The Confession of Brother Haluin (12 page)

They
did not look back a second time. The need now was to put at least one safe,
alienating mile between themselves and the dower house of Elford, and after
that they could look for a night’s shelter early, for in spite of his
resolution it was clear that Haluin was haggard and grey with exhaustion, and
would not get far without danger of collapse. His face was set to endure, he
went steadily but heavily on his crutches, his eyes dilated and dark in their
deep hollows. Doubtful if even now he enjoyed the peace he should have found at
Bertrade’s tomb, but perhaps it was not Bertrade who still haunted his
thoughts.

“I
shall never see her again,” said Haluin, to God, himself, and the gathering
dusk rather than to Cadfael. And it was hard to say whether he spoke in relief
or regret, as at leaving something unfinished.

The
first snow of a capricious March burst upon them suddenly out of the lowering
sky when they were some two miles from Elford. The air was on the edge of
frost, there would be no great or prolonged fall, but while it lasted it was
thick and blinding, stinging their faces and confusing the path before them.
The premature dusk closed down on them almost abruptly, a murky darkness out of
which whirling clouds of white flakes wound about them bewilderingly, veiling
even what landmarks they had on a stretch of track open, windswept, and
treeless.

Haluin
had begun to stumble, troubled by the driven flakes filling his eyes, and unable
to free a hand to draw the folds of his cowl together against the assault.
Twice he planted a crutch aside from the trodden path, and all but fell.
Cadfael halted and stood close, his back to the wind, to give his companion
breathing space and shelter for some moments, while he considered where they
were, and what he could recall of the surrounding country from their outward
journey. Any dwelling, however mean, would be welcome until this squall blew
over. Somewhere here, he calculated, there had been a side path bearing north,
and leading to what seemed to be a cluster of small houses and the long pale of
a manor fence, the only sign of occupation within view of the road.

His
recollection was accurate. Going cautiously before, with Haluin close at his back,
he came to an isolated clump of bushes and low trees which he remembered
clearly in this sparsely treed plain, and a little beyond these the path
opened. There was even a flickering spark of torchlight, seen fitfully through
the whirling snowfall, to keep them in the direct way towards the distant
dwelling. Where the lord of the house showed a beacon for benighted travelers
there should be a warm welcome waiting.

It
took them longer to reach the hamlet than Cadfael had expected, since Haluin
was flagging badly, and it was necessary to go very slowly, reaching back
constantly to keep him close. Here and there a solitary tree loomed suddenly
out of the spinning whiteness on the left hand or the right, only to be veiled
again as abruptly. The flakes had grown larger and wetter, the hint of frost
was receding, and this fall would not lie beyond the morning. Overhead the
clouds were broken and torn in a rising wind, with a scattering of stars
showing through.

The
spark of torchlight had vanished, hidden behind the manor fence. A solid timber
gatepost heaved out of the dark, the tall palisade running away from it on the
left hand, the broad open gateway on the right, and suddenly there was the
torch again, across a wide courtyard in a sconce jutting from under the eaves,
to light the stair that climbed to the hall door. The usual encrustation of
service buildings lined the stockade. Cadfael launched a shout ahead of their
lurching entrance, and a man came butting his way through the falling snow from
a stable door, shouting to others as he came. At the head of the steps the hall
door opened on a welcome glimpse of firelight.

Cadfael
brought Haluin stumbling in through the open gate in his arm, and another
willing arm took him about the body on the other side, hoisting him vigorously
into the comparative shelter within the pale. A voice bellowed heartily through
the snowfall: “Brothers, you chose a bad night to be out on the roads. Hold up
now, your troubles are over. We never shut the gates on your cloth.”

There
were others coming forth by then to bring in the benighted travelers, a young
fellow darting out from the undercroft with a sacking hood over head and
shoulders, a bearded and gowned elder emerging from the hall and coming halfway
down the steps to meet them. Haluin was lifted rather than led up the steep
flight and into the hall, where the master of the house came striding out of
his solar to meet these unexpected arrivals.

A
fair man, long-boned and sparsely fleshed, with a short trimmed beard the color
of wheat straw, and thick cap of hair of the same shade. Perhaps in his late
thirties, Cadfael thought, of a ruddy, open countenance in which the blue Saxon
eyes shone almost startlingly bright, candid, and concerned.

“Come
in, come in, Brothers! Well that you’ve found us! Here, bring him through here,
close to the fire.” He had taken in at once the Benedictine habits, the
flurries of snow lodged in the folds, and shaken off now hissing into the
steady fire in the central hearth of the hall, the crippled feet of his younger
visitor, the drawn grey exhaustion of his face. “Edgytha, have beds prepared in
the end chamber, and tell Edwin to mull more wine.”

His
voice was loud, solicitous, and warm. Without seeming haste he had his servants
running here and there on his benevolent errands, and himself saw Haluin
installed on a bench against the wall, where the warmth of the fire could reach
him.

“This
young brother of yours is in very sad case,” said the host, aside to Cadfael,
“to be traveling the roads so far from home. There are none of your order round
here—barring the sisters at Farewell, the bishop’s new foundation. From which
house do you come?”

“From
Shrewsbury,” said Cadfael, setting Haluin’s crutches to lean against the bench,
where he could reach them at will. Haluin sat back with closed eyes, his grey
cheeks slowly gaining a little color in the warmth and ease.

“So
far? Could not your abbot have sent a hale man on his errands, if he had
business in another shire?”

“This
was Haluin’s own errand,” said Cadfael. “No other could have done it. Now it’s
done, and we’re on our way home, and by stages we shall get there. Always with
the help of hospitable souls like you. Can I ask, what is this place? These are
parts I hardly know.

“My
name is Cenred Vivers. From this manor I take that name. This brother is called
Haluin, you say? And yourself?”

“Cadfael
is my name. Born Welsh, and bred up on the borders with a foot either side.
I’ve been a brother of Shrewsbury now more than twenty years. My business on
this journey is simply to keep Haluin company and see that he gets safely to
where he’s going, and safely back again.”

“No
easy matter,” agreed Cenred, low-voiced, and eyeing Haluin’s deformed feet
ruefully, “the state he’s in. But if the work’s done and only the way home to
venture, no doubt you’ll do it. How did he come by such injuries?”

“He
fell from a roof. We had repairs to do, in the hard weather before Christmas.
It was the slates falling after him that cut his feet to ribbons. Well that we
kept him alive.”

They
were speaking of him softly, a little aside, though he lay back as eased and
still as if he had fallen asleep, his eyes closed, the long dark lashes
shadowing his hollow cheeks. The hall had emptied about them, all the bustle of
activity withdrawn elsewhere, busy with pillows and brychans and the hospitable
business of the kitchen.

“They’re
slow with the wine,” said Cenred, “and you must both need some warmth inside
you. If you’ll hold me excused. Brother, I’ll go and hasten things in the
pantry.”

And
he was off, the flurry and wind of his passing causing Haluin’s closed eyelids
to quiver. In a moment he opened his eyes and looked slowly and dazedly about
him, taking in the warm, high-roofed dimness of the hall, the glow of the fire,
the heavy hangings that screened two alcoves withdrawn from the public domain,
and the half-open door of the solar from which Cenred had emerged. The pale,
steady gleam of candlelight showed from within.

“Have
I dreamed?” wondered Haluin, gazing. “How did we come here? What place is
this?”

“Never
fear,” said Cadfael. “On your own feet you came here, only an arm to help you
up the steps into the house. The manor is called Vivers, and the lord of it is
Cenred. We’ve fallen into good hands.”

Haluin
drew deep breath. “I am not so strong as I believed I was,” he said sadly.

“No
matter, you can rest now. We have left Elford behind.”

They
were both speaking in low voices, a little awed by the enfolding silence
presiding even in the center of this populous household. When both ceased
speaking, the quietness seemed almost expectant. And in the hush the half-open
door of the solar opened fully upon the pale gold candlelight within, and a
woman stepped into the doorway. For that one instant she was sharply outlined
as a shadow against the soft light within, a slender, erect figure, mature and
dignified in movement, surely the lady of the house and Cenred’s wife. The next
moment she had taken two or three light, swift steps into the hall, and the
light of the nearest torch fell upon her shadowy face and advancing form, and
conjured out of the dim shape a very different person. Everything about her was
changed. Not a gracious chatelaine of more than thirty years, but a rounded,
fresh-faced girl, no more than seventeen or eighteen, half her oval countenance
two great startled eyes and the wide, high forehead above them, white and
smooth as pearl.

Haluin
uttered a strange, soft sound in his throat, between gasp and sigh, clutched at
his crutches, and heaved himself to his feet, staring at this sudden glowing
apparition as she, brought up abruptly against the intrusion of strangers, had
drawn back in haste, starring at him. For one moment they hung so, mute and
still, then the girl whirled about and retreated into the solar, drawing the
door to almost stealthily after her.

Haluin’s
hands slackened their hold, dangling inertly, the crutches slid and fell from
under him, and he went down on his face in a gradual, crumpled fall, and lay
senseless in the rushes of the floor.

They
carried him to a bed prepared for him in a quiet chamber withdrawn from the
hall, and bedded him there, still in a deep swoon.

“This
is simple exhaustion,” said Cadfael in reassurance to Cenred’s solicitous
anxiety. “I knew he was driving himself too hard, but that’s done with now.
From this on we can take our time. Leave him to sleep through this night, and
he’ll do well enough. See, he’s coming round. His eyes are opening.”

Haluin
stirred, his eyelids quivering before they rose on the dark, sharply conscious
eyes within, that looked up into a circle of vague, concerned faces. He was
aware of his surroundings, and knew what had happened to him before he was
carried here, for the first words he spoke were in meek apology for troubling
them, and thanks for their care.

“My
fault!” he said. “It was presumptuous to attempt too much. But now all is well
with me. All is very well!”

Since
his chief need was clearly of rest, they were left to make themselves
comfortable in their small chamber, though the evening brought them a number of
visits. The bearded steward brought them hot, spiced wine, and sent in to them
the old woman Edgytha, who brought them water for their hands, food, and a
lamp, and offered whatever more they might need for their comfort.

She
was a tall, wiry, active woman probably sixty years old, with the free manner
and air of authority habitual in servants who have spent many years in the
confidence of lord or lady, and earned a degree of trust that brings with it
acknowledged privilege. The younger maidservants deferred to her, if they did
not actually go in awe of her, and her neat black gown and stiff white wimple,
and the keys jingling at her waist bore witness to her status.

Late
in the evening she came again, in attendance on a plump and pleasant lady,
soft-voiced and gracious, who came to inquire kindly whether the reverend
brothers had all that they needed for the night, and whether the one who had
swooned was now comfortably recovered from his faintness. Cenred’s wife was
rosily pretty, brown-haired and brown-eyed, a very different creature from the
tall, slender, vulnerable young thing who had stepped out of the solar, to be
startled into recoil from the unexpected apparition of strangers.

“And
have the lord Cenred and his lady any children?” Cadfael asked when their
hostess was gone.

Edgytha
was close-lipped, possessively protective of her family and all that was
theirs, to the point of rendering every such inquiry suspect, but after a
moment’s hesitation she answered civilly enough: “They have a son, a grown
son.” And she added, unexpectedly reconsidering her reluctance to satisfy such
uncalled-for curiosity: “He’s away, in service with my lord Cenred’s overlord.”

There
was a curious undertone of reserve, even of disapproval, in her voice, though
she would never have acknowledged it. It almost distracted Cadfael’s mind from
his own preoccupation, but he pursued delicately: