“I had it taken to my lord, since it was found in his territory. I was risking no man of my village or those round about being charged with stealing a thing of value. Earl Robert was and is in residence in his manor of Huncote,” said the reeve, “a few miles nearer Leicester. We carried it to him there, and told him how we found it, and there in his hall it is yet. You may find it safe enough in his care.”
“Praise God, who has shown us marvellous mercies!” breathed Prior Robert in rapture. “I do believe we have found the saint we mourned as lost.”
Hugh was visited by a momentary vision of Brother Cadfael’s face, if he could have been present to appreciate the irony. Yet both virgin saint and unrepentant sinner must fall within the range of humanity. Maybe, after all, Cadfael had been right to speak so simply of ‘poor Columbanus’. If only, thought Hugh, between amusement and anxiety, if only the lady has been gracious enough and considerate enough to keep the lid firmly on that reliquary of hers, we may yet come out of this without scandal. In any case, there was no escaping the next move.
“Very well so!” said Hugh philosophically. “Then we’ll go to Huncote, and have speech with the earl.”
Huncote was a trim and compact village. There was a thriving mill, and the fields of the demesne were wide and green, the ploughland well tended. It lay clear of the edge of the forest, closely grouped round the manor and its walled courtyard. The house was not large, but built of stone, with a squat tower as solid as a castle keep. Within the pale the strangers entering were observed immediately, and approached with an alertness and efficiency that probably stemmed from the fact that the earl himself was in residence. Grooms came at once, and briskly, to take the bridles, and a spruce page came bounding down the steps from the hall door to greet the newcomers and discover their business here, but he was waved away by an older steward who had emerged from the stables. The apparition of three Benedictines, two of them obviously venerable, and attended by two lay guests, one a servitor, the other with an authority equal to the monastic, but clearly secular, produced a welcome at once courteous and cool. Here every grace of hospitality would be offered to all who came, only warmth waited on further exchanges.
In a country still torn between two rivals for sovereignty, and plagued by numerous uncommitted lords more interested in carving out kingdoms of their own, wise men observed their hospitable duties and opened their houses to all, but waited to examine credentials before opening their minds.
“My lord, reverend sirs,” said the steward, “you are very welcome. I am the steward of my lord Robert Beaumont’s manor of Huncote. How may I serve the Benedictine Order and those who ride in their company? Have you business here within?”
“If Earl Robert is within, and will receive us,” said Hugh, “we have indeed business. We come in the matter of something lost from the abbey of Shrewsbury, and found, as we have learned, here within the earl’s woodlands. A little matter of a saint’s reliquary. Your lord may even find it diverting, as well as enlightening, for he must have been wondering what had been laid on his doorstone.”
“I am the prior of Shrewsbury,” said Robert with ceremonious dignity, but was only briefly regarded. The steward was elderly, experienced and intelligent, and though he was custodian only of one of the minor properties in Leicester’s huge and international honour, by the sharpening glint in his eye he was in his lord’s confidence, and well acquainted with the mysterious and elaborate coffin so strangely jettisoned in the forest beyond Ullesthorpe.
“I am King Stephen’s sheriff of Shropshire,” said Hugh, “and in pursuit of that same errant saint. If your lord has her safe and sound, he is entitled to the prayers of all the brothers of Shrewsbury, and of half Wales into the bargain.”
“No man’s the worse for an extra prayer or two,” said the steward, visibly thawing. “Go within, brothers, and welcome. Robin here will show you. We’ll see your beasts cared for.”
The boy, perhaps sixteen years old, pert and lively, had waited their pleasure with stretched ears and eyes bright with curiosity when their errand was mentioned. Some younger son from among Leicester’s tenants, placed by a dutiful father where he could readily get advancement. And by his easy manner, Hugh judged, Leicester was no very hard master for such as met his standards. This lad bounded up the steps ahead of them, his chin on his shoulder, eyeing them brightly.
“My lord came down here from the town when he heard of these outlaws passing this way, but never a glimpse of them have we encountered since. They’ll be well out of reach before this. He’ll welcome diversion, if you have so curious a tale to tell. He left his countess behind in Leicester.”
“And the reliquary is here?” demanded Prior Robert, anxious to have his best hopes confirmed.
“If that is what it is, Father, yes, it’s here.”
“And has suffered no damage?”
“I think not,” said the boy, willing to please. “But I have not seen it close. I know the earl admired the silverwork.”
He left them in a panelled solar beyond the hall, and went to inform his master that he had unexpected guests; and no more than five minutes later the door of the room opened upon the lord of half Leicestershire, a good slice of Warwickshire and Northampton, and a large honour in Normandy brought to him by his marriage with the heiress of Breteuil.
It was the first time Hugh had seen him, and he came to the encounter with sharp and wary interest. Robert Beaumont, earl of Leicester like his father before him, was a man barely a year past forty, squarely built and no more than medium tall, dark of hair and darker of eyes, rich but sombre in his attire, and carrying the habit of command very lightly, not overstressed, for there was no need. He was cleanshaven, in the Norman manner, leaving open to view a face broad at brow and well provided with strong and shapely bone, a lean jaw, and a full, firm mouth, long-lipped and mobile, and quirking upward at the corners to match a certain incalculable spark in his eye. The symmetry of his body and the smoothness of his movements were thrown out of balance by the slight bulge that heaved one shoulder out of line with its fellow. Not a great flaw, but insistently it troubled the eyes of guests coming new to his acquaintance.
“My lord sheriff, reverend gentlemen,” said the earl, “you come very aptly, if Robin has reported your errand rightly, for I confess I’ve been tempted to lift the lid on whatever it is they’ve brought me from Ullesthorpe. It would have been a pity to break those very handsome seals, I’m glad I held my hand.”
And so am I, thought Hugh fervently, and so will Cadfael be. The earl’s voice was low-pitched and full, pleasing to the ear, and the news he had communicated even more pleasing. Prior Robert melted and became at once gracious and voluble. In the presence of a Norman magnate of such power and dignity this other Norman Robert, monastic though he was by choice, harked back to his own heredity, and blossomed as if preening before a mirror.
“My lord, if I may speak for Shrewsbury, both abbey and town, I must tell you how grateful we are that Saint Winifred fell into such noble hands as yours. Almost one might feel that she has herself directed matters in miraculous fashion, protecting herself and her devotees even among such perils.”
“Almost one might, indeed!” said Earl Robert, and the eloquent and sensitive lips curved into a gradual and thoughtful smile. “If the saints can secure at will whatever their own wishes may be, it would seem the lady saw fit to turn to me. I am honoured beyond my deserts. Come, now, and see how I have lodged her, and that no harm or insult has been offered her. I’ll show you the way. You must lodge here tonight at least, and as long as you may wish. Over supper you shall tell me the whole story, and we shall see what must be done now, to please her.”