Ellis Peters - The Raven in the Foregate

A soft voice, just avoiding the sibilance of a whisper, breathed in his ear: “He did not come?”

Benet turned his head very slowly, entranced and afraid, for surely it could not be the same voice, heard only once before, and briefly, but still causing the strings of his being to vibrate. And she was there, close at his right shoulder, the veritable the unforgettable she. A dim, reflected light conjured her features out of the dark hood, broad brow, wide-set eyes, deeply blue. “No,” she said. “He didn’t come!” And having answered herself, she heaved a great sigh. “I never thought he would. Don’t move-don’t look round at me.”

He turned his face obediently towards the parish altar again. The soft breath fanned his cheek as she leaned close. “You don’t know who I am, but I know you.”

“I do know you,” said Benet as softly. Nothing more, and even that was uttered like a man in a dream.

Silence for a moment; then she said: “Brother Cadfael told you?”

“I asked.

Silence again, with some soft implication of a smile in it, as though he had said something to please her, even distract her for a moment from whatever purpose had brought her here to his side.

“I know you, too. If Giffard is afraid, I am not. If he won’t help you, I will. When can we two talk?”

“Now!” he said, suddenly wide awake and grasping with both hands at an opportunity for which he had never dared to hope. “After Matins some people will be leaving, so may we. All the brothers will be here until dawn. As good a time as any!”

He felt her warm at his back, and knew when she shook softly with silent, excited laughter. “Where?”

“Brother Cadfael’s workshop.” It was the place he knew best as a possible solitude, while its proprietor kept the Christmas vigil here in the church. The brazier in the hut was turfed down to burn slowly through the night, he could easily blow it into life again to keep her warm. Clearly he could not take advantage of this delicate young being’s partisan loyalty so far as to put her in peril, but at least this once he could speak with her alone, feast his eyes on her grave, ardent face, share with her the confidences of allies. Something to remember lifelong, if he never saw her again.

“By the south door, through the cloisters,” he said. “No one will be there to see us tonight.”

The soft, warm breath in his ear said: “Need we wait? I could slip into the porch now. Matins will be so long tonight. Will you follow?”

And she was away, not waiting for an answer, stealing silently and reverently across the tiles of the nave, and taking station for a few moments where she could be seen to be gazing devoutly in towards the high altar, beyond the chanting in the choir, in case anyone should be taking note of her movements. By that time he would have followed her wherever she chose to lead him. It hurt even to wait patiently the many minutes she delayed, before she chose her moment to withdraw into the darkness of the south porch. When he followed her, by cautious stages, reaching the darkness of the closed doorway with a great heaved breath of relief, he found her waiting with the heavy latch in her hand, motionless against the door. There they waited, close and quivering, for the first jubilant antiphon of Matins, and the triumphant answering cry:

“Christ is born unto us!”

“Oh, come, let us worship!”

Benet set his hand over hers on the massive latch, and lifted it softly as the hymn began. Outside, the night’s darkness matched the darkness within. Who was to pay any attention now to two young creatures slipping through the chink of the door into the cold of the night, and cautiously letting the latch slide back into place? There was no one in the cloister, no one in the great court as they crossed it. Whether it was Benet who reached for her hand, or she for his, they rounded the corner of the thick box hedge in the garden hand in hand, and slowed to a walk there, panting and smiling, palms tightly clasped together, their breath a faint silver mist. The vast inverted bowl of sky, dark blue almost to blackness but polished bright and scintillating with stars, poured down upon them a still coldness they did not feel.

Brother Cadfael’s timbered hut, solid and squat in the sheltered enclosure, never quite lost its warmth. Benet closed the door gently behind them, and groped along the little shelf he knew now almost as well as did Cadfael himself, where the tinder box and lamp lay ready to hand. It took him two or three attempts before the charred linen caught at the spark, and let him blow it carefully into a glow. The wick of the lamp put up a tiny, wavering flame that grew into a steady flare, and stood up tall and erect. The leather bellows lay by the brazier, he had only to shift a turf or two and spend a minute industriously pumping, and the charcoal glowed brightly, and accepted a feeding of split wood to burn into a warm hearth.

“He’ll know someone has been here,” said the girl, but very tranquilly.

“He’ll know I was here,” said Benet, getting up lithely from his knees, his bold, boy’s face conjured into summer bronze by the glow from the brazier. “I doubt if he’ll say so. But he may wonder why. And with whom!”

“You’ve brought other women here?” She tilted her head at him in challenge, abruptly displeased.

“Never any, until now. Never any, hereafter. Unless you so pleasure me a second time,” he said, and stared her down with fiery solemnity.

Some resinous knot in the new wood caught and hissed, sending up a clear, white flame for a moment between them. Across its pale, pure gold the two young faces sprang into mysterious brightness, lit from below, lips parted, eyes rounded in astonished gravity.

Each of them stared into a mirror, matched and mated, and could not look away from the unexpected image of love.

PRIME WAS SAID AT AN EARLY HOUR, after a very short interlude for sleep, and the dawn Mass followed with first light. Almost all the people of the Foregate had long since gone home, and the brothers, dazed with long standing and strung taut with the tensions of music and wonder, filed a little unsteadily up the night stairs to rest briefly before preparing for the day.

Brother Cadfael, stiff with being still for so long a time, felt himself in need rather of movement than of rest. Solitary in the lavatorium, he made unusually leisurely ablutions, shaved with care, and went out into the great court, just in time to see Dame Diota Hammet come hurrying in through the wicket in the gate, stumbling and slipping on the glazed cobbles, clutching her dark cloak about her, and gazing round in evident agitation. A furry fringe of hoar frost had formed on the collar of her cloak from her breath. Every outline of wall or bush or branch was silvered with the same glittering whiteness.

The porter had come out to greet her and ask her business, but she had observed Prior Robert emerging from the cloisters, and made for him like a homing bird, making him so low and unwary a reverence that she almost fell on her knees.

“Father Prior, my master—Father Ailnoth—has he been all night in the church with you?”

“I have not seen him,” said Robert, startled, and put out a hand in haste to help her keep her feet, for the rounded stones were wickedly treacherous. He held on to the arm he had grasped, and peered concernedly into her face. “What is amiss? Surely he has his own Mass to take care of soon. By this time he should be robing. I should not interrupt him now, unless for some very grave reason. What is your need?”

“He is not there,” she said abruptly. “I have been up to see. Cynric is there waiting, ready, but my master has not come.”

Prior Robert had begun to frown, certain that this silly woman was troubling him for no good reason, and yet made uneasy by her agitation. “When did you see him last? You must know when he left his house.”