Philip’s tired chaplain stumbled his way through Vespers, and Cadfael did his best to concentrate his mind on worship. Somewhere between here and Cirencester, perhaps by now even safe in the Augustinian abbey there, Olivier nursed and guarded his captor turned prisoner, friend turned enemy, call that relationship what you would, it remained ever more fixed and inviolable the more it turned about. As long as they remained in touch, each of them would be keeping the other’s back against the world, even when they utterly failed to understand each other.
Neither do I understand, thought Cadfael, but there is no need that I should. I trust, I respect and I love. Yet I have abandoned and left behind me what most I trust, respect and love, and whether I can ever get back to it again is more than I know. The assay is all. My son is free, whole, in the hand of God, I have delivered him, and he has delivered his friend, and what remains broken between them must mend. They have no need of me. And I have needs, oh, God, how dear, and my years are dwindling to a few, and my debt is grown from a hillock to a mountain, and my heart leans to home.
“May our fasts be acceptable to you, Lord, we entreat: and by expiating our sins make us worthy of your grace…”
Yes, amen! After all, the long journey here has been blessed. If the long journey home proves wearisome, and ends in rejection, shall I cavil at the price?
The empress entered La Musarderie the next day in sombre state and a vile temper, though by then she had herself in hand. Her blackly knotted brows even lightened a little as she surveyed the prize she had won, and reconciled herself grudgingly to writing off what was lost.
Cadfael watched her ride in, and conceded perforce that, mounted or afoot, she was a regal figure. Even in displeasure she had an enduring beauty, tall and commanding. When she chose to charm, she could be irresistible, as she had been to many a lad like Yves, until he felt the lash of her steel.
She came nobly mounted and magnificently attired, and with a company at her back, outriders on either side of herself and her women. Cadfael remembered the two gentlewomen who had attended her at Coventry, and had remained in attendance in Gloucester. The elder must be sixty, and long widowed, a tall, slender person with the remains of a youthful grace that had lasted well beyond its prime, but was now growing a little angular and lean, as her hair was silvering almost into white. The girl Isabeau, her niece, in spite of the many years between them, bore a strong likeness to her aunt, so strong that she probably presented a close picture of what Jovetta de Montors had been in her girlhood. And a vital and attractive picture it was. A number of personable young men had admired it at Coventry.
The women halted in the courtyard, and FitzGilbert and half a dozen of his finest vied to help them down from the saddle and escort them to the apartments prepared for them. La Musarderie had a new chatelaine in place of its castellan.
And where was that castellan now, and how faring? If Philip had lived through the journey, surely he would live. And Olivier? While there was doubt, Olivier would not leave him.
Meantime, here was Yves lighting down and leading away his horse into the stables, and as soon as he was free he would be looking for Cadfael. There was news to be shared, and Yves must be hungry for it.
They sat together on the narrow bed in Cadfael’s cell, as once before, sharing between them everything that had happened since they had parted beside the crabbed branches of the vine, with the guard pacing not twenty yards away.
“I heard yesterday, of course,” said Yves, flushed with wonder and excitement, “that Philip was gone, vanished away like mist. But how, how was it possible? If he was so gravely hurt, and could not stand…? She is saved from breaking with the earl, and… and worse… So much has been saved. But how? He was somewhat incoherent in his gratitude for such mercies, but grave indeed the moment he came to speak of Olivier. “And, Cadfael, what has happened to Olivier? I thought to see him among the others in hall. I asked Bohun’s steward after any prisoners, and he said what prisoners, there were none found here. So where can he be? Philip told us he was here.”
“And Philip does not lie,” said Cadfael, repeating what was evidently an article of faith with those who knew Philip, even among his enemies. “No, true enough, he does not lie. He told us truth. Olivier was here, deep under one of the towers. As for where he is now, if all has gone well, as why should it not?, he has friends in these parts!, he should be now in Cirencester, at the abbey of the Augustinians.”
“You helped him to break free, even before the surrender? But then, why go? Why should he leave when FitzGilbert and the empress were here at the gates? His own people?”
“I did not rescue him,” said Cadfael patiently. “When he was wounded and knew he might die, Philip took thought for his garrison, and ordered Camville to get the best terms he could for them, at the least life and liberty, and surrender the castle.”
“Knowing there would be no mercy for himself?” said Yves, “Knowing what she had in mind for him, as you instructed me,” said Cadfael, “and knowing she would let all others go, to get her hands on him. Yes. Moreover, he took thought also for Olivier. He gave me the keys, and sent me to set him free. And so I did, and together with Olivier I have, I trust, despatched Philip FitzRobert safely to the monks of Cirencester, where by God’s grace I hope he may recover from his wounds.”
“But how? How did you get him out of the gates, with her troops already on guard there? And he? Would he even consent?”
“He had no choice,” said Cadfael. “He was in his right senses only long enough to dispose of his own life in a bargain for his men’s lives. He was sunk deep out of them when I shrouded him, and carried him out among the dead. Oh, not Olivier, not then. It was one of the marshall’s own men helped me carry him. Olivier had slipped out by night when the besiegers drew off, and gone to get a cart from the mill, and under the noses of the guards he and the miller from Winstone came to claim the body of a kinsman, and were given leave to take it freely.”
“I wish I had been with you,” said Yves reverently.
“Child, I was glad you were not. You had done your part, I thanked God there was one of you safe out of all this perilous play. No matter now, it’s well done, and if I have sent Olivier away, I have you for this day, at least. The worst has been prevented. In this life that is often the best that can be said, and we must accept it as enough.” He was suddenly very weary, even in this moment of release and content.
“Olivier will come back,” said Yves, warm and eager against his shoulder, “and there is Ermina in Gloucester, waiting for him and for you. By now she will be near her time. There may be another godson for you.” He did not know, not yet, that the child would be even closer than that, kin in the blood as well as the soul. “You have come so far already, you should come home with us, stay with us, where you are dearly valued. A few days borrowed, what sin is there in that?”
But Cadfael shook his head, reluctantly but resolutely.
