Ellis Peters - Dead Man's Ransom

“It was like him and worthy of him,” said Hugh, but scenting what must follow. “And he tried himself too far. What has happened?”

“Before we had gone a mile he swooned and fell. Not a heavy fall, but a healed wound in his side has started open again, and he lost some blood. It may be that there was some manner of fit or seizure, more than the mere exertion, for when we took him up and tended him he was very pale and cold. We wrapped him well—Einon ab Ithel swathed him further in his own cloak—and laid him again in the litter, and have carried him back to Montford.”

“Has he his senses? Has he spoken?” asked Hugh anxiously.

“As sound in his wits as any man, once he opened his eyes, and speaks clearly, my lord. We would keep him at Montford longer, if need be, but he is set to reach Shrewsbury now, being so near. He may take more harm, being vexed, than if we carry him here as he wishes, tomorrow.”

So Hugh thought, too, and gnawed his knuckles a while pondering what was best. “Do you think this setback may be dangerous to him? Even mortal?”

The man shook his head decidedly. “My lord, though you’ll find him a sick man and much fallen and aged, I think he needs only rest and time and good care to be his own man again. But it will not be a quick or an easy return.”

“Then it had better be here, where he desires to be,” Hugh decided, “but hardly in these cold, harsh chambers. I would take him to my own house, gladly, but the best nursing will surely be at the abbey, and there you can just as well bear him, and he may be spared being carried helpless through the town. I will bespeak a bed for him in the infirmary there, and see his wife and children into the to-do to be near him. Go back now to Einon ab Ithel with my greetings and thanks, and ask him to bring his charge straight to the abbey. I will see Brother Edmund and Brother Cadfael prepared to receive him, and all ready for his rest. At what hour may we expect your arrival? Abbot Radulfus will wish to have your captains be his guests before they leave again.”

“Before noon,” said the messenger, “we should reach the abbey.”

“Good! Then there shall be places at table for all, for the midday meal, before you set forth with Elis ap Cynan in exchange for my sheriff.”

Hugh carried the news to the tower apartments, to Lady Prestcote, who received them with relief and joy, though tempered with some uneasiness when she heard of her husband’s collapse. She made haste to collect her son and her maid, and make ready to move to the greater comfort of the abbey to-do, ready for her lord’s coming, and Hugh conducted them there and went to confer with the abbot about the morrow’s visit. And if he noted that one of the party went with them mute and pale, brilliant-eyed as much with tears as with eagerness, he thought little of it then. The daughter of the first wife, displaced by the son of the second, might well be the one who missed her father most, and had worn her courage so threadbare with the grief of waiting that she could not yet translate her exhaustion into joy.

Meantime, there was hum and bustle about the great court. Abbot Radulfus issued orders, and took measures to furnish his own table for the entertainment of the representatives of the prince of Gwynedd. Prior Robert took counsel with the cooks concerning properly lavish provision for the remainder of the escort, and room enough in the stables to rest and tend their horses. Brother Edmund made ready the quietest enclosed chamber in the infirmary, and had warm, light covers brought, and a brazier to temper the air, while Brother Cadfael reviewed the contents of his workshop with the broken wound in mind, and the suggestion of something more than a swoon. The abbey had sometimes entertained much larger parties, even royalty, but this was the return of a man of their own, and the Welsh who had been courteous and punctilious in providing him his release and his safe-conduct must be honoured like princes, as they stood for a prince.

In his cell in the castle Elis ap Cynan lay face-down on his pallet, the heart in his breast as oppressive as a hot and heavy stone. He had watched her go, but from hiding, unwilling to cause her the same suffering and despair he felt. Better she should go without a last reminder, able at least to try to turn all her thoughts towards her father, and leave her lover out of mind. He had strained his eyes after her to the last, until she vanished down the ramp from the gatehouse, the silver-gold of her coiled hair the only brightness in a dull day. She was gone, and the stone that had taken the place of his heart told him that the most he could hope for now was a fleeting glimpse of her on the morrow, when they released him from the castle wards and conducted him down to the abbey, to be handed over to Einon ab Ithel; for after the morrow, unless a miracle happened, he might never see her again.

BROTHER CADFAEL WAS READY WITH BROTHER EDMUND in the porch of the infirmary to see them ride in, as they did in the middle of the morning, just after High Mass was ended. Owain’s trusted captain in the lead with Eliud ap Griffith, very solemn of face, close behind him as body-squire and two older officers following, and then the litter, carefully slung between two strong hill ponies, with attendants on foot walking alongside to steady the ride. The long form in the litter was so cushioned and swathed that it looked bulky, but the ponies moved smoothly and easily, as if the weight was very light.

Einon ab Ithel was a big, muscular man in his forties, bearded, with long moustaches and a mane of brown hair. His clothing and the harness of the fine horse under him spoke his wealth and importance. Eliud leaped down to take his lord’s bridle, and walked the horse aside as Hugh Beringar came to greet the arrivals and after him, with welcoming dignity, Abbot Radulfus himself. There would be a leisurely and ceremonious meal in the abbot’s lodging for Einon and the elder officers of his party, together with Lady Prestcote and her daughter and Hugh himself, as was due when two powers came together in civilised agreement. But the most urgent business fell to Brother Edmund and his helpers.

The litter was unharnessed, and carried at once into the infirmary, to the room already prepared and warmed for the sick man’s reception. Edmund closed the door even against Lady Prestcote, who was blessedly delayed by the civilities, until they should have unwrapped, unclothed and installed the invalid, and had some idea of his state.

They unfastened from the high, close-drawn collar of the clipped sheepskin cloak that was his outer wrapping, a long pin with a large, chased gold head, secured by a thin gold chain. Everyone knew there was gold worked in Gwynedd, probably this came from Einon’s own land, for certainly this must be his cloak, added to pillow and protect his sacred charge. Edmund laid it aside, folded, on a low chest beside the bed, the great pin showing clearly, for fear someone should run his hand on to the point if it were hidden. Between them they unwound Gilbert Prestcote from the layers in which he was swathed, and as they handled him his eyes opened languidly, and his long, gaunt body made some feeble moves to help them. He was much fallen in flesh, and bore several scars, healed but angry, besides the moist wound in his flank which had gaped again with his fall. Carefully Cadfael dressed and covered the place. Even being handled exhausted the sick man. By the time they had lifted him into the warmed bed and covered him his eyes were again closed. As yet he had not tried to speak.

A marvel how he had ever ridden even a mile before foundering, thought Cadfael, looking down at the figure stretched beneath the covers, and the lean, livid face, all sunken blue hollows and staring, blanched bones. The dark hair of his head and beard was thickly sown with grey, and lay lank and lifeless. Only his iron spirit, intolerant of any weakness, most of all his own, had held him up in the saddle, and when even that failed he was lost indeed.