The abbot looked at Gilbert Prestcote, who met the glance with a considering smile. There was no great urgency now, the fellow was trapped, and could not escape. There was nothing to be lost by conceding the abbot’s prior authority here. “I bow to your wishes in the matter, Father, but I maintain my claim to this man’s person. He is charged with theft and murder, and it is my duty to hold him fast and produce him in time for trial on those charges. And so I shall?unless he can satisfy both you and me, here and now, of his innocence. But let all be done openly and fairly. Question him, if you so please. It would be helpful also to me. I would prefer to turn the key on a manifestly guilty man, and have your own doubts, if you entertain any, set at rest.”
Iveta was on her feet by then, running anxious eyes over every face that showed fitfully in the flickering light. Horsemen were still riding in one by one at the gatehouse, and staring in open-mouthed wonder at the scene within. She caught sight of Simon at the back of the crowd, newly arrived and startled and bewildered like the rest, and Guy behind him, just as dumbfounded. Not everyone here was an enemy. When she met the sharp black eyes of Agnes, there at Prior Robert’s shoulder as they had emerged from Vespers, she did not lower her own eyes. This time she had ventured so far out of her old self that there could be no returning. It was not she who showed uneasiness, not she who punctuated a glare of naked dislike with frequent and hurried glances towards the gatehouse, noting each new arrival, and unsatisfied with all. Agnes was waiting and hoping for her husband to come, and resume his authoritative role, which in his absence she felt slipping out of her own fingers. Agnes was afraid of what might yet transpire here while her lord was not there to master it.
Iveta began to descend the steps up which she had groped blindly at Joscelin’s entreaty. Very slowly and stealthily she came, stair by stair, not to break the tension below.
“You must be aware,” said Radulfus, surveying Joscelin with face still as grave, but not now so angry, “that you have been sought by the law ever since your escape into the river, after arrest. You have said you will answer truthfully for your actions. Where have you been hiding all this time?”
Joscelin had promised truth, and must deliver it. “Under a leper’s cloak and veil,” he said bluntly, “in the hospital at Saint Giles.”
A stir and murmur went round the great court, almost a gasp. Guests and brothers alike stared in awe at a creature so desperate as to choose such an asylum. The abbot neither gasped nor stirred, but accepted the answer gravely, his eyes intent on Joscelin’s face.
“Into that sanctuary, I think, you could hardly have penetrated without help. Who was it stretched out a hand to you?”
“I have said I was in hiding there,” said Joscelin steadily. “I have not said I needed or received any help. I answer for my own actions, not for those of others.”
“Yes,” said the abbot thoughtfully, “it seems there were others. For instance, I doubt if you thought to hide on your own lord’s premises, as it seems for a while you did, without having a friend willing to give you cover. Also, as I remember, that gray horse I observed being led out of the garden just now?there he stands under guard, like you?is the one you rode when we encountered here once before. Did you recover possession of him without help? I doubt it.”
Iveta glanced over Joscelin’s shoulder to where Simon stood, and saw him draw back a pace into deeper shadow. He need not have had any qualms. Joscelin closed his mouth very firmly, met the abbot’s measuring stare without blinking, and suddenly, though still doubtfully, he smiled. “Ask me of my own deeds.”
“It seems,” interrupted the sheriff sharply, “that we have need of someone in authority at Saint Giles. It’s a serious matter to hide a wanted murderer.”
From the rear of the crowd in the direction of the gardens, a deprecating voice piped up none too happily: “Father Abbot, if it please you, I am willing to speak for Saint Giles, for I serve there.”
Every head turned, all eyes opening wide in astonishment at the sorry little figure advancing meekly to stand before Radulfus. Brother Mark’s face was smudged with mud, a trailing wisp of pond-weed adorned his straggling tonsure, his habit trickled water from its skirts at every step, and clung to his thin body in heavy, dripping folds. He was ridiculous enough, and yet the soiled, earnest face and devoted gray eyes had still a bedraggled dignity, and if there were some half-hysterical grins and sniggers among the throng at sight of him, Radulfus was not smiling.
“Brother Mark! What can this mean?”
“It took me a long time to find a fordable place,” said Mark apologetically. “I am sorry I come so late. I had no horse to carry me over, and I cannot swim. I had to draw back twice, and once I fell, but at the third try I found the shallow place. By daylight it would not have taken so long.”
“We pardon your lateness,” said Radulfus gravely, and for all the composure of his voice and his face, it was no longer quite so certain that he was not smiling. “It seems you had reason to feel you might be needed here, for you come very aptly, if you come to account for how a wanted man came to find refuge in the hospital. Did you know of this young man’s presence there?”
“Yes, Father,” said Brother Mark simply, “I did know.” “And was it you who introduced and sheltered him there?” “No, Father. But I did come to realize, at Prime of that day, that we had one man more among us.”
“And held your peace? And countenanced his presence?” “Yes, Father, that I did. At first I did not know who he was, nor could I always single him out from others of our flock, for he wore the face-cloth. And when I suspected … Father, I do not own any man’s life, to give it up to any but God’s judgment. So I held my peace. If I was wrong, judge me.”
“And do you know,” asked the abbot impassively, “who it was who introduced the young man into the hospice?”
“No, Father. I do not even know that anyone did. I may have some thoughts as to that, but I do not know. But if I did,” owned Mark with candid-eyed humility, “I could not give you a name. It is not for me to accuse or betray any man but myself.”
“You are two here of like mind,” said the abbot drily. “But you have yet to tell us, Brother Mark, how you come to be fording the Meole brook, on the heels, as I understand it?if, indeed, I have yet understood any part of it!?of this young fugitive, who was sensible enough to provide himself with a horse for the venture. Had you been following him?”
“Yes, Father. For I knew I might be answerable for harboring one less innocent and good than I thought him?for which thought I promise I had good reason. So all this day I have watched him. He has hardly been a moment out of my sight. And when he discarded his cloak in the dusk, and set off this way, I did follow him. I saw him find his horse tethered in the copse across the brook, and I saw him cross. I was in the water when I heard the outcry after him. As for this day I can speak for all he has done, and there was no blame.”
