He made his way back steadily but without haste, letting the mule choose his own pace. And at about the hour of Vespers he was jogging in deepening twilight along the green ride, not far from the spot where Huon de Domville had died. He recognized the oak as he passed, and it was some minutes later, with the lighter spaces of the meadows already in view between the trees, that he became aware of rustling movements on his right, keeping pace with him at a little distance. Caution prompted him to halt the mule and sit silent, straining his ears, and the sounds continued, with no attempt at stealth. That was reassuring, and he resumed his way quietly, still listening. Here and there, where the bushes thinned, he caught the silvery pallor of the beast that moved with him. A horse, slender and built for speed, pale as a spirit flickering between the branches. In Holy Writ, he thought, it was Death who rode the pale horse. Death, however, appeared to have dismounted somewhere. No one was riding this gray, his elaborate saddle was empty, his rein loose on his neck.
Cadfael dismounted in his turn, and led his mule gently aside towards the apparition, coaxing softly, but the gray, though he had drawn close to them for company, took fright at being approached, and started away into the thicker woods beyond. Patiently Cadfael followed, but as often as he drew near the gray horse cantered away to a distance again, leading him still deeper into the woods. Here the hunters had surely threaded their paths during the afternoon, and through these copses they must have returned only very recently, as the light failed, each man making his own way back. One of them had either been thrown, failed to recapture his startled horse, and ended the journey ignominiously on foot, or else . . .
Suddenly the gray horse reappeared ahead, entire and graceful, in the comparative light of a small, grassy clearing, and the faint radiance of starlight, stooped his head for a moment to crop at the turf, and as Cadfael closed in, tossed heels and mane once more, and made off into the trees on the other side. And this time Cadfael did not follow.
In the small arena of grass a man lay on his back, curled black beard pointing at the sky, long black hair flung up from his head, arms spread abroad, crooked and clawing, one at grass, the other at air. A brocaded cap lay in the grass above his head, visible only by reason of its white plume. And aside by some yards from his empty right hand, something long and thin managed to catch out of the dimness enough light to cast a metallic gleam. Brother Cadfael groped cautiously and found a hilt, and a lean blade the length of a man’s hand and wrist. He smoothed a finger along it, and finding it unblooded, left it where it lay. Let it speak clearer by a better light. Now in the dusk there was little he could do, beyond feeling after the beat of the blood and the hammer of the heart, and finding neither. On his knees beside the dead man, peering close and avoiding his own shadow, he concentrated upon the face, and even in the dimness knew it congested and gaping, the eyes starting, the tongue protruding and bitten.
Like Huon de Domville, Godfrid Picard had been met in the way, riding home, and had not survived the meeting.
Brother Cadfael left everything here as he had found it, abandoned the half-Arab gray to his own wilful devices, and rode for the abbey at the best pace the surprised mule could be induced to raise.
10
Iveta had had all day to compose her mind and learn cunning. Necessity is a great teacher, and it was necessary that by the evening of this day she should be so despised that no one should think it worthwhile to watch her every move, provided she could not pass the gate. In any case, where could she go? He lover was hunted for his life, her only known friend was banished, even the monk who had been kind to her had not been seen within the precinct since early morning. Where could she go, to whom could she appeal? She was utterly alone.
She had played the part all day, the more thoroughly and convincingly as her rebellious heart rose to the thought of the evening. In the afternoon she complained of a headache, and thought the air would do her good, if she might walk in the garden, and since Madlen was required to work on a gown of Agnes’s in which the silver broidery was fraying, and needed expert repair, she was allowed to go unescorted. Agnes curled a disdainful lip as she gave permission. So tame a creature, what harm could possibly be expected from her?
Iveta went with slow step and languid manner, and even sat for a while on the first stone bench in the flower-garden, in case anyone should be sent spying on her; but as soon as she was sure no one was observing her she skipped nimbly enough through the pleached hedge into the plot beyond, and over the little footbridge to the herb-garden. The door of the workshop stood wide open, and someone was moving about within. Iveta began to believe in success. Of course Brother Cadfael must have an assistant. Medicines might be urgently needed in his absence. Someone must know where to find things, and how to use them, even if he lacked Brother Cadfael’s experience and skills.
Brother Oswin was in the act of gathering up the shards of two of the clay saucers they used for sorting seeds, and started guiltily at the sound of footsteps in the doorway. These trifles were the first things he had broken for three days, and as the stock was plentiful, and the dishes themselves easily and quickly replaced, he had hoped to do away with the fragments undetected, and say nothing about the relapse. He turned defensively, and was stricken dumb by the unexpected vision in the doorway. His rosy, guileless face gaped, round-eyed and open-mouthed. It was a question which of them blushed more deeply, Oswin or the girl.
“Pardon if I intrude,” said Iveta hesitantly. “I wanted to ask … Two days ago Brother Cadfael gave me a draught to bring me sleep, when I was not well. He said it was made from poppies. Do you know it?”
Oswin gulped, nodded his head vigorously, and managed speech. “This is the potion, here in this flask. Brother Cadfael is not here today, but he would wish … If I can serve you? He would wish you to have whatever you need.”
“Then may I have such a dose again? For I think tonight I shall need it.” It was no lie, but it was a deliberate deception, and Iveta blushed for it, when this yellow-headed youth, rounded and innocent as a new chick, was offering his services so trustingly. “May I take double the dose with me? Enough for two nights? I remember how much he bade me take.”
Brother Oswin would have given her all the resources of the workshop, he was so dazzled. His hand shook somewhat as he filled a small vial for her, and stoppered it, and when she put out her hand, just as shyly, to take it from him, he remembered his duty and lowered his eyes before her, rather late in the day for his peace of mind.
It was all over very quickly. She whispered her thanks, looking over her shoulder nervously as though she thought someone might be watching, and hid the vial in her sleeve a good deal more adroitly than Oswin had handled it. His hands and feet seemed to have reverted to their hobbledehoy clumsiness of some years back, in his pimply boyhood, but for all that, the look she gave him in departing made him feel tall, confident and gainly. He was left pensive in the doorway, looking after her as she flitted across the foot-bridge, and wondering if he had not been hasty in deciding that he had a vocation. It was not too late to change his mind, he had not taken his final vows yet.
This time he did not lower his eyes until she vanished along the pleached alley. Even then he stood for some minutes, still pondering. There were drawbacks in any course of life, he supposed sadly. Neither inside or outside the cloister could a man have everything.
Iveta fled back to her stone bench, sheltered from the breeze, and was sitting there with folded hands and apathetic face when Madlen came out to reclaim her. Iveta rose submissively and went back with her to the guest-hall, and sewed unenthusiastically at the piece of embroidery that had been her cover for weeks, even though her needle was not so industrious that she need unpick at night what she worked during the day, like a certain Dame Penelope, of whom she had once heard tell from a passing jongleur in her father’s house, long ago.