“They told me I had a guest,” he said, and narrowed his full, dark brown eyes. “Brother, I think I have seen you before.”
“I was in Coventry,” said Cadfael, “among many others. Though whether you ever noticed me is more than I can say.”
There was a brief silence, and neither of them moved. “You were present,” Philip said then, “close by, but you did not speak. I do remember, you were by when we found de Soulis dead.”
“I was,” said Cadfael.
“And now you come to me. To have speech with me. So they have said. On whose behalf?”
“On behalf of justice and truth,” said Cadfael, “at least in my view. On behalf of myself, and of some for whom I am advocate. And ultimately, perhaps, my lord, even on yours.”
The eyes narrowed to sharpen vision through the fading light studied him in silence for a moment, without, apparently, finding any fault with the boldness of this address.
“I shall have time to listen,” said Philip then, the courteous level of his voice unshaken even by curiosity, “after supper. Come to me after I leave the hall. Any man of the household will show you where to find me. And if you wish, you may assist my chaplain at Compline. I respect your habit.”
“That I cannot,” said Cadfael bluntly. “I am not a priest. Even the full right of this habit I cannot now claim. I am absent without leave from my abbot. I have broken the cord. I am apostate.”
“For cause!” said Philip, and stared upon him steadily for a long moment, his interest both caught and contained within measure. Then he said abruptly: “Nevertheless, come!” and turned and walked away into his hall.
Chapter Eight.
IN PHILIP FITZROBERT’S hall the service was Spartan, and the company exclusively male. He presided at the high table among his knights, and the young men of his following used him with confident candour, not in awe, but to all appearances in willing duty. He ate sparingly and drank little, talked freely with his equals and courteously with his servants. And Cadfael, from his place beside the chaplain at a lower table, watched him and wondered what went on behind the lofty forehead and the deep brown eyes like slow-burning fires, and all that was mysterious in him, if not ominous.
He rose from the table early, leaving the men of his garrison to continue at their leisure, and after his going there was an easing of manners and further circling of ale and wine, and some who could make music fetched their instruments to enliven the evening. Small doubt there was a strong guard set, and all gates closed and barred. Musard, so the chaplain had reported, had foolishly gone forth hunting, and ridden straight into Philip’s ambush, and been forced to surrender his castle in order to regain his freedom, and possibly also to keep himself man alive; though threats against life in order to gain possession of a fortress were more likely to remain threats than to be put into action, and often met with obstinate defiance even with necks noosed and hangmen ready, in the assurance that they dared not be carried out. Family loyalties and complex intermarriages had baulked a great many such attempts. But Musard, not having a powerful relative on Stephen’s side, of greater importance to the king than Philip himself, had been less confident of his safety, and given in. That was hardly likely ever to happen to Philip. He showed no fear of any man, but neither would he leave gates unbarred, or fail to set good sentries on the walls.
“I am bidden to your lord’s presence,” said Cadfael, “after he withdraws from the hall. Will you point me the way? I think he is not a man to be kept waiting when he has named the time.”
The chaplain was old and experienced, beyond surprise. In any case nothing that their castellan did, nothing he denied, nothing he granted, no princeling he rejected, no humble travelling monastic he welcomed, seemed to occasion surprise here. There would be sufficient reason for all, and whether that reason proved comprehensible or not, it would not be questioned.
The old priest shrugged, and rose obligingly from table to lead the way out from the hall. “He keeps early hours as a rule. So he set you a time, did he? You’re favoured. But he’s hospitable to any who wear your habit, or come in the Church’s name.”
Cadfael forbore from following that lead. It was known here that he came from the conference at Coventry, and probably assumed that he bore some further exhortation from his bishop to insinuate into Philip’s ear. Let them by all means think so; it accounted for him very satisfactorily. As between himself and Philip there could be no pretences.
“In here. He lives almost priestly,” commented the chaplain, “here in the cold of the keep, close to his chapel, none of your cushioned solars.” They were in a narrow stone passage, lit only by a small, smoky torch in a bracket on the wall. The door they approached was narrow, and stood ajar. At the chaplain’s knock a voice from within called: “Come!”
Cadfael entered a small, austere room, high-windowed on a single lancet of naked sky, in which a faint dusting of starlight showed. They were one lofty floor raised, high enough to clear the curtain wall on this sheltered side. Below the window a large, shaded candle burned on a heavy table, and behind the table Philip sat on a broad stool buttressed with massive carved arms, his back against the dark hangings on the wall. He looked up from the book that lay open before him. It was no surprise that he was lettered. Every faculty he had he would push to the limit.
“Come in, brother, and close the door.”
His voice was quiet, and his face, lit sidelong by the candle at his left elbow, showed sharply defined in planes of light and ravines of shadow, deep hollows beneath the high cheekbones and in the ivory settings of dark, thoughtful eyes. Cadfael marvelled again how young he was, Olivier’s own age. Something of Olivier, even, in his clear, fastidious face, fixed at this moment in a searching gravity, that hung upon Cadfael in continued speculation. “You had something to say to me. Sit, brother, and say it freely. I am listening.”
A motion of his hand indicated the wooden bench against the wall at his right hand, draped with sheepskin. Cadfael would rather have remained standing, facing him directly, but he obeyed the gesture, and the contact of eyes was not broken; Philip had turned with him, maintaining his unwavering regard.
“Now, what is it you want of me?”
“I want,” said Cadfael,”the freedom of two men, two whom, as I believe, you have in close hold.”
“Name them,” said Philip, “and I will tell you if you believe rightly.”
“The name of the first is Olivier de Bretagne. And the name of the second is Yves Hugonin.”
“Yes”, said Philip without hesitation, and without any change in the quiet level of his voice. “I hold them both.”
“Here, in La Musarderie?”
“Yes. They are here. Now tell me why I should release them.”
“There are reasons,” said Cadfael, “why a fairminded man should take my request seriously. Olivier de Bretagne, I judge from all I know of him, would not consider turning his coat with you when you handed over Faringdon to the king. There were several who held with him, and would not go with you. All were overpowered and made prisoner, to be held for ransom by whoever should be given them as largesse by the king. That is known openly. Why, then, has Olivier de Bretagne not been offered for ransom? Why has it not been made known who holds him?”
“I have made it known now to you,” said Philip, with a small, dry smile. “Proceed from there.”
“Very well! It is true I had not asked you until now, and now you have not denied. But it was never published where he was, as it was for the others. Is it fair that his case should be different? There are those who would be glad to buy him free.”
“However high the price asked?” said Philip.
“Name it, and I will see it raised and paid to you.”
There was a long pause, while Philip looked at him with eyes wide and clear, and yet unreadable, so still that not a single hair on his head quivered. “A life, perhaps,” he said then, very softly. “Another life in place of his to rot here solitary as he will rot.”
“Take mine,” said Cadfael.
In the arched lancet of the high window clouds had blotted out the faint starlight, the stones of the wall were now paler than the night without.
“Yours,” said Philip with soft deliberation, not questioning, not exclaiming, only saying over the single word to himself as if to incise it on the steely metal of his mind. “What satisfaction would your life be to me? What grudge have I against you, to give me any pleasure in destroying you?”