Ellis Peters: Devil's Novice

Brother Cadfael ranked too low in the hierarchy to be invited to the abbot’s table when there were guests of such stature. That occasioned him no heart-burning, and cost him little in first-hand knowledge of what went on, since it was taken for granted that Hugh Beringar, in the absence of the sheriff, would be present at any meeting involving political matters, and would infallibly acquaint his other self with whatever emerged of importance.

Hugh came to the hut in the herb garden, yawning, after accompanying the canon to his apartment in the guest-hall.

“An impressive man, I don’t wonder Bishop Henry values him. Have you seen him, Cadfael?”

“I saw him arrive.” A big, portly, heavily-built man who nonetheless rode like a huntsman from his childhood and a warrior from puberty; a rounded, bushy tonsure on a round, solid head, and a dark shadow about the shaven jowls when he lighted down in early evening. Rich, fashionable but austere clothing, his only jewellery a cross and ring, but both of rare artistry. And he had a jaw on him and an authoritative eye, shrewd but tolerant. “What’s he doing in these parts, in his bishop’s absence overseas?”

“Why, the very same his bishop is up to in Normandy, soliciting the help of every powerful man he can get hold of, to try and produce some plan that will save England from being dismembered utterly. While he’s after the support of king and duke in France, Henry wants just as urgently to know where Earl Ranulf and his brother stand. They never paid heed to the meeting in the summer, so it seems Bishop Henry sent one of his men north to be civil to the pair of them and make sure of their favour, just before he set off for France—one of his own household clerics, a young man marked for advancement, Peter Clemence. And Peter Clemence has not returned. Which could mean any number of things, but with time lengthening out and never a word from him or from either of that pair in the north concerning him, Canon Eluard began to be restive. There’s a kind of truce in the south and west, while the two sides wait and watch each other, so Eluard felt he might as well set off in person to Chester, to find out what goes on up there, and what’s become of the bishop’s envoy.”

“And what has become of him?” asked Cadfael shrewdly. “For his lordship, it seems, is now on his way south again to join King Stephen. And what sort of welcome did he get in Chester?”

“As warm and civil as heart could wish. And for what my judgement is worth, Canon Eluard, however loyal he may be to Bishop Henry’s efforts for peace, is more inclined to Stephen’s side than to the empress, and is off back to Westminster now to tell the King he might be wise to strike while the iron’s hot, and go north in person and offer a few sweetmeats to keep Chester and Roumare as well-disposed to him as they are. A manor or two and a pleasant title—Roumare is as good as earl of Lincoln now, why not call him so?—could secure his position there. So, at any rate, Eluard seems to have gathered. Their loyalty is pledged over and over. And for all his wife is daughter to Robert of Gloucester, Ranulf did stay snug at home when Robert brought over his imperial sister to take the field a year and more ago. Yes, it seems the situation there could hardly be more to the canon’s satisfaction, now that it’s stated. But as for why it was not stated a month or so ago, by the mouth of Peter Clemence returning… Simple enough! The man never got there, and they never got his embassage.”

“As sound a reason as any for not answering it,” said Cadfael, unsmiling, and eyed his friend’s saturnine visage with narrowed attention. “How far did he get on his way, then?” There were wild places enough in this disrupted England where a man could vanish, for no more than the coat he wore or the horse he rode. There were districts where manors had been deserted and run wild, and forests had been left unmanned, and whole villages, too exposed to danger, had been abandoned and left to rot. Yet the north had suffered less than the south and west by and large, and lords like Ranulf of Chester had kept their lands relatively stable thus far.

“That’s what Eluard has been trying to find out on his way back, stage by stage along the most likely route a man would take. For certainly he never came near Chester. And stage by stage our canon has drawn blank until he came into Shropshire. Never a trace of Clemence, hide, hair or horse, all through Cheshire.”

“And none as far as Shrewsbury?” For Hugh had more to tell, he was frowning down thoughtfully into the beaker he held between his thin, fine hands.

“Beyond Shrewsbury, Cadfael, though only just beyond.

He’s turned back a matter of a few miles to us, for reason enough. The last he can discover of Peter Clemence is that he stayed the night of the eighth day of September with a household to which he’s a distant cousin on the wife’s side. And where do you think that was? At Leoric Aspley’s manor, down in the edge of the Long Forest.”

“Do you tell me!” Cadfael stared, sharply attentive now. The eighth of the month, and a week or so later comes the steward Fremund with his lord’s request that the younger son of the house should be received, at his own earnest wish, into the cloister. Post hoc is not propter hoc, however. And in any case, what connection could there possibly be between one man’s sudden discovery that he felt a vocation, and another man’s overnight stay and morning departure? “Canon Eluard knew he would make one of his halts there? The kinship was known?”

“Both the kinship and his intent, yes, known both to Bishop Henry and to Eluard. The whole manor saw him come, and have told freely how he was entertained there. The whole manor, or very near, saw him off on his journey next morning. Aspley and his steward rode the first mile with him, with the household and half the neighbours to see them go. No question, he left there whole and brisk and well-mounted.”

“How far to his next night’s lodging? And was he expected there?” For if he had announced his coming, then someone should have been enquiring for him long since.

“According to Aspley, he intended one more halt at Whitchurch, a good halfway to his destination, but he knew he could find easy lodging there and had not sent word before. There’s no trace to be found of him there, no one saw or heard of him.”

“So between here and Whitchurch the man is lost?”

“Unless he changed his plans and his route, for which, God knows, there could be reasons, even here in my writ,” said Hugh ruefully, “though I hope it is not so. We keep the best order anywhere in this realm, or so I claim, challenge me who will, but even so I doubt it good enough to make passage safe everywhere. He may have heard something that caused him to turn aside. But the bleak truth of it is, he’s lost. And all too long!”

“And Canon Eluard wants him found?”

“Dead or alive,” said Hugh grimly. “For so will Henry want him found, and an account paid by someone for his price, for he valued him.”

“And the search is laid upon you?” said Cadfael.

“Not in such short terms, no. Eluard is a fair-minded man, he takes a part of the load upon him, and doesn’t grudge. But this shire is my business, under the sheriff, and I pick up my share of the burden. Here is a scholar and a cleric vanished where my writ runs. That I do not like,” said Hugh, in the ominously soft voice that had a silver lustre about it like bared steel.

Cadfael came to the question that was uppermost in his mind. “And why, then, having the witness of Aspley and all his house at his disposal, did Canon Eluard feel it needful to turn back these few miles to Shrewsbury?” But already he knew the answer.