“It’s false! You know, you all know, that cannot be true! Have you forgotten? He of all men must be innocent of this - he’s behind locked doors in Shrewsbury castle these two days - and that charge as false as this! - but thank God for it, the sheriff’s own gaoler is witness he cannot have done murder.”
Understanding fell upon Brother Cadfael somewhat after the fashion of a great blow on the head, and left him dazed, unable to catch at first the full implications of what she had said. Not so hard now to guess the meaning of her resolute composure when questioned by the abbot. They had cased her up securely within, and kept her from knowing anything of Joscelin’s escape, when it would have been comfort and joy to her. Now, when it destroyed all her comfort, they would turn on her and hurl it in her face. They were at it already, both the Picards, Agnes the shriller and more savage of the two.
“Fool girl, he is not prisoner. He broke free before ever they got him over the bridge, he’s at large with his grudge…”
“Thief he was, and now a hunted wolf in the woods, and has murdered your bridegroom! And will hang for it.”
All the brightness, all the valor, was stricken from her face. She hung a moment quite still, and just once her lips formed a protesting “No!” that made no sound. Then her cheeks blanched whiter than snow. She put up a hand to her heart, and fell down like a shot bird, in a little crumpled heap of gold.
The maid Madlen came rushing officiously, all the women crowded in upon the small, spilled body, Picard gave a cry rather of exasperation than concern, and stooped to gather her up by the wrist and haul her to her feet. She was a reproach and an embarrassment, they wanted her hustled away out of sight and out of mind. Cadfael could not forbear from interfering, before they stifled her among their skirts, or tugged a wrist out of joint. He plunged into the midst of them and spread his arms to press them back from her.
“Peace, let her breathe! She has swooned, don’t lift her yet.”
Brother Edmund, versed in such collapses, seconded him valiantly on the other side, and with Abbot Radulfus looking on, the guests could hardly reject the help and authority of those who tended the sick within these walls. Even Agnes stood back, though with a chill and wary face, as Cadfael went on his knees beside the girl, and straightened her tumbled limbs to lie at ease, her head raised on his arm. “A cloak to fold under her head! And where is Brother Oswin?”
Simon threw off his cloak and rolled it eagerly into a pillow. Oswin came running from among the staring novices.
“Go and fetch me the little flask of mint and sorrel vinegar from the shelf by the door, and a bottle of the draught of bitter herbs. And be quick!”
He laid her head down gently on the pillow Simon had made for it, and took her wrists into his hands and began to chafe them steadily. Her face had the pinched, bluish white of ice. Oswin came back at the same devoted gallop, and moreover, had brought the right medicines. There was hope of him yet. Brother Edmund knelt on the other side, and held the little bottle of vinegar, hot and sharp with mint and sorrel, to her nostrils, and saw them dilate and flutter. A small convulsion like a cough heaved her childish breast, and the steel-sharp lines of cheekbones and chin gradually softened. Over her oblivious head her uncle, having abandoned her to her physicians, returned to his vengeance with renewed venom.
“Can there be any doubt? He broke loose without weapons, and with no means of getting away. Only a man deprived of other means needs to kill with his bare hands. He is a big, strong rogue, capable of such an act. No one else had any grievance against Huon. But he had a grudge, and a bitter one, and he has taken to extremes to have his revenge. Now it is mortal! Now he must be hunted down like a mad dog, shot down at sight if need be, for he’s perilous to anyone who approaches him. This is a hanging matter.”
“My men are beating the woods and orchards for him at this moment,” said Prestcote shortly, “and have been ever since a patrol reported flushing a man out of cover into the Foregate early this morning. Though it was not yet light, and they got but the briefest glimpse of him, and for my part I doubt if it was Lucy. More likely some rogue in a small way pilfering from hen-houses and backyards by night. The hunt goes on, and will until we take him. Every man I can spare is out already.”
“Make use of my men also,” offered Picard eagerly, “and of Huon’s. We are all of us bound now to hunt down his murderer. There’s surely no doubt in your mind that Joscelin Lucy is his murderer?”
“It seems all too clear. This has all the marks of an act of desperate hate. We know of no other present enemy of his.”
Cadfael worked unhurriedly upon Iveta, but listened to all that passed, the abbot’s few words and reserved silences, Picard’s vindictive urgings, the sheriff’s measured dispositions for the continued and extended hunt, all the deployment of the law closing round Joscelin Lucy. In the middle of it he noted that faint color was returning to Iveta’s face, and watched the first delicate flutterings of her eyelids, the shadow of long dark-gold lashes quivering on her cheekbones. Dazed purple eyes opened at him, and gazed in uncomprehending terror. Her lips parted. As if by chance he laid a fingertip upon them, and briefly closed his own eyes. Joscelin’s peril, far more effectively than her own, had made her wits quick. The eyelids, veined like harebells, closed again and remained closed. She lay like one still senseless, but showing signs of returning life.
“She is beginning to stir. We may take her in now.”
He rose from his knees and lifted her in his arms, before Picard or Simon or any other could forestall him.
“She should lie at rest for some hours, after she comes round. It was a bad swoon.” He marvelled how little there was of her, and was convinced her finery weighed more than she did; yet this fragile creature had roused herself to heroic defiance for the sake of Joscelin, she who was so tamed and resigned for herself. Even the charge of theft and a cell in the castle had seemed comfort and joy to her when they served to ward off the infinitely worse charge of murder. Now, when she got her wits back, and remembered, she would be torn in two between terror for his life, since this killing was indeed a hanging matter, and hope for his escape, since thus far he was still at liberty. Hope offered itself and snatched itself away again from Iveta de Massard.
“Madam, if you will show the way …”
Agnes gathered her splendid skirts and swept before him into the guest-hall, to her own apartments. It could not be said, Cadfael reflected, that she felt no concern for her niece, since her niece was the greater part of her fortune, and for that she felt a strong defensive care. But her prevailing emotion towards the girl Iveta herself was impatience and displeasure. By this hour she should have been safely married off, a commodity profitably disposed of. However, she was still eminently salable, she still had all her father’s great honor in lands and titles, down to the sword and helmet of the paladin Guimar de Massard, chivalrously restored by the Fatimids of Egypt: the one item of her inheritance, possibly, which Picard did not covet.
“You may lay her here.” By the narrow way she eyed him, Agnes had not forgotten that he was the brother of whose ready prevarications she had complained to the abbot; but that hardly mattered now, since Joscelin Lucy was quarry for a hunt to the death, and no threat to her peace of mind any longer. “Is there anything needs to be done for her?”
Iveta lay on her covered bed, sighed and was still. All that gold, as though she had been minted.
“If you would be kind enough to find me a small cup, to take a draught of this decoction of herbs when she is with us again. It’s a good, bitter restorative, and wards off further fainting. And I think there should be some warmth in the room. A small charcoal brazier would serve.”