“God’s pity!” said Cenred on a whispering breath. “This I never thought to see! Whatever she intended, why this?”
“Wolves hunt even in frost,” said his steward heavily, “Though what rich traffic there can be for them here heaven knows! And see, there’s nothing taken, not even her cloak. Masterless men would have stripped her.”
Cenred shook his head. “There are none such in these parts, I swear. No, this is a different matter. I wonder, I wonder which way she was bound when she was struck dead!”
“When we move her,” said Cadfael, “we may find out. What now? There’s nothing now can be done for her. Whoever used the knife knew his grim business, it needed no second stroke. And whatever footprints he left behind, the ground’s too hard to show, even where the snow has not covered them.”
“We must carry her home,” said Cenred somberly. “And a sorry matter that will be for my wife and sister. They set great store by the old woman. She was always loyal and trustworthy, all these years since my young stepmother brought her into the household. This must not pass without requital! We’ll send ahead to see if she ever came to Elford, and what’s known of her there, and whether they have any word of chance marauders haunting these ways, perhaps on the run from other regions. Though that’s hard to believe. Audemar keeps a firm hand on his lands.”
“Shall we send back and fetch a litter, my lord?” asked the steward. “She’s but a light weight, we could make shift to carry her back in her cloak.”
“No, no need to make another journey. But you, Edred, you take Jehan here with you, and go on to Elford, and find out what’s known of her there, if anyone has met and spoken with her. No, take two men with you. I would not have you in any danger on the road, if there are masterless men abroad.”
The steward accepted his orders, and took one of the torches to light him the rest of the way. The small, resiny spark dwindled along the pathway towards Elford, and vanished gradually into the night. Those remaining turned to the body, and lifted it aside to unfasten and spread out on the path the cloak she wore. As soon as she was raised one thing at least was made plain.
“There’s snow under her,” said Cadfael. The shrunken shape of her was dark and moist where contact had been close enough for her body’s lingering warmth to melt the flakes, but all round the rim where the folds of her clothing had lain only lightly, a worn border of lace remained, “It was after the snow began that she fell. She was on her way home.”
She was light and limp in their hands. The chill of her body was from frost, not rigor. They wound her closely in her cloak, and bound her safely with two or three belts and Cadfael’s rope girdle, to give handholds for the servants who carried her, and so they bore her back the mile or so they had come, to Vivers.
The household was still awake.and aware, unable to rest until they knew what was happening. One of the maids saw the lamentable little procession entering at the gate, and ran wailing to tell Emma. By the time they brought Edgytha’s body up into the hall the whole fluttered dovecote of maids was again assembled, huddled together for comfort. Emma took charge with more resolution than might have been expected from her soft and gentle person, and swept the girls into service with a briskness that kept them from tears, preparing a trestle table in one of the small chambers for a bier, composing the disordered limbs, heating water, bringing scented linen from the chests in the hall to drape and cover the dead. The funereal ceremonies do as much for the living as for the dead, in occupying their hands and minds, and consoling them for things left undone or badly done during life. Very shortly the murmur of subdued voices from the death chamber had softened from distress and dismay into a gentle, almost soothing elegiac crooning.
Emma came out into the hall, where her husband and his men were warming their chilled feet at the fire, and rubbing the sense back into their numbed hands.
“Cenred, how is this possible? Who could have done such a thing?”
No one attempted to answer that, nor had she looked for an answer.
“Where did you find her?”
That her husband did answer, scrubbing wearily at his furrowed forehead. “Past the halfway to Elford by the short road, lying beside the path. And she’d been there no long time, for there was snow under her. It was on her way back here that someone struck her down.”
“You think,” said Emma in a low voice, “she had been to Elford?”
“Where else by that path? I’ve sent Edred on there, to find out if she came, and who has spoken with her. In an hour or so they should be back, but whether with any news, God alone knows.”
They were both of them moving delicately about and about the heart of the matter, avoiding the mention of Roscelin’s name, or any word of the reason why Edgytha should go rushing out alone in a wintry night. True, word had gone round even in the kennels and mews by then, and the entire household of Vivers was gathering uneasily, the indoor servants hovering in an anxious group in the corners of the hall, those from without prowling and peering over their shoulders, unable to withdraw to their own proper business or their normal rest until something should happen within here to scatter them. Few of all these, if any, could be in their lord’s confidence in the matter of Roscelin’s outlawed love, but many of them might have guessed at the undercurrents sweeping Helisende into this hasty marriage. Some reserve in speech would have to be observed in front of all this clan.
And here, to complicate matters further, came Jean de Perronet from the chamber above, where he had retired out of courtesy, but not to sleep, for he was still in his supper-table finery. And here, too, was Brother Haluin from his bed, anxious and silent. All those under the roof of Vivers that night had been drawn gradually and almost stealthily into the hall.
No, not quite all. Cadfael looked round the assembly, and missed one face. Where all others forgathered, Helisende absented herself.
By the look on his face de Perronet had been doing some serious thinking since he bowed to his host’s wish, and let the search party go out into the night without him. He came into the hall with a face composed and grave, revealing nothing of what went on in his mind, took his time about looking all round the mute and dour circle of them, and looked last and longest at Cenred, who stood with his boots steaming in the ashes of the hearth, and his head bent to stare blankly into the embers of the fire.
“I think,” said de Penonet with deliberation, “this has not ended well. You have found your maidservant?”
“We have found her,” said Cenred.
“Misused? Dead? Do you tell me you have found her dead?”
“And not of cold! Stabbed to death,” said Cenred bluntly, “and left by the wayside. And no sign of another soul have we seen or heard along the road, though this befell no long time ago, after the snow began to fall.”
“Eighteen years she has been with us,” said Emma, wringing her hands together wretchedly under her breast. “Poor soul, poor soul, to end like this-struck down by some outlaw vagabond to die in the cold. I would not for the world have had this happen!”
“I am sorry,” said de Perronet, “that such a thing should be, and at such a time as this. Can there be some link between the occasion that brought me here and this woman’s death?”
“No!” cried husband and wife together, rather resisting the thought already in their minds than lying to deceive the guest.
“No,” said Cenred more softly, “I pray there is not, I trust there is not. It is of all chances the most unhappy, yet surely no more than chance.”
“There are such unblessed chances,” admitted de Perronet, but with evident reserve. “And they do not spare to mar festivals, even marriages. You do not wish to put off this one beyond tomorrow?”
“No, why so? It is our grief, not yours. But it is murder, and I must send to the sheriff, and loose a hunt for the murderer. She has no living kin that I know of, it is for us to bury her. What’s needful we shall do. It need not cast a shadow upon you.”
“I fear it already has,” said de Perronet, “upon Helisende. The woman, I believe, was her nurse, and dear to her.”