‘With another man, so all the neighbours said,’ Hugh remarked cynically.
‘Well,’ said Cadfael reasonably, ‘her own had left her. And very bitter she was about it, by all accounts. She might well take a lover by way of revenge. Did ever you see the woman?’
‘No,’ said Hugh, ‘not that I recall.’
‘I have,’ said Aline. ‘She helped at his booth on market days and at the fair. Not last year, of course, last year he was in the cloister and she was already gone. There was a lot of talk about Ruald’s leaving her, naturally, and gossip is never very charitable. She was not well liked among the market women, she never went out of her way to make friends, never let them close to her. And then, you see, she was very beautiful, and a stranger. He brought her from Wales, years ago, and even after years she spoke little English, and never made any effort to be anything but a stranger. She seemed to want no one but Ruald. No wonder if she was bitter when he abandoned her. The neighbours said she turned to hating him, and claimed she had another lover and could do without such a husband. But she fought for him to the end. Women turn for ease to hate, sometimes, when love leaves them nothing but pain.’ She had mused herself into another woman’s anguish with unwonted gravity; she shook off the image with some dismay. ‘Now I am the gossip! What will you think of me? And it’s all a year past, and surely by now she’s reconciled. No wonder if she took up her rootsthey were shallow enough here, once Ruald was goneand went away home to Wales without a word to a soul. With another man, or alone, what does it matter?’
‘Love,’ declared Hugh, at once touched and amused, ‘you never cease to be a wonder to me. How did you ever come to know so much about the case? And feel so hotly about it?’
‘I’ve seen them together, that was enough. From across a fairground stall it was plain to be seen how fond, and wild she was. And you men,’ said Aline, with resigned tolerance, ‘naturally see the man’s rights first, when he sets his heart on doing what he wants, whether it’s entering the cloister or going off to war, but I’m a woman, and I see how deeply wronged the wife was. Had she no rights in the matter? And did you ever stop to thinkhe could have his freedom to go and become a monk, but his going didn’t confer freedom on her. She could not take another husband; the one she had, monk or no, was still alive. Was that fair? Almost,’ avowed Aline roundly, ‘I hope she did go with a lover, rather than have to live and endure alone.’
Hugh reached a long arm to draw his wife to him, with something between a laugh and a sigh. ‘Lady, there is much in what you say, and this world is full of injustice.’
‘Still I suppose it was not Ruald’s fault,’ said Aline, relenting. ‘I daresay he would have released her if he could. It’s done, and I hope, wherever she is, she has some comfort in her life. And I suppose if a man really is overtaken by an act of God there’s nothing he can do but obey. It may even have cost him almost as much. What kind of brother has he made, Cadfael? Was it really something that could not be denied?’
Truly,’ said Cadfael, ‘it seems that it was. The man is wholly devoted. I verily believe he had no choice.’ He paused reflectively, finding it hard to discover the appropriate words for a degree of self-surrender which was impossible to him. ‘He has now that entire security that cannot be moved by well or ill, since to his present state everything is well. If martyrdom was demanded of him now, he would accept it with the same serenity as bliss. Indeed it would be bliss, he knows nothing less. I doubt if he gives a thought to any part of that life he led for forty years, or the wife he knew and abandoned. No, Ruald had no choice.’
Aline was regarding him steadily with her wide iris eyes, that were so shrewd in their innocence. ‘Was it like that for you,’ she asked, ‘when your time came?”
‘No, I had a choice. I made a choice. It was even a hard choice, but I made it, and I hold to it. I am no such elect saint as Ruald.’
‘Is that a saint?’ and Aline. ‘It seems to me all too easy.’
The charter of the exchange of lands between Haughmond and Shrewsbury was drawn up, sealed and witnessed in the first week of September. Some days later Brother Cadfael and Brother Richard the sub-prior went to view the new acquisition, and consider its future use to the best advantage of the abbey. The morning was misty when they set out, but by the time they had reached the ferry just upstream from the field the sun was already coming through the haze, and their sandalled feet left dark tracks through the dewy grass above the shore.
Across the river the further bank rose, sandy and steep, undercut here and there by the currents, and levelling off into a narrow plain of grass, with a rising ridge of bushes and trees beyond. When they stepped from the boat they had some minutes of walking along this belt of pasture, and then they stood at the corner of the Potter’s Field, and had the whole expanse obliquely before them.
It was a very fair place. From the sandy escarpment of the river bank the slope of grass rose gradually towards a natural headland of bush and thorn and a filigree screen of birch trees against the sky. Backed into this crest in the far corner the shell of the empty cottage squatted, its garden unfenced and running wild into the embracing wildness of the unreaped grass. The crop Haughmond had not found worth his while to garner was bleaching into early autumn pallor, having ripened and seeded weeks earlier, and among the whitened standing stems all manner of meadow flowers still showed, harebell and archangel, poppy and daisy and centaury, with the fresh green shoots of new grass just breaking through the roots of the fading yield. Under the headland above, tangles of bramble offered fruit just beginning to blacken from red.
‘We could still cut and dry this for bedding,’ said Brother Richard, casting a judicial eye over the wild expanse, ‘but would it be worth the labour? Or we could leave it to die down of itself, and plough it in. This land has not been under the plough for generations.’
‘It would be heavy work,’ said Cadfael, viewing with pleasure the sheen of sunlight on the distant white trunks of the birch trees on the ridge.
‘Not so heavy as you might think. The soil beneath is good, friable loam. And we have a strong ox-team, and the field has length enough to get a team of six into the yoke. We need a deep, broad furrow for the first ploughing. I would recommend it,’ said Brother Richard, secure in the experience of his farming stock, and set off up the field to the crest, by the same rural instinct keeping to the headland instead of wading through the grass. ‘We should leave the lower strip for pasture, and plough this upper level.’
Cadfael was of the same mind. The field they had parted with, distant beyond Haughton, had been best left under stock; here they could very well take a crop of wheat or barley, and turn the stock from the lower pasture into the stubble afterwards, to manure the land for the next year. The place pleased him, and yet had an undefined sadness about it. The remnants of the garden fence, when they reached it, the tangled growth in which herb and weed contended for root and light and space, the doorless doorway and shutterless window, all sounded a note of humanity departed and human occupation abandoned. Without the remnants this would have been a scene wholly placid, gentle and content. But it was impossible to look at the deserted croft without reflecting that two lives had been lived there for fifteen years, joined in a childless marriage, and that of all the thoughts and feelings they had shared not a trace now remained here. Nor to note the bare, levelled site from which every stone had been plundered, without recalling that a craftsman had laboured here at loading his kiln and firing it, where now the hearth was barren and cold. There must surely have been human happiness here, satisfaction of the mind, fulfilment of the hands. There had certainly been grief, bitterness and rage, but only the detritus of that past life clung about the spot now, coldly, indifferently melancholy.