The Leper of Saint Giles

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 footbridge, 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.

She waited until it was almost time for Vespers, and the light fading outside. Agnes had put on the newly mended gown, and Madlen was tiring her hair for the evening. While Sir Godfrid Picard hunted with savage determination for a fugitive murderer, it was his wife’s part to maintain the appearance of ritual devotion, attend all the needful services, and retain the good opinion of abbot, prior and brothers.

“It’s time you were making ready, girl,” she said, snapping a glance at her niece along a brocaded shoulder.

Iveta let her hands lie in her lap, indifferent, though she kept her wrist pressed firmly upon the vial in her sleeve. “I think I won’t come tonight. My head is so heavy, and I haven’t slept well. If you’ll be my excuse, madam, I’ll eat supper now, with Madlen, and go early to bed.” Naturally if she stayed away, Madlen would inevitably be left to keep guard on her, but she had made her own provision for that.

Agnes shrugged, her fine, steely profile disdainful. “You are very vaporish these days. Still, stay if you prefer. Madlen will make you a posset.”

It was done. The lady went forth without a qualm. The maid set a small table in Iveta’s bedchamber, and brought bread and meat and a brew of honeyed milk and wine, thick and sweet and hot, ideal to drown the heavy sweetness of Brother Cadfael’s poppy syrup. She went and came two or three times before she sat down with her charge, ample time to draw a beaker of the innocent brew, and replace it with the whole contents of Oswin’s vial. Ample time to stir it and be sure. Iveta made a pretense of eating, and declined more of the drink, and was gratified to see Madlen finish the jug with obvious pleasure. Nor had she eaten much, to temper the effect.

Madlen removed the dishes to the kitchen of the guest-hall, and did not return. Iveta waited almost ten minutes in feverish anxiety, and then went to investigate, and found the maid propped comfortably on a bench in a corner of the kitchen, snoring.

Iveta did not wait for cloak or shoes, but ran in her soft leather slippers, just as she was, out into the dusk, across the great court like a hunted leveret, half-blindly, and along the dark green alley in the garden. The silver streak of the leat gleamed at her, she felt her way along the hand-rail of the bridge. The sky was starry over her, still half-veiled as in the day, but pallidly luminous beyond the veil. The air was chill, fresh, heady, like wine. In the church they were still chanting, leisurely and intently, thank God! Thank God and thank Simon! The only loyal friend …

Under the deep eaves of the herbarium workshop Joscelin was waiting, flattened against the wall in the black shade. He reached both arms to her and caught her to him, and she wound her own slight arms about him passionately. They hung silent a long moment, hardly breathing, clinging desperately. Utter silence and stillness, as though the leat, and the brook, and the river itself had stopped moving, the breeze ceased to breathe with them, the very plants to grow.

Then the urgency swept back to swallow everything, even the first stammering utterances of love.

“Oh, Joscelin … It is you….”

“My dear, my dear… Hush, softly! Come, come quickly! This way … take my hand!”

She clung obediently and followed blindly. Not by the way she had come. Here they were over the leat, only the brook remained to be crossed. Out from the closed garden into the fringe of the pease-fields, new-ploughed at this season, that ran down to the Meole. Under the hedge he paused a moment to view the empty dusk and listen with stretched ears for any betraying sound, but all was still. Close to his ear she whispered: “How did you cross? How will you manage with me… ?”

“Hush! I have Briar down the field - did Simon not tell you?”

“But the sheriff has every way closed,” she breathed, shivering.

“In the forest… in the dark? We’ll get through!” He drew her close in his arm, and began to descend the field, keeping close to the dark shelter of the hedge.

The silence was abruptly torn by a loud, indignant neighing, that halted Joscelin in mid-stride. Below at the water’s edge the bushes threshed wildly, hooves stamped, a man’s voice bellowed. Confused shouting broke out, and from the covering bulk of the hedge Briar lunged into the open, dragging one man with him. Other moving shadows followed, four at least, dancing to avoid being trampled as they sought to subdue and calm the rearing horse.

Armed men, the sheriff’s men, ranged the bank between them and freedom. Escape that way was lost, Briar was lost. Without a word Joscelin turned, sweeping Iveta with him in his arm, and began to retrace his steps in furious haste, keeping close to the bushes.

“The church,” he whispered, when she sought to question in terror, “the parish door …” Even if they were still at Vespers, everyone would be in the choir, and the nave of the great church unlighted. They might yet be able to slip through unseen from the cloister, and out by the west door which alone lay outside the precinct wall, and was never closed but in time of great danger and disorder. But even then he knew it was a very meager hope. But if it came to the worst, there could be sanctuary within.

Rapid movement betrayed them. Down by the water, where Briar stood now snorting and quivering, a voice bellowed: “There he goes, back into the garden! We have him in a noose! Come on!” And someone laughed, and three or four men began to surge up the slope, without undue haste. They were quite sure of their prize now.

Joscelin and Iveta fled hand in hand, back through the herb-garden, over the leat, along the alley between the black, clipped hedges, and out into the perilous open spaces of the great court. No help for it now, there was no other way left to them. The gathering darkness might hide identities, but could not hide the haste of their running. They never reached the cloister. An armed man stood blocking the way. They swung towards the gatehouse, where torches were already burning in their sconces on the wall, and two more men-at-arms drew together before the gate. From the garden emerged their pursurers, content and at leisure. The foremost of them swaggered into the flickering light of the torches, and showed the grinning, complacent face of that same astute or well-informed fellow who had suggested to his officer the searching of the bishop’s grounds, and been commended for it. He was in luck again. The sheriff and all but a meager handful of his men out scouring the woods, and the remnant left behind were the ones to run the quarry to ground!

Joscelin drew Iveta into the corner of the guest-hall wall, where the stone steps ascended to the doorway, and put her behind him. Though he was unarmed, they took their time and were cautious of moving in upon him until their circle was drawn tight. Over his shoulder, without taking his eyes from the deployment of his enemies, he said with grim calm: “Go in, love, and leave me. No one will dare stop you or touch you!”

Instinctively she gasped into his ear: “No! I’ll not leave you!” and as quickly understood that she hampered him at this desperate pass, and turned with a sob to scramble up the steps to the doorway, as he ordered. No further! Not a step! Only far enough to free his arms and stand out of his way, but close enough still to experience in her own flesh whatever befell him, and demand her share in whatever followed, penalty or deliverance. But even the moment’s hesitation had undone him, for he had turned his head in furious entreaty to order: “Go, for God’s sake …” And the distraction had given his enemies their best opportunity, and they were on him from three sides like hounds unleashed.

None the less, it was no easy victory over an unarmed man. Until then all had passed in astonishing silence, suddenly there was chaotic noise, the sergeant hallooing on his men, porters, novices, lay brothers, guests, all coming on the run to find out what was happening, voices demanding, others answering, a clamor to rouse the dead. The first man to lunge at Joscelin had misjudged either his own timing, or his quarry’s speed of recovery, and ran full tilt into a large fist that sent him reeling, and unbalanced two of his fellows. But from the other side two more got a hold on Joscelin’s clothing, and though he jabbed an elbow hard into the midriff of the one who had him by the full of his cotte, and doubled him up retching, the other was able to hold on to his fistful of the dangling capuchon, and twist and tighten it with intent to strangle his opponent into submission. Joscelin wrenched forward, and though he failed to free himself, the cloth tore, and restored him room to breathe, and he kicked backwards at the officer’s shins, and raised an aggrieved roar. The man released his hold to hop and rub at his bruises, and Joscelin took his brief chance and lunged after, not at the man but at the hilt of his dagger. It rose into his hand sweetly, smooth as oil, and he made a wide sweep about him, the blade flashing in the torchlight.

“Now come on! Buy me dear, you’ll not get me cheaply!”

“His own choice!” yelled the sergeant. “Draw on him now, it’s on his own head!”

Then there were swords out, half a dozen minor lightnings gleaming and vanishing in the dusk. The hubbub sank into a strange, breathless silence. And into the silence, from the cloister, swept the whole brotherhood, startled at the end of Vespers to find so offensive a disturbance in their own peaceful enclave. An outraged voice, loud and authoritative, thundered across the court:

“Stand! Let no man move or strike!”

Everyone froze into stillness, and only dared turn to face the speaker with slow and submissive care. Abbot Radulfus, that austere, dry, stern but composed man, stood at the edge of the battlefield, where the red torchlight caught him, and blazed like an excommunicating angel, fiery-eyed in a face sharp and cold as ice. Prior Robert at his shoulder looked faded and negligible by comparison, with all his noble Norman hauteur and dignity. Behind them the brothers stared and fluttered, and waited for the lightning to strike.

Iveta’s legs gave way under her, and she sat down on the top step and rested her head on her knees in the weakness of relief. The abbot was here, there would not be killing, not yet, not yet, only law, and the killing that law countenances. One step at a time now, and don’t look beyond. She prayed passionately without words for a miracle.

When she managed to still the trembling that ran through her whole body, and lifted her head to look again, the entire great court seemed to be full of people, and more were pouring in even as she looked about her. Gilbert Prestcote had just reined in and dismounted within the gates. The members of the hunt, making their ways back at their own speed, were coming in by ones and twos, startled and wondering at what they found here at home, after raising no quarry through all the surrounding countryside. In the flickering light it took the sheriff some moments to recognize in the disheveled and embattled young man drawn back against the wall of the guest-hall the suspected murderer and thief he had wasted two full days pursuing through the woods.

He came striding forward in haste. “My lord abbot, what is this? Our wanted man here at bay within your walls? What is happening here?”

“That is what I am bent on discovering,” said Radulfus grimly. “Within my walls indeed, and within my jurisdiction. By your leave, Sir Gilbert, it is my right here to enquire into such an unseemly brawl as this.” He cast a glittering look about him at the ring of armed men. “Put up, every man of you. I will not have drawn steel here on my ground, nor violence done to any.” The same fiery glance lit upon Joscelin, braced and wary in his corner, dagger in hand. “And you, young man - it seems to me I had occasion to use similar words to you once before, and to warn you that this house also has a punishment cell, and you may find yourself within it if you so much as touch hilt again. What have you to say for yourself?”

Joscelin had regained his breath enough to speak up for himself with spirit. He spread his arms to show there was no scabbard of sword or dagger upon him. “I brought no weapon within your walls, Father. See how many circle me! I have borrowed what offered, to keep my life, not to take any other man’s. My life and my liberty! And for all that these may say against me, I have never stolen or killed, and so I’ll maintain within or without your jurisdiction, as long as I have breath.” He was running out of it by then, partly from his exertions, and partly from the choking force of his anger. “Would you have me offer my neck tamely to be wrung, when I have done no wrong?”

“I would have you abate your tone to me and to these secular authorities,” said the abbot sternly, “and submit to the law. Give back the dagger, you see it cannot avail you now.”

Joscelin stared back at him for a long moment with grim face and hostile eyes, and then, abruptly, held out the hilt of the dagger to its owner, who took it warily, and was only too glad to slide it into its sheath and back away out of the ring.

“Father,” said Joscelin, and it was a challenge, not an appeal, “I am in your mercy here. Your justice I might trust more than I trust the law, and I am where your writ runs, and I have obeyed you. Examine me, of all that ever I did, before you give me up to the sheriff, and I swear to you I’ll answer all truthfully.” He added quickly and firmly: “All, that is, as concerning my own acts.” For there were those who had helped and been good to him, and he would do nothing to bring them into question.

The abbot looked at Gilbert Prestcote, who met the glance with a considering smile. There was no great urgency now, the fellow was trapped, and could not escape. There was nothing to be lost by conceding the abbot’s prior authority here. “I bow to your wishes in the matter, Father, but I maintain my claim to this man’s person. He is charged with theft and murder, and it is my duty to hold him fast and produce him in time for trial on those charges. And so I shall - unless he can satisfy both you and me, here and now, of his innocence. But let all be done openly and fairly. Question him, if you so please. It would be helpful also to me. I would prefer to turn the key on a manifestly guilty man, and have your own doubts, if you entertain any, set at rest.”

Iveta was on her feet by then, running anxious eyes over every face that showed fitfully in the flickering light. Horsemen were still riding in one by one at the gatehouse, and staring in open-mouthed wonder at the scene within. She caught sight of Simon at the back of the crowd, newly arrived and startled and bewildered like the rest, and Guy behind him, just as dumbfounded. Not everyone here was an enemy. When she met the sharp black eyes of Agnes, there at Prior Robert’s shoulder as they had emerged from Vespers, she did not lower her own eyes. This time she had ventured so far out of her old self that there could be no returning. It was not she who showed uneasiness, not she who punctuated a glare of naked dislike with frequent and hurried glances towards the gatehouse, noting each new arrival, and unsatisfied with all. Agnes was waiting and hoping for her husband to come, and resume his authoritative role, which in his absence she felt slipping out of her own fingers. Agnes was afraid of what might yet transpire here while her lord was not there to master it.

Iveta began to descend the steps up which she had groped blindly at Joscelin’s entreaty. Very slowly and stealthily she came, stair by stair, not to break the tension below.

“You must be aware,” said Radulfus, surveying Joscelin with face still as grave, but not now so angry, “that you have been sought by the law ever since your escape into the river, after arrest. You have said you will answer truthfully for your actions. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

Joscelin had promised truth, and must deliver it. “Under a leper’s cloak and veil,” he said bluntly, “in the hospital at Saint Giles.”

A stir and murmur went round the great court, almost a gasp. Guests and brothers alike stared in awe at a creature so desperate as to choose such an asylum. The abbot neither gasped nor stirred, but accepted the answer gravely, his eyes intent on Joscelin’s face.

“Into that sanctuary, I think, you could hardly have penetrated without help. Who was it stretched out a hand to you?”

“I have said I was in hiding there,” said Joscelin steadily. “I have not said I needed or received any help. I answer for my own actions, not for those of others.”

“Yes,” said the abbot thoughtfully, “it seems there were others. For instance, I doubt if you thought to hide on your own lord’s premises, as it seems for a while you did, without having a friend willing to give you cover. Also, as I remember, that gray horse I observed being led out of the garden just now - there he stands under guard, like you - is the one you rode when we encountered here once before. Did you recover possession of him without help? I doubt it.”

Iveta glanced over Joscelin’s shoulder to where Simon stood, and saw him draw back a pace into deeper shadow. He need not have had any qualms. Joscelin closed his mouth very firmly, met the abbot’s measuring stare without blinking, and suddenly, though still doubtfully, he smiled. “Ask me of my own deeds.”

“It seems,” interrupted the sheriff sharply, “that we have need of someone in authority at Saint Giles. It’s a serious matter to hide a wanted murderer.”

From the rear of the crowd in the direction of the gardens, a deprecating voice piped up none too happily: “Father Abbot, if it please you, I am willing to speak for Saint Giles, for I serve there.”

Every head turned, all eyes opening wide in astonishment at the sorry little figure advancing meekly to stand before Radulfus. Brother Mark’s face was smudged with mud, a trailing wisp of pond-weed adorned his straggling tonsure, his habit trickled water from its skirts at every step, and clung to his thin body in heavy, dripping folds. He was ridiculous enough, and yet the soiled, earnest face and devoted gray eyes had still a bedraggled dignity, and if there were some half-hysterical grins and sniggers among the throng at sight of him, Radulfus was not smiling.

“Brother Mark! What can this mean?”

“It took me a long time to find a fordable place,” said Mark apologetically. “I am sorry I come so late. I had no horse to carry me over, and I cannot swim. I had to draw back twice, and once I fell, but at the third try I found the shallow place. By daylight it would not have taken so long.”

“We pardon your lateness,” said Radulfus gravely, and for all the composure of his voice and his face, it was no longer quite so certain that he was not smiling. “It seems you had reason to feel you might be needed here, for you come very aptly, if you come to account for how a wanted man came to find refuge in the hospital. Did you know of this young man’s presence there?”

“Yes, Father,” said Brother Mark simply, “I did know.”

“And was it you who introduced and sheltered him there?” “No, Father. But I did come to realize, at Prime of that day, that we had one man more among us.”

“And held your peace? And countenanced his presence?”

“Yes, Father, that I did. At first I did not know who he was, nor could I always single him out from others of our flock, for he wore the face-cloth. And when I suspected … Father, I do not own any man’s life, to give it up to any but God’s judgment. So I held my peace. If I was wrong, judge me.”

“And do you know,” asked the abbot impassively, “who it was who introduced the young man into the hospice?”

“No, Father. I do not even know that anyone did. I may have some thoughts as to that, but I do not know. But if I did,” owned Mark with candid-eyed humility, “I could not give you a name. It is not for me to accuse or betray any man but myself.”

“You are two here of like mind,” said the abbot drily. “But you have yet to tell us, Brother Mark, how you come to be fording the Meole brook, on the heels, as I understand it - if, indeed, I have yet understood any part of it! - of this young fugitive, who was sensible enough to provide himself with a horse for the venture. Had you been following him?”

“Yes, Father. For I knew I might be answerable for harboring one less innocent and good than I thought him - for which thought I promise I had good reason. So all this day I have watched him. He has hardly been a moment out of my sight. And when he discarded his cloak in the dusk, and set off this way, I did follow him. I saw him find his horse tethered in the copse across the brook, and I saw him cross. I was in the water when I heard the outcry after him. As for this day I can speak for all he has done, and there was no blame.”

“And the day when he came to you?” the sheriff demanded sharply. “What of his first appearance among your lepers? At what hour?”

Brother Mark, single-hearted in his allegiance, kept his eyes fixed upon the abbot’s face for guidance, and Radulfus nodded gravely that he, too, required an answer.

“It was two days ago, at Prime, as I’ve told you,” said Mark, “that I first was aware of him. But at that time he was already provided with the leper cloak, and a face-cloth to hide his face, and behaved altogether conformably with the others. I judge, therefore, he must have been in hiding among us at least some quarter to half an hour, to be so well prepared.”

“And as I have heard,” said the abbot thoughtfully, turning to Prestcote, “your men on patrol in the Foregate, my lord, started a hare that same morning, and lost him in the neighborhood of Saint Giles. At what hour did they sight him?”

“They reported to me,” said the sheriff, pondering, “sighting such a fleeing man the best part of an hour before Prime, and certainly they lost him near Saint Giles.”

Iveta descended one more step. She felt herself suspended in a dream, a double dream that filled her with terror when she looked one way, and wild hope when she looked the other way. For these were not the voices of enemies. And still, blessedly, her uncle did not come, to cast into the balance his black animosity, his narrow malice. She was but two steps behind Joscelin now, she could have stretched out her hand and touched his unkempt flaxed hair, but she was afraid of shattering his braced attention. She did not touch him. She kept an alert eye on the gatehouse, watchful for her chief enemy’s return. That was why she was the first to mark Brother Cadfael’s arrival. Only she and Agnes were looking that way.

The little mule, which had enjoyed an unhurried day, was resentful at being urged to speed at the end of it, and manifested his displeasure by halting inside the gatehouse and refusing to budge further. And Brother Cadfael, who had been demanding some effort of him until that moment, sat to gaze in mute astonishment as his eyes lit upon the scene in the great court. She saw his rapid glance rove over all those intent faces, she could almost feel him stretch his ears to pick up the words that were passing. He saw Joscelin standing braced and alert at the foot of the steps, saw sheriff and abbot eyeing each other somberly, and the draggled little figure of the young brother who, for Iveta, spoke with the unwitting tongue of a minor angel, the kind of angel who would descend with disarming apologies, and of whom no sinner would ever be afraid.

Hastily but quietly, Cadfael dismounted, surrendered the mule to the porter, and advanced to the edge of the crowd, himself still unnoticed. Obscurely encouraged, Iveta descended one more step.

“So it would seem,” said Radulfus reasonably, “that you were at the hospital, young man, by a quarter of an hour at least before Prime of that day, and perhaps as much as half an hour.”

“I had - acquired my cloak,” agreed Joscelin, a little astray now and treading warily, “some little time before I went to the church.”

“And you were instructed how to behave?”

“I have attended Prime before, I know the office.”

“Perhaps, but it would take some few minutes of instruction,” persisted Radulfus mildly, “to pick up the whole order of the day in Saint Giles.”

“I can watch others and do as they do,” said Joscelin flatly, “as readily as any other man.”

“Granted, Father,” said Gilbert Prestcote impatiently, “that he was there well before the seventh hour of the morning. That I accept. But we have no way of knowing the hour of my lord Domville’s death.”

Brother Cadfael had the whole drift of it by then. Finding his way blocked by spectators so intent that they remained deaf and blind to his civil requests and attempts to make his way through their ranks, he used his elbows sturdily, and butted a path through to the front. And before anyone else could speak up and brush the question of timing aside, he lifted his voice and called loudly as he came: “True, my lord, but there is a way of knowing when he was last seen alive and well.”

He broke through then, the sudden shout opening a path before him, and emerged face to face with the abbot and the sheriff, both of whom had swung about to face and frown upon the interruption.

“Brother Cadfael! You have something to say in this matter?”

“I have …” began Cadfael, and broke off to gaze in vexed concern at the shivering little figure of Brother Mark. He shook his head in distracted compunction. “But, Father, should not Brother Mark be changing that wet habit, and getting something hot into him, before he takes his death?”

Radulfus accepted the rebuke with penitent grace. “You are quite right, I should have despatched him at once. Any further testimony he may have to give can very well wait until his teeth stop chattering. There, brother, get yourself dry garments, go to the kitchen, and have Brother Petrus make you a hot posset. Quick, run.”

“If I may ask but one question first,” said Cadfael hastily, “before he goes. Did I hear, brother, that you have been following yonder lad as he came here? Have you had him under your eye all this while?”

“All the day from morning,” said Brother Mark, “he has not been more than a few minutes out of my sight. He left the hospice only an hour or so ago, and I followed him here. Is it of importance?” He meant to Brother Cadfael and whatever cause he had in mind, and Cadfael’s satisfied nod comforted and warmed him.

“There, run! You did well.”

Brother Mark made his reverence to the abbot, and dripped and shivered away to the kitchen thankfully enough. If he had done well for Brother Cadfael, he was content.

“And now,” said Radulfus, “you may explain what you meant by saying you had means of knowing when my lord Domville was last seen alive and in good health.”

“I have found and talked with a witness,” said Cadfael, “who will testify, whenever the sheriff requires, that Huon de Domville spent the night before his death in his own hunting-lodge, and did not leave it until about a third of the hour after six, next morning. Also that at that time he was in excellent health, and mounted to ride back to his quarters in the Foregate. The path on which we found him is the path he would have to take from that place. And the witness, I dare pledge, is reliable.”

“If what you say is confirmed,” said Prestcote, after a moment’s silence, “this is of the first importance. Who is this witness? Name the man!”

“No man,” said Cadfael simply, “but a woman. Huon de Domville spent his last night with his mistress of many years, and her name is Avice of Thornbury.”

The shock passed along the ranks of the innocent brethren as a sudden wind-devil whirls through standing wheat in summer, in a great, gusty sigh and a convulsion of rustling garments like shaken stems. On his wedding-eve, to repair to another woman! And after supping with the abbot, at that! To those of lifelong celibacy even the contemplation of a bride, chaste and young, was disturbing. But a kept woman, and visited on the eve of the marriage sacrament, in despite of both the celibate and the marital morality … !

The sheriff belonged to a more illusionless world. Not the outrage, only the understandable fact, concerned him. Nor was Abbot Radulfus greatly disconcerted, once the words were spoken. He might have evaded the experiences of the flesh, he had not gone in ignorance of them thus far through a highly intelligent life. The mention of Avice did not shake him.

“You recall. Father,” Cadfael pursued, while he had every man’s attention, “that I showed you the blue flowers of the gromwell he wore in his cap when he was found. The plant grows at this hunting-lodge, I found it there, and it bears out the woman’s story. She herself set it in his cap when he left her. It is nearly two miles from the lodge to the spot where he was ambushed and killed. Your own officers, Sir Gilbert, bear witness that they flushed young Lucy here out of cover in the Foregate more than half an hour before Prime. Therefore he could not possibly have been the man who set the springe for Huon de Domville, and killed him. The baron can have been no more than half a mile from his hunting-lodge, when Joscelin Lucy was being hunted along the Foregate to the hospital.”

Iveta took the last step that brought her to Joscelin’s side, and slipped her hand into his, and he gripped it convulsively, unaware that he was hurting her, and drew breath into him so deep and hard that she felt he had drawn in the breath of new life for both of them.

Agnes craned and peered towards the gatehouse, but still did not find what she sought. Her face was sharp and icy with malice, but she said never a word. Iveta had expected a blaze of disbelief, casting doubt upon both Brother Cadfael and his witness, even upon the evidence of the sheriff’s men. People can be vague and imprecise about time, it is not so hard to argue about the difference a mere half-hour can make. But Agnes kept silence, containing her aching rage and uneasiness.

Abbot Radulfus exchanged a long and thoughtful look with the sheriff, and turned again to Joscelin. “You promised me truth. I will ask you now what I have not so far asked. Did you play any part in the death of Huon de Domville?”

“I did not,” said Joscelin firmly.

“There remains the charge he himself brought against you. Did you steal from him?”

“No!” He could not keep the scorn out of his voice.

Radulfus turned back to the sheriff with a faint, wry smile. “For the murder charge, Brother Cadfael will bring you to speak with this woman, and you will judge for yourself what trust to place in her. As for your own officers, there is no need to question their truthfulness. It seems to me that on this count this man must be held guiltless.”

“If this is confirmed,” agreed Prestcote readily, “he cannot be the murderer. I myself will take this woman’s testimony.” He turned to Cadfael with a question: “She is still at the hunting-lodge?”

“No,” said Cadfael, not without some relish at the stir his answer would make, “she is now at the cell of the Benedictine sisters at Godric’s Ford, where she has entered the order as a novice, and intends to take full vows.”

It was an achievement to have made even Abbot Radulfus blink; shaking the brotherhood was a routine success by comparison. “And you esteem her an honest witness?” asked the abbot mildly, recovering his control in an instant, while Prior Robert’s patrician nose still looked pinched and blue with shock, and the ranks behind his shoulder still quivered.

“As the day, Father. The sheriff will judge for himself. I am convinced that, whatever else she may be, she has no disguises, and does not lie.”

They would get from her, without conceal, the whole story of her life, of which she was not ashamed, and she could not but impress them. He had no fears on that head. Prestcote was a practical man, he would recognize her quality. “My lord,” said Cadfael, “and you, Father, may we not understand that you accept - subject to questioning Mistress Avice and finding her testimony true - that Joscelin Lucy is altogether innocent of Huon de Domville’s murder?”

Prestcote had no hesitation. “That seems certain. The charge cannot stand.”

“Then - bear with me! - you cannot but accept, also, that this day he has been under constant watch by Brother Mark, as Mark himself has told us, and has done nothing to occasion suspicion or blame.”

The abbot was regarding him with searching attention. “That must also be granted. I think, brother, you have some particular reason for calling attention to it in this way. Something has happened?”

“Yes, Father. Something I should have told you at once, if I had not blundered into these equally grave matters as soon as I rode in. Well for any man who can say that today, all day long, he had a good man watching him and seeing no evil. For there has been violence done once again, in the woods beyond Saint Giles. Not an hour ago, as I was coming home, I happened upon a riderless horse, but could not catch him, and following him, I came upon a clearing where another man lies dead, and as I think, strangled like the first. I can lead you to the place.”

In the horrified hush that fell, he turned slowly to confront Agnes, who stood wild-eyed but still as stone.

“Madam, I grieve to bring you such news, but it is certain, even in the dim light, by the horse he rode …”