caused Iestyn to baulk and shudder where he stood, straining backwards like a horse suddenly reined in, and the point of the knife slid wildly down, slicing along the boy’s parrying forearm, and drawing a fine spray of blood into the hay.
She was melting, she was dissolving into herself, as a man of snow folds into himself gradually when the thaw comes. The impact of the arrow, striking full into her left breast, had spun her round, she sank slowly with her hands clutching the shaft where it had pierced her, and her eyes fixed, huge and clouded, upon Iestyn, for whom the death had been intended. Liliwin, dazedly watching as the man sprang back to clasp her, said afterwards that she was smiling. But his recollections were confused and wild, what he chiefly recalled was a terrible howl of grief and despair that filled and echoed through the loft. The knife was flung aside, and stuck quivering in the boards of the floor. Iestyn embraced his love, moaning, and sank with her in his arms. Round the fearful barrier of the arrow she essayed to lift her failing arms to clasp him. Their kiss was a contortion the trained contortionist in Liliwin remembered lifelong with pity and pain.
Liliwin came to himself soon, because he must. He drew Rannilt up by the hand, away from the lattice of which they had no more need, and coaxed her after him down the ladder to the stable floor where the loaded horses stamped and shifted uneasily after all these nightlong alarms. He hoisted the heavy bars that held the doors, and it took all the strength he had left to lift them. The eastern light reached his face but no lower, as he pushed open both heavy doors, and led Rannilt out into the green meadow.
They were aware of men flowing in as they came gladly out. Their part was done. Brother Cadfael, breathing prayers of gratitude, took them both in his arms, and swept them aside to a grassy knoll at the foot of the headland, where they dropped together thankfully into the spring turf, and drew in the May air and the morning light, and gradually turned and stared and smiled, like creatures in a dream, waking to be glad of each other.
Hugh was first up the ladder and into the loft, the sergeant hard on his heels. In the shaft of sunlight, bolder and broader now, and blindingly bright above the lingering dimness of the hay-strewn floor, Iestyn kneeled with Susanna in his arms, tenderly holding her up from the boards, for the shaft had pierced clean through her, and jutted at her shoulder. Her eyes were already filmed over as though with sleep, but still kept their fixed regard upon her lover’s face, a mask of grief and despair. When the sergeant made to lay a hand on Iestyn’s shoulder, Hugh waved him away.
‘Let him alone,’ he said quietly, ‘he will not run.’ There was no future left to run for, nowhere to run to, no one to run with. Everything he cared for was in his arms, and would not be with him long.
Her blood was on his hands, on the lips and cheek that had caressed her frantically for a moment, as though caresses could make all whole again. He had given over that now, he only crouched and clasped her, and watched her lips trying to form words to take all upon herself, and deliver him, but making no sound, and presently ceasing to attempt it. He saw the light go out behind the glassy grey of her eyes.
Not until then did Hugh touch him. ‘She is gone, Iestyn. Lay her down now and come with us. I promise you she shall be brought home decently.’
Iestyn laid her in the piled hay, and got to his feet slowly. The climbing sun fingered the knotted binding of the one bundle they had brought up here with them. His dulled eyes fell upon it, and flamed. He plucked it from the floor, and hurled it out through the hatch, to burst asunder in the grass of the meadow, scattering its contents in a shower of sparks as the level beams crept across the pasture.
A great howl of desolation and loss welled up out of Iestyn’s throat to bay at the cloudless and untroubled sky:
‘And I would have taken her barefoot in her shift!’
Outside in the pasture another aggrieved wail arose like an echo, as Walter Aurifaber grovelled in the grass on his hands and knees, frantically clawing up from among the tussocks his despised gold and silver.
Chapter Fourteen
Afterwards
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
