During the service he paid rather more attention to the troubled, childish profile beneath the white mourning wimple than to the words of the celebrant.
Her small hands were devoutly folded, her resolute, vulnerable lips moved silently, praying piteously for all those dying and being hurt while she kneeled here. The girl Constance watched her closely and jealously, a protective presence, but could not drive the war away from her.
Beringar followed at a distance until she re-entered her house. He did not seek to overtake her, nor attempt as yet to speak to her. When she had vanished, he left his henchmen behind, and went out along the Foregate to the end of the bridge. The section that drew up was still lifted, sealing in the town, but the clamour and shrieking of battle was already subsiding to his right, where the castle loomed in its smoky halo beyond the river. He would still have to wait before he could carry out his promised search for his affianced bride. Within the hour, if he had read the signs aright, the bridge should be down, and open. Meantime, he went at leisure to take his midday meal. There was no hurry.
Rumours flew in the guest house, as everywhere else. Those who had business of unimpeachable honesty elsewhere were all seeking to pack their bags and leave. The consensus of opinion was that the castle had certainly fallen, and the cost would run very high. King Stephen’s writ had better be respected henceforth, for he was here, and victorious, and the Empress Maud, however legitimate her claim, was far away in Normandy, and unlikely to provide any adequate protection. There were whispers, also, that FitzAlan and Adeney, at the last moment, had broken out of the trap and were away. For which many breathed thanks, though silently.
When Beringar went out again, the bridge was down, the way open, and King Stephen’s sentries manning the passage. They were strict in scrutinising his credentials, but passed him within respectfully when they were satisfied. Stephen must have given orders concerning him. He crossed, and entered at the guarded but open gate in the wall. The street rose steeply, the island town sat high.
Beringar knew it well, and knew where he was bound. At the summit of the hill the row of the butchers’ stalls and houses levelled out, silent and deserted.
Edric Flesher’s shop was the finest of the row, but it was shuttered and still like all the rest. Hardly a head looked out, and even then only briefly and fearfully, and was withdrawn as abruptly behind barred doors. By the look of the street, they had not so far been ravaged. Beringar thudded at the shut door, and when he heard furtive stirrings within, lifted his voice: “Open to me, Hugh Beringar! Edric — Petronilla — Let me in, I’m alone!”
He had half expected that the door would remain sealed like a tomb, and those within silent, and he would not have blamed them; but, instead, the door was flung wide, and there was Petronilla beaming and opening her arms to him as if to a saviour. She was getting old, but still plump, succulent and kindly, the most wholesome thing he had seen in this siege town so far. Her grey hair was tight and neat under its white cap, and her twinkling grey eyes bright and intelligent as ever, welcoming him in.
“Master Hugh — to see a known and trusted face here now!” Beringar was instantly sure that she did not quite trust him! “Come in, and welcome! Edric, here’s Hugh — Hugh Beringar!” And there was her husband, prompt to her call, large and rubicund and competent, the master of his craft in this town, and a councillor.
They drew him within, and closed the door firmly, as he noted and approved. Beringar said what a lover should say, without preamble: “Where is Godith? I came to look for her, to provide for her. Where has he hidden her?”
It seemed they were too intent on making sure the shutters were fast, and listening for hostile footsteps outside, to pay immediate attention to what he was saying. And too ready with questions of their own to answer his questions.
“Are you hunted?” asked Edric anxiously. “Do you need a place to hide?”
And: “Were you in the garrison?” demanded Petronilla, and patted him concernedly in search of wounds. As though she had been his nurse once, instead of Godith’s, and seen him every day of his life instead of twice or thrice since the childhood betrothal. A little too much solicitude! And a neat, brief breathing-space while they considered how much or how little to tell him!
“They’ve been hunting here already,” said Ethic. “I doubt if they’ll come again, they had the place to pieces after the sheriff and the Lord Fulke. You’re welcome to a shelter here if you need it. Are they close on your heels?”
He was sure by that time that they knew he had never been inside the castle, nor committed in any way to FitzAlan’s stand. This clever, trusted old servant and her husband had been deep in Adeney’s confidence, they knew very well who had held with him, and who had held aloof.
“No, it’s not that. I’m in no danger and no need. I came only to look for Godith. They’re saying he left it too late to send her away with FitzAlan’s family. Where can I find her?”
“Did someone send you here to look for her?” asked Edric.
“No, no, none . . . But where else would he place her? Who is there to be trusted like her nurse? Of course I came first to you! Never tell me she was not here!”
“She was here,” said Petronilla. “Until a week ago we had her. But she’s gone, Hugh, you’re too late. He sent two knights to fetch her away, and not even we were told where she was bound. What we don’t know we can’t be made to tell, he said. But it’s my belief they got her away out of the town in good time, and she’s far off by now, and safe, pray God!” No doubt about the fervency of that prayer, she would fight and die for her nurseling. And lie for her, too, if need be!
“But for God’s sake, friends, can you not help me to her at all? I’m her intended husband. I’m responsible for her if her father is dead, as by now, for all I know, he may well be. . . .”
That got him something for his trouble, at any rate, if it was no more than the flicker of a glance passing between them, before they exclaimed their “God forbid!” in unison. They knew very well, by the frenzied search, that FitzAlan and Adeney had been neither killed nor taken. They could not yet be sure that they were clean away and safe, but they were staking their lives and loyalty on it. So now he knew he would get nothing more from them, he, the renegade.
Not, at any rate, by this direct means.
“Sorry I am, lad,” said Edric Flesher weightily, “to have no better comfort for you, but so it is. Take heart that at least no enemy has laid hand on her, and we pray none ever will.” Which could well be taken, reflected Beringar whimsically, as a thrust at me.
“Then I must away, and try what I can discover elsewhere,” he said dejectedly. “I’ll not put you in further peril. Open, Petronilla, and look if the street’s empty for me.” Which she did, nothing loth, and reported it as empty as a beggar’s palm. Beringar clasped Edric’s hand, and leaned and kissed Ethic’s wife, and was rewarded and avenged by a vivid, guilty blush.
“Pray for her,” he said, asking one thing at least they would not grudge him, and slipped through the half-open door, and heard it closed firmly behind him. Not too loudly, since he was supposed to be affecting stealth, but still audibly, he tramped with hasty steps along the street as far as the corner of the house. Then, whirling, he skipped back silently on his toes to lay an ear to the shutter.
“Hunting for his bride!” Petronilla was saying scornfully. “Yes, and a fair price he’d pay for her, too, and she a certain decoy for her father’s return, if not for FitzAlan’s! He has his way to make with Stephen now, and my girl’s his best weapon.”
“Maybe we’re too hard on him,” responded Edric mildly. “Who’s to say he doesn’t truly want to see the girl safe? But I grant you we dared take no chances. Let him do his own hunting.”
“Thank God,” she said fiercely, “he can’t well know I’ve hid my lamb away in the one place where no sane man will look for her!” And she chuckled at the word “man.” “There’ll be a time to get her out of there later, when all the hue and cry’s forgotten. Now I pray her father’s miles from here and riding hard. And that those two lads in Frankwell will have a lucky run westward with the sheriff’s treasury tonight. May they all come safe to Normandy, and be serviceable to the empress, bless her!”