“I leave the workshop in your hands,” he said firmly. “I place full confidence in you.”
“And God forgive me the lie,” he muttered to himself when he was out of earshot, “and turn it to truth. Or at least count it as merit to me rather than sin. If I’ve been setting your teeth on edge, Oswin, my lad, now’s your chance to spread your wings on your own. Make the most of it!”
Now he had the day at his disposal, and his starting-point must be the spot where Domville had died. He took the quickest way to it, a risky and unorthodox route he had sometimes used on more obscure business of his own. The Meole brook, where it bordered the abbey fields and gardens, was fordable except in flood-time, provided a man knew it well, and Cadfael knew it perfectly. He thus cut off a detour by the roads, at the mere cost of kilting his habit above the knees, and sandals let out water as freely as they let it in. By the time chapter ended at the abbey, he was on the path where the baron had been ambushed, and pushing on along it at a good pace.
This part of the path he knew, it lay directly across a great winding bend of the brook, and he was approaching the second ford which would take him out of the loop, and away through woods and fields towards Sutton and Beistan, sparsely peopled country approaching the great stretch of the Long Forest. He did not think that Domville could have had many miles to go, nor that he had spent the night in the open. A man tough enough for that and worse when there was need, but fond of his comforts when things were going easily.
At Sutton Strange the woods fell back before fields. Cadfael exchanged the time of day with a cottar whose children he had once treated for a skin rash, and enquired if the news of Domville’s death had reached the village. It had, and was the chief gossip for miles around, and already the inhabitants were expecting that the hunt for the murderer might reach as far as their homes and byres the next day.
“I heard he had a hunting-lodge somewhere in these parts,” said Cadfael. “On the edge of the forest is what I heard, but that could mean anywhere along ten miles of country. Would you know of the place?”
“Ah, that’ll be the house over beyond Beistan,” said the cottar, leaning comfortably on his garden wall. “He has rights of warren in the forest, but he came there only rarely, and keeps only a local lad there as steward, and the old woman his mother to take care for the house when it’s unvisited. As it mostly is. He has better hunts elsewhere. Had! Seems someone set a snare for him, this time.”
“And made a thorough job of it,” said Cadfael soberly. “How do I best go for this place? Through the village at Beistan?”
“That’s it, and cross the old road and bear on between the hills. You’ll find this path makes a straight run of it. You’ll be in the edge of the forest there, sure enough, before ever you see the house.”
Cadfael went on briskly, emerging on to a highroad at the village of Beistan, where the path he was following crossed and moved on, dead straight, past a few scattered holdings beyond, and then into fitful stretches of rising heathland and copses between two gentle slopes. After another mile or so it became a forest path once again, closely hemmed in. Where ground-rock broke into view, it was white and chalky, and in the more open glades heathers brushed crisp and prickly against his ankles. It was a long time since he had been so far afoot, and if he had not been on so grave a quest his walk would have been pure enjoyment.
He came upon the hunting-lodge quite abruptly, the trees falling away on either side to show him a low boundary wall of stones, and a squat timber building within, raised on an undercroft, with outhouses lining the rear wall of the enclosure. Among the rough white stones of the wall there were all manner of wild herbs growing, toadflax and ivy, stonecrop and selfheal, known by their leaves even now that hardly any flowers remained. There were orchard trees within the wall, but few and old and gnarled, as though someone had once made a garden here, but now it was neglected and forgotten. Some former lord, perhaps, of Domville’s line, with a family of children, to turn this quite pleasant fastness into a favorite home, whereas in recent years a childless elderly man had had no use for it but in the hunting season, and even then preferred fatter forests elsewhere in his widespread honor.
Cadfael crossed to the open gate in the wall, and stepped within. Instantly his eye was caught by a broom-bush on the inner side, in a corner near the gate. For it was an unmistakable broom-bush, and yet in this autumn season it was in flower, and its flowers, scattered and starry, were of a bright and limpid blue instead of gold. He went closer, and saw that the three lowest courses of the wall and the ground beside were matted with proliferating stems, thin, straight, branching into long, narrow leaves. The mat on the ground reached the roots of the broom, and sent up long, frail stalks to clamber through its branches, thrusting up to the light these late, radiant clusters of heavenly blue.
He had found his creeping gromwell, and he had found the place where Huon de Domville had spent the last night of his life.
“You are seeking someone, brother?”
The voice behind him was respectful to the point of being obsequious, and yet had a cutting edge like a well-honed knife. He turned alertly to view the speaker, and found the very same ambiguous qualities. He must have come from the outhouses under the rear wall, a fine, well-set-up fellow about thirty-five years old, in country homespun but with a dignity to him that fell just short of a swagger. He had eyes like pebbles under a sunlit brook, as hard and clear, and as fluid and elusive in their glance. He was brown and handsome and altogether pleasant to the view, but he was not quite easy in his authority, and not quite friendly in his civility.
“You are Huon de Domville’s steward at this house?” asked Brother Cadfael with wary courtesy.
“I am,” said the young man.
“Then the mission I have is to you,” said Cadfael amiably, “though I think it may be unnecessary. You may have heard already, for I find it’s known in the countryside, that your lord is dead, murdered, and is now lying in the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul of Shrewsbury, from which I come.”
“So we heard yesterday,” said the steward, his manner somewhat easing at this reasonable explanation for the visit, though not as much as might have been expected. His face remained wary and his voice reserved. “A cousin of mine brought the word, coming from the town market.”
“But no one has been to you from your lord’s household? You’ve had no orders? I thought Canon Eudo might have sent to let you know. But you’ll understand they’re all in confusion and consternation yet. No doubt they’ll be in touch with you and all his manors when they get round to the proper arrangements.”
“They’ll be set first on getting hold of his murderer, no question,” said the man, and moistened his lips, elusive pebble-eyes looking slightly sidelong at Cadfael. “I shall hear when his kin see fit. Meantime, I’m still in his service until another either confirms me in my stewardship here, or turns me off. I’ll keep his property and stock as I should, and turn them over to his heir in good order. Say so for me, brother, and no man need trouble for this place. Let them put their minds at rest.” He veiled his eyes a moment, thinking. “You did say murdered? Is that certain?”
“Certain,” said Cadfael. “It seems he rode out after his supper, and was waylaid on his way back. We found him on a path that leads in this direction. It was in my mind he might have been here, seeing this grange is his.”
“He has not been here,” said the steward firmly.
“Not at all, since he came to Shrewsbury three days ago?”
“Not at all.”
“Nor any of his squires or servants?”
“No one.”
“So he did not lodge any guests here for the wedding feast. You keep his lodge alone?”
“I see to grounds and stock and farm, my mother keeps the house. The few times he ever hunted here, he brought his own body servants and cooks and all. But the last time’s a good four years gone.”