“That is true. This blood cannot be hers. But blood it is. There were faint traces on her body, where there was no wound.”
“Faint traces!” said Ermina, lifting to his face one flash of her dark eyes. She spread her palm upon the patch that stiffened the breast of the gown, opening her fingers wide to span the clotted stain that was more than a faint trace. A stain from without, then, not from within. “His blood? The man who killed her? Well done, if she drew blood from him! And yet … I would have clawed out his eyes, but she? So slight and so gentle …”
Suddenly she was still, quite still, brooding with the habit raised in both hands to her breast, as it would hang if she put it on, and the red glow from the fire gilding her face and kindling reflected fires in her eyes. When she stirred again, it was to rise calmly and shake out the creases, and that done, she folded the garment meticulously, smoothing out the edges to make all neat.
“May I keep this in my charge? Until,” she said with considered emphasis, “it is needed to confront her murderer?”
Chapter Eleven
In the early morning light Hugh Beringar rode from Bromfield for Ludlow, to muster his forces for the march, and Brother Cadfael pulled on his boots, kilted his habit for riding, took his cloak, and went with him. Besides his function as guide, he had loaded his scrip with dressings and ointments for fresh wounds, of which there might be plenty before this day ended.
He saw nothing of Ermina before they departed, and was glad to believe that she must still be fast asleep, and at peace. There was a tension and withdrawal about her that made him uneasy, for no good reason that he could see. It was not simple fear for her brother that weighed on her heart, nor the grief and guilt she had already confessed and was determined to purge by penitence. That braced, armed stillness with which she had taken her leave the previous night, clasping Sister Hilaria’s habit, stayed in his mind as much resembling the virgin knight’s bathed and accoutred vigil before his first battle.
Blessed be Olivier de Bretagne, who had somehow found a way to master her, ousting an immature fantasy of love from her heart, and at whose command she would even remain still and inactive, and leave the burden of the day to others, wholly against her nature. But why, then, should he think of her as armed, alert and about to do battle?
Meantime they had their own battle to fight and win.
At Ludlow Josce de Dinan marched out from the castle the force Hugh demanded of him, and came himself at their head, a big, burly, full-fleshed man of middle age, ruddy of face and well-mounted. Hugh had asked in particular for archers, and got them. In these border shires there were plenty of men skilled with the short bow, and Cadfael estimated that from the rim of the trees at the head of the gully to the stockade should be just within their range. From the shelter of the branches they could provide cover for an advance, by picking off any defenders who mounted the guard-walk within. A pity that the trees spanned barely a quarter of the open plateau, where the ravine still gave them protection from the bleakest winds, and even there they shrank to dwarf size at the crest. That open arena troubled Cadfael. There would be archers within as well as without, and loopholes to allow them a clear field without exposing them to shafts from the attackers. He had no delusions about the quality of the enemy’s dispositions. Whoever had erected that fortress in that lofty place knew what he was about, and by the carefree bustle within he had mustered a formidable garrison.
The march was easier than they had expected. The night’s snow had begun later and ended earlier than for some days, and without the worst winds, and Cadfael had the path well in mind. The air, still as frosty, was starkly clear here on the lower ground, but thin, bright mist cut off all summits. That might well be to their advantage when they drew close to their goal, affording at least a veil over their movements.
“Such a morning,” judged Cleeton, “if they have been out at all in the night, they would make sure of being home and invisible early. Given a remission like this, country people will be out betimes. These night-owls have no objection to leaving their traces where they strike, but so far they’ve avoided being seen, except by their victims. Those who blunder into their way by chance they kill, unless they have a value living. But with one fat plucking only a night ago, maybe they won’t have stirred abroad. If that’s so, they’ll be home and wakeful, and less drunk than after a fat foray, which is a pity.”
He rode ahead, with Hugh on one side, and Josce de Dinan a careless pace to the rear on the other. Dinan was too big a man, in every sense, to strain to keep his horse’s nose level with that of Hugh’s mount, or resent serving under a younger and less experienced man. He had no need to stress his own worth. Cadfael took to him. He had never before seen this supposedly dubious ally, but he thought him a man to be valued, and lost only with grief.
“They may have outposts at the approaches,” said Hugh.
Cadfael considered, and doubted it. “Towards the foot or even halfway up, their man would be too distant to give fair warning, and too isolated for his own safety. And the best defense of the gully is that it looks so narrow and blind it must usually pass unnoticed. I was following a plain trail. I shall not miss the place. And in between, all is open. I think they rely on secrecy, and if that’s penetrated, on their strength.”
The world before them lay bleak and unpeopled, the great hump of land ahead, turbaned in cloud, was a steely blue shadow. Cadfael viewed the sculptured land, narrowed his eyes, and steered his remembered course. In places the night’s fall had smoothed out yesterday’s tracks, but here and there they still showed faintly as dimpled hollows in the new surface. When they drew near to the stony bulk before them he slowed his pace, and went with raised head, trying to pierce the haze that hid the crest of the cliffs. He could see no square dark ridge reared above the bulk of the rock, though the outline of the rock itself showed very faintly through the veil. If he could not see the tower, there was hope that no watcher from the tower could see this approaching force, even though they moved openly and in considerable numbers. Better get them past this stage as quickly as possible, and round the first curve of the spiral pathway.
When the long gradual climb brought them out on the bleak waste of the summit, and the fissure in the rocky ground opened on their left, Hugh halted his company and sent scouts ahead. But there was no movement, no sign of life but the wheeling of a few birds in the sky above. The cleft was so narrow that it seemed likely it must close after a few paces, and could hardly be expected to lead anywhere.
“It widens, within,” said Cadfael, “and goes on opening steadily towards the source of the stream, like most upland brooks. There are trees most of the way, though they’re dwarfed above.”
They entered the defile, and deployed their numbers among the trees on either side. The mist was lifting by the time Hugh stood within the highest screen of trees, looking out over the open bowl of sparse grass and rock and snow to the stockade. The first step out of cover by any man, and the alarm would be given at once. From this thin fringe of trees onward there was no cover at all. And the distance, Cadfael saw with concern, was greater than he had thought, great enough to decimate the ranks of any attacking host, if there were competent bowmen and a proper watch within the walls.
Josce de Dinan eyed the length of the stockade and the bulk of the tower within. “You’ll not give them formal
