“That will be bad news to Brother Prior,” said Cadfael mildly.
“It’s bad news to me,” said Beringar ruefully. “For I have four horses in those same abbey stables, and while I might have a claim to retain them all for myself and my men, once the king has given me his commission, I can’t make any such claim at this moment with security. It might be allowed, it might not. And to be open with you, I have no intention of letting my two best horses be drafted for the king’s army. I want them out of here and in some private place, where they can escape Prestcote’s foraging parties, until this flurry is over.”
“Only two?” said Cadfael innocently. “Why not all?”
“Oh, come, I know you have more cunning than that. Would I be here without horses at all? If they found none of mine, they’d be hunting for all, and small chance I’d have left for royal favour. But let them take the two nags, and they won’t question further. Two I can afford. Brother Cadfael, it takes no more than a few days in this place to know that you are the man to take any enterprise in hand, however rough and however risky.” His voice was brisk and bland, even hearty, he seemed to intend no double meanings. “The lord abbot turns to you when he’s faced with an ordeal beyond his powers. I turn to you for practical help. You know all this countryside. Is there a place of safety where my horses can lie up for a few days, until this round-up is over?”
So improbable a proposal Cadfael had not looked for, but it came as manna from heaven. Nor did he hesitate long over taking advantage of it for his own ends. Even if lives had not depended on the provision of those two horses, he was well aware that Beringar was making use of him without scruple, and he need have no scruples about doing as much in return. It went a little beyond that, even, for he had a shrewd suspicion that at this moment Beringar knew far too much of what was going on in his, Cadfael’s mind, and had no objection whatever to any guesses Cadfael might be making as to what was going on in his, Beringar’s. Each of us, he thought, has a hold of sorts upon the other, and each of us has a reasonable insight into the other’s methods, if not motives. It will be a fair fight. And yet this debonair being might very well be the murderer of Nicholas Faintree. That would be a very different duel, with no quarter asked or offered. In the meantime, make the most of what might or might not be quite accidental circumstances.
“Yes,” said Cadfael, “I do know of such a place.”
Beringar did not even ask him where, or question his judgment as to whether it would be remote enough and secret enough to be secure. “Show me the way tonight,” he said outright, and smiled into Cadfael’s face. “It’s tonight or never, the order will be made public tomorrow. If you and I can make the return journey on foot before morning, ride with me. Rather you than any!”
Cadfael considered ways and means; there was no need to consider what his answer would be.
“Better get your horses out after Vespers, then, out to St Giles. I’ll join you there when Compline is over, it will be getting dark then. It wouldn’t do for me to be seen riding out with you, but you may exercise your own horses in the evening as the fit takes you.”
“Good!” said Beringar with satisfaction. “Where is this place? Have we to cross the river anywhere?”
“No, nor even the brook. It’s an old grange the abbey used to maintain in the Long Forest, out beyond Pulley. Since the times grew so unchancy we’ve withdrawn all our sheep and cattle from there, but keep two lay brothers still -in the house. No one will look for horses there, they know it’s all but abandoned. And the lay brothers will credit what I say.”
“And St Giles is on our way?” It was a chapel of the abbey, away at the eastern end of the Foregate.
“It is. We’ll go south to Sutton, and then bear west and into the forest. You’ll have three miles or more to walk back by the shorter way. Without horses we may save a mile or so.”
“I think my legs will hold me up for that distance,” said Beringar demurely. “After Compline, then, at St Giles.” And without any further word or question he left Cadfael’s side, lengthening his easy stride to gain ground; for Aline Siward was just emerging from the doorway of her house and turning towards the abbey gateway on her way to church. Before she had gone many yards Beringar was at her elbow; she raised her head and smiled confidingly into his face. A creature quite without guile, but by no means without proper pride or shrewd sense, and she opened like a flower at sight of this young man devious as a serpent, whatever else of good or ill might be said of him. That, thought Cadfael, watching them walk before him in animated conversation, ought to signify something in his favour? Or was it only proof of her childlike trustfulness? Blameless young women have before now been taken in by black-hearted villains, even murderers; and black-hearted villains and murderers have been deeply devoted to blameless young women, contradicting their own nature in this one perverse tenderness.
Cadfael was consoled and cheered by the sight of Godith in church, nobody’s fool, nudging and whispering among the boys, and flicking him one rapid, questioning blue glance, which he answered with a reassuring nod and smile. None too well-founded reassurance, but somehow he would make it good. Admirable as Aline was, Godith was the girl for him. She reminded him of Arianna, the Greek boat-girl, long ago, skirts kilted above the knee, short hair a cloud of curls, leaning on her long oar and calling across the water to him . . .
Ah, well! The age he had been then, young Torold had not even reached yet. These things are for the young. Meantime, tonight after Compline, at St Giles!
Chapter Seven
The ride out through Sutton into the Long Forest, dense and primitive through all but the heathy summits of its fifteen square miles, was like a sudden return visit to aspects of his past, night raids and desperate ambushes once so familiar to him as to be almost tedious, but now, in this shadowy, elderly form, as near excitement as he wished to come. The horse under -him was lofty and mettlesome and of high pedigree, he had not been astride such a creature for nearly twenty years, and the flattery and temptation reminded him of days past, when exalted and venturesome companions made all labours and privations pleasurable.
Hugh Beringar, once away from the used roads and into the trees and the night shadows, seemed to have no cares in the world, certainly no fear of any treachery on his companion’s part. He chattered, even, to pass the time along the way, curious about Brother Cadfael’s uncloistral past, and about the countries he had known as well as he knew this forest.
“So you lived in the world all those years, and saw so much of it, and never thought to marry? And half the world women, they say?” The light voice, seemingly idle and faintly mocking, nevertheless genuinely questioned and required an answer.
“I had thought to marry, once,” said Cadfael honestly, “before I took the Cross, and she was a very fair woman, too, but to say truth, I forgot her in the east, and in the west she forgot me. I was away too long, she gave up waiting and married another man, small blame to her.”
“Have you ever seen her again?” asked Hugh.
“No, never. She has grandchildren by now, may they be good to her. She was a fine woman, Richildis.”
“But the east was also made up of men and women, and you a young crusader. I cannot but wonder,” said Beringar dreamily.
“So, wonder! I also wonder about you,” said Cadfael mildly. “Do you know any human creatures who are not strangers, one to another?”
A faint gleam of light showed among the trees. The lay brothers sat up late with a reed dip, Cadfael suspected playing at dice. Why not? The tedium here must be extreme. They were bringing these decent brothers a little diversion, undoubtedly welcome.
That they were alive and alert to the slightest sound of an unexpected approach was soon proved, as both emerged ware and ready in the doorway. Brother Anselm loomed huge and muscular, like an oak of his own fifty-five years, and swung a long staff in one hand. Brother Louis, French by descent but born in England, was small and wiry and agile, and in this solitude kept a dagger by him, and knew how to use it. Both of them came forth prepared for anything, placid of face and watchful of eye; but at sight of Brother Cadfael they fell to an easy grinning.