of the tower of the collegiate church just showed among the branches, with one corner of a roof. The rest of the village and the demesne lay beyond. Richard approached the shelter of the trees cautiously, and dismounted in cover to peer through at the shallow spread of the water round a small island, and the path that came down from the village to the ford. He heard the voices before he reached a clear view, and halted to listen acutely, hoping the speakers would pass towards the village and leave his path clear. Two women, chattering and laughing, and an accompanying light splashing in the edge of the water, and then a man’s voice, equally idle and easy, teasing and chaffing the girls. Richard ventured closer, until he could see the speakers clearly, and halted with an indrawn breath of exasperation and dismay.
The women had been washing linen, and had it spread on the low bushes to dry, and since the day was not cold, and since they had been joined by a young and not unattractive companion, they were in no hurry to leave the shore. Richard did not know the women, but the man he knew only too well, though not his name. This big, red- haired, strutting young gamecock was Astley’s foreman on the demesne farm, and one of the two who had encountered and recognised Richard in the woods, trotting home to the abbey in haste, and taken advantage of the hour and the solitude to do their lord a favour. Those same muscular arms which were now making free with one of the giggling laundresses had hoisted Richard ignominiously out of the saddle, and held him kicking and raging over a thick shoulder that might have been made of oak for all the effect his belabouring fists had on it, until the other miscreant had stopped the boy’s mouth with his own capuchon, and pinioned his arms with his own reins. That same night, when it was fully dark, past midnight and all honest folk in their beds, the same trusted pair had bundled him away to the more distant manor for safekeeping. Richard remembered these indignities bitterly. And now here was this very fellow getting in his way once again, for he could not ride out of cover and make for the ford without passing close and being recognised, and almost certainly recaptured.
There was nothing to be done but draw back into deeper cover and wait for them all to go away, back to the village and the manor. No hope of circling Wroxeter by a wider way and continuing on this north bank of the river, he was already too close to the edge of the village and all the approaches were open to view. And he was losing time, and without reasoning why, he felt that time was vital. He lost an hour there, gnawing his knuckles in desperate frustration and watching for the first move. Even when the women did decide to take up their washing and make for home they were in no hurry about it, but dawdled away up the path still bantering and laughing with the young man who strode between them. Only when their voices had faded into silence, and no other soul stirred about the ford, did Richard venture out from cover and spur his pony splashing down into the shallows.
The ford was smooth going in the first stretch, sandy and shallow, then the path trod dry-shod over the tip of the island, and again plunged into the long passage beyond, a wide archipelago of small, sandy shoals, dimpling and gleaming with the soft, circuitous motion of the water. In mid-passage Richard drew rein for a moment to look back, for the broad, innocent expanse of green meadows oppressed him with a feeling of nakedness and apprehension. Here he could be seen from a mile or more away, a small dark figure on horseback, defenceless and vulnerable, against a landscape all moist, pearly light and pale colours.
And there, riding at a gallop towards the ford, on the same path by which he had come, distant and small still but all too purposefully riding after him, came a single horseman on a big, light-grey horse, Fulke Astley in determined pursuit of his truant son-in-law.
Richard shot through the shallows in a flurry of spray, and was off in a desperate hurry through the wet meadows, heading west for the track that would bring him in somewhat over four miles to Saint Giles, and the last straight run to the abbey gatehouse. Over a mile to go before he could find cover in the undulating ground and the scattered groves of trees, but even then he could not hope to shake off the pursuit now that he had been sighted, as surely he must have been. And his pony was no match for that raking dappled beast behind him. But speed was the only hope he had. He still had a fair start, even if he had lost the best of it waiting to cross the ford. He dug in his heels and set his teeth and made for Shrewsbury as if wolves were at his heels.
The ground rose, folded in low hills, dotted with trees and slopes of bushes, hiding hunted and hunter from each other, but the distance between them must be shortening, and where the track ran level and unsheltered for a while Richard stole an uneasy glance over his shoulder, glimpsed his enemy again, nearer than before, and paid for his momentary inattention with another fall, though this time he clung to the reins and saved himself both the worst of the shock and the effort of catching his pony again. Muddied and bruised and furious with himself, he scrambled headlong back into the saddle and rode wildly on, feeling Astley’s fixed stare as a dagger in his back. It was fortunate that the pony was Welsh-bred and sturdy, and had been some days spoiling for exercise, and that the weight he carried was so light, but even so the pace was unkind, and Richard knew it and fretted over it, but could not slacken it. By the time the fence of Saint Giles came in sight, and the track broadened into a road, he could hear the hooves pounding somewhere behind him. But for that he might have turned in there for refuge, since the leper hospice was manned and served by the abbey, and Brother Oswin would not have surrendered him to anyone unless on the abbot’s orders. But by then there was no time to halt or turn aside.
Richard crouched low and galloped on along the Foregate, every moment expecting to see Fulke Astley’s massive shadow cast across his quarter, and a big hand stretching out to grasp his bridle. Round the corner of the abbey wall now, and pounding along the straight stretch to the gatehouse, scattering the craftsmen and cottagers just ending their day’s work and turning homeward, and the children and dogs playing in the highway.
There was barely five yards between them when Richard swung recklessly in at the gatehouse.
At Vespers that evening there were several worshippers from the guest hall, as Cadfael noted from his place in the choir. Rafe of Coventry was present, taciturn and unobtrusive as ever, and even Aymer Bosiet, after his day’s activities in pursuit of his elusive property, had put in a morose and grim appearance, possibly to pray for a reliable lead from heaven. By the look of him he had weighty matters on his mind, since he was frowning over them all through Vespers, like a man trying to make up his mind. Perhaps the necessity to remain on good terms with his mother’s powerful kin was urging him to hasten home at once with Drogo’s body, and show some signs of family piety. Perhaps the thought of a subtle younger brother, there on the spot and fully capable of mischief for his own advancement, might also be arguing for the abandonment of a wild-goose chase in favour of a certain inheritance.
Whatever his preoccupations, he provided one more witness to the scene that confronted brothers and guests when the office was over, and they emerged by the south door and passed along the west range of the cloister into the great court, to disperse there to their various preparations for supper. Abbot Radulfus was just stepping out into the court, with Prior Robert and the whole procession of the brothers following, when the evening quiet was broken by the headlong thud of hooves along the beaten earth of the roadway outside the gatehouse, turning abruptly to a steely clatter on the cobbles within, as a stout black pony hurtled in past the gatehouse without stopping, slithering and stamping on the stones, closely followed by a tall grey horse. The rider on the grey was a big, fleshy, bearded man, crimson-faced with anger or haste, or both together, leaning forward to snatch at the bridle of the boy who rode the pony. The two of them had shot a matter of twenty yards or so into the centre of the court when his outstretched hand reached the rein, and hauled both mounts to a sliding, snorting halt, lathered and trembling. He had secured the pony, but not the boy, who let out a yell of alarm, and abandoning his reins, rather fell than dismounted on the other side, and fled like a homing bird to the abbot’s feet, where he stumbled and fell flat on his face, and winding his arms desperately round the abbot’s ankles, wailed out an indistinguishable appeal into the skirts of the black habit and hung on tightly, half expecting to be plucked away by force, and certain no one could prevent it, if the attempt was made, except for this erect and stable rock to which he clung.
The quiet which had been so roughly shattered had settled again with startling suddenness on the great court. Radulfus raised his intent and austere stare from the small figure hugging his ankles to the stout and confident man
