A retired corner of Wat’s large taproom was as good a place as any to sit down and think before action, and try to make sense of what they had gathered.
“Wat has just put words to it,” said Cadfael. “We should have been quicker to see. He was plainly some lord’s servant, he had his orders, he had money. One man from a lord’s household suborned to murder by an unknown, one such setting out on his own account to enrich himself by murder and theft, that I could believe in. But two? From the same household? No, I think not! They never strayed from their own manor. They served but one lord.”
“Their own? Corbière?” whispered Philip, the breath knocked out of him by the enormity of the implications. “But he . . . The way I heard it, the groom tried to ride him down. Struck him into the dust when he tried to stop him. How can you account for that? There’s no sense in it.”
“Wait! Take it from the beginning. Say that on the night Master Thomas died, Fowler was sent out to deal with him, to get possession of whatever it is someone so much desires. His lord has spied out the land, told him of a handy scapegoat who may yet be useful, given him money for the drink that will put him out of the reckoning when the deed is done. The man would demand immunity, he must be seen to be out of the reckoning. His lord keeps in close touch, joins us when we go forth to look for the missing merchant. Recollect, Hugh, it was Corbière, not we, who discovered his truant man. We had passed him by, and that would not have done. He must be found, must be seen to be so drunk as to have been helpless and harmless some hours, and must then be manifestly under lock and key many hours more. Ten murders could have been committed that night, and no one would ever have looked at Turstan Fowler.”
“All for nothing,” pointed out Hugh. “Sooner or later he had to tell his master that murder had been done in vain. Master Thomas did not carry his treasure on him.”
“I doubt if he found that out until morning, when he had his man let out of prison. Therefore he brought Fowler to lay evidence that made sure the finger was pointed at Philip here, and while we were all blamelessly busy at the sheriff’s hearing, sent his second man to search the barge. And again, vainly. Am I making sense of it thus far?”
“Sound enough,” said Hugh sombrely. “The worst is yet to come. Which man, do you suppose, did the work that day?”
“I doubt if they ever involved the young one. Two were enough to do the business. The groom Ewald, I think. Those two were the hands that did all. But they were not the mind.”
“That same night, then, they broke into the booth, and made their search there, and still without success. The next night came the attack that killed Euan of Shotwick.” Hugh said no word of the violation of Master Thomas’s coffin. “And, as I remember you argued, once more in vain. So far, possible enough. But come to yesterday’s thorny business. For God’s sake, how can sense be made of that affair? I was there watching the man, I saw him change colour, I swear it! Shock and anger and affronted honour, he showed them all. He would not send for the groom, for fear a fellow-servant might warn him, he would fetch him himself. He placed himself between his man and the gate, he risked maiming or worse, trying to halt his flight . . .”
“All that,” agreed Cadfael heavily, “and yet there is sense in it all, though a more abominable sense even than you or I dreamed of. Ewald was in the stables, there was no escape for him unless he could break out of our walls. Corbière came at the sheriff’s bidding, and was told all. His man was detected past denying, and driven into a corner, he would pour out everything he knew, lay the load on his lord. Consider the order in which everything happened from that moment. Fowler had been at the butts, and had his arbalest with him. Corbière set off to summon Ewald from the stables, Turstan made to follow him, yes, and some words were exchanged that sent him back. But what words? They were too distant to be heard. Nor could we guess what was said in the stable-yard. We waited—you’ll agree?—several minutes before they came. Long enough for Corbière to tell the groom how things stood, bid him keep his head, promise him escape. Bring the horse, I will ensure that only I stand between you and the gate, pick your moment, mount and away. Lie up in hiding—doubtless at his manor—and you shan’t be the loser. But make it clear that I have no part in this—attack me, make it good for your part, I will make it good for mine. And so he did—the finest player of a part that ever I saw. He set himself between Ewald and the gate, and between them they used the lively horse to edge us all that way. He made a gallant grab at the rein, and took a heavy fall, and the groom was clear.”
They were both gazing at him in mute fascination, wide-eyed.
“Except that his lord had one more trick to play,” said Cadfael. “He had never intended to let him go. Escape was too great a risk, he might yet be taken, and open his mouth. ‘Fetch him down!’ said Corbière, and Turstan Fowler did it. Without compunction, like master, like man. A dangerous mouth—dangerous to both of them—closed at no cost.”
There was a long moment of appalled silence. Even Beringar, whose breadth of mind could conceive, though with detestation, prodigies of evil and treachery, was shocked out of words. Philip stared aghast, huge of eye, and came slowly to his feet. His experience was narrow, local and decent, it was hard to grasp that men could be monsters.
“You mean it! You believe it! But this man—he visits her, he pays court to her! And you say there was something he wanted from her uncle, and has missed getting—not on his body, not in his barge, not in his booth—Where is there left, but with Emma? And we delay here!”
“Emma is with my wife,” said Hugh reasonably, “in the abbey guest-hall, what harm can come to her there?”
“What harm?” cried Philip passionately. “When you tell me we are dealing not with men, but with devils?” And he whirled on the heel of a trodden shoe and ran, out of the tavern and arrow-straight along the road towards the Foregate, long legs flashing.
Cadfael and Hugh were left regarding each other mutely across the table, but for no more than a moment. “By God,” said Hugh then, “we learn of the innocents! Come on, we’d best make haste after. The lad’s shaken me!”
Philip came to the guest-hall out of breath. With chest heaving from his running he asked for Aline, and she came out, smiling but alone.
“Why, Philip, what’s the matter?” Then she thought she knew, and was sorry for a lovesick boy who came too late even to take a dignified farewell, and receive what comfort a few kind words, costing nothing, could provide him. “Oh, Philip, I am sorry you’ve missed her, but they could not linger, it was necessary to leave in good time. She would have wished me to say her goodbye to you, and wish you . . .” The words faded on her lips. “Philip, what is it? What ails you?”
“Gone?” he said, hard and shrill. “She’s gone? They, you said! Who? Who is gone with her?”
“Why, she left with Messire Corbière, he has offered to escort her to Bristol with his sister, who goes to a convent there. It seemed a lucky chance . . . Philip! What have I said? What is wrong?” He had let out a great groan of fury and anguish, and even reached a hand to grip her wrist.
“Where? Where is he taking her? Now, today!”
“To his manor of Stanton Cobbold for tonight—his sister is there . . .”
But he was gone, the instant she had named the place, running like a purposeful demon, and not towards the gatehouse, but across the court to the stable-yard. There was no time to ask leave of any man, or respect any man’s property, whatever the consequences. Philip took the best-looking horse he saw ready to hand, which by luck—Philip’s luck, not the owner’s!—stood saddled and waiting for departure, on a tether in the yard. Before Aline, bewildered and frightened, reached the doorway of the hall, Philip was already out of the gate, and a furious groom was haring across the court in voluble and hopeless pursuit.