“Are you truly saying,” demanded Leoric in a hoarse whisper, “that Nigel killed the man? Such a crime against hospitality, against kinship, against his nature?”
“No,” said Cadfael. “But I am saying that it may be true that Meriet did so find him, just as you found Meriet. Why should what was such plain proof to you be any less convincing to Meriet? Had he not overwhelming reason to believe his brother guilty, to fear him guilty, or no less terrible, to dread that he might be convicted in innocence? For bear this ever in mind, if you could be mistaken in giving such instant credence to what you saw, so could Meriet. For those lost six hours still stick in my craw, and how to account for them I don’t yet know.”
“Is it possible?” whispered Leoric, shaken and wondering. “Have I so wronged him? And my own part—must I not go straight to Hugh Beringar and let him judge? In God’s name, what are we to do, to set right what can be righted?”
“You must go, rather, to Abbot Radulfus’s dinner,” said Cadfael, “and be such a convivial guest as he expects, and tomorrow you must marry your son as you have planned. We are still groping in the dark, and have no choice but to wait for enlightenment. Think of what I have said, but say no word of it to any other. Not yet. Let them have their wedding day in peace.”
But for all that he was certain then, in his own mind, that it would not be in peace.
Isouda came to find him in his workshop in the herbarium. He took one look at her, forgot his broodings, and smiled. She came in the austere but fine array she had thought suitable for dining with abbots, and catching the smile and the lighting of Cadfael’s eyes, she relaxed into her impish grin and opened her cloak wide, putting off the hood to let him admire her.
“You think it will do?”
Her hair, too short to braid, was bound about her brow by an embroidered ribbon fillet, just such a one as Meriet had hidden in his bed in the dortoir, and below the confinement it clustered in a thick mane of curls on her neck. Her dress was an over-tunic of deep blue, fitting closely to the hip and there flowing out in gentle folds, over a long-sleeved and high-necked cotte of a pale rose-coloured wool; Exceedingly grown-up, not at all the colours or the cut to which a wild child would fly, allowed for once to dine with the adults. Her bearing, always erect and confident, had acquired a lordly dignity to go with the dress, and her gait as she entered was princely. The close necklace of heavy natural stones, polished but not cut, served beautifully to call the eye to the fine carriage of her head. She wore no other ornaments.
“It would do for me,” said Cadfael simply, “if I were a green boy expecting a hoyden known from a child. Are you as unprepared for him, I wonder, as he will be for you?”
Isouda shook her head until the brown curls danced, and settled again into new and distracting patterns on her shoulders. “No! I’ve thought of all you’ve told me, and I know my Meriet. Neither you nor he need fear. I can deal!”
“Then before we go,” said Cadfael, “you had better be armed with everything I have gleaned in the meantime.” And he sat down with her and told her. She heard him out with a serious but tranquil face, unshaken.
“Listen, Brother Cadfael, why should he not come to see his brother married, since things are as you say? I know it would not be a kindness, not yet, to tell him he’s known as an innocent and deceives nobody, it would only set him agonising for whoever it is he’s hiding. But you know him now. If he’s given his parole, he’ll not break it, and he’s innocent enough, God knows, to believe that other men are as honest as he, and will take his word as simply as he gives it. He would credit it if Hugh Beringar allowed even a captive felon to come to see his brother married.”
“He could not yet walk so far,” said Cadfael, though he was captivated by the notion.
“He need not. I would send a groom with a horse for him. Brother Mark could come with him. Why not? He could come early, and cloaked, and take his place privately where he could watch. Whatever follows,” said Isouda with grave determination, “for I am not such a fool as to doubt there’s grief here somehow for their house—whatever follows, I want him brought forth into daylight, where he belongs. Or whatever faces may be fouled! For his is fair enough, and so I want it shown.”
“So do I,” said Cadfael heartily, “so do I!”
“Then ask Hugh Beringar if I may send for him to come. I don’t know—I feel there may be need of him, that he has the right to be there, that he should be there.”
“I will speak to Hugh,” said Cadfael. “And now, come, let’s be off to Saint Giles before the light fails.”
They walked together along the Foregate, veered right at the bleached grass triangle of the horse-fair, and out between scattered houses and green fields to the hospice. The shadowy, skeleton trees made lace patterns against a greenish, pallid sky thinning to frost.
“This is where even lepers may go for shelter?” she said, climbing the gentle grassy slope to the boundary fence.
“They medicine them here, and do their best to heal? That is noble!”
“They even have their successes,” said Cadfael. “There’s never any want of volunteers to serve here, even after a death. Mark may have gone far to heal your Meriet, body and soul.”
“When I have finished what he has begun,” she said with a sudden shining smile, “I will thank him properly. Now where must we go?”
Cadfael took her directly to the barn, but at this hour it was empty. The evening meal was not yet due, but the light was too far gone for any activity outdoors. The solitary low pallet stood neatly covered with its dun blanket.
“This is his bed?” she asked, gazing down at it with a meditative face.
“It is. He had it up in the loft above, for fear of disturbing his fellows if he had bad dreams, and it was here he fell. By Mark’s account he was on his way in his sleep to make confession to Hugh Beringar, and get him to free his prisoner. Will you wait for him here? I’ll find him and bring him to you.”
Meriet was seated at Brother Mark’s little desk in the anteroom of the hall, mending the binding of a service-book with a strip of leather. His face was grave in concentration on his task, his fingers patient and adroit. Only when Cadfael informed him that he had a visitor waiting in the barn was he shaken by sudden agitation. Cadfael he was used to, and did not mind, but he shrank from showing himself to others, as though he carried a contagion.
“I had rather no one came,” he said, torn between gratitude for an intended kindness and reluctance to have to make the effort of bearing the consequent pain. “What good can it do, now? What is there to be said? I’ve been glad of my quietness here.” He gnawed a doubtful lip and asked resignedly: “Who is it?”
“No one you need fear,” said Cadfael, thinking of Nigel, whose brotherly attentions might have proved too much to bear, had they been offered. But they had not. Bridegrooms have some excuse for putting all other business aside, certainly, but at least he could have asked after his brother. “It is only Isouda.”
Only Isouda! Meriet drew relieved breath. “Isouda has thought of me? That was kind. But—does she know? That I am a confessed felon? I would not have her in a mistake…”
“She does know. No need to say word of that, and neither will she. She would have me bring her because she has a loyal affection for you. It won’t cost you much to spend a few minutes with her, and I doubt if you’ll have to do much talking, for she will do the most of it.”
Meriet went with him, still a little reluctantly, but not greatly disturbed by the thought of having to bear the regard, the sympathy, the obstinate championship, perhaps, of a child playmate. The children among his beggars had been good for him, simple, undemanding, accepting him without question. Isouda’s sisterly fondness he could meet in the same way, or so he supposed.