Virgin in the Ice (8 page)

He drew it out from the breast of his cotte, and held it up over his fist, a net of fine gold filigree threads on a band of embroidered ribbon, made to pass round the head when the hair was netted, and tie over the brow. The bow in which it had been tied had been dragged askew, but not undone, for the band had torn apart a little aside from it.

“Caught in thick woodland, well down the path. They were in haste, whoever rode that way, they cut through a dense thicket to come the quickest way down the slope, there were broken twigs hanging to bear witness. I say they, but I fancy one horse only, with two riders. A low branch caught and dragged this from her head. And since that gives us every hope that the wearer got away safely from that terror, we may very well show this to Yves, and say how it was found. If he knows it for hers, then I’m bound for Ledwyche, to see if luck’s still on our side.”

There was no hesitation. The moment Yves set eyes on the handful of gold cobweb, his eyes opened wide and grew luminous with hope and eagerness.

“That is my sister’s!” he said, shining. “It was too fine for the journey, but I know she had it with her. For him she might wear it! Where did you find it?”

Chapter Six

THIS TIME THEY TOOK YVES WITH THEM, partly because, though he might have accepted Hugh’s fiat gracefully if refused, he would have been restless and miserable all the time of waiting, and partly because, in addition to being the only one who could positively identify Ermina’s suitor when found, he was indeed the man of his blood here, the head of his household, and had every right to partake in the search for his lost sister, now they knew she should be well alive.

“But this is the same way we came down from Thurstan’s assart,” he said, after they had turned off the highroad by the bridge over the Corve. “Must we continue so?”

“We must, for some while. Well past the place where you and I would as soon not be,” said Cadfael simply, divining his unease. “But we need not turn our eyes away. There is nothing evil there. Neither earth nor water nor air have any part in man’s ill-doing.” And with an attentive but cautious eye on the boy’s grave face he said: “You may grieve, but you must not begrudge that she is gone. Her welcome is assured.”

“She was, of all of us, the only best,” said Yves, abruptly eloquent. “You don’t know! Never out of temper, always patient and kind and very brave. She was much more beautiful than Ermina!”

He was thirteen, but taught and gifted, perhaps, somewhat beyond his years, and he had gone afoot in Sister Hilaria’s gallant and gentle company many days, close and observant. And if he had glimpsed for the first time a mature kind of love, surely it had been a most innocent and auspicious kind, even now after the apparent mutilation of loss. Yves had come to no harm. In the past two days he seemed to have grown in stature, and taken several long strides away from his infancy.

He did not avert his eyes when they came to the brook, but he was silent, and so remained until after they had crossed the second brook also; but from that point they veered to the right, and came into open woodland, and the new vistas revived his interest in the world about him, and brightened his eyes again. The brief winter sunlight, which had again drawn down slender icicles from eaves and branches, was already past, but the light was clear and the air still, and the patterns of black and white and dusky greens had their own somber beauty.

They crossed the Hopton brook, still motionless as before, half a mile lower down its course than when they had come to Godstoke together. “But we must have been very near,” said Yves, marvelling that he might have passed almost within touch of his sister that day, and never known it.

“Still a mile or so to go.”

“I hope she may be there!”

“So do we all,” said Hugh.

They came to the manor of Ledwyche over a slight ridge, and emerged from woodland to look down an equally gentle slope towards the Ledwyche brook, into which all the others drained before it flowed on, mile after mile, southward to join the River Theme. Beyond the watered valley the ground rose again, and there, directly before them in the distance, hung the vast, bleak outline of Titterstone Clee, its top shrouded in low cloud. But in between, the valley lay sheltered on all sides from the worst winds. Trees had been cleared from round the manor, except for windbreaks left for protection to crops and stock in the most open places. From their ridge they looked down at an impressive array of buildings, the manor-house itself built long and steep-roofed over a squat undercroft, the entire visible sweep of the stockade lined within with barn and byre and store. A considerable holding, and surely a temptation to the hungry and covetous, in these lawless times, but perhaps too strongly manned to be easy prey.

It seemed, however, that the holder was not quite easy about his property, for as they drew nearer they could see that on the narrow timber bridge that crossed the brook beyond the manor, men were working busily, erecting a barrier of logs, and above the old, dark wood of the stockade, and especially along that eastward side, glared the white, new wood of recent building. The lord of the manor was heightening his fences.

“They are here, surely,” said Hugh, staring. “Here lives a man who has taken warning, and does not mean to be caught by surprise a second time.”

They rode down with rising hopes to the open gate in the stockade, which here to the west was still only breast-high. Nevertheless, even on this side an archer rose in the gate to challenge them, and his bow was strung, and if he had not an arrow braced, he had a quiver on his shoulder.

He was a shrewd fellow, so quick to measure the good equipment of the men-at-arms at Hugh’s back that he had changed his wary front for a smile before ever Hugh could recite his name and titles.

“My lord, you’ve very welcome. The lord sheriff’s deputy could not come better. If our lord had known you were so near he would have sent to you. For he could not well come himself… But ride in, my lord, ride in, and my boy here will run for the steward.”

The boy was already in full flight across the trampled snow within the pale. By the time they had ridden across to the stone stairway that led up to the great door of the hall, the steward was scurrying out to receive them, a stout elderly man, russet of beard and bald of head.

“I am seeking Evrard Boterei,” said Hugh, descending with a flurry of snow at his heel. “He’s within?”

“He is, my lord, but not yet in full health. He has been in a sharp fever, but it mends gradually. I’ll bring you to him.”

He went before, stumping up the steep stairs, and Hugh followed him close, with Brother Cadfael and Yves on his heels. Within the great hall, at this hour of this winter day, and with hardly a soul using it and hardly a torch to light it, thick gloom hung heavy, warmed only grudgingly by the dampened fire on the stones of the central hearth. All the manor’s menfolk were working on the defense. A middle-aged matron jingled her keys along the passage behind the screens, a couple of maids whispered and peered from the kitchen.

The steward brought them with a flourish into a small room at the upper end of the hall, where a man lay back languidly in a great, cushioned chair, with wine and a smoky oil-lamp on a table at his side. One small window was unshuttered, but the light it provided was growing dim, and the yellow flame from the wick of the lamp cast deceptive shadows, and gave them only a dusky view of the face that turned towards them as the door was opened.

“My lord, here are the sheriff’s officers come south to Ludlow.” The steward had softened his bluff voice to the coaxing tone he might have used to a child, or a very sick man. “The lord Hugh Beringar comes to see you. We shall have help if we should need it, you can put your mind at rest.”

A long and muscular but slightly shaky hand was put out to move the lamp, so that it might show host and visitors to each other more clearly. A low-pitched voice said, over somewhat quick and shallow breath: “My lord, you’re heartily welcome. God knows we seem to have need of you in these parts.” And to the steward he said: “Bring more lights, and some refreshment.” He leaned forward in the chair, gathering himself with an effort. “You find me in some disarray, I am sorry for it. They tell me I have been in fever some days. I am out of that now, but it has left me weaker than I care to be.”

“So I see, and I am sorry,” said Hugh. “I brought a force south here, I must tell you, upon other business, but by chance it has taken me to your manor above at Callowleas. I have seen, sir, what has been done to you there. I am glad that you, and some, at least, of your people escaped alive from that massacre, and I intend to make it my business to find and root out whatever nest of vultures brought that upon you. I see you have been busy strengthening your own defenses.”

“As best we can.”

A woman brought candles, disposed them silently in sconces on the walls, and withdrew. The sudden brightness brought them all vividly close, eyes startled wide. Yves, who had stood rooted and stiff by Cadfael’s side, a lordling ready to confront his enemy, suddenly clutched at Cadfael’s sleeve and softened in uncertainty.

The man in the great chair looked no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. He had heaved himself forward, and the cushions had slid down at his back. He presented to the light a face pale and hollow-cheeked, the eyes large and dark, and sunken into bruised hollows, glittering still with the hectic brilliance of fever. His thick fair hair was rumpled and on end from the pillows that had propped him. But no question, this was a very handsome and engaging person, and when in health a tall and athletic one. He was clothed and booted, plainly he had been out during the day among his men, ill-advisedly, for his boots were wet and dark with melted snow. He was bending his brows now and peering attentively at his three visitors, and when his gaze reached the boy, it halted and hung there. He was not sure. He shook his head a little, peered again, and pondered, frowning.

“You know the boy?” asked Hugh mildly. “He is Yves Hugonin, here seeking a lost sister. If you can help us, we shall be greatly relieved, both he and I. For I think you did not retreat from Callowleas alone. Caught in a tree along the woodland track that bears this way, we found this.” He drew out the thimbleful of gilt thread that expanded to a filigree globe in the palm of his hand. “Do you know it?”

“Only too well!” said Evrard Boterei harshly, and closed, for an instant, large full eyelids over too-bright eyes. He opened them again to look directly at Yves. “You are the young brother? Forgive me that I could not be sure of you. I have not seen you but once, I think, since you were a child. Yes, this is hers.”

“You brought her here with you,” said Hugh, not questioning, stating. “Safe out of that attack.”

“Yes—safe! Yes, I brought her here.” There was a fine dew of sweat on Evrard’s broad brow, but his eyes were wide open and clear.

“We have been in search of her and her companions” said Hugh, “ever since the sub-prior of Worcester came to Shrewsbury asking after them, since all trace of them had been lost after their flight. If she is here, send for her.”

“She is not here,” said Evrard heavily. “Nor do I know where she is. All these days between, either I or men of mine have been hunting for her.” He set his long hands to the arms of his chair, and hauled himself shakily to his feet. “I will tell you!” he said.

He stalked about the room as he told them, a gaunt young man, filled with restless energy, but enfeebled by his days of sickness.

“I was a frequent and welcome guest in her father’s house. This boy will know that is truth. She grew up in beauty, and I loved her. I did and do love her! Since she was orphaned I have ridden three times to Worcester to see her, and borne myself as I must to be admitted there, and never did I have any evil design on her, but intended to ask for her hand when I might. For her proper guardian now is her uncle, and he is in the Holy Land. All we could do was wait for his return. When I heard of the sack of Worcester all my prayer was that she should be escaped well out of it. I never thought of any gain to me, nor that she might be fled this way, until she sent her boy up from Cleeton…”

“On which day was that?” demanded Hugh, cutting in sharply.

“On the second day of this month. Come by night, she said, and fetch me away, for I am here waiting for you. Never a word of any others along with her. I knew only what she told me, and I went as she asked, with a horse for her, and brought her away to Callowleas. She had taken me by surprise,” he said, jerking up his head in defensive challenge, “but I wished of all things to wed her, and so did she me. And I brought her there, and used her with all honor, and with her consent I sent out to bring a priest to marry us. But the next night, before ever he reached us, we were all undone.”

“I have seen the ruin they left,” said Hugh. “From which direction did they come? In what numbers?”

“Too many for us! They were into the bailey and into the house before ever we knew what was happening. I cannot tell whether they came round the flank of the hill, or over the crests at us, for they broke in round half our stockade, ringing us from above and from the east. God knows I may have been too taken up with Ermina to set as strict a watch as I should have done, but there had been no warning, never a word until then of any such banditry in the land. It fell like lightning-stroke. Their numbers I can hardly guess, but surely as many as thirty, and well-armed. We were but half that, and caught easy and half-sleeping after supper. We did what we could—I came by some hurts…” Cadfael had already observed how he held one arm and shoulder hunched and still, the left, where a right-handed opponent would lunge for his heart. “I had Ermina to save, I dared not attempt more. I took her and rode. The downhill way was still possible. They did not follow us. They were busy.” His mouth twisted in a painful grimace. “We came here safely.”

“And then? How comes it that you have lost her again?”

“You cannot charge me more bitterly than I have accused myself,” said Evrard wearily. “I am ashamed to face the boy here, and own how I let her slip through my hands. It is little excuse to say, however truly, that I had bled too much, and fell into my bed too weak to move. My leech may say what he can for me, I will not plead. But by the next day this prod here in my shoulder had taken bad ways, and the fever set in. By evening, when I had my wits for a while, and asked for her, they told me she had been frantic with tears for her brother, left behind at the house from which I took her. Now that she knew there were such cutthroats abroad in these parts, she could not rest until she knew him safe, and so she took horse in the middle of the day, and left word she would ride to Cleeton to inquire after him. And she did not return.”

“And you did not follow her!” accused Yves, stiff as a lance and quivering by Cadfael’s side. “You let her go alone, and stayed nursing your grazes!”

“Neither the one nor the other,” said Boterel, but gently and ruefully. “I did not let her go, for I did not know she was gone. And I did, when I learned of it—as my people here will tell you—I did get up from my bed and go out to hunt for her. It was the cold of that night, I think, and the rubbing of my clothes and the motion of riding, that fetched me down for so long. Sorry I am, I swooned and fell out of the saddle, and those I had with me carried me home the miles I’d ridden. I never reached Cleeton.”