The Sanctuary Sparrow

Chapter Fourteen

They took back the living and the dead alike into Shrewsbury in the radiant, slanting light of morning, Iestyn, mute now and indifferent to his fate, to a lodging in the castle; Susanna, safe from any penalty in this world, to the depeopled household from which three generations together would shortly be carried to the grave. Walter Aurifaber followed dazedly, hugging his recovered wealth, and regarding his daughter’s body with a faint frown of bewilderment, as though, tugged between his loss and his gain, he could not yet determine what he should be feeling. For after all, she had robbed him and vilified him at the end, and if he had been deprived of a competent housekeeper, that was his sole serious loss, and there was another woman at home now to take her place. And with Daniel surely maturing and taking a pride in his own craftsmanship, he might very well manage without having to pay a journeyman. Whatever conflict disrupted Walter would soon be resolved in favour of satisfaction.

As for the two delivered lovers, bereft of words, unable to unlock eyes or hands, Cadfael took them in charge and, mindful of the proprieties, of Prior Robert’s chaste disapproval and Abbot Radulfus’ shrewd regard for the ordered peace of the rule, thought well to speak a word in Hugh’s ear and enlist the ready sympathy of Hugh’s lady. Aline welcomed Rannilt into her care with delight, and undertook to provide and instruct her in everything a bride should possess and know, to feed her plump and rosy, and coax into full light those beauties in her which hitherto had gone veiled and unregarded.

‘For if you intend to take her away with you,’ said Cadfael, propelling the half-reluctant Liliwin back over the bridge towards the abbey gatehouse, ‘you’d best marry her here, where there’ll be shame-faced folk enough anxious to set you up with small favours, to pay for their misuse of you earlier. No need to despise the gifts of this world when they come honestly. And you’ll be doing the givers a kindness, they’ll have made their peace with their consciences. You come back to us, and don’t grudge a week’s waiting to make ready for your marriage. You could hardly bring your girl back to share your bed in the porch.’ Or behind an altar, he thought but did not say. ‘She’ll be safe there with Hugh’s lady, and come to you with every man’s goodwill.’

Cadfael was right. Shrewsbury had a bad conscience about Liliwin, as soon as word of the scandalous truth was being passed round over market-stalls and shop counters and traded along the streets. All those who had been too hasty in hunting him took care to proffer small favours by way of redress. The provost, who had taken no part, noted the sad state of the young man’s only pair of shoes, and set an example by making him a fine new pair in which to resume his travels. Other members of the guild merchant took the hint. The tailors combined to clothe him decently. He bade fair to emerge better provided than ever before in his life.

But the best gift of all came from Brother Anselm.

‘Well, since you won’t stay and be celibate here among us,’ said the precentor cheerfully, ‘here is your own rebec ready for playing, and a good leather bag to carry it in. I’m pleased with my work, it came out better than I dared hope, and you’ll find it still has a very sweet voice, after all its misadventures.’ And he added sternly, while Liliwin embraced his recovered treasure with a joy far more profound than if it had been gold and silver: ‘Now bear in mind what you’ve learned here concerning the reading and writing of music. Never lose your skills. Let me not be ashamed of my pupil when you come this way and visit us again.’

And Liliwin poured out fervent thanks, and promises he might never be able to keep, though he meant them with all his heart.

They were married at the parish altar, where Liliwin had first taken refuge, by Father Adam, priest of the Foregate parish, in the presence of Hugh and Aline Beringar, Brother Cadfael, Brother Oswin, Brother Anselm, and several more of the brothers who felt a sympathetic interest in their departing guest. Abbot Radulfus himself gave them his blessing.

Afterwards, when they had packed up their wedding clothes and put on the everyday homespun in which they meant to set out together, they sought out Hugh Beringar, who was sitting with Brother Cadfael in the ante-chamber of the guest-hall.

‘We should be off soon,’ said Liliwin, speaking for both, ‘to get the best of the day on the road to Lichfield. But we wanted to ask, before we go... His trial must be weeks away, we might never hear. He won’t hang, will he?’

So little they had, those two, even if it was more than ever they had possessed before, and yet they had so much that they could afford pity. ‘You don’t want him to hang?’ said Hugh. ‘He would have killed you, Rannilt. Or do you not believe that, now it’s all past?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply, ‘I do believe it. I think he would have done it. I know she would. But I don’t want his death. I never wanted hers. He won’t hang, will he?’

‘Not if my voice is heard. Whatever he may have done, he did not kill, and all that he stole has been restored. Whatever he did was done at her wish. I think you may set out with quiet minds,’ said Hugh gently. ‘He’ll live. He’s younger than she. He may yet take another, even if it must be a second-best.’

For whatever else might be called in question about those two unhappy sinners, Rannilt had been a witness to the devoted and desperate love between them.

‘He may end as a decent craftsman, settled with wife and children,’ said Hugh. Children who would be born in peace, not buried still in the womb, like Susanna’s child. Three months gone, was the physician’s estimate. Even if she had not seized the opportunity of her brother’s wedding feast, she would have had to make her bid for freedom very soon.

‘He would have given himself up for her sake,’ said Liliwin seriously, ‘and so would she for him. And she did die for him. I saw. We both saw. She knew what she did. Surely that must count?’

So it might, and so, surely, must the pity and prayers of two young creatures so misused and so magnanimous. Who should more certainly prevail?

‘Come,’ said Brother Cadfael, ‘we’ll bring you through the gate and see you on your way. And God go with you!’

And forth they went, hopefully and happily, the new leather bag slung proudly on Liliwin’s shoulder. To a life that could never be less than hard and insecure, he the wandering entertainer at fairs and markets and small manors, she, no doubt, soon just as adept with that pure, small voice of hers, and a dance or two to her husband’s playing. In all weathers, at all seasons, but with luck finding a decent patron for the winter, and a good fire. And at the very worst, together.

‘Do you truly believe,’ asked Cadfael, when the two little figures had vanished along the Foregate, ‘that Iestyn also may have a life before him?’

‘If he can make the effort. No one is going to press for his death. He is coming back to life, not willingly, but because he must. There is a vigour in him he can’t shift all on to the past. It will be a minor love, but he’ll marry and breed yet.’

‘And forget her?’

‘Have I said so?’ said Hugh, and smiled.

‘Whatever she did of worst,’ said Cadfael soberly, ‘came of that in her that might have been best, if it had not been maimed. She was much wronged.’

‘Old friend,’ said Hugh, shaking his head with rueful affection, ‘I doubt if even you can get Susanna into the fold among the lambs. She chose her way, and it’s taken her far out of reach of man’s mercy, if ever she’d lived to face trial. And now, I suppose,’ he said, seeing his friend’s face still thoughtful and undismayed, ‘you will tell me roundly that God’s reach is longer than man’s.’

‘It had better be,’ said Brother Cadfael very solemnly, ‘otherwise we are all lost.’