The Potter's Field Part 6

He heard a soft stir of movement at his back, as Sulien's shoulders shifted against the timber wall. But no word was said.

"He had a woman there with him, it seems, one Gunnild, a tumbler and singer entertaining at the fairground. And no one has seen her since last year's fair ended. A black-haired woman, they report her. She could very well be the poor soul we found. Hugh Beringar thinks so."

Sulien's voice, a little clipped and quiet, asked: "What does Britric say to that? He will not have admitted to it?"

"He said what he would say, that he left the woman there the morning after the fair, safe and well, and has not seen her since."

"So he may have done," said Sulien reasonably.

"It is possible. But no one has seen the woman since. She did not come to this year's fair, no one knows anything of her. And as I heard it, they were known to quarrel, even to come to blows. And he is a powerful man, with a hot temper, who might easily go too far. I would not like," said Cadfael with intent, "to be in his shoes, for I think the charge against him will be made good. His life is hardly worth the purchase."

He had not turned until then. The boy was sitting very still, his eyes steady upon Cadfael's countenance. In a voice of detached pity, not greatly moved, he said: "Poor wretch! I daresay he never meant to kill her. What did you say her name was, this tumbler girl?"

"Gunnild. They called her Gunnild."

"A hard life that must be, tramping the roads," said Sulien reflectively, "especially for a woman. Not so ill in the summer, perhaps, but what must they do in the winter?"

"What all the jongleurs do," said Cadfael, practically. "About this time of year they begin thinking of what manor is most likely to take them in for their singing and playing, over the worst of the weather. And with the Spring they'll be off again."

"Yes, I suppose a corner by the fire and a dinner at the lowest table must be more than welcome once the snow falls," Sulien agreed indifferently, and rose to accept the small flask Cadfael had stoppered for him. "I'll be getting back now, Eudo can do with a hand about the stable. And I do thank you, Cadfael. For this and for everything."

Chapter Eight.

IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER that a groom came riding in at the gatehouse of the castle, with a woman pillion behind him, and set her down in the outer court to speak with the guards. Modestly but with every confidence she asked for the lord sheriff, and made it known that her business was important, and would be considered so by the personage she sought.

Hugh came up from the armoury in his shirt-sleeves and a leather jerkin, with the flush and smokiness of the smith's furnace about him. The woman looked at him with as much curiosity as he was feeling about her, so young and so unexpected was his appearance. She had never seen the sheriff of the sh.o.r.e before, and had looked for someone older and more defensive of his own dignity than this neat, lightly built young fellow in his twenties still, black-haired and black-browed, who looked more like one of the apprentice armourers than the king's officer.

"You asked to speak with me, mistress?" said Hugh. "Come within, and tell me what you need of me."

She followed him composedly into the small anteroom in the gatehouse, but hesitated for a moment when he invited her to be seated, as though her business must first be declared and accounted for, before she could be at ease.

"My lord, I think it is you who have need of me, if what I have heard is true." Her voice had the cadences of the countrywoman, and a slight roughness and rawness, as though in its time it had been abused by over-use or use under strain. And she was not as young as he had first thought her, perhaps around thirty-five years old, but handsome and erect of carriage, and moved with decorous grace. She wore a good dark gown, matronly and sober, and her hair was drawn back and hidden under a white wimple. The perfect image of a decent burgess's wife, or a gentlewoman's attendant. Hugh could not immediately guess where and how she fitted into his present preoccupations, but was willing to wait for enlightenment.

"And what is it you have heard?" he asked.

"They are saying about the market that you have taken a man called Britric into hold, a pedlar, for killing a woman who kept company with him for some while last year. Is it true?"

"True enough," said Hugh. "You have something to say to the matter?"

"I have, my lord!" Her eyes she kept half-veiled by heavy, long lashes, looking up directly into his face only rarely and briefly. "I bear Britric no particular goodwill, for reasons enough, but no ill will, either. He was a good companion for a while, and even if we did fall out, I don't want him hung for a murder that was never committed. So here I am in the flesh, to prove I'm well alive. And my name is Gunnild."

"And, by G.o.d, so it proved!" said Hugh, pouring out the whole unlikely story some hours later, in the leisure hour of the monastic afternoon in Cadfael's workshop. "No question, Gunnild she is. You should have seen the pedlar's face when I brought her into his cell, and he took one long look at the decent, respectable shape of her, and then at her face closely, and his mouth fell open, he found her so hard to believe. But: "Gunnild!" he screeches, as soon as he gets his breath back. Oh, she's the same woman, not a doubt of it, but so changed it took him a while to trust his own eyes. And there was more than he ever told us to that early morning flight of his. No wonder he crept off and left her sleeping. He took every penny of her earnings with him as well as his own. I said he had something on his conscience, and something to do with the woman. So he had, he robbed her of everything she had of value, and a hard time she must have had of it through the autumn and into the winter, last year."

"It sounds," said Cadfael, attentive but unsurprised, "as if their meeting today might well be another stormy one."

"Well, he was so glad of her coming, he was all thanks and promises of redress, and fawning flattery. And she refuses to press the theft against him. I do believe he had thoughts of trying to woo her back to the wandering life, but she's having none of that. Not she! She calls up her groom, and he hoists her to the pillion, and away they go-"

"And Britric?" Cadfael reached to give a thoughtful stir to the pot he had gently simmering on the grid that covered one side of his brazier. The sharp, warm, steamy smell of h.o.r.ehound stung their nostrils. There were already a few coughs and colds among the old, frail brothers in Edmund's infirmary.

"He's loosed and away, very subdued, though how long that will last there's no knowing. No reason to hold him longer. We'll keep a weather eye on his dealings, but if he's beginning to prosper honestly-well, almost honestly!-he may have got enough wisdom this time to stay within the law. Even the abbey may get its tolls if he comes to next year's fair. But here are we, Cadfael, left with a history repeating itself very neatly and plausibly, to let loose not one possible murderer, but the second one also. Is that believable?"

"Such things have been known," said Cadfael cautiously, "but not often."

"Do you believe it?"

"I believe it has happened. But that it has happened by chance, that has me in two minds. No," Cadfael amended emphatically, "more than two minds."

"That one supposedly dead woman should come back to life, well and good. But the second also? And are we now to expect a third, if we can find a third to die or rise again? And yet we still have this one poor, offended soul waiting for justice, if not by another's death, at least by the grace and remembrance of a name. She is dead, and requires an accounting."

Cadfael had listened with respect and affection to a speech which might as well have come from Abbot Radulfus, but delivered with a youthful and secular pa.s.sion. Hugh did not often commit himself to indignation, at least not aloud.

"Hugh, did she tell you how and where she heard of Britric's being in your prison?"

"No more than vaguely. Rumoured about in the market, she said. I never thought," said Hugh, vexed, "to question more nearly."

"And it's barely three days since you let it be known what he was suspected of, and put out her name. News travels fast, but how far it should have reached in the time may be much to the point. I take it Gunnild has accounted for herself? For the change in fortunes? You have not told me, yet, where she lives and serves now."

"Why, it seems that after a fashion Britric did her a favour when he left her penniless, there in Ruald's croft. It was August then, the end of the fair, no very easy way to pick up a profit, and she barely managed to keep herself through the autumn months, fed but with nothing saved, and you'll remember-G.o.d knows you should!-that the winter came early and hard. She did what the wandering players do, started early looking for a manor where there might be a place for a good minstrel through the worst of the winter. Common practice, but you gamble, and may win or do poorly!"

"Yes," agreed Cadfael, rather to himself than to his friend, "so I told him."

"She did well for herself. She happened into the manor of Withington in the December snows. Giles Otmere holds it, a crown tenant these days, since FitzAlan's lands were seized, and he has a young family who welcome a minstrel over the Christmas feast, so they took her in. But better still, the young daughter is eighteen just turned, and took a liking to her, and according to Gunnild she has a neat hand with dressing hair, and is good with her needle, and the girl has taken her on as tirewoman. You should see the delicate pace of her now, and the maidenly manners. She's been profitable to her lady, and thinks the world of her. Gunnild will never go back to the roads and the fairgrounds now, she has too much good sense. Truly, Cadfael, you should see her for yourself."

"Truly," said Cadfael musingly, "I think I should. Well, Withington is not far, not much beyond Upton, but unless Mistress Gunnild came into town for yesterday's market, or someone happened in at Withington with the day's news, rumour seems to have run through the gra.s.ses and across the river of its own accord. Granted it does fly faster than the birds at times, at least in town and Foregate, it takes a day or so to reach the outlying villages. Unless someone sets out in haste to carry it."

"Brought home from market or blown on the wind," said Hugh, "it travelled as far as Withington, it seems. As well for Britric. I am left with no notion which way to look now, but better that than hound an innocent man. But I would be loath to give up, and let the thing go by default."

"No need," said Cadfael, "to think in such terms yet. Wait but a few more days, and give your mind to the king's business meantime, and we may have one thread left to us yet."

Cadfael made his way to the abbot's lodging before Vespers, and asked for an audience. He was a little deprecating in advancing his request, well aware of the license often granted to him beyond what the Rule would normally countenance, but for once none too certain of what he was about. The reliance the abbot had come to place in him was in itself something of a burden.

"Father, I think Hugh Beringar will have been with you this afternoon, and told you what has happened concerning the man Britric. The woman who is known to have been in his company a year and more ago did indeed vanish from her usual haunts, but not by death. She has come forward to show that he has not harmed her, and the man is set free."

"Yes," said Radulfus, "this I know. Hugh was with me an hour since. I cannot but be glad the man is innocent of murder, and can go his ways freely. But our responsibility for the dead continues, and our quest must go on."

"Father, I came to ask leave to make a journey tomorrow. A few hours would suffice. There is an aspect of this deliverance that raises certain questions that need to be answered. I did not suggest to Hugh Beringar that he should undertake such an enquiry, partly because he has the king's business very much on his mind, but also because I may be wrong in what I believe, and if it proves so, no need to trouble him with it. And if it proves there is ground for my doubts," said Cadfael very soberly, "then I must lay the matter in his hands, and there leave it."

"And am I permitted," asked the abbot after a moment's thought, and with a shadowy and wry smile touching his lips briefly, "to ask what these doubts may be?"

"I would as lief say nothing," said Cadfael frankly, "until I have the answers myself, yes or no. For if I am become a mere subtle, suspicious old man, too p.r.o.ne to see devious practices where none are, then I would rather not draw any other man into the same unworthy quagmire, nor levy false charges easier to publish than to suppress. Bear with me until tomorrow."

"Then tell me one thing only," said Radulfus. "There is no cause, I trust, in this course you have in mind, to point again at Brother Ruald?"

"No, Father. It points away from him."

"Good! I cannot believe any ill of the man."

"I am sure he has done none," said Cadfael firmly.

"So he at least can be at peace."

"That I have not said." And at the sharp and penetrating glance the abbot fixed upon him he went on steadily: "All we within this house share the concern and grief for a creature laid astray in abbey land without a name or the proper rites of death and absolution. To that extent, until this is resolved, none of us can be at peace."

Radulfus was still for a long moment, eyeing Cadfael closely; then he stirred abruptly out of his stillness, and said practically: "Then the sooner you advance this argument the better. Take a mule from the stables, if the journey is somewhat long for going and returning in a day. Where is it you are bound? May I ask even so far?"

"No great distance," said Cadfael, "but it will save time if I ride. It is only to the manor of Withington."

Cadfael set out next morning, immediately after Prime, on the six-mile ride to the manor where Gunnild had found her refuge from the chances and mischances of the road. He crossed by the ferry upstream from the Longner lands, and on the further side followed the little brook that entered the Severn there, with rising fields on either side. For a quarter of a mile he could see on his right the long crest of trees and bushes, on the far side of which lay the Potter's Field, transformed now into a plateau of new ploughland above, and the gentle slope of meadow below. What remained of the cottage would have been dismantled by now, the garden cleared, the site levelled. Cadfael had not been back to see.

The way was by open fields as far as the village of Upton, climbing very gently. Beyond, there was a well-used track the further two miles or more to Withington, through flat land, rich and green. Two brooks threaded their gentle way between the houses of the village, to merge on the southern edge and flow on to empty into the River Tern. The small church that sat in the centre of the green was a property of the abbey, like its neighbour at Upton, Bishop de Clinton's gift to the Benedictines some years back. On the far side of the village, drawn back a little from the brook, the manor lay within a low stockade, ringed round with its barns and byres and stables. The undercroft was of timber beams, one end of the living floor of stone, and a short, steep flight of steps led up to the hall door, which was standing open at this early working hour of the day, when baker and dairymaid were likely to be running busily in and out.

Cadfael dismounted at the gate and led the mule at leisure into the yard, taking time to look about him. A woman-servant was crossing with a huge crock of milk from the byre to the dairy and halted at the sight of him, but went on about her business when a groom emerged from the stable and came briskly to take the mule's bridle.

"You're early abroad, Brother. How can we serve you? My master's ridden out towards Rodington already. Shall we send after him, if your errand's to him? Or if you have leisure to wait his return, you're welcome within. His door's always open to the cloth."

"I'll not disrupt the order of a busy man's day," said Cadfael heartily. I'm on a simple errand of thanks to your young mistress for her kindness and help in a certain vexed business, and if I can pay my compliments to the lady, I'll soon be on my way back to Shrewsbury. I don't know her name, for I hear your lord has a flock of children. The lady I want may well be the eldest, I fancy. The one who has a maid called Gunnild."

By the practical way the groom received the name, Gunnild's place in this household was established and accepted, and if ever there had been whispers and grudges among the other maids over the transformation of a draggle-tailed tumbler into a favoured tirewoman, they were already past and forgotten, which was shrewd testimony to Gunnild's own good sense.

"Oh, ay, that's Mistress Pernel," said the groom, and turned to call up a pa.s.sing boy to take the mule from him and see him cared for. "She's within, though my lady's gone with my lord, at least a piece of the way; she has business with the miller's wife at Rodington. Come within, and I'll call Gunnild for you."

The to and fro of voices across the yard gave place, as they climbed the steps to the hall door, to shriller voices and a great deal of children's laughter, and two boys of about twelve and eight came darting out from the open doorway and down the steps in two or three leaps, almost bowling Cadfael over, and recovering with breathless yells to continue their flight towards the fields. They were followed in bounding haste by a small girl of five or six years, holding up her skirts in both plump hands and shrieking at her brothers to wait for her. The groom caught her up deftly and set her safely on her feet at the foot of the steps, and she was off after the boys at the fastest speed her short legs could muster. Cadfael turned for a moment on the steps to follow her flight. When he looked round again to continue mounting, an older girl stood framed in the doorway, looking down at him in smiling and wondering surprise.

Not Gunnild, certainly, but Gunnild's mistress. Eighteen, just turned, Hugh had said. Eighteen, and not yet married or, it seemed, betrothed, perhaps because of the modesty of her dowry and of her father's connections, but perhaps also because she was the eldest of this brood of lively chicks, and very valuable to the household. The succession was secured, with two healthy sons, and two daughters to provide for might be something of a tax on Giles Otmere's resources, so that there was no haste.

With her gracious looks and evident warmth of nature she might need very little by way of dowry if the right lad came along.

She was not tall, but softly rounded and somehow contrived to radiate a physical brightness, as if her whole body, from soft brown hair to small feet, smiled as her eyes and lips smiled. Her face was round, the eyes wide-set and wide-open in shining candour, her mouth at once generously full and pa.s.sionate, and resolutely firm, though parted at this moment in a startled smile. She had her little sister's discarded wooden doll in her hand, just retrieved from the floor where it had been thrown.

"Here is Mistress Pernel," said the groom cheerfully, and drew back a step towards the yard. "Lady, the good brother would like a word with you."

"With me?" she said, opening her eyes wider still. "Come up, sir, and welcome. Is it really me you want? Not my mother?"

Her voice matched the brightness she radiated, pitched high and gaily, like a child's, but very melodious in its singing cadences.

"Well, at least," she said, laughing, "we can hear each other speak, now the children are away. Come into the window-bench, and rest."

The alcove where they sat down together had the weather shutter partially closed, but the lee one left open. There was almost no wind that morning, and though the sky was clouded over, the light was good. Sitting opposite to this girl was like facing a glowing lamp. For the moment they had the hall to themselves, though Cadfael could hear several voices in busy, braided harmony from pa.s.sage and kitchen, and from the yard without.

"You are come from Shrewsbury?" she said.

"With my abbot's leave," said Cadfael, "to give you thanks for so promptly sending your maid Gunnild to the lord sheriff, to deliver the man held in prison on suspicion of causing her death. Both my abbot and the sheriff are in your debt. Their intent is justice. You have helped them to avoid injustice."

"Why we could do no other," she said simply, "once we knew of the need. No one, surely, would leave a poor man in prison a day longer than was needful, when he had done no wrong."

"And how did you learn of the need?" asked Cadfael. It was the question he had come to ask, and she answered it cheerfully and frankly, with no suspicion of its real significance.

"I was told. Indeed, if there is credit in the matter it is not ours so much as the young man's who told me of the case, for he had been enquiring everywhere for Gunnild by name, whether she had spent the winter of last year with some household in this part of the shire. He had not expected to find her still here, and settled, but it was great relief to him. All I did was send Gunnild with a groom to Shrewsbury. He had been riding here and there asking for her, to know if she was alive and well, and beg her to come forward and prove as much, for she was thought to be dead."

"It was much to his credit," said Cadfael, "so to concern himself with justice."

"It was!" she agreed warmly. "We were not the first he had visited, he had ridden as far afield as Cressage before he came to us."

"You know him by name?"

"I did not, until then. He told me he was Sulien Blount, of Longner."

"Did he expressly ask for you?" asked Cadfael.

"Oh, no!" She was surprised and amused, and he could not be sure, by this time, that she was not acutely aware of the curious insistence of his questioning, but she saw no reason to hesitate in answering. "He asked for my father, but Father was away in the fields, and I was in the yard when he rode in. It was only by chance that he spoke to me."

At least a pleasant chance, thought Cadfael, to afford some unexpected comfort to a troubled man.

"And when he knew he had found the woman he sought, did he ask to speak with her? Or leave the telling to you?"

"Yes, he spoke with her. In my presence he told her how the pedlar was in prison, and how she must come forward and prove he had never done her harm. And so she did, willingly."

She was grave now rather than smiling, but still open, direct and bright. It was evident from the intelligent clarity of her eyes that she had recognised some deeper purpose behind his interrogation, and was much concerned with its implications, but also that even in that recognition she saw no cause to withhold or prevaricate, since truth could not in her faith be a means of harm. So he asked the final question without hesitation: "Did he ever have opportunity to speak with her alone?"

"Yes," said Pernel. Her eyes, very wide and steady upon Cadfael's face, were a golden, sunlit brown, lighter than her hair. "She thanked him and went out with him to the yard when he mounted and left. I was within with the children, they had just come in, it was near time for supper. But he would not stay."

But she had asked him. She had liked him, was busy liking him now, and wondering, though without misgivings, what this monk of Shrewsbury might want concerning the movements and generosities and preoccupations of Sulien Blount of Longner.

"What they said to each other, said Pernel, "I do not know. I am sure it was no harm."

"That," said Cadfael, "I think I may guess at. I think the young man may have asked her, when she came to the sheriff at the castle, not to mention that it was he who had come seeking her, but to say that she had heard of Britric's plight and her own supposed death from the general gossip. News travels. She would have heard it in the end, but not, I fear, so quickly."

"Yes," said Pernel, flushing and glowing, "that I can believe of him, that he wanted no credit for his own goodness of heart. Why? Did she do as he wished?"

"She did. No blame to her for that, he had the right to ask it of her."

Perhaps not only the right, but the need! Cadfael made to rise, to thank her for the time she had devoted to him, and to take his leave, but she put out a hand to detain him.

"You must not go without taking some refreshment in our house, Brother. If you will not stay and eat with us at midday, at least let me call Gunnild to bring us wine. Father bought some French wine at the summer fair." And she was on her feet and across the width of the hall to the screen door, and calling, before he could either accept or withdraw. It was fair, he reflected. He had had what he wanted from her, ungrudging and unafraid; now she wanted something from him. "We need say nothing to Gunnild," she said softly, returning. "It was a harsh life she used to live, let her put it by, and all reminders of it. She has been a good friend and servant to me, and she loves the children."

The woman who came in from the kitchen and pantry with flask and gla.s.ses was tall, and would have been called lean rather than slender, but the flow of her movements was elegant and sinuous still within the plain dark gown. The oval face framed by her white wimple was olive-skinned and suave, the dark eyes that took in Cadfael with serene but guarded curiosity and dwelt with almost possessive affection upon Pernel, were still cleanly set and beautiful. She served them handily, and withdrew from them discreetly. Gunnild had come into a haven from which she did not intend to sail again, certainly not at the invitation of a vagabond like Britric. Even when her lady married, there would be the little sister to care for, and perhaps, some day, marriage for Gunnild herself, the comfortable, practical marriage of two decent, ageing retainers who had served long enough together to know they can run along cosily for the rest of their days.

"You see," said Pernel, "how well worth it was to take her in, and how content she is here. And now," she said, pursuing without conceal what most interested her, "tell me about this Sulien Blount. For I think you must know him."

Cadfael drew breath and told her all that it seemed desirable to him she should know about the sometime Benedictine novice, his home and his family, and his final choice of the secular world. It did not include any more about the history of the Potter's Field than the mere fact that it had pa.s.sed by stages from the Blounts to the abbey's keeping, and had given up, when ploughed, the body of a dead woman for whose ident.i.ty the law was now searching. That seemed reason enough for a son of the family taking a personal interest in the case, and exerting himself to extricate the innocent from suspicion, and accounted satisfactorily for the concern shown by the abbot and his envoy, this elderly monk who now sat in a window embrasure with Pernel, recounting briefly the whole disturbing history.

"And his mother is so ill?" said Pernel, listening with wide, sympathetic eyes and absorbed attention. "At least how glad she must be that he has chosen, after all, to come home."