A good speech, Cadfael approved, one that gives nothing away of what lies behind Heledd’s flight, thereby sparing her reputation and this good prelate’s very proper concern. He interpreted it carefully, improvising a little where memory faltered, since Mark had allowed him no pause between the lines. The bishop nodded instant comprehension, and demanded practically: “Did the lady know of this threat from Dublin?”
“No,” said Mark, “the messenger from Carnarvon came only later. She cannot have known.”
“And she is somewhere abroad between Aber and here, and alone? I wish I had more men to send out after her,” said Meurig, frowning, “but we have already sent on to Carnarvon all the fighting men who can be spared, to join the prince there. Such as are left we may need here.”
“We do not know,” Cadfael said, “which way she rode. She may be well behind us to the east, for all we know, and safe enough. But if we can do no more, we can divide on the ride back, and enquire everywhere after her.”
“And if she has by now heard of the peril,” Mark added eagerly, “and very wisely looks for safe shelter, are there in these regions any houses of religious women, where she might take refuge?”
This also Cadfael translated, though he could have given a general answer to it himself, without troubling the bishop. The Church in Wales had never run to nunneries, as even conventual life for men had never been on the same monastic pattern as in England. Instead of the orderly, well-regulated house of sisters, with a recognised authority and a rule, here there might arise, in the most remote and solitary wilderness, a small wattled oratory, with a single, simple saint living within it, a saint in the old dispensation, without benefit of Pope or canonisation, who grew a few vegetables and herbs for her food, and gathered berries and wild fruit, and came to loving terms with the small beasts of the warren, so that they ran to hide in her skirts when they were hunted, and neither huntsmen nor horn could urge on the hounds to do the lady affront, or her little visitors harm. Though Cadfael had to admit, on reflection, that the Dublin Danes might not observe a proper respect to such unaccustomed evidences of sanctity.
The bishop shook his head. “Our holy women do not gather in communities, like yours, but set up their cells in the wilds, alone. Such anchoresses would not settle near a town. More likely far to withdraw into the mountains. There is one we know of here, who has her hermitage by this same Menai water, some miles west from here, beyond the narrows. But as soon as we heard of this threat from the sea I sent to warn her, and bring her in here to shelter. And she had the good sense to come, and make no demur about it. God is the first and best defence of lone women, but I see no virtue in leaving all to him. I want no martyrs within my domain, and sanctity is small protection.”
“Then her cell is left empty,” said Mark, and sighed. “But if this girl should have ridden so far, and failed to find a friend at need, where next might she turn?”
“Inland, surely, into the cover of woodland. I know of no defensible holding close by, but these raiders, if they land, would not go far from their ships. Any house in Arfon would take a girl in. Though the nearest and themselves most at risk,” he added simply, “may well have drawn off into the hills themselves. Your fellow here knows how lightly we can vanish at need.”
“I doubt she can have gone far ahead of us,” said Cadfael, pondering possibilities. “And for all we know she may have her own plans, and know very well where to run. At least we can ask wherever we touch on the way back.” There was always the chance, too, that Canon Meirion had already found his daughter, closer to the royal seat at Aber.
“I can have prayers said for her safety,” said the bishop briskly, “but I have sheep of my own to fold, and cannot, however willingly I would, go searching after one stray. At least, Brothers, rest this night over, before you take to the roads again, and may you ride safely and get good word of the young woman you seek.”
Bishop Meurig might be preoccupied with guarding his extended household, but he did not let that interfere with his hospitality. His table was well-supplied, his meat and mead ample and well-prepared, and he did not let his guests depart next morning without rising at dawn to see them off. It was a limpid, moist morning, after some fitful showers in the night, and the sun came up glistening and radiant, gilding the shallows to eastward.
“Go with God!” said the bishop, solid and square in the gateway of his precinct, as though he would hold it single-handed against all comers. His complimentary letters were already bestowed in Mark’s saddle-roll, together with a small flask of gilded glass filled with the cordial he made from his own honey, and Cadfael carried before him a basket with a day’s supply of food for six men rather than two. “Come safely back to your bishop, on whom be God’s blessing, and to your convent, Brother Cadfael, where his grace surely prevails. I trust some day we may meet again.”
Of the peril now threatening he certainly went in no awe. When they looked back from the street he was bustling purposefully across the open court, head foremost and lowered, like a small, determined bull not yet belligerent but certainly not to be trifled with.
They had emerged from the edges of the town on to the highroad, when Mark reined in, and sat his horse mute and thoughtful, looking first back along the road towards Aber, and then westward towards the invisible sinuous curves of the narrow strait that separated Anglesey from Arfon. Cadfael drew in beside him, and waited, knowing what was on his friend’s mind.
“Could she have passed beyond this point? Ought we not to go on westward? She left Aber hours before us. How long, I wonder, before she got word of the coming of the Danes?”
“If she rode through the night,” said Cadfael, “she was not likely to hear of it until morning, there would be no one abroad to warn her. By morning she could be well to the west, and if she intended by her flight to evade her marriage, she would not come near Bangor, for there she was to meet her husband. Yes, you are right, she might by this be well to westward, and into danger. Nor am I sure she would turn back even if she knew of it.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” demanded Mark simply, and turned his horse towards the west.
At the church of Saint Deiniol, several miles southwest from Bangor and perhaps two miles from the strait, they got word of her at last. She must have kept to the old, direct road, the same Owain and his host would take, but hours ahead of them. The only puzzle was why it had taken her so long to reach that point, for when they enquired of the priest there was no hesitation, but yes, she had lighted down here to ask directions only late the previous evening, about Vespers.
“A young woman on a light roan, and all alone. She asked her way to the cell of Nonna. Due west from here it lies, in the trees near the water. I offered her shelter for the night, but she said she would go to the holy woman.”
“She would find the cell deserted,” said Cadfael. “Bishop Meurig feared for the anchoress, and sent to bring her into Bangor. From which direction did the girl ride in?”
“Down out of the forests, from the south. I did not know,” said the priest, distressed, “that she would find the place empty. I wonder, poor child, what she would do? There would still be time enough for her to find refuge in Bangor.”