“You’ll be wanting Hugh,” said Aline serenely through her son’s squeals of delight, and drew in her feet to give them full play for their strings. “He’ll be home for dinner in a little while. There’s venison-they’ve started the cull.”
“So have a few other law-abiding citizens of the town, I daresay,” said Cadfael, energetically manipulating the cords to make the twin wooden swords flail like windmills.
“One here and there, what does it matter? Hugh knows how long to turn a blind eye. Good meat, and enough of it-and the king with little use for it, as things are! But it may not be long now,” said Aline, and smiled over her needlework, inclining her pale gold head and fair face above her naked son, sprawled on the grass tugging his strings in two plump brown fists. “His own friends are beginning to work upon Robert of Gloucester, urging him to agree to the exchange. He knows she can do nothing without him. He must give way.”
Cadfael sat back on his heels, letting the cords fall slack. The two wooden warriors fell flat in one embrace, both slain, and Giles tugged indignantly to bring them to life again, and was left to struggle in vain for a while.
“Aline,” said Cadfael earnestly, looking up into her gentle face, “if ever I should have need of you suddenly, and come to fetch you, or send you word to come-would you come? Wherever it was? And bring whatever I asked you to bring?”
“Short of the sun or the moon,” said Aline, smiling, “whatever you asked, I would bring, and wherever you wanted me, I would come. Why? What’s in your mind? Is it secret?”
“As yet,” said Cadfael ruefully, “it is. For I’m almost as blind as I must leave you, girl dear, until I see my way, if ever I do. But indeed, some day soon I might need you.”
The imp Giles, distracted from his game and losing interest in the inexplicable conversation of his elders, hoisted his fallen knights, and went off hopefully after the floating savour of his dinner.
Hugh came hungry and in haste from the castle, and listened to Cadfael’s account of developments at the abbey with meditative interest, over the venison Aline brought to the board.
“I remember it was said when they came here-was it you who told me so? It might well be!-that Marescot was born at Salton, and had a hankering to see it again. A pity he’s brought so low. It seems this matter of the girl may not be solved for him this side of death. Why should he not have what can best make his going pleasant and endurable? It can cost him nothing but a few hours or days of surely burdensome living. But I wish we could have done better for him over the girl.”
“We may yet,” said Cadfael, “if God wills. You’ve had no further word from Nicholas in Winchester?”
“Nothing as yet. And small wonder, in a town and a countryside torn to pieces by fire and war. Hard to find anything among the ashes.”
“And how is it with your prisoner? He has not conveniently remembered anything more from his journey to Winchester?”
Hugh laughed. “Heriet has the good sense to know where he’s safe, and sits very contentedly in his cell, well fed, well housed and well bedded. Solitude is no hardship to him. Question him, and he says again what he has already said, and never falls foul of a detail, either, no matter how you try to trip him. Not all the king’s lawyers would get anything more out of him. Besides, I took care to let him know that Cruce has been here twice, thirsty for his blood. It may be necessary to put a guard on his prison to keep Cruce out, but certainly not to keep Heriet in. He sits quietly and bides his time, sure we must loose him at last for want of proof.”
“Do you believe he ever harmed the girl?” said Cadfael.
“Do you?”
“No. But he is the one man who knows what did happen to her, and if he but knew it, he would be wise to speak, but to you only. No need for any witness besides. Do you think you could bring him to speak, by giving him to understand it was between you two only?”
“No,” said Hugh simply. “What cause has he to trust me so far, if he has gone three years without trusting any other, and keeps his mouth shut still, even to his own peril? No, I think I know his mettle. He’ll continue secret as the grave.”
And indeed, thought Cadfael, there are secrets which should be buried beyond discovery, things, even people, lost beyond finding, for their own sake, for all our sakes.
He took his leave, and went on through the town, and down to the waterside under the western bridge that led out towards Wales, and there was Madog of the Dead Boat working at his usual small enclosure, weaving the rim of a new coracle with intertwined hazel withies, peeled and soaked in the shallows under the bridge. A squat, square, hairy, bandy-legged Welshman of unknown age, though apparently made to last for ever, since no one could remember a time when he had looked any younger, and the turning of the years did not seem to make him look any older. He squinted up at Cadfael from under thick, jutting eyebrows that had turned grey while his hair was still black, and gave leisurely greeting, his brown hands still plaiting at the wands with practised dexterity.
“Well, old friend, you’ve become almost a stranger this summer. What’s the word with you, to bring you here looking for me-for I take it that was your purpose, this side the town? Sit down and be neighbourly for a while.”
Cadfael sat down beside him in the bleached grass, and measured the diminished level of the Severn with a considering eye.
“You’ll be saying I never come near but when I want something of you. But indeed we’ve had a crowded year, what with one thing and another. How do you find working the water now, in this drought? There must be a deal of tricky shallows upstream, after so long without rain.”
“None that I don’t know,” said Madog comfortably. “True, the fishing’s profitless, and I wouldn’t say you could get a loaded barge up as far as Pool, but I can get where I want to go. Why? Have you work for me? I could do with a day’s pay, easy come by.”
“Easy enough, if you can get yourself and two more up as far as Salton. Lightweights both, for the one’s skin and bone, and the other young and slender.”
Madog leaned back from his work, interested, and asked simply: “When?”
“Tomorrow, if nothing prevents.”
“It would be far shorter to ride,” Madog observed, studying his friend with kindling curiosity.
“Too late for one of these ever to ride again. He’s a dying man, and wants to see again the place where he was born.”
“Salton?” Shrewd dark eyes blinked through their thick silver brows. “That should be a de Marisco. We heard you had the last of them in your house.”
“Marescot, they’re calling it now. Of the Marsh, Godfrid says it should better have been, his line being Saxon. Yes, the same. His time is not long. He wants to complete the circle of birth to death before he goes.”
“Tell me,” said Madog simply, and listened with still and serene attention as Cadfael told him the nature of his cargo, and all that was required of him.
“Now,” he said, when all was told, “I’ll tell what I think. This weather will not hold much longer, but for all that, it may still tarry a week or so. If your paladin is as set on his pilgrimage as you say, if he’s willing to venture whatever comes, then I’ll bring my boat into the mill-pool tomorrow after Prime. I’ll have something aboard to shelter him if the rain does come. I keep a waxed sheet to cover goods that will as well cover a knight or a brother of the Benedictines at need.”