They stared, appalled, and had no word to say, as they followed him in awed silence back to where the body lay, and he turned back the collar of the coat, and bared Domville’s neck. For the dark-red slash of the cord was not all they found under the beard, on the thick, sinewy flesh. There, plain to be seen, were the wreathing, blackened bruises of two human hands, and the two thumbs, overlapping, had left a great, mangled stain on the Adam’s apple, and possibly crushed the gristle within.
They were still gaping in horrified silence when they heard urgent voices approaching along the ride, the sheriff’s loudest among them. The intimation of disaster had gone before, but as yet its magnitude was a secret among these few.
Cadfael drew the collar close over the evidence of strangulation, and turned with his companions to meet Gilbert Prestcote and his officers.
When the sheriff had viewed everything Cadfael had to show him, they brought a litter, and lifted Huon de Domville on to it, drawing the folds of his cloak over his face. At the spot from which they raised him they fixed a cross bound from two sticks, to enable them to find and search the place again at need. Then they carried him back, not to the bishop’s house but to the abbey, to be laid in the mortuary chapel there and made decent for burial by the monks of Saint Peter’s, who should have witnessed his marriage.
The child Bran, who could pass for any urchin of the Foregate, briefly, at least, and with discretion, simply by shedding his leper cloak, came back from a wary foray along the road, to report to the two tall, veiled men who sat together with their clapper-dishes under the cemetery wall: “They have found him. I saw them carrying him back. They’ve taken him past the house. I dared not go further.”
“Alive or dead?” asked the slow, calm voice of Lazarus from behind the faded blue face-cloth. The boy knew death already, no need to shield him.
“His face was covered,” said Bran, and sat down beside them. He felt the silence and tension of the other, the new man, the one who was known to be young and whole, and wondered why he trembled.
“No words,” said Lazarus tranquilly. “You have your
breathing-space. So has she.”
Within the great court of the abbey the men-at-arms laid down the litter they carried, and from all sides, in haste and anxious clamor that died abruptly into silence and stillness, all those bound up in this matter came flooding, to form a mute, wide-eyed audience all about the bier. They halted at an awed distance, all but the sheriff and his men, and Abbot Radulfus, who advanced with authority. From the guest-hall Picard burst forth, obstinately hopeful, to freeze at sight of the shrouded figure and covered face. The women followed fearfully. The little golden image moved as though she could barely sustain the weight of her finery, yet she came, and did not turn her eyes away. No doubt of it now. Shocking though it might be, this death was life to her. Why, why had she so belied herself yesterday?
“My lord abbot,” said Prestcote, “this is very ill news we bring, for my lord Domville is found indeed, but as you see him. These brothers of your house found him, thrown from his horse on the woodland path that leads out towards Beistan. His horse was grazing unharmed, and is back in his stable. Huon de Domville was thrown against an oak tree, and is dead. It seems that he was on his way home when this thing happened. Father, will you receive him and have body and soul cared for, until due arrangements can be made? His nephew is of his party here, and the canon is also his kinsman …”
Simon hovered, wordless. He inclined his head and swallowed hard, eyeing the body on the litter.
“This is a very ill turn for such a day to take,” said Radulfus heavily, “and we extend our sorrow and fellow-feeling to all those thus bereaved. And naturally, our hospitality for as long as may be needed, the services of our order, and the privacy of our guest-halls. It is a time for quietness and prayer. Death is present with us every day of our lives, it behooves us to take note of its nearness, not as a threat, but as our common experience on the way to grace. There is no more to be said. It is better to accept the will of God, and be silent.”
“With respect, Father,” Picard spoke up in a voice thin as steel, yet very civil and respectful. Cadfael had been trying to read the man’s face, and made little headway; there was dismay there, certainly, and rage, and frustration, but instant calculation, too. “With respect, I say, should we so tamely accept that this is the will of God? Huon de Domville knows this region, he has a hunting-lodge no great way off, near the Long Forest. He has ridden lifelong without mishap, by day or by night, are we to believe he uses less skill and less awareness suddenly on his wedding-eve, when you and I both know he rode from here sober and unwearied? He told his squire he would take the air a little before sleeping. Surely that was all he intended. Now in a moment we have him brought back dead, a man in his prime and in his full powers! No, I do not believe it! There is some evil-dealing here, and I must know more before I can be satisfied.”
It seemed that Prestcote had deliberately delayed the full assault of his news, in order to see if any among his hearers showed signs of gratification at the likelihood that the death would pass as an accident. If so, and if he discovered anything, for all the narrowed glances with which he was sweeping the ring of shocked faces, he was more successful than Cadfael, who was pursuing the same quest. Nowhere could he discover any shadow of guilt or fear in any face, only the expected and obligatory grief and shame.
“I have not said his death was accidental,” said the sheriff, bluntly now. “Not even his fall was chance. He was fetched down out of the saddle by a rope stretched across the path between two trees, at a level that took him in the throat. But it was not the fall that killed him. Whoever laid the ambush for him was present to complete his work, while Domville lay senseless. A man’s two hands round his throat killed him.”
The whole circle shifted as though a rough wind had shaken them, and drew hard, audible breath. The abbot raised his head to stare.
“You are saying this was murder?”
“As cold and thorough as ever was committed.”
“And we know by whom!” Picard leaned forward, blazing up in malevolent triumph like a thorn fire. “Did I not say it? This is the work of that thieving youth who was dismissed my lord Domville’s service. He has taken his devil’s revenge by killing his lord. Who else? Who else had any grudge? Joscelin Lucy did this!”
Light flashed suddenly on darting gold at his back, and there stood Iveta confronting him, yesterday’s sacrificial lamb become a spitting yellow wildcat. Dilated iris eyes glittered like amethyst. Her voice rose high and challenging, even triumphant, even derisive, as she cried:
“It’s false! You know, you all know, that cannot be true! Have you forgotten? He of all men must be innocent of this—he’s behind locked doors in Shrewsbury castle these two days—and that charge as false as this!—but thank God for it, the sheriff’s own gaoler is witness he cannot have done murder.”
Understanding fell upon Brother Cadfael somewhat after the fashion of a great blow on the head, and left him dazed, unable to catch at first the full implications of what she had said. Not so hard now to guess the meaning of her resolute composure when questioned by the abbot. They had cased her up securely within, and kept her from knowing anything of Joscelin’s escape, when it would have been comfort and joy to her. Now, when it destroyed all her comfort, they would turn on her and hurl it in her face. They were at it already, both the Picards, Agnes the shriller and more savage of the two.
“Fool girl, he is not prisoner. He broke free before ever they got him over the bridge, he’s at large with his grudge…”
“Thief he was, and now a hunted wolf in the woods, and has murdered your bridegroom! And will hang for it.”
All the brightness, all the valor, was stricken from her face. She hung a moment quite still, and just once her lips formed a protesting “No!” that made no sound. Then her cheeks blanched whiter than snow. She put up a hand to her heart, and fell down like a shot bird, in a little crumpled heap of gold.