by witnesses to his innocence and ignorance of evil?”
“Yet it could be so,” said Philip relentlessly. “Men with limited time to cover their traces do not always choose the most infallible way. What do you object to my most bitter belief?”
“A number of things. First, that same evening I examined Yves’ sword, which was sheathed and laid by as he had said. It is not easy to cleanse the last traces of blood from a grooved blade, and of such quests I have had experience. I found no blemish there. Second, after you were gone, with the bishop’s leave I examined de Soulis’s body. It was no sword that made that wound, no sword ever was made so lean and fine. A thin, sharp dagger, long enough to reach the heart. And a firm stroke, in deep and out clean before he could bleed. The flow of blood came later as he lay, he left the mark outlined on the flagstones under him. And now, third, tell me how his open enemy can have approached him so close, and de Soulis with sword and poniard ready to hand. He would have had his blade out as soon as he saw his adversary nearing, long before ever he came within dagger range. Is that good sense, or no?”
“Good sense enough,” Philip allowed, “so far as it goes.”
“It goes to the heart of the matter. Brien de Soulis bore arms, he had no mind to be present at Compline, he had another assignation that night. He waited in a carrel of the cloister, and came forth into the walk when he heard and saw his man approaching. A quiet time, with everyone else in the church, a time for private conference with no witnesses. Not with an avowed enemy, but with a friend, someone trusted, someone who could walk up to him confidently, never suspected of any evil intent, and stab him to the heart. And walked away and left him lying, for a foolish young man to stumble over, and yell his discovery to the night, and put his neck in a noose.”
“His neck,” said Philip dryly, “is still unwrung. I have not yet determined what to do with him.”
“And I am making your decision no easier, I trust. For what I tell you is truth, and you cannot but recognize it, whether you will or no. And there is more yet to tell, and though it does not remove from Yves Hugonin all cause for hating Brien de Soulis, it does open the door to many another who may have better cause to hate him even more. Even among some he may formerly have counted his friends.”
“Go on,” said Philip equably. “I am still listening.”
“After you were gone, under the bishop’s supervision we put together all that belonged to de Soulis, to deliver to his brother. He had with him his personal seal, as was to be expected. You know the badge?”
“I know it. The swan and willow wands.”
“But we found also another seal, and another device. Do you also know this badge?” He had drawn the rolled leaf out of the breast of his habit, and leaned to flatten it upon the table, between Philip’s long muscular hands. “The original is with the bishop. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I have seen it,” said Philip with careful detachment. “One of de Soulis’s captains in the Faringdon garrison used it. I knew the man, though not well. His own raising, a good company he had. Geoffrey FitzClare, a half- brother to Gilbert de Clare of Hertford, the wrong side the sheets.”
“And you must have heard, I think, that Geoffrey FitzClare was thrown from his horse, and died of it, the day Faringdon was surrendered. He was said to have ridden for Cricklade during the night, after he had affixed his seal, like all the other captains who had their own followings within, to the surrender. He did not return. De Soulis and a few with him went out next day to look for him, and brought him home in a litter. Before night they told the garrison he was dead.”
“I do know of this,” said Philip, his voice for the first time tight and wary. “A very ill chance. He never reached me. I heard of it only afterwards.”
“And you were not expecting him? You had not sent for him?”
Philip was frowning now, his level black brows knotted tightly above the deep eyes. “No. There was no need. De Soulis had full powers. There is more to this. What is it you are saying?”
“I am saying that it was convenient he should die by accident so aptly, the day after his seal was added to the agreement that handed over Faringdon to King Stephen. If, indeed, he did not die in the night, before some other hand impressed his seal there. For there are those, and I have spoken with one of them, who will swear that Geoffrey FitzClare never would have consented to that surrender, had he still had voice to cry out or hand to lift and prevent. And if voice and hand had been raised against it, his men within, and maybe more than his would have fought on his side, and Faringdon would never have been taken.”
“You are saying,” said Philip, brooding, “that his death was no accident. And that it was another, not he, who affixed that seal to the surrender with all the rest. After the man was dead.”
“That is what I am saying. Since he would never have set it there himself, nor let it go into other hands while he lived. And his consent was essential, to convince the garrison. I think he died as soon as the thing was broached to him, and he condemned it. There was no time to lose.”
“Yet they rode out next day, to look for him, and brought him back to Faringdon openly, before the garrison.”
“Wrapped in cloaks, in a litter. No doubt his men saw him pass, saw the recognizable face plainly. But they never saw him close. They were never shown the body after they were told that he had died. A dead man in the night can very easily be carried out to be somewhere in hiding, against his open return next day. The postern that was opened to let the king’s negotiators in could as well let FitzClare’s dead body out, to some hiding-place in the woods. And how else, for what purpose,” said Cadfael heavily, “should FitzClare’s seal go with Brien de Soulis to Coventry, and be found in his saddlebag there.”
Philip rose abruptly from his seat, and rounded the table sharply to pace across the room. He moved in silence, with a kind of contained violence, as if his mind was forcing his body into motion as the only means of relief from the smouldering turmoil within. He quartered the room like a prowling cat, and came to rest at length with clenched fists braced on the heavy chest in the darkest corner, his back turned to Cadfael and the source of light. His stillness was as tense as his pacing, and he was silent for long moments. When he turned, it was clear from the bright composure of his face that he had come to a reconciliation with everything he had heard.
“I knew nothing of all this. If it is truth, as my blood in me says it is truth, I had no hand in it, nor never would have allowed it.”
“I never thought it,” said Cadfael. “Whether the surrender was at your wish, no, at your decree!, I neither know nor ask, but no, you were not there, whatever was done was done at de Soulis’s orders. Perhaps by de Soulis’s hand. It would not be easy to get four other captains, with followings to be risked, to connive at murder. Better to draw him aside, man to man, and give out that he had been sent to confer with you at Cricklade, while one or two who had no objection to murder secretly conveyed away a dead man and the horse he was said to be riding on his
