Ellis Peters - The Holy Thief

What he said he meant, and Rémy knew it. It took him a great struggle to choose between his singer and his future security, but the end was never in doubt. Cadfael saw him swallow hard and half-choke upon the effort, and almost felt sorry for him at that moment. But with a patron as powerful, as cultivated and as durable as Robert Beaumont, Rémy of Pertuis could hardly be an object for sympathy very long.

He did look round sharply for a reliable agent here, before he gave in. “My lord abbot, or you, my lord sheriff, I would not like her to be solitary and in want, ever. If she should reappear, if you hear of her, I beg you, let me have word, and I will send for her. She has always a welcome with me.”

True enough, and not all because she was valuable to him for her voice. Probably he had never realized until now that she was more than a possession, that she was a human creature in her own right, and might go hungry, even starve, fall victim to villains on the road, come by harm a thousand different ways. It was like the flight of a nun from childhood, suddenly venturing a terrible world that gave no quarter. So, at least, he might think of her, thus seeing her whole in the instant when she vanished from his sight. How little he knew her!

“Well, my lord, I have done what I can. I am ready.”

They were gone, all of them, streaming out along the Foregate towards Saint Giles, Robert Beaumont, earl of Leicester, riding knee to knee with Sub-Prior Herluin of Ramsey, restored to good humour by the recovery of the fruits of his labours in Shrewsbury, and gratified to be travelling in company with a nobleman of such standing; Robert’s two squires riding behind, the younger a little disgruntled at having to make do with an unfamiliar mount, but glad to be going home; Herluin’s middle-aged layman driving the baggage cart, and Nicol bringing up the rear, well content to be riding instead of walking. Within the church their hoofbeats were still audible until they reached the corner of the enclave, and turned along the Horse Fair. Then there was a grateful silence, time to breathe and reflect. Abbot Radulfus and Prior Robert were gone about their lawful business, and the brothers had dispersed to theirs. It was over.

“Well,” said Cadfael thankfully, bending his head familiarly to Saint Winifred, “an engaging rogue, and harmless, but not for the cloister, any more than she was for servility, so why repine? Ramsey will do very well without him, and Partholan’s queen is a slave no longer. True, she’s lost her baggage, but that she would probably have rejected in any case. She told me, Hugh, she owned nothing, not even the clothes she wore. Now it will please her that she has stolen only the few things on her back.”

“And the boy,” said Hugh, “has stolen only a girl.” And he added, glancing aside at Cadfael’s contented face: “Did you know he was there, when you followed her in?”

“I swear to you, Hugh, I saw nothing, I heard nothing. There was nothing whatever even to make me think of him. But yes, I knew he was there. And so did she from the instant she came in. It was rather as though it was spoken clearly into my ear: Go softly. Say nothing. All things shall be well. She was not asking so very much, after all. A little while alone. And the parish door is always open.”

“Do you suppose,” asked Hugh, as they turned towards the south door and the cloister together,”that Aldhelm could have revealed anything against Bénezet?”

“Who knows? The possibility was enough.”

They came out into the full light of early afternoon, but after the turmoil and passion this quietness and calm left behind spoke rather of evening and the lovely lassitude of rest after labour and stillness after storm. “It was easy to get fond of the boy,” said Cadfael, “but dangerous, with such a flibbertigibbet. As well to be rid of him now rather than later. He was certainly a thief, though not for his own gain, and as certainly a liar when he felt it necessary. But he was truly kind to Donata. What he did for her was done with no thought of reward, and from an unspoiled heart.”

There was no one left in the great court as they turned towards the gatehouse. A space lately throbbing with anger and agitation rested unpeopled, as if a lesser creator had despaired of the world he had made, and erased it to clear the ground for a second attempt.

“And have you thought,” asked Hugh, “that those two will certainly be heading southwest by the same road Bénezet took? South to the place where it crosses the old Roman track, and then due west, straight as a lance, into Wales. With the luck of the saints, or the devil himself, they may happen on that lost horse, there in the forest, and leave nothing for Alan to find tomorrow.”

“And that unlucky lad’s saddlebags still there with the harness,” Cadfael realized, and brightened at the thought. “He could do with some rather more secular garments than the habit and the cowl, and from what I recall they should be much the same size.”

“Draw me in no deeper,” said Hugh hastily.

“Finding is not thieving.” And as they halted at the gate, where Hugh’s horse was tethered, Cadfael said seriously: “Donata understood him better than any of us. She told him his fortune, lightly it may be, but wisely. A troubadour, she said, needs three things, and three things only, an instrument, a horse, and a ladylove. The first she gave him, an earnest for the rest. Now, perhaps, he has found all three.”