“No,” said Cadfael, enlightened, “it is not far. Thornbury I know. There she could have gone on foot.”
He went away from the bishop’s house with much to think about. The vanishing lady became ever more interesting. Since it was more than twenty years that she had been Domville’s patient, permanent mistress, so firmly established as to have the respectability and the calm subservience of a wife, she must be fully forty years old, some years senior to that young steward at the hunting-lodge, but no doubt she must still have the charms to dazzle him, if she so wished. Yes, he could have fallen victim to desire and jealousy, and seen fit to rid himself of the old, hard man who was her owner and stood between. But the revelation of her probable years had other implications. So far gone towards middle age, a woman was unlikely to strike up another such comfortable liaison, now Domville was dead. That consideration could well have caused her to reflect that her own people were hardly more than a mile away, and that with them she could vanish, and be hidden for as long as she felt the need to hide.
But why, why should she leave behind a valuable horse, her own property, the gift of her lord? She could just as well have ridden to Thornbury as walked.
Today was more or less spent, he must go back ready for Vespers, and see what prodigies of destruction or genius Brother Oswin had performed in his absence.
But tomorrow he would find her!
At Saint Giles two young men were fretting over their personal problems. Brother Mark had long since made up his mind that the tall leper who matched Lazarus in all particulars but the completeness of his hands was indeed the fugitive squire for whom the sheriff was hunting with such formidable numbers and such ferocious determination. He was therefore caught up in a moral dilemma of some complexity.
He had heard the story of the supposed theft of the bride’s necklace, but it was as suspect to him as to Brother Cadfael. Too many men, in all manner of circumstances, had been dragged to ruin and death simply by inserting such valuables into their baggage. It was all too easy a way of wiping out an enemy. He simply did not believe in it. Nor, having observed Huon de Domville, would he willingly have surrendered any man to his vengeance, which was likely to be mortal.
But the murder, that was another matter. He found it all too credible that a young man so wronged, if that accusation had indeed been false, should be driven to brood on revenge even against his nature, and to extremes. Where then was right? And yet the ambush, and the finishing of a stunned man, stuck fast in Mark’s humble, unknightly craw. Such a vengeance no man could sanction. He was wrought to the limit, and he could not put off his burden upon any other shoulders. He alone knew what he knew.
He thought of approaching the intruder directly and asking for his confidence, but such a move demanded a privacy hardly to be found in this enclosed community. Not until he was certain of guilt would he make any move that should draw attention to the fugitive. Every man should be adjudged innocent until there was proof against him, and all the more when very suspect and malicious charges had already been thrown at him, and rang leaden as false coin.
If I can find occasion to be alone with him, unobserved of any, Brother Mark decided, I will speak openly and judge as I find. If I cannot, or until I can, I will watch him as best I may, mark all that he does, challenge him if he attempts any ill, stand ready to speak in his defense if he does none. And pray that God may see fit to make use of me for truth, one way or the other.
The object of his concern was sitting with Lazarus at a discreet distance from the highway but within view, some quarter of a mile along the road that led towards the river crossing at Atcham. One of the begging bowls they held, at least, was legitimate, but they made no appeals to any of those who passed by, and used their warning clappers only if some charitably disposed soul showed signs of approaching too closely. They sat cross-legged and shrouded in the bleached autumnal grass under the trees. The attitudes were easily learned.
“Just as you are,” said Lazarus, “you might walk away through their cordon and go free. They will not believe any man so brave or so mad as to walk in a dead leper’s gown, or be themselves so brave or so mad as to risk stripping you to find out.” It was a long speech for him, by the end he stumbled, as if his maimed tongue tired of the effort.
“What, run and save my own skin and leave her still captive? I do not stir from here,” said Joscelin vehemently, “while she is still in ward to an uncle who plunders her substance, and will sell her for his own profit. To a worse than Huon de Domville, if the price is right! What use is my freedom to me, if I turn my back on Iveta in her need?”
“I think,” said the slow tongue beside him, “that if truth be told, you want this lady for yourself. Do I belie you?”
“Not by a hair!” said Joscelin with passion. “I want this lady for myself as I never have wanted and never shall want anything else in this great world. I should want her the same if she lacked not only lands, but shoes on her feet to walk those lands, I should want her if she were what I am feigning to be now, and what you - God be your remedy! - truly are. But for all that, I’d be content - no, grateful! - only to see her safe in the care of a worthy guardian, with all her honors upon her, and free to choose where she would. Surely I’d do my best to win her! But lose her to a better man, yes, that I would, and never complain. Oh, no, you do not belie me! I ache with wanting her!”
“But what can you do for her, hunted as you are? Is there ever a friend among them you can rely on?”
“There’s Simon,” said Joscelin, warming. “He doesn’t believe evil of me. He hid me, out of goodwill, it grieves me that I quit the place without a word to him. If I could get a message to him now, he might even be able to speak with her, and have her meet me as she did once before. Now the old man’s gone - but how can that ever have come about! - they may not watch her so closely. Simon might even get me my horse …”
“And where,” asked the patient, detached voice, “would you take this friendless lady, if you got her out of ward?”
“I’ve thought of that. I’d take her to the White Ladies at Brewood, and ask sanctuary for her until enquiry could be made into her affairs, and a proper provision made for her. They would not give her up against her will. It would go as far as the king, if need be. He has a good heart, he’d see her justly used. I would a long sight sooner take her to my mother,” burst out Joscelin honestly, “but it would be said I coveted her possessions, and that I won’t endure. I have two good manors coming to me, I covet no man’s lands, I owe no man, and I won’t be misprised. If she still chooses me, I’ll thank God and her, and be a happy man. But I care most that she should be a happy woman.”
Lazarus reached for his clapper-dish, and set the clapper woodenly clouting, for a plump, solid horseman had halted his pony and turned aside from the road towards them. The rider, nonetheless, smiled from his distance and tossed a coin. Lazarus gathered it and blessed him, and the good man waved a hand and rode on.
“There is still goodness,” said Lazarus, as if to himself.
“Praise God, there is!” said Joscelin with unaccustomed humility. “I have experienced it. I have never asked you,” he said hesitantly, “if you have ever had wife and child. It would be great waste if you had always been solitary.”