fashion between us.”
On reflection, Cadfael felt that it might be wise to warn Abbot Radulfus of the expiation Brother Haluin had in mind, and did so after chapter, in the privacy of the abbot’s parlor.
“Once he had heaved the load off his heart,” said Cadfael simply, “he would have died content if it had been his fortune to die. But he is going to live. His mind is clear, his will is strong, and if his body is meager it’s wiry enough, and now that he sees a life ahead of him he’ll not be content to creep out of his sins by way of absolution without penance. If he was of a lighter mind, and could be coaxed to forget this resolve as he gets well, for my part I would not blame him, I’d be glad of it. But penitence without penance will never be enough for Haluin. I’ll hold him back as long as I can, but trust me, we shall hear of this again, as soon as he feels able to attempt it.”
“I can hardly frown upon so fitting a wish,” said the abbot reasonably, “but I can forbid it until he is fit to undertake it. If it will give him peace of mind I have no right to stand in his way. It may also be of some belated comfort to this unhappy lady whose daughter died so wretchedly. I am not familiar,” said Radulfus, pondering the proposed pilgrimage warily, “with this manor of Hales, though I have heard the name of de Clary. Do you know where it lies?”
“Towards the eastern edge of the shire, Father, it must be a matter of twenty-five miles or so from Shrewsbury.”
“And this lord who was absent in the Holy Land?he can have been told nothing of the true manner of his daughter’s death, if his lady went in such awe of him. It is many years past, but if he is still living this visit must not take place. It would be a very ill thing for Brother Haluin to salve his own soul by bringing further trouble and danger upon the lady of Hales. Whatever her errors, she has suffered for them.”
“For all I know, Father,” Cadfael admitted, “they may both be dead some years since. I saw the place once, on the way from Lichfield on an errand for Abbot Heribert, but I know nothing of the household of de Clary.”
“Hugh Beringar will know,” said the abbot confidently. “He has all the nobility of the shire at his finger ends. When he returns from Winchester we may ask him. There’s no haste. Even if Haluin must have his penance, it cannot be yet. He is not yet out of his bed.”
Chapter Three
Hugh and his escort came home four days after Epiphany. Much of the snow was gone by then, the weather grey, the days short and somber, the nights hovering on the edge of frost, so that the thaw continued its gradual way, and there was no flooding. After such a heavy fall a rapid thaw would have seen a great mass of water coming down the river and draining from every drift, and the Severn would have backed up the Meole Brook and flooded the lower part of the fields, even if the enclave itself escaped inundation. This year they were spared that trouble, and Hugh, kicking off his boots and shrugging off his cloak in his own house by Saint Mary’s Church, with his wife bringing him his furred shoes and his son clinging to his sword belt and clamoring to have his new, painted wooden knight duly admired, was able to report an easy journey for the time of year, and a satisfactory reception at court for his stewardship.
“Though I doubt if this Christmas truce will last long,” he said to Cadfael later, after acquainting the abbot with all the news from Winchester. “He’s swallowed the failure at Oxford gallantly enough, but for all that, he’s on his mettle for vengeance, he’ll not sit still for long, winter or no. He wants Wareham back, but it’s well stocked, and manned to the battlements, and Stephen never did have the patience for a siege. He’d like a fortress more to the west, to carry the war to Robert’s country. There’s no guessing what he’ll try first. But he wants none of me or my men there in the south, he’s far too wary of the earl of Chester to keep me long out of my shire. Thank God, for I’m of the same mind myself,” said Hugh blithely. “And how have you been faring? Sorry I am to hear your best illuminator had a fall that all but ended him. Father Abbot told me of it. I can hardly have left you an hour, that day, when it happened. Is it true he’s mending well?”
“Better than any of us ever expected,” said Cadfael, “least of all the man himself, for he was certainly bent on clearing his soul for death. But he’s out of the shadow, and in a day or two we’ll have him out of his bed. But his feet are crippled for life, the slates chopped them piecemeal. Brother Luke is cutting some crutches to his measure. Hugh,” said Cadfael directly, “what do you know of the de Clarys who hold the manor of Hales? There was one of them was a Crusader nearly twenty years back. I never knew him, he was after my time in the east. Is he still living?”
“Bertrand de Clary,” said Hugh promptly, and looked up at his friend with quickening interest. “What of him? He died years back, ten or more it must be. His son holds the honor now. I’ve had no dealings with them, Hales is the only manor they hold in this shire, the caput and most of their lands are in Staffordshire. Why, what’s put de Clary in your mind?”
“Why, Haluin has. He was in their service before he took the cowl. It seems he feels he has left unpaid some debt he still owes in that direction. It came to mind when he made what he took to be his deathbed confession. In something he feels he offended, and has it on his conscience still.”
That was all that could be told, even to Hugh, the confessional being sacred, and if nothing more was offered, Hugh would ask for nothing more, however he might speculate on what had not been said.
“He’s set on making the journey to set the account straight, when he’s fit to undertake it. I was wondering
If this Bertrand’s widow is no longer in the land of the living, either, as well Haluin should know it at once, and put it out of his mind.”
Hugh was eyeing his friend with steady interest and a tolerant smile. “And you want him to have nothing to trouble about, body or mind, but getting back into the way of living as soon as may be. I’m no help, Cadfael. The widow’s living still. She’s there at Hales, she paid her dues last Michaelmas. Her son’s married to a Staffordshire wife, and has a young son to succeed him, and from all accounts his mother is not of a nature to share another woman’s household without meddling. Hales is her favorite home, she keeps there from choice and leaves her son to rule his own roost, while she makes sure of ruling hers. No doubt it suits them both very well. I should not be even so well informed, ” he said by way of explanation, “if we had not ridden some miles of the way from Winchester with a company of de Clary’s men, dispersing from the siege of Oxford. The man himself I never saw, he was still delayed at court when we left. He’ll be on his way home by now, unless Stephen keeps him for whatever move he has next in mind.”
Cadfael received this news philosophically but without pleasure. So she was still living, this woman who had sought to help her daughter to an abortion, and succeeded only in helping her to her death. Not the first nor the last to come by such a death. But what must the mother’s despair and guilt have been then, and what bitter memories must remain even now, beneath the ashes of eighteen years? Better, surely, to let them lie buried still. But Haluin’s self-torturing conscience and salvation-hungry soul had their rights, too. And after all, he had been just eighteen years old! The woman who had forbidden him any aspiration to her daughter’s affection must have been double his age. She might, thought Cadfael almost indignantly, have had the wisdom to see how things began to be between those two, and taken steps to separate them in time.
