The Confession of Brother Haluin

Chapter Eleven

There was no mistaking the name, and no questioning the absolute certainty with which it was uttered. If Cadfael clung to sane, sensible disbelief for one moment, he discarded it the next, and it was swept away once for all in a great flood of enlightenment. In Haluin there was no doubt or question at all. He knew what he saw, he gave it its true, its unforgotten name, and stood lost in wonder, trembling with the intensity of his knowledge. Bertrade!

The first glimpse of her daughter had struck him to the heart, the dimly seen copy outlined against the light was so true to the original. But as soon as Helisende had stepped forward into the torchlight the likeness had faded, the vision dissolved. This was a girl he did not know. Now she came again, and turned towards him the remembered and lamented face, and there was no more questioning.

So she had not died. Cadfael grappled silently with enlightenment. The tomb Haluin had sought was an illusion. She had not died of the draught that robbed her of her child, she had survived that peril and grief, to be married off to an elderly husband, vassal and friend to her mother’s family, and to bear him a daughter the image of herself in build and bearing. And she had done her best to be a faithful wife and mother as long as her old lord lived, but after his death she had turned her back on the world and followed her first lover into the cloister, choosing the same order, taking to herself the name of the founder, binding herself once for all to the same discipline into which Haluin had been driven.

Then why, argued a persistent imp in Cadfael’s mind, why did you - you, not Haluin! - find in the face of the girl at Vivers something inexplicably familiar? Who was it hiding from you deep in the caverns of memory, refusing to be recognized? You had never seen the girl before, never in life set eyes on this mother of hers. Whoever looked out at you from Helisende’s eyes, and then drew down a veil between, it was not Bertrade de Clary.

All this came seething through his mind in the instant of revelation, the brief moment before Helisende herself emerged from the shadows of the west range and came out into the garth to join her mother. She had not donned the habit, she wore the same gown she had worn the previous evening at her brother’s table. She was pale and grave, but had the calm of the cloister about her, safe here from any compulsion, with time for thought and for taking counsel.

The two women met, the hems of their skirts tracing two darker paths in the silver-green of the moist grass. They turned back together at leisure towards the doorway from which Helisende had come, to go in and join the rest of the sisterhood for Prime. They were going away, they would vanish, and nothing be answered, nothing resolved, nothing made plain! And still Haluin hung swaying on his crutches, stricken motionless and mute. He would lose her again, she was all but lost already. The two women had almost reached the west walk, the cords of deprivation were drawn out to breaking point.

“Bertrade!” cried Haluin, in a great shout of terror and despair.

That cry reached them, echoing startlingly from every wall, and brought them about to stare in alarm and astonishment towards the door of the church. Haluin tore himself out of his daze with a great heave, and went hurtling forward recklessly into the garth, his crutches goring the soft turf.

At sight of an unknown man lurching towards them the women had instinctively recoiled, but seeing at second glance his habit, and how sadly he was crippled, in pure compassion they halted their flight to permit his approach, and even came a few impulsive steps to meet him. For a moment there was no more in it than that, pity for a lame man. Then abruptly everything changed.

He had been in too much haste to reach them, he stumbled, and swayed out of balance for a moment, on the edge of a fall, and the girl, quick to sympathy, sprang forward to support him in her arms. His weight falling into her embrace swung them both about, to steady and recover almost cheek to cheek, and Cadfael saw the two faces for a long moment side by side, startled, bright, dazzled into wonder.

So now at last he had his answer. Now he knew everything there was to be known, everything except what fury of bitterness could drive one human creature to do so base and cruel a thing to another. And even that answer would not be far to seek.

It was at that moment of total enlightenment that Bertrade de Clary, staring earnestly into the stranger’s face, knew him for no stranger, and called him by his name:

“Haluin!”

There was nothing more, not then, only the meeting of eyes and the mutual recognition, and the understanding, on either part, of past wrongs and agonies never before fully understood, bitter and terrible for a moment, then erased by a great flood of gratitude and joy. For in the moment when the three of them hung mute and still, staring at one another, they all heard the little bell for Prime ringing in the dortoir, and knew that the sisters would be filing down the night stairs to walk in procession into the church.

So there was nothing more, not then. The women drew back, with lingering glances still wide with wonder, and turned to answer the summons and join their sisters. And Cadfael went forward from the porch to take Brother Haluin by the arm, and lead him gently, like a sleepwalking child, back to the guest hall.

“She is not dead,” said Haluin, rigidly erect on the edge of his bed. Over and over, recording the miracle in a repetition nearer incantation than prayer: “She is not dead! It was false, false, false! She did not die!”

Cadfael said never a word. It was not yet time to speak of all that lay behind this revelation. For the moment Haluin’s shocked mind looked no further than the fact, joy that she should be alive and well and in safe haven whom he had lamented so long as dead, and dead by his grievous fault, the bewilderment and hurt that he should have been left so long mourning her.

“I must speak with her,” said Haluin. “I cannot go without having speech with her.”

“You shall not,” Cadfael assured him.

It was inevitable now, all must come out. They had met, they had beheld each other, no one now could undo that, the sealed coffer was sprung open, the secrets were tumbling out of it, no one now could close the lid upon them ever again.

“We cannot leave today,” said Haluin.

“We shall not. Wait here in patience,” said Cadfael. “I am going to seek-an audience with the lady abbess.”

The abbess of Farewell, brought by Bishop de Clinton from Coventry to direct his new foundation, was a dumpy round loaf of a woman, perhaps in her middle forties, with a plump russet face and shrewd brown eyes that weighed and measured in a glance, and were confident of their judgment. She sat uncompromisingly erect on an uncushioned bench in a small and spartan parlor, and closed the book on the desk before her as Cadfael came in.

“You’re very welcome. Brother, to whatever service our house can offer you. Ursula tells me you are from the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury. I intended to invite you and your companion to join me for dinner, and I cordially extend that invitation now. But I hear you have asked for this interview, forestalling any move of mine. I take it there is a reason. Sit down, Brother, and tell me what more you have to ask of me.”

Cadfael sat down with her, debating in his mind how much he might tell, or how little. She was a woman quite capable of filling in gaps for herself, but also, he judged, a woman of scrupulous discretion, who would keep to herself whatever she read between the lines.

“I come, Reverend Mother, to ask you to countenance a meeting, in private, between my brother Haluin and Sister Benedicta.”

He saw her brows raised, but the small bright eyes beneath them remained unperturbed and sharp with intelligence.

“In youth,” he said, “they were well acquainted. He was in her mother’s service, and being so close in the one house, and of an age, boy and girl together, they fell into loving. But Haluin’s suit was not at all to the mother’s mind, and she took pains to separate them. Haluin was dismissed from her service, and forbidden all ado with the girl, who was persuaded into a marriage more pleasing to her family. No doubt you know her history since then. Haluin entered our house, admittedly for a wrong reason. It is not good to turn to the spiritual life out of despair, but many have done it, as you and I know, and lived to become faithful and honorable ornaments to their houses. So has Haluin. So, I make no doubt, has Bertrade de Clary.”

He caught the glint of her eyes at hearing that name. There was not much she did not know about her flock, but if she knew more than he had said of this woman she showed no sign and made no comment, accepting all as he had told it.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that the story you tell me bids fair to be repeated in another generation. The circumstances are not quite the same, but the end well could be. It’s as well we should consider in time how to deal with it.”

“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.