Cadfael had followed her in, but halted at sight of her sitting there open-eyed and still, her head reared erect as though she was listening to a voice, or a memory. After chaos, this calm and quietness was awesome. She had felt it on entering, Cadfael felt it on beholding her thus entranced.
He approached her softly, and spoke as softly, and for a moment was not sure she would hear him, for she was tuned to something more distant.
“He grazed you. Better let me see.”
“A scratch,” she said indifferently; but she let him draw back her loose sleeve almost to the shoulder, where it was slit for a hand’s-length. The skin was barely broken, there was only a white hair-line, beaded in two or three places with a tiny jewel of blood. “Nothing! It will not fester.”
“You took a heavy fall. I never thought he would drive at you so. You spoke too soon, I meant to spare you the need.”
“I thought he could neither love nor hate,” said Daalny with detached interest. “I never saw him moved till now. Did he get clean away?”
That he could not answer, he had not stopped to see.
“I am very well,” she said firmly, “and all is well with me. You go back and see what is still to do. Ask them... Ask them to leave me here a while alone. I need this place. I need this certainty.”
“You shall have it,” said Cadfael, and left her, for she was in command of herself and all her thoughts, words and acts as perhaps she had never been before. He turned back at the door to look at her one last time, and she sat regal and erect on the steps of the altar, her hands easy on the stone on either side, half-open, as though they held the insignia of sovereignty. There was the faintest curve of a smile on her lips, private and solitary, and yet he had the illusion, if it was an illusion?, that she was not alone.
They had unbuckled the saddlebag from its harness, and carried it into the gatehouse as the nearest place where a solid table offered a hospitable surface on which to spill the contents. There were six of them gathered close about the board when Cadfael joined them to make a seventh: Abbot Radulfus, Prior Robert, Sub-Prior Herluin, Robert Bossu, Rémy of Pertuis and Hugh Beringar, freshly dismounted within the gate, and very briefly appraised of all that had been happening here. It was Hugh, at the earl’s silent invitation, who brought forth from the bag the modest personal equipment of a valued body-servant, folded clothing, razor, brushes, a good belt, a pair of worn but wellmade gloves. At the bottom, but occupying half the space, Hugh grasped by its draw-string neck and hauled forth upon the table a plump, soft leather bag that gave forth an unmistakable chinking of coins settling, as it sagged together and squatted still and enigmatic before their eyes.
One thing at least was no longer secret. Three of them here recognized it at once. At the loud gasp that escaped Herluin even the lower orders, gathered avidly about the doorway, Nicol, and the squires, and the humble layman from Ramsey, drew eager anticipatory breath, and crowded closer.
“Good God!” said Herluin in a marvelling whisper. “This I know! This was in the coffer for Ramsey, on the altar of the Lady Chapel when the flood came. But how is it possible? It was put on the wagon with the load of timber. We found the coffer at Ullesthorpe, ravaged and empty, everything stolen...”
Hugh pulled open the strings of the bag, turned up the soft leather upon the table, and slid out a slithering flood of silver pence, and among the whisper and the glitter, a little bulkier and last to emerge, certain shining ornaments: a gold neckchain, twin bracelets, a torque of gold set with roughly cut gemstones, and two rings, one a man’s massive seal, the other a broad gold band, deeply engraved. Last came a large and intricate ring brooch, the fastening of a cloak, in reddish gold, fine Saxon work.
They stood and gazed, and were slow to believe or understand.
“These I know, also,” said Radulfus slowly. The brooch I have seen once in the cloak of the lady Donata. The plain ring she wore always.”
“She gave them to Ramsey before her death,” said Herluin, low-voiced, marvelling at what seemed almost a miracle. “All these were in the casket I put in Nicol’s charge when he left with the wagon for Ramsey. The casket we found, broken open and discarded...”
“I well remember,” said Nicol’s voice hoarsely from the doorway. “I carried the key safe enough, but they had prized up the lid, taken the treasure, and cast the box away... So we thought!”
So they had all thought. All this goodwill, all these gifts to a ravaged monastery, had been in their casket on the altar of the Lady Chapel on the night of the flood, high enough to be clear even of the highest flood water. Safe from the river, but not from thieves coming on the pretext of helping to preserve the holy things, while taking advantage of the opportunity to help themselves to what lay temptingly to hand. The key had been in the lock, no need that time to break it open. Easy enough to lift out the leather bag, replace it with whatever offered, rags and stones, to represent the weight that had been removed. Relock the box, and leave it to be transferred to the wagon in Nicol’s care. And then, thought Cadfael, his eyes upon Donata’s bright last charity, hide the booty somewhere safe, somewhere apart, until the time comes for leaving Shrewsbury. Somewhere apart, where even if discovered it could not attach to a name; but where it was unlikely to be discovered. Bénezet had helped to move the horses from their low-lying stable within the walls. It would take no time at all to thrust his prize to the very bottom of the full cornbin, newly supplied for the few days of the horses’ stay. Small fear of their having to remain long enough to expose the alien thing beneath the corn. Safer there than in the common guesthall, where casual overnight travellers came and went, and there was little if any privacy. Even thieves can be robbed, and curious neighbours can find out things that were hidden.
“They never left Shrewsbury!” said Hugh, staring down at the pile of silver and gold. “Father Herluin, it seems God and the saints have restored you your own.”
“Under whom,” said Robert Bossu drily, “thanks are due also to this girl of yours, Rémy. She has proved her point concerning theft. Are we not forgetting her? I hope he did her no injury. Where is she now?”
“She is in the church,” said Cadfael, “and asks that you will allow her a little time in private before departing. She has nothng worse than a graze, as concerning the body, she can go and she can ride, but a while of quietness is what her spirit needs.”
“We will wait her convenience,” said the earl. “I would like, I confess, Hugh, to see the end of this. If your fellows bring back the thief alive, so much the better, for he has robbed me, in passing, of a good horse. He has much to answer for.”
“More,” said Cadfael sombrely, “than mere theft.”
He had moved aside the pile of clothes which had covered Bénezet’s plunder from sight, and thrust a hand into the depths of the saddlebag, and there was some folded garment still left undisturbed within, put away beneath all. He held it unfolded in his hands, a linen shirt, clean from fresh folds after laundering, and was gazing down at the cuff of one sleeve, turning it about in his figers with fixed attention. A very self-sufficient man, Bénezet, very orderly in his management of his affairs, needing no woman to wash and furbish for him. But not rich enough to be able to discard a shirt, even if there had been much opportunity, shut in here within monastic walls at his master’s pleasure, while Rémy pursued his quest for patronage. He had washed it and folded it deep under everything in his packing, to await its next airing miles distant from here and weeks later. But there are stains not easily washed out. Cadfael extended the cuff beneath Hugh’s wondering gaze, and Earl Robert leaned to take up the second sleeve. For about a hand’s breadth from the hem they were both thinly spattered with small round stains, no more than a faint but clear pink outline, even fainter pink within. But Cadfael had seen the like before, often enough to know it. So, he thought, had Robert Bossu.