace that healed body and mind, and made no overwheening claim on a guilt beyond his due.

No need to agonize any more over Brother Elyas. Cadfael closed the door on him, and sat down in the dim anteroom with his guest. They had, perhaps, as much as two hours before midnight and Matins.

The small room, bare and stony and lit by only one candle, had a secret intimacy about it at this late hour. They were quiet together, the young man and the elder, eyeing each other with open and amiable curiosity. Long silences did not disturb them, and when they spoke their voices were low, reflective and at peace. They might have known each other life long. Life long? The one of them could surely be no more than five or six and twenty, and a stranger from a strange land.

“You may have a hazardous journey yet,” said Cadfael. “In your shoes I would leave the highways after Leominster, and avoid Hereford.” He grew enthusiastic, and went into some detail about the route to be preferred, even drawing a plan of the ways as he remembered them, with a charcoal stick on the stones of the floor. The boy leaned and peered, all willing attention, and looked up into Cadfael’s face at close quarters with a mettlesome lift of the head and a swift, brilliant smile. Everything about him was stirring and strange, and yet from time to time Cadfael caught his breath as at a fleeting glimpse of something familiar, but so long past that the illusion was gone before he could grasp it, and search back in his memory for the place and the time where it belonged.

“All this you are doing in pure goodwill,” said Olivier, his smile at once challenging and amused, “and you know nothing of me! How can you be sure I am fit to be trusted with this errand, and take no advantage for my lord and my empress?”

“Ah, but I do know something of you, more than you may think. I know that you are called Olivier de Bretagne, and that you came with Laurence d’Angers from Tripoli. I know that you have been in his service six years, and are his most trusted squire. I know that you were born in Syria, of a Syrian mother and a Frankish knight, and that you made your way to Jerusalem to join your father’s people and your father’s faith.” And I know more, he thought, recalling the girl’s rapt face and devout voice as she praised her paladin. I know that Ermina Hugonin, who is well worth winning, has set her heart on you, and will not easily give up, and by that amber stare of yours, and the blood mounting to your brow, I know that you have set your heart on her, and that you will not undervalue your own worth by comparison with her, or let any other make it a barrier between you, no matter in what obscure way you came into this world. Between the two of you, it would be a bold uncle who would stand in your way.

“She does indeed trust you!” said Olivier, intent and solemn.

“So she may, and so may you. You are here on an honorable quest, and have done well in it. I am for you, and for them, sister and brother both. I have seen their mettle and yours.”

“But for all that,” owned Olivier, relaxing into a rueful smile, “she has somewhat deceived you and herself. For her every Frankish soldier of the Crusade could be nothing less than a noble knight. And the most of them were none, but runaway younger sons, romantic boys from the byre and the field, rogues one leap ahead of the officers for theft or highway robbery or breaking open some church almsbox. No worse than most other men, but no better. Not even every lord with a horse and a lance was another Godfrey of Bouillon or Guimar de Massard. And my father was no knight, but a simple man-at-arms of Robert of Normandy’s forces. And my mother was a poor widow who had a booth in the market of Antioch. And I am their bastard, got between faiths between peoples, a mongrel afterthought before they parted. But for all that, she was beautiful and loving, and he was brave and kind, and I think myself well mothered and fathered, and the equal of any man living. And I shall make that good before Ermina’s kin, and they will acknowledge it and give her to me!” His deep, soft voice had grown urgent, and his hawk-face passionately earnest, and at the end of it he drew breath deep, and smiled. “I do not know why I tell you all this, except that I have seen you care for her, and wish her the future she deserves. I should like you to think well of me.”

“I am a common man myself,” said Cadfael comfortably, “and have found as good in the kennel as in the court. She is dead, your mother?”

“Else I would not have left her. I was fourteen years old when she died.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him, nor he me. He sailed for England from St. Symeon after their last meeting, and never knew he had left her a son. They had been lovers long before, when he came fresh to Syria. She never would tell me his name, though often she praised him. There cannot be much amiss,” said Olivier thoughtfully, “with a mating that left her such fondness and pride.”

“Half mankind matches without ritual blessing,” said Cadfael, surprised at the stirring of his own thoughts. “Not necessarily the worse half. At least no money passes then, and no lands are prized before the woman.”

Olivier looked up, suddenly aware of the oddity of these exchanges, and laughed, but softly, not to disturb the sleeper next door. “Brother, these walls are hearing curious confidences, and I am learning how wide is the Benedictine scope. I might well imagine you speak of your own knowledge.”