One Corpse Too Many (22 page)

“I brought Brother Cadfael here with me tonight,” said the abbot, and looked about for him helplessly.

“I am here, Father Abbot,” said Cadfael from below the dais, and advanced to be seen, his arms about the shoulders of the boy, now totally fascinated, all eyes and ears.

“Do you bear out what Beringar says?” demanded King Stephen. “You found this stone where the man was slain?”

“Yes, your Grace. Trampled into the earth, where plainly there had been a struggle, and two bodies rolling upon the ground.”

“And whose word have we that it comes from a dagger once belonging to Mistress Siward’s brother? Though I grant you it should be easy enough to recognise, once known.”

“The word of Lady Aline herself. It has been shown to her, and she has recognised it.”

“That is fair witness enough,” said the king, “that whoever is the thief may well be the murderer, also. But why it should follow that either you or Beringar here suppose him to be Adam, that for my life I cannot see. There’s never a thread to join him to the dagger or the deed. You might as well cast round here among us, and pick on Bishop Robert of Salisbury, or any one of the squires down below there. Or prick your knife-point into a list of us with eyes closed. Where is the logic?”

“I am glad,” said Courcelle, darkly red and forcing a strained laughter, “that your Grace puts so firm a finger on the crux of the matter. With goodwill I can go along with this good brother to condemn a mean theft and a furtive killing, but, Beringar, beware how you connect me with either, or any other honest man. Follow your thread from this stone, by all means, if thread there is, but until you can trace this dagger into my hands, be careful how you toss challenges to mortal combat about you, young man, for they may be taken up, to your great consternation.”

“My gage is now lying upon the table,” said Hugh Beringar with implacable calm. “You have only to take it up. I have not withdrawn it.”

“My lord king,” said Cadfael, raising his voice to ride over the partisan whisperings and murmurings that were running like conflicting winds about the high table, “it is not the case that there is no witness to connect the dagger with any person. And for proof positive that stone and dagger belong together, here is the very weapon itself. I ask your Grace to match the two with your own hands.”

He held up the dagger, and Beringar at the edge of the dais took it from him, staring like a man in a dream, and handed it in awed silence to the king. The boy’s eyes followed it with possessive anxiety, Courcelle’s with stricken and unbelieving horror, as if a drowned victim had risen to haunt him. Stephen looked at the thing with an eye appreciative of its workmanship, slid out the blade with rising curiosity, and fitted the topaz in its silver claw to the jagged edge of the hilt.

“No doubt but this belongs. You have all seen?” And he looked down at Cadfael. “Where, then, did you come by this?”

“Speak up, child,” said Cadfael encouragingly, “and tell the king what you told to me.”

The boy was rosy and shining with an excitement that had quite overridden his fear. He stood up and told his tale in a voice shrill with self-importance, but still in the simple words he had used to Cadfael, and there was no man there who could doubt he was telling the truth.

“… and I was by the bushes at the edge of the water, and he did not see me. But I saw him clearly. And as soon as he went away I dived in where it had fallen, and found it. I live by the river, I was born by it. My mother says I swam before I walked. I kept the knife, thinking no wrong, since he did not want it. And that is the very knife, my lord, and may I have it back when you are done?”

The king was diverted for a moment from the gravity of the cause that now lay in his hands, to smile at the flushed and eager child with all the good-humour and charm his nature was meant to dispense, if he had not made an ambitious and hotly contested bid for a throne, and learned the rough ways that go with such contests.

“So our fish tonight was gutted with a jewelled knife, was it, boy? Princely indeed! And it was good fish, too. Did you catch it, as well as dress it?”

Bashfully the boy said that he had helped.

“Well, you have done your part very fitly. And now, did you know this man who threw away the knife?”

“No, my lord, I don’t know his name. But I know him well enough when I see him.”

“And do you see him? Here in this hail with us now?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the child readily, and pointed a finger straight at Adam Courcelle. “That was the man.”

All eyes turned upon Courcelle, the king’s most dourly and thoughtfully of all, and there was a silence that lasted no more than a long-drawn breath, but seemed to shake the foundations of the hall, and stop every heart within its walls. Then Courcelle said, with arduous and angry calm:

“Your Grace, this is utterly false. I never had the dagger, I could not well toss it into the river. I deny that ever I had the thing in my possession, or ever saw it until now.”

“Are you saying,” asked the king drily, “that the child lies? At whose instigation? Not Beringar’s—it seems to me that he was as taken aback by this witness as I myself, or you. Am I to think the Benedictine order has procured the boy to put up such a story? And for what end?”

“I am saying, your Grace, that this is a foolish error. The boy may have seen what he says he saw, and got the dagger as he claims he got it, but he is mistaken in saying he saw me. I am not the man. I deny all that has been said against me.”

“And I maintain it,” said Hugh Beringar. “And I ask that it be put to the proof.”

The king crashed a fist upon the table so that the boards danced, and cups rocked and spilled wine. “There is something here to be probed, and I cannot let it pass now without probing it.” He turned again to the boy, and reined in his exasperation to ask more gently: “Think and look carefully, now, and say again: are you certain this is the man you saw? If you have any doubt, say so. It is no sin to be mistaken. You may have seen some other man of like build or colour. But if you are sure, say that also, without fear.”

“I am sure,” said the boy, trembling but adamant. “I know what I saw.”

The king leaned back in his great chair, and thumped his closed fists on the arms, and pondered. He looked at Hugh Beringar with grim displeasure: “It seems you have hung a millstone round my neck, when most I need to be free and to move fast. I cannot now wipe out what has been said, I must delve deeper. Either this case goes to the long processes of court law—no, not for you nor any will I now delay my going one day beyond the morrow’s morrow! I have made my plans, I cannot afford to change them.”

“There need be no delay,” said Beringar, “if your Grace countenances trial by combat. I have appealed Adam Courcelle of murder, I repeat that charge. If he accepts, I am ready to meet him without any ceremony or preparations. Your Grace may see the outcome tomorrow, and march on the following day, freed of this burden.”

Cadfael, during these exchanges, had not taken his eyes from Courcelle’s face, and marked with foreboding the signs of gradually recovered assurance. The faint sweat that had broken on his lip and brow dried, the stare of desperation cooled into calculation; he even began to smile. Since he was now cornered, and there were two ways out, one by long examination and questioning, one by simple battle, he was beginning to see in this alternative his own salvation. Cadfael could follow the measuring, narrowed glance that studied Hugh Beringar from head to foot, and understood the thoughts behind the eyes. Here was a younger man, lighter in weight, half a head shorter, much less in reach, inexperienced, over-confident, an easy victim. It should not be any problem to put him out of the world; and that done, Courcelle had nothing to fear. The judgment of heaven would have spoken, no one thereafter would point a finger at him, and Aline would be still within his reach, innocent of his dealings with her brother, and effectively separated from a too-engaging rival, without any blame to Courcelle, the wrongly accused. Oh, no, it was not so grim a situation, after all. It should work out very well.

He reached out along the table, picked up the topaz, and rolled it contemptuously back towards Beringar, to be retrieved and retained.

“Let it be so, your Grace. I accept battle, tomorrow, without formality, without need for practice. Your Grace shall march the following day,” And I with you, his confident countenance completed.

“So be it!” said the king grimly. “Since you’re bent on robbing me of one good man, between you, I suppose I may as well find and keep the better of the two. Tomorrow, then, at nine of the clock, after Mass. Not here within the wards, but in the open—the meadow outside the town gate, between road and river, will do well. Prestcote, you and Willem marshal the lists. See to it! And we’ll have no horses put at risk,” he said practically. “On foot, and with swords!”

Hugh Beringar bowed acquiescence. Courcelle said: “Agreed!” and smiled, thinking how much longer a reach and stronger a wrist he had for sword-play.

“A l’outrance!” said the king with a vicious snap, and rose from the table to put an end to a sullied evening’s entertainment.

Chapter Twelve

ON THE WAY BACK THROUGH THE STREETS OF THE TOWN, dark but not quite silent, somehow uneasily astir as if rats ran in a deserted house, Hugh Beringar on his rawboned grey drew alongside Brother Cadfael and walked his mount for some few minutes at their foot-pace, ignoring Brother Jerome’s close proximity and attentive ears as though they had not existed. In front, Abbot Heribert and Prior Robert conversed in low and harried tones, concerned for one life at stake, but unable to intervene. Two young men at bitter enmity had declared for a death. Once both contestants had accepted the odds, there was no retreating; he who lost had been judged by heaven. If he survived the sword, the gallows waited for him.

“You may call me every kind of fool,” said Beringar accommodatingly, “if it will give you any ease.” His voice had still its light, teasing intonation, but Cadfael was not deceived.

“It is not for me, of all men,” he said, “to blame, or pity—or even regret what you have done.”

“As a monk?” asked the mild voice, the smile in it perceptible to an attentive ear.

“As a man! Devil take you!”

“Brother Cadfael,” said Hugh heartily, “I do love you. You know very well you would have done the same in my place.”

“I would not! Not on the mere guess of an old fool I hardly knew! How if I had been wrong?”

“Ah, but you were not wrong! He is the man—doubly a murderer, for he delivered her poor coward brother to his death just as vilely as he throttled Faintree. Mind, never a word to Aline about this until all’s over—one way or the other.”

“Never a word, unless she speak the first. Do you think the news is not blown abroad all through this town by now?”

“I know it is, but I pray she is deep asleep long ago, and will not go forth to hear this or any news until she goes to High Mass at ten. By which time, who knows, we may have the answer to everything.”

“And you,” said Brother Cadfael acidly, because of the pain he felt, that must have some outlet, “will you now spend the night on your knees in vigil, and wear yourself out before ever you draw in the field?”

“I am not such a fool as all that,” said Hugh reprovingly, and shook a finger at his friend. “For shame, Cadfael! You are a monk, and cannot trust God to see right done? I shall go to bed and sleep well, and rise fresh to the trial. And now I suppose you will insist on being my deputy and advocate to heaven?”

“No,” said Cadfael grudgingly, “I shall sleep, and get up only when the bell rings for me. Am I to have less faith than an impudent heathen like you?”

“That’s my Cadfael! Still,” conceded Beringar, “you may whisper a word or two to God on my behalf at Matins and Lauds, if you’ll be so kind. If he turns a deaf ear to you, small use the rest of us wearing out our knee-bones.” And he leaned from his tall horse to lay a light hand for an instant on Cadfael’s broad tonsure, like a playful benediction, and then set spurs to his horse and trotted ahead, passing the abbot with a respectful reverence, to vanish into the curving descent of the Wyle.

Brother Cadfael presented himself before the abbot immediately after Prime. It did not seem that Heribert was much surprised to see him, or to hear the request he put forward.

“Father Abbot, I stand with this young man Hugh Beringar in this cause. The probing that brought to light the evidence on which his charge rests, that was my doing. And even if he has chosen to take the cause into his own hands, refusing me any perilous part in it, I am not absolved. I pray leave to go and stand trial with him as best I may. Whether I am of help to him or not, I must be there. I cannot turn my back at this pass on my friend who has spoken for me.”

“I am much exercised in mind, also,” admitted the abbot, sighing. “In spite of what the king has said, I can only pray that this trial need not be pressed to the death.” And I, thought Cadfael ruefully, dare not even pray for that, since the whole object of this wager is to stop a mouth for ever. “Tell me,” said Heribert, “is it certain that the man Courcelle killed that poor lad we have buried in the church?”

“Father, it is certain. Only he had the dagger, only he can have left the broken part behind him. There is here a clear contest of right and wrong.”

“Go, then,” said the abbot. “You are excused all duties until this matter is ended.” For such duels had been known to last the day long, until neither party could well see, or stand, or strike, so that in the end one or the other fell and could not rise, and simply bled to death where he lay. And if weapons were broken, they must still fight, with hands, teeth and feet, until one or the other broke and cried for quarter; though few ever did, since that meant defeat, the judgment of heaven convicting, and the gallows waiting, an even more shameful death. A bitter business, thought Cadfael, kilting his habit and going out heavily from the gate house, not worthy of being reverenced as the verdict of God. In this case there was a certain appropriateness about it, however, and the divine utterance might yet be heard in it. If, he thought, I have as much faith as he? I wonder if he did indeed sleep well! And strangely, he could believe it. His own sleep had been fitful and troubled.

Giles Siward’s dagger, complete with its lopped topaz, he had brought back with him and left in his cell, promising the anxious fisher-boy either restoration or fair reward, but it was not yet time to speak to Aline in the matter. That must wait the issue of the day. If all went well, Hugh Beringar himself should restore it to her. If not—no, he would not consider any such possibility.

The trouble with me, he thought unhappily, is that I have been about the world long enough to know that God’s plans for us, however infallibly good, may not take the form that we expect and demand. And I find an immense potential for rebellion in this old heart, if God, for no matter what perfect end, choose to take Hugh Beringar out of this world and leave Adam Courcelle in it.

Outside the northern gate of Shrewsbury the Castle Foregate housed a tight little suburb of houses and shops, but it ended very soon, and gave place to meadows on either side the road. The river twined serpentine coils on both sides, beyond the fields, and in the first level meadow on the left the king’s marshals had drawn up a large square of clear ground, fenced in on every side by a line of Flemings with lances held crosswise, to keep back any inquisitive spectator who might encroach in his excitement, and to prevent flight by either contestant. Where the ground rose slightly, outside the square, a great chair had been placed for the king, and the space about it was kept vacant for the nobility, but on the other three sides there was already a great press of people. The word had run through Shrewsbury like the wind through leaves. The strangest thing was the quietness. Every soul about the square of lances was certainly talking, but in such hushed undertones that the sum of all those voices was no louder than the absorbed buzzing of a hive of bees in sunshine.

The slanting light of morning cast long but delicate shadows across the grass, and the sky above was thinly veiled with haze. Cadfael lingered where guards held a path clear for the procession approaching from the castle, a brightness of steel and sheen of gay colours bursting suddenly out of the dim archway of the gate. King Stephen, big, flaxen-haired, handsome, resigned now to the necessity that threatened to rob him of one of his officers, but none the better pleased for that, and not disposed to allow any concessions that would prolong the contest. To judge by his face, there would be no pauses for rest, and no limitation imposed upon the possible savagery. He wanted it over. All the knights and barons and clerics who streamed after him to his presidential chair were carrying themselves with the utmost discretion, quick to take their lead from him.

The two contestants appeared as the royal train drew aside. No shields, Cadfael noted, and no mail, only the simple protection of leather. Yes, the king wanted a quick end, none of your day-long hacking and avoiding until neither party could lift hand. On the morrow the main army would leave to follow the vanguard, no matter which of these two lay dead, and Stephen had details yet to be settled before they marched. Beringar first, the accuser, went to kneel to the king and do him reverence, and did so briskly, springing up vigorously from his knee and turning to where the ranks of lances parted to let him into the arena. He caught sight of Cadfael then, standing a little apart. In a face tight, grave and mature, still the black eyes smiled.

“I knew,” he said, “that you would not fail me.”

“See to it,” said Cadfael morosely, “that you do not fail me.”

“No dread,” said Hugh. “I’m shriven white as a March lamb.” His voice was even and reflective. “I shall never be readier. And your arm will be seconding mine.”

At every stroke, thought Cadfael helplessly, and doubted that all these tranquil years since he took the cowl had really made any transformation in a spirit once turbulent, insubordinate and incorrigibly rash. He could feel his blood rising, as though it was he who must enter the lists.

Courcelle rose from his knee and followed his accuser into the square. They took station at opposite corners, and Prestcote, with his marshal’s truncheon raised, stood between them and looked to the king to give the signal. A herald was crying aloud the charge, the name of the challenger, and the refutation uttered by the accused. The crowd swayed, with a sound like a great, long-drawn sigh, that rippled all round the field. Cadfael could see Hugh’s face clearly, and now there was no smiling, it was bleak, intent and still, eyes fixed steadily upon his opponent.

The king surveyed the scene, and lifted his hand. The truncheon fell and Prestcote drew aside to the edge of the square as the contestants advanced to meet each other.

At first sight, the contrast was bitter. Courcelle was half as big again, half as old again, with height and reach and weight all on his side, and there was no questioning his skill and experience. His fiery colouring and towering size made Beringar look no more than a lean, lightweight boy, and though that lightness might be expected to lend him speed and agility, within seconds it was clear that Courcelle also was very fast and adroit on his feet. At the first clash of steel on steel, Cadfael felt his own arm and wrist bracing and turning the stroke, and swung aside with the very same motion Beringar made to slide out of danger; the turn brought him about, with the arch of the town gate full in view.

Out of the black hollow a girl came darting like a swallow, all swift black and white and a flying cloud of gold hair. She was running, very fleetly and purposefully, with her skirts caught up in her hands almost to the knee, and well behind her, out of breath but making what haste she could, came another young woman. Constance was wasting much of what breath she still had in calling after her mistress imploringly to stop, to come away, not to go near; but Aline made never a sound, only ran towards where two gallants of hers were newly launched on a determined attempt to kill each other. She looked neither to right nor left, but only craned to see over the heads of the crowd. Cadfael hastened to meet her, and she recognised him with a gasp, and flung herself into his arms.

“Brother Cadfael, what is this? What has he done? And you knew, you knew, and you never warned me! If Constance had not gone into town to buy flour, I should never have known…”

“You should not be here,” said Cadfael, holding her quivering and panting on his heart. “What can you do? I promised him not to tell you, he did not wish it. You should not look on at this.”

“But I will!” she said with passion. “Do you think I’ll go tamely away and leave him now? Only tell me,” she begged, “is it true what they’re saying—that he charged Adam with murdering that young man? And that Giles’s dagger was the proof?”

“It is true,” said Cadfael. She was staring over his shoulder into the arena, where the swords clashed, and hissed and clashed again, and her amethyst eyes were immense and wild.

“And the charge—that also is true?”

“That also.”

“Oh, God!” she said, gazing in fearful fascination. “And he is so slight… how can he endure it? Half the other’s size… and he dared try to solve it this way! Oh, Brother Cadfael, how could you let him?”

At least now, thought Cadfael, curiously eased, I know which of those two is “he” to her, without need of a name. I never was sure until now, and perhaps neither was she. “If ever you succeed,” he said, “in preventing Hugh Beringar from doing whatever he’s set his mind on doing, then come to me and tell me how you managed it. Though I doubt it would not work for me! He chose this way, girl, and he had his reasons, good reasons. And you and I must abide it, as he must.”

“But we are three,” she said vehemently. “If we stand with him, we must give him strength. I can pray and I can watch, and I will. Bring me nearer—come with me! I must see!”

She was thrusting impetuously through towards the lances when Cadfael held her back by the arm. “I think,” he said, “better if he does not see you. Not now!”

Aline uttered something that sounded like a very brief and bitter laugh. “He would not see me now,” she said, “unless I ran between the swords, and so I would, if they’d let me—No!” She took that back instantly, with a dry sob.

“No, I would not do so to him. I know better than that. All I can do is watch, and keep silence.”

The fate of women in a world of fighting men, he thought wryly, but for all that, it is not so passive a part as it sounds. So he drew her to a slightly raised place where she could see, without disturbing, with the glittering gold sheen of her unloosed hair in the sun, the deadly concentration of Hugh Beringar. Who had blood on the tip of his sword by then, though from a mere graze on Courcelle’s cheek, and blood on his own left sleeve below the leather.

“He is hurt,” she said in a mourning whisper, and crammed half her small fist in her mouth to stop a cry, biting hard on her knuckles to ensure the silence she had promised.

“It’s nothing,” said Cadfael sturdily. “And he is the faster. See there, that parry! Slight he might seem, but there’s steel in that wrist. What he wills to do, he’ll do. And he has truth weighting his hand.”