“I have that in mind,” said Cadfael. “And how have you dealt with it thus far? Since the girl came running to you by night? For the whole household of Vivers is out by now for the second day, scouring the roads for her.”
“I think not,” said the abbess. “For I sent yesterday to let her brother know that she is here and safe, and prays him to be left in peace here for a while for thought and prayer. I think he will respect her wish, in the circumstances.”
“Circumstances which she has told you,” said Cadfael with conviction, “in full. So far, that is, as she knows them.”
“She has.”
“Then you know of a woman’s death, and of the marriage arranged for Helisende. And the reason for that marriage, you know that, too?”
“I know she is too close kin to the young man she would liefer have. Yes, she has told me. More, I fancy, than she tells her confessor. You need not fear for Helisende. As long as she remains here she is safe from all harassment, and has the company and comfort of her mother.”
“She could not be in a better place,” said Cadfael fervently. “Then, as to these two who most concern us now-I must tell you that Haluin was told that Bertrade was dead, and has believed her so all these years, and moreover, taken her death to himself as blame. This morning by God’s grace he has seen her before him alive and well. They have exchanged no words but their names. But I think it would be well that they should, if you so grant. They will serve better in their separate vocations if they have peace of mind. Also they have a right to know, each one, that the other is whole, blessed and content.”
“And you think,” said the abbess with deliberation, “that they will be blessed and content? After as before?”
“More and better than before,” he said with certainty. “I can speak for the man, if you know as much of the woman. And if they part thus without a word, they will be tormented to the end of their days.”
“I would as soon not be answerable to God for that,” said the abbess with a brief, bleak smile. “Well, they shall have their hour and make their peace. It can do no harm, and may do much good. Do you purpose to remain here some days longer?”
“This one day at least,” said Cadfael. “For I have one more prayer to make to you. Brother Haluin I leave to you. But there is a thing I must do, before we set off for home. Not here! Will you let me borrow a horse from your stable?”
She sat studying him for a long moment, and it seemed that she was guardedly satisfied with what she saw, for at length she said, “On one condition.”
“And that is?”
“That when time serves, and all harm is spent, you will tell me the other half of the story.”
Brother Cadfael led out his borrowed horse into the stableyard, and mounted without haste. The bishop had seen fit to provide stabling adequate for his own visitations, and two stout cobs for remounts should any of his envoys travel this way and make use of the abbey’s hospitality. Having been given a free hand, Cadfael had naturally chosen the more likely-looking of the two, and the younger, a lively, solid bay. It was no very long ride he had in mind, but he might as well get out of it what pleasure he could along the way. There would be little pleasure at the end of it.
The sun was already high when he rode out at the gate, a pale sun growing brighter and clearer as the air of the day warmed into palpable spring. The fatal snow at Vivers would be the last snow of the winter, appropriately completing Haluin’s pilgrimage, as the first snow had begun it.
The filigree green gauze of buds along the branches of bush and tree had burst into the tender plumage of young leaves. The moist grass shimmered, and gave off a faint, fragrant steam as the sun reached it. So much beauty, and behind him as he rode lay a great mercy, a just deliverance, and the renewal of hope. And before him a solitary soul to be saved or lost.
He did not take the road to Vivers. It was not there he had urgent business, though he might well return that way. Once he halted to look back, and the long line of the abbey fence had disappeared in the folds of land, and the hamlet with it. Haluin would be waiting and wondering, groping his way through a confused dream, beset with questions to which he could have no answer, torn between belief and disbelief, fearful joy and recollected anguish, until the abbess should send to summon him to the meeting which would make all things plain at last.
Cadfael rode on slowly until he should encounter someone from whom he could ask directions. A woman leading sheep and lambs out to pasture at the edge of the village stopped willingly to point him to the most direct road. He need not go near Vivers, and that was well, for he had no wish to meet Cenred or his men as yet. He had nothing at this moment to tell them, and indeed it was not he who must tell what finally had to be told.
Once on the track his informant had indicated, he rode fast and purposefully, until he dismounted at the gate of the manor of Elford.
It was the young portress who tapped at the door and entered Brother Haluin’s haunted solitude, later in the morning, when the sun had shed its veil, and the grass of the garth was drying. He looked round as she came in, expecting Cadfael, and gazed at her with eyes still wide and blank with wonder.
“I am sent by the lady abbess,” said the girl, with solicitous gentleness, since it seemed he might be almost beyond understanding, “to bid you to her parlor. If you will come with me, I’ll show, you the way.”
Obediently he reached for his crutches. “Brother Cadfael went forth and has not returned,” he said slowly, looking about him like a man awaking from sleep. “Is this bidding to him also? Should I not wait for him?”
“There is no need,” she said. “Brother Cadfael has already spoken with Mother Patrice, and has an errand he says he must do now. You should wait for his return here, and be easy. Will you come?”
Haluin thrust himself to his feet and went with her, across the rear court to the abbess’s lodging, confiding like a child though half his mind was still absent. The little portress tempered her flying steps to his labored gait, bringing him with considerate gentleness to the door of the parlor, and turning upon him on the threshold a bright, encouraging smile.
“Go in, you are expected.”
She held the door open for him, since he had need of both hands for his crutches. He limped across the threshold into the wood-scented, dimly lit room, and halted just within to make his reverence to the mother superior, only to stand motionless and quivering as his eyes adjusted to the subdued light. For the woman who stood waiting for him, braced and still and wonderfully smiling in the center of the room, her hands extended instinctively to aid his approach, was not the abbess, but Bertrade de Clary.
Chapter Twelve
The groom who came unhurriedly across the courtyard to greet the visitor and inquire his business was neither Lothair nor Luc, but a lanky lad not yet twenty, with a shock of dark hair. At his back the courtyard seemed emptied of its usual lively activity, only a few maids and manservants going back and forth about their work in a casual fashion, as if all constraints were slackened. By the look of things, the master of the house and most of his men were still out and about on the hunt for any word that might lead to the murderer of Edgytha.
“If you’re wanting the lord Audemar,” said the boy at once, “you’re out of luck. He’s still away to Vivers about this woman who was killed a couple of nights back. But his steward’s here. If you want lodging you’d best see him.”
“I thank you,” said Cadfael, surrendering his bridle, “but it’s not the lord Audemar I’ve come to see. My errand is to his mother. I know where her dower apartments are. If you’ll see to the horse I’ll go myself and ask her woman to inquire if the lady will be good enough to see me.”
“As you please, then. You were here afore,” said the lad, narrowing his eyes curiously at this vaguely familiar visitor. “Only a few days back, with another black monk, one that went on crutches and very lame.”