Meriet cast one flickering glance round all the considering faces, and departed, leaving the brothers to debate what was best to be done with him. Prior Robert, on his mettle, and quick to recognise a humility in which there was more than a little arrogance, felt that the mortification of the flesh, whether by hard labour, a bread and water diet, or flagellation, might help to concentrate and purify a troubled spirit. Several took the simplest line: since the boy had never intended wrong, and yet was a menace to others, punishment was undeserved, but segregation from his fellows might be considered justified, in the interests of the general peace. Yet even that might seem to him a punishment, Brother Paul pointed out.
‘It may well be,’ said the abbot finally,’that we trouble ourselves needlessly. How many of us have never had one ill night, and broken it with nightmares? Once is but once. We have none of us come to any harm, not even the children. Why should we not trust that we have seen both the first and the last of it? Two doors can be closed between the dortoir and the boys, should there again be need. And should there again be need, then further measures can be taken.’
Three nights passed peacefully, but on the fourth there was another commotion in the small hours, less alarming than on the first occasion, but scarcely less disturbing. No wild outcry this time, but twice or thrice, at intervals, there were words spoken loudly and in agitation, and such as were distinguishable were deeply disquieting, and caused his fellow-novices to hold off from him with even deeper suspicion.
‘He cried out, “No, no, no!” several times,’ reported his nearest neighbour, complaining to Brother Paul next morning. ‘And then he said, “I will, I will!” and something about obedience and duty… Then after all was quiet again he suddenly cried out, “Blood!” And I looked in, because he had started me awake again, and he was sitting up in bed wringing his hands. After that he sank down again, there was nothing more. But to whom was he talking? I dread there’s a devil has hold of him. What else can it be?’
Brother Paul was short with such wild suppositions, but could not deny the words he himself had heard, nor the disquiet they aroused in him. Meriet again was astonished and upset at hearing that he had troubled the dortoir a second time, and owned to no recollection of any bad dream, or even so small and understandable a thing as a belly-ache that might have disrupted his own rest.
‘No harm done this time,’ said Brother Paul to Cadfael, after High Mass, ‘for it was not loud, and we had the door closed on the children. And I’ve damped down their gossip as best I can. But for all that, they go in fear of him. They need their peace, too, and he’s a threat to it. They say there’s a devil at him in his sleep, and it was he brought it here among them, and who knows which of them it will prey on next? The devil’s novice, I’ve heard him called. Oh, I put a stop to that, at least aloud. But it’s what they’re thinking.
Cadfael himself had heard the tormented voice, however subdued this time, had heard the pain and desperation in it, and was assured beyond doubt that for all these things there was a human reason. But what wonder if these untravelled young things, credulous and superstitious, dreaded a reason that was not human?
That was well into October and the same day that Canon Eluard of Winchester, on his journey south from Chester, came with his secretary and his groom to spend a night or two for repose in Shrewsbury. And not for simple reasons of religious policy or courtesy, but precisely because the novice Meriet Aspley was housed within the walls of Saint Peter and Saint Paul.
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CHAPTER THREE
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Eluard of Winchester was a black canon of considerable learning and several masterships, some from French schools. It was this wide scholarship and breadth of mind which had recommended him to Bishop Henry of Blois, and raised him to be one of the three highest ranking and best trusted of that great prelate’s household clergy, and left him now in charge of much of the bishop’s pending business while his principal was absent in France.
Brother Cadfael ranked too low in the hierarchy to be invited to the abbot’s table when there were guests of such stature. That occasioned him no heart-burning, and cost him little in first-hand knowledge of what went on, since it was taken for granted that Hugh Beringar, in the absence of the sheriff, would be present at any meeting involving political matters, and would infallibly acquaint his other self with whatever emerged of importance.
Hugh came to the hut in the herb garden, yawning, after accompanying the canon to his apartment in the guest-hall.
‘An impressive man, I don’t wonder Bishop Henry values him. Have you seen him, Cadfael?’
‘I saw him arrive.’ A big, portly, heavily-built man who nonetheless rode like a huntsman from his childhood and a warrior from puberty; a rounded, bushy tonsure on a round, solid head, and a dark shadow about the shaven jowls when he lighted down in early evening. Rich, fashionable but austere clothing, his only jewellery a cross and ring, but both of rare artistry. And he had a jaw on him and an authoritative eye, shrewd but tolerant. ‘What’s he doing in these parts, in his bishop’s absence overseas?’
‘Why, the very same his bishop is up to in Normandy, soliciting the help of every powerful man he can get hold of, to try and produce some plan that will save England from being dismembered utterly. While he’s after the support of king and duke in France, Henry wants just as urgently to know where Earl Ranulf and his brother stand. They never paid heed to the meeting in the summer, so it seems Bishop Henry sent one of his men north to be civil to the pair of them and make sure of their favour, just before he set off for France—one of his own household clerics, a young man marked for advancement, Peter Clemence. And Peter Clemence has not returned. Which could mean any number of things, but with time lengthening out and never a word from him or from either of that pair in the north concerning him, Canon Eluard began to be restive. There’s a kind of truce in the south and west, while the two sides wait and watch each other, so Eluard felt he might as well set off in person to Chester, to find out what goes on up there, and what’s become of the bishop’s envoy.’
‘And what has become of him?’ asked Cadfael shrewdly. ‘For his lordship, it seems, is now on his way south again to join King Stephen. And what sort of welcome did he get in Chester?’
‘As warm and civil as heart could wish. And for what my judgement is worth, Canon Eluard, however loyal he may be to Bishop Henry’s efforts for peace, is more inclined to Stephen’s side than to the empress, and is off back to Westminster now to tell the King he might be wise to strike while the iron’s hot, and go north in person and offer a few sweetmeats to keep Chester and Roumare as well-disposed to him as they are. A manor or two and a pleasant title—Roumare is as good as earl of Lincoln now, why not call him so?—could secure his position there. So, at any rate, Eluard seems to have gathered. Their loyalty is pledged over and over. And for all his wife is daughter to Robert of Gloucester, Ranulf did stay snug at home when Robert brought over his imperial sister to take the field a year and more ago. Yes, it seems the situation there could hardly be more to the canon’s satisfaction, now that it’s stated. But as for why it was not stated a month or so ago, by the mouth of Peter Clemence returning… Simple enough! The man never got there, and they never got his embassage.’
‘As sound a reason as any for not answering it,’ said Cadfael, unsmiling, and eyed his friend’s saturnine visage with narrowed attention. ‘How far did he get on his way, then?’ There were wild places enough in this disrupted England where a man could vanish, for no more than the coat he wore or the horse he rode. There were districts where manors had been deserted and run wild, and forests had been left unmanned, and whole villages, too exposed to danger, had been abandoned and left to rot. Yet the north had suffered less than the south and west by and large, and lords like Ranulf of Chester had kept their lands relatively stable thus far.