‘My lord Beringar…’ It was Eliud who spoke for them, the quiet, the solemn, the earnest one. ‘You’re moving to the border? There’s threat of war? Is it with Wales?’ To the border, yes,’ said Hugh easily,’there to meet with the prince of Gwynedd. The same that bade you and all your company here bear your souls in patience and work with me for justice concerning the matter you know of. No, never fret! Owain Gwynedd lets me know that both he and I have a common interest in the north of this shire, and a common enemy trying his luck there. Wales is in no danger from me and my shire, I believe, in no danger from Wales. At least,’ he added, reconsidering briskly, ‘not from Gwynedd.’ The cousins looked along wide, straight shoulders at each other, measuring thoughts. Elis said abruptly: ‘My lord, but keep an eye to Powys. They… we,’ he corrected in a gasp of disgust, ‘we went to Lincoln under the banner of Chester. If it’s Chester now, they’ll know in Caus as soon as you move north. They may think it time… think it safe… The ladies there at Godric’s Ford…’ ‘A parcel of silly women,’ said Cadfael musingly into his cowl, but audibly, ‘and old and ugly into the bargain.’ The round, ingenuous face under the tangle of black curls flamed from neck to brow, but did not lower its eyes or lose its fixed intensity. ‘I’m confessed and shriven of all manner of follies,’ said Elis sturdily,’that among them. Only do keep a watch on them! I mean it! That failure will rankle, they may still venture.’ ‘I had thought of it,’ said Hugh patiently. ‘I have no mind to strip this border utterly of men.’ The boy’s blush faded and flamed anew. ‘Pardon!’ he said. ‘It is your field. Only I do know… It will have gone deep, that rebuff.’ Eliud plucked at his cousin’s arm, drawing him back. They withdrew some paces without withdrawing their twin, troubled gaze. At the gate of the stables they turned, still with one last glance over their shoulders, and went away still linked, as one disconsolate creature.
‘Christ!’ said Hugh on a blown breath, looking after them. And I with less men than I should like, if truth be told, and that green child to warn me! As if I do not know I take chances now with every breath I draw and every archer I move. Should I ask him how a man spreads half a company across three times a company’s span?’ ‘Ah, but he would have your whole force drawn up between Godric’s Ford and his own countrymen,’ said Cadfael tolerantly. ‘The girl he fancies is there. I doubt if he cares so much what happens to Oswestry or Whitchurch, provided the Long Forest is left undisturbed. They’ve neither of them given you any trouble?’ ‘Good as gold! Not a step even into the shadow of the gate.’ It was said with casual certainty. Cadfael drew his own conclusions. Hugh had someone commissioned to watch every move the two prisoners made, and knew all that they did, if not all that they said, from dawn to dark, and if ever one of them did advance a foot over the threshold, his toes would be promptly and efficiently trampled on. Unless, of course, it was more important to follow, and find out with what intent he broke his parole. But when Hugh was in the north, who was to say his deputy would maintain the same unobtrusive watch?
‘Who is it you’re leaving in charge here?’ ‘Young Alan Herbard. But Will Warden will have a hand on his shoulder. Why, do you expect a bolt for it as soon as my back’s turned?’ By the tone of his voice Hugh was in no great anxiety on that score. ‘There’s no absolute certainty in any man, when it comes to it, but those two have been schooled under Owain, and measure themselves by him, and by and large I’d take their word.’ So thought Cadfael, too. Yet it’s truth that to any man may come the one extreme moment when he turns his back on his own nature and goes the contrary way. Cadfael caught one more glimpse of the cousins as he turned for home and passed through the outer ward. They were up on the guard, walk of the curtain wall, leaning together in one of the wide embrasures between the merlons, and gazing clean across the busy wards of the castle into the hazy distance beyond the town, on the road to Wales. Eliud’s arm was about Elis’s shoulders, to settle them comfortably into the space, and the two faces were close together and equally intent and reticent. Cadfael went back through the town with that dual likeness before his mind’s eye, curiously memorable and deeply disturbing. More than ever they looked to him like mirror images, where left and right were interchangeable, the bright side and the dark side of the same being.
Sybilla Prestcote departed, her son on his stout brown pony at her elbow, her train of servants and pack, horses stirring the March mire which the recent east winds were drying into fine dust. Hugh’s advance party had left at dawn, he and his main body of archers and men, at, arms followed at noon, and the commissariat wagons creaked along the northern road between the two groups, soon overhauled and left behind on the way to Oswestry. In the castle a somewhat nervous Alan Herbard, son of a knight and eager for office, mounted scrupulous guard and made every round of his responsibilities twice, for fear he had missed something the first time. He was athletic, fairly skilled in arms, but of small experience as yet, and well aware that any one of the sergeants Hugh had left behind was better equipped for the task in hand than he. They knew it, too, but spared him the too obvious demonstration of it.
A curious quiet descended on town and abbey with the departure of half the garrison, as though nothing could now happen here. The Welsh prisoners were condemned to boredom in captivity, the quest for Gilbert’s murderer was at a standstill, there was nothing to be done but go on with the daily routine of work and leisure and worship, and wait.
And think, since action was suspended. Cadfael found himself thinking all the more steadily and deeply about the two missing pieces that held the whole puzzle together, Einon ab Ithel’s gold pin, which he remembered very clearly, and that mysterious cloth which he had never seen, but which had stifled a man and urged him out of the world.
But was it so certain that he had never seen it? Never consciously, yet it had been here, here within the enclave, within the infirmary, within that room. It had been here, and now was not. And the search for it had been begun the same day, and the gates had been closed to all men attempting departure from the moment the death was discovered. How long an interval did that leave? Between the withdrawal of the brothers into the refectory and the finding of Gilbert dead, any man might have walked out by the gatehouse unquestioned. A matter of nearly two hours. That was one possibility.
The second possibility, thought Cadfael honestly, is that both cloth and pin are still here, somewhere within the enclave, but so well hidden that all our searching has not uncovered them.
And the third, he had been mulling it over in his mind all day, and repeatedly discarding it as a pointless aberration, but still it came back insistently, the one loophole. Yes, Hugh had put a guard on the gate from the moment the crime was known, but three people had been let out, all the same, the three who could not possibly have killed, since they had been in the abbot’s company and Hugh’s throughout. Einon ab Ithel and his two captains had ridden back to Owain Gwynedd. They had not taken any particle of guilt with them, yet they might unwittingly have taken evidence.
Three possibilities, and surely it might be worth examining even the third and most tenuous. He had lived with the other two for some days, and pursued them constantly, and all to no purpose. And for those countrymen of his penned in the castle, and for abbot and prior and brothers here, and for the dead man’s family, there would be no true peace of mind until the truth was known.
Before Compline Cadfael took his trouble, as he had done many times before, to Abbot Radulfus.
‘Either the cloth is still here among us, Father, but so well hidden that all our searching has failed to find it, or else it has been taken out of our walls by someone who left in the short time between the hour of dinner and the discovery of the sheriff’s death, or by someone who left, openly and with sanction, after that discovery. From that time Hugh Beringar has had a watch kept on all who left the enclave. For those who may have passed through the gates before the death was known, I think they must be few indeed, for the time was short, and the porter did name three, all good folk of the Foregate on parish business, and all have been visited and are clearly blameless. That there may be others I do concede, but he has called no more to mind.’ ‘We know,’ said the abbot thoughtfully, ‘of three who left that same afternoon, to return to Wales, being by absolute proof clear of all blame. Also of one,
