“And you don’t even know what he looks like-nothing but merely his age? You’re hunting for a spectre!”
“What is lost can always be found, it needs only enough patience.” Olivier’s hawk’s face, beaked and passionate, did not suggest patience, but the set of his lips was stubborn and pure in absolute resolution.
“Well, at least,” said Hugh, considering, “we may go down to see Saint Winifred brought home to her altar, tomorrow, and Brother Denis can run through the roster of his pilgrims for us, and point out any who are of the right age and kind, solitary or not. As for strangers here in the town, I fancy Provost Corviser should be able to put his finger on most of them. Every man knows every man in Shrewsbury. But the abbey is the more likely refuge, if he’s here at all.” He pondered, gnawing a thoughtful lip. “I must send the ring down to the abbot at first light, and let him know what’s happened to his truant guests, but before I may go down to the feast myself I must send out a dozen men and have them beat the near reaches of the woods to westward for our game birds. If they’re over the border, so much the worse for Wales, and I can do no more, but I doubt if they intend to live wild any longer than they need. They may not go far. How if I should leave you with the provost, to pick his brains for your quarry here within the town, while I go hunting for mine? Then we’ll go down together to see the brothers bring their saint home, and talk to Brother Denis concerning the list of his guests.”
“That would suit me well,” said Olivier gladly. “I should like to pay my respects to the lord abbot, I do recall seeing him in Winchester, though he would not notice me. And there was a brother of that house, if you recall,” he said, his golden eyes veiled within long black lashes that swept his fine cheekbones, “who was with you at Bromfield and up on Clee, that time… You must know him well. He is still here at the abbey?”
“He is. He’ll be back in his bed now after Lauds. And you and I had better be thinking of seeking ours, if we’re to be busy tomorrow.”
“He was good to my lord’s young kinsfolk,” said Olivier. “I should like to see him again.”
No need to ask for a name, thought Hugh, eyeing him with a musing smile. And indeed, should he know the name? He had not mentioned any, when he spoke of one who was no blood-kin, but who had used him like a son, one for whose sake he kept a kindness for the Benedictine habit.
“You shall!” said Hugh, and rose in high content to marshal his guest to the bedchamber prepared for him.
Chapter Eight.
ABBOT RADULFUS was up long before Prime on the festal morning, and so were his obedientiaries, all of whom had their important tasks in preparation for the procession. When Hugh’s messenger presented himself at the abbot’s lodging the dawn was still fresh, dewy and cool, the light lying brightly across the roofs while the great court lay in lilac-tinted shadow. In the gardens every tree and bush cast a long band of shade, striping the flower beds like giant brush-strokes in some gilded illumination.
The abbot received the ring with astonished pleasure, relieved of one flaw that might have marred the splendour of the day. “And you say these malefactors were guests in our halls, all four? We are well rid of them, but if they are armed, as you say, and have taken to the woods close by, we shall need to warn our travellers, when they leave us.”
“My lord Beringar has a company out beating the edges of the forest for them this moment,” said the messenger. “There was nothing to gain by following them in the dark, once they were in cover. But by daylight we’ll hope to trace them. One we have safe in hold, he may tell us more about them, where they’re from, and what they have to answer for elsewhere. But at least now they can’t hinder your festivities.”
“And for that I’m devoutly thankful. As this man Ciaran will certainly be for the recovery of his ring.” He added, with a glance aside at the breviary that lay on his desk, and a small frown for the load of ceremonial that lay before him for the next few hours: “Shall we not see the lord sheriff here for Mass this morning?”
“Yes, Father, he does intend it, and he brings a guest also. He had first to set this hunt in motion, but before Mass they will be here.”
“He has a guest?”
“An envoy from the empress’s court came last night, Father. A man of Laurence d’Angers’ household, Olivier de Bretagne.”
The name that had meant nothing to Hugh meant as little to Radulfus, though he nodded recollection and understanding at mention of the young man’s overlord. “Then will you say to Hugh Beringar that I beg he and his guest will remain after Mass, and dine with me here. I should be glad to make the acquaintance of Messire de Bretagne, and hear his news.”
“I will so tell him, Father,” said the messenger, and forthwith took his leave.
Left alone in his parlour, Abbot Radulfus stood for a moment looking down thoughtfully at the ring in his palm. The sheltering hand of the bishop-legate would certainly be a powerful protection to any traveller so signally favoured, wherever there existed any order or respect for law, whether in England or Wales. Only those already outside the pale of law, with lives or liberty already forfeit if taken, would defy so strong a sanction. After this crowning day many of the guests here would be leaving again for home. He must not forget to give due warning, before they dispersed, that malefactors might be lurking at large in the woods to westward, and that they were armed, and all too handy at using their daggers. Best that the pilgrims should make sure of leaving in companies stout enough to discourage assault.
Meantime, there was satisfaction in returning to one pilgrim, at least, his particular armour.
The abbot rang the little bell that lay upon his desk, and in a few moments Brother Vitalis came to answer the summons.
“Will you enquire at the guest-hall, brother, for the man called Ciaran, and bid him here to speak with me?”
Brother Cadfael had also risen well before Prime, and gone to open his workshop and kindle his brazier into cautious and restrained life, in case it should be needed later to prepare tisanes for some ecstatic souls carried away by emotional excitement, or warm applications for weaker vessels trampled in the crowd. He was used to the transports of simple souls caught up in far from simple raptures.
He had a few things to tend to, and was happy to deal with them alone. Young Oswin was entitled to his fill of sleep until the bell awoke him. Very soon now he would graduate to the hospital of Saint Giles, where the reliquary of Saint Winifred now lay, and the unfortunates who carried their contagion with them, and might not be admitted into the town, could find rest, care and shelter for as long as they needed it. Brother Mark, that dearly-missed disciple, was gone from there now, already ordained deacon, his eyes fixed ahead upon his steady goal of priesthood. If ever he cast a glance over his shoulder, he would find nothing but encouragement and affection, the
