able to dictate the terms of engagement, even on his own watery ground. And Hugh was not a man to lead from behind.
‘I will,’ said Cadfael heartily. ‘And God keep the both of you, yes, and the lads who’re going with you.’
Hugh went with him to the gate, a hand on his friend’s shoulder. They were much of a height, and could match paces evenly. Under the shadow of the archway they halted.
‘One more thought has entered my mind,’ said Hugh, ‘one that has surely been in yours all this while, spoken or not. It’s no very great distance from Cambridge to Peterborough.’
‘So it has come!’ said Abbot Radulfus sombrely, when Cadfael gave him the full report of his day’s activities, after Vespers. ‘The first time Hugh has been called on to join the king’s muster since Lincoln. I hope it may be to better success. God grant they need not be absent about this business very long.
Cadfael could not imagine that this confrontation would be over easily or quickly. He had never seen Ramsey, but Sulien’s description of it, an island with its own natural and formidable moat, spanned by only one narrow causeway, defensible by a mere handful of men, held out little hope of an easy conquest. And though de Mandeville’s marauders must sally forth from their fortress to do their plundering, they had the advantage of being local men, used to all the watery fastnesses in that bleak and open countryside, and able to withdraw into the marshes at any hostile approach.
‘With November already here,’ he said, ‘and winter on the way, I doubt if more can be done than penning these outlaws into their own Fens, and at least limiting the harm they can do. By all accounts it’s already more than enough for the poor souls who live in those parts. But, with the Earl of Chester our neighbour here, and so dubious in his loyalty, I fancy King Stephen will want to send Hugh and his men home again, to secure the shire and the border, as soon as they can be spared. He may well be hoping for a quick stroke and a quick death. I see no other end to de Mandeville now, however nimbly he may have learned to turn his coat. This time he has gone too far for any recovery.’
‘Bleak necessity,’ said Radulfus grimly,’to be forced to wish for any man’s death, but this one has been the death of so many others, souls humble and defenceless, and by such abominable means, I could find it in me to offer prayers for his ending, as a needful mercy to his neighbours. How else can there ever be peace and good husbandry in those desolated lands? In the meantime, Cadfael, we are left for a while unable to move in the matter of this death nearer home. Hugh has left Alan Herbard as castellan in his absence?’
Hugh’s deputy was young and ardent, and promised well. He had little experience as yet in managing a garrison, but he had hardened sergeants of the older generation at his back, to strengthen his hand if their experience should be needed.
‘He has. And Will Warden will be keeping an ear open for any word that may furnish a new lead, though his orders, like mine, are to keep a still tongue and a placid face, and let sleeping dogs lie as long as they will. But you see, Father, how the very fact of this woman coming forward at Sulien’s prompting, as she has, casts doubts on the story he first told us. Once, we said, yes, that’s wholly credible, why question it? But twice, by the same hand, the same deliverance? No, that is not chance at work, nor can it be easily believed. No! Sulien will not suffer either Ruald or Britric to be branded as a murderer, and goes to great pains to prove it impossible. How can he be so certain of their innocence, unless he knows who is really guilty? Or at least, believes he knows?’
Radulfus looked back at him with an impenetrable countenance, and said outright what as yet neither Cadfael nor Hugh had put into words:
‘Or is himself the man!’
‘It is the first and logical thought that came to me,’ Cadfael owned. ‘But I found I could not admit it. The farthest I dare go as yet is to acknowledge that his behaviour casts great doubts on his ignorance, if not his innocence, of this death. In the case of Britric there is no question. This time it is not a matter of any man’s bare word, the woman came forward in the flesh and spoke for herself. Living she is, fortunate and thankful she is, no one need look for her in the grave. It’s at the first deliverance we must turn and look again. That Generys is still in this world alive, for that we have only Sulien’s word. She has not come forward. She has not spoken. Thus far, all we have is hearsay. One man’s word for the woman, the ring, and all.’
‘From such small knowledge of him as I have,’ said Radulfus, ‘I do not think that Sulien is by nature a liar.’
‘Neither do I. But all men, even those not by nature liars, may be forced to lie where they see overwhelming need. As I fear he did, to deliver Ruald from the burden of suspicion. Moreover,’ said Cadfael confidently, harking back to old experience with fallible men outside this enclave, ‘if they lie only for such desperate cause they will do it well, better than those who do it lightly.’
‘You argue,’ said Radulfus drily, but with the flicker of a private smile, ‘as one who speaks from knowledge. Well, if one man’s word is no longer acceptable without proof, I do not see how we can advance our enquiries beyond your “thus far”. As well we should let well alone while Hugh is absent. Say nothing to any man from Longner, nothing to Brother Ruald. In stillness and quietness whispers are heard clearly, and the rustle of a leaf has meaning.’
‘And I have been reminded,’ said Cadfael, rising with a gusty sigh to make his way to the refectory, ‘by the last thing Hugh said to me, that it is not too far from Cambridge to Peterborough.’
The next day was sacred to Saint Winifred, and therefore an important feast in the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, though the day of her translation and installation on her present altar in the church, the twenty-second of June, was accorded greater ceremonial. A midsummer holiday provides better weather and longer daylight for processions and festivities than the third of November, with the days closing in and winter approaching.
Cadfael rose very early in the morning, long before Prime, took his sandals and scapular; and stole out from the dark dortoir by the night stairs, where the little lamp burned all night long to light stumbling feet uncertain from sleep down into the church for Matins and Lauds. The long room, lined with its low partitions that separated cell from cell, was full of small human sounds, like a vault peopled with gentle ghosts, soft, sighing breath, the involuntary catch in the throat, close to a sob, that saluted a nostalgic dream, the uneasy stirring of someone half awake, the solid, contented snoring of a big body sleeping without dreams, and at the end of the long room the deep, silent sleeping of Prior Robert, worshipfully satisfied with all his deeds and words, untroubled by doubts, unintimidated by dreams. The prior habitually slept so soundly that it was easy to rise and slip away without fear of disturbing him. In his time, Cadfael had done it for less approved reasons than on this particular morning. So, possibly, had several of these innocent sleepers around him.
He went silently down the stairs and into the body of the church, dark, empty and vast, lit only by the glowworm lamps on the altars, minute stars in a vaulted night. His first destination, whenever he rose thus with ample time in hand, was always the altar of Saint Winifred, with its silver reliquary, where he stopped to exchange a little respectful and affectionate conversation with his countrywoman. He always spoke Welsh to her, the accents of his childhood and hers brought them into a welcome intimacy, in which he could ask her anything and never feel rebuffed. Even without his advocacy, he felt, her favour and protection would go with Hugh to Cambridge, but there
