Ellis Peters - One Corpse Too Many

That, of course, was all supposing Beringar was not Nicholas Faintree’s murderer. If he was, the plan differed in one important aspect. He would see to it that though Godith went back to bait the trap for her father, Torold Blund was taken, not alive, but dead. Dead, and therefore silent. A second murder to bury the first.

Altogether a grim prospect, thought Cadfael, surprisingly undisturbed by it. Except, of course, that it could all mean something very different. Could, and does! or my name is not Cadfael, and I’ll never pick a fight with a clever young man again!

He went back to the herbarium, settled in his mind and ready for another restless night. Torold was awake and alert, quick to lift the bolt as soon as he was sure who came.

“Is it time yet? Can we get round to the house on foot?” He was on thorns until he could actually see and touch her, and know that she was safe and free, and had taken no harm.

“There are always ways. But it’s neither dark enough nor quiet enough yet, so sit down and rest while you may, for you’ll have a share of the weight on the way, until we get to the horses. I must go to the dortoir with the rest, and to my bed. Oh, never fret, I’ll be back. Once we’re in our own cells, leaving is no great problem. I’m next to the night-stairs, and the prior sleeps at the far end, and sleeps like the dead. And have you forgotten the church has a parish door, on to the Foregate? The only door not within the walls. From there to Mistress Siward’s house is only a short walk, and if it passes the gate house, do you think the porter takes account of every citizen abroad somewhat late?”

“So this girl Aline could very well have gone to Mass by that door, like the rest of the laity,” Torold realised, marvelling.

“So she could, but then she would have no chance to speak to me, and besides, she chose to exert her privilege with Courcelle, and show the Flemings she was to be reckoned with, the clever girl. Oh, you have a fine girl of your own, young Torold, and I hope you’ll be good to her, but this Aline is only just stretching her powers to find out what she’s worth, and what she can do, and trust me, she’ll make such another as our Godith yet.”

Torold smiled in the warm darkness within the hut, sure even in his anxiety that there was but one Godric-Godith. “You said the porter was hardly likely to pay much attention to citizens making for home late,” he reminded, “but he may very well have a sharp eye for any such in a Benedictine habit.”

“Who said anything about Benedictine habits drifting abroad so late? You, young man, shall go and fetch Godith. The parish door is never closed, and with the gate house so close seldom needs to be. I’ll let you out there when the time comes. Go to the last little house, beside the mill, and bring Godith and the boat down from the pond to where the water flows back into the brook, and I shall be there, waiting.”

“The third house of the three on our side,” whispered Torold, glowing even in the dark. “I know it. I’ll go!” The warmth of his gratitude and pleasure filled the hut, and set the herbal fragrances stirring headily, because it would be he, and no other, who would come to fetch Godith away, more wildly and wonderfully than in any mere runaway marriage. “And you’ll be on the abbey bank, when we come down to the brook?”

“I will so, and go nowhere without me! And now lie down for an hour, or less, and leave the latch in case you sleep too soundly, and I’ll come for you when all’s quiet.”

Brother Cadfael’s plans worked smoothly. The day having been so rough, all men were glad to close the shutters, put out the lights, barricade themselves in from the night, and sleep. Torold was awake and waiting before Cadfael came for him. Through the gardens, through the small court between guest hall and abbot’s lodging, into the cloister, and in through the south door of the church, they went together in such a silence and stillness as belonged neither to night nor day, only to this withdrawn world between services. They never exchanged a word until they were in the church, shoulder to shoulder under the great tower and pressed against the west door. Cadfael eased the huge door ajar, and listened. Peering carefully, he could see the abbey gates, closed and dark, but the wicket gallantly open. it made only a very small lancet of twilight in the night.

“All’s still. Go now! I’ll be at the brook.”

The boy slid through the narrow opening, and swung lightly away from the door into the middle of the roadway, as though coming from the lanes about the horse-fair. Cadfael closed the door inch by inch in silence. Without haste he withdrew as he had come, and strolled under the solitary starlight through the garden and down the field, bearing to the right along the bank of the brook until he could go no further. Then he sat down in the grass and vetches and mothpasture of the bank to wait. The August night was warm and still, just enough breeze to rustle the bushes now and then, and make the trees sigh, and cover with slight sounds the slighter sounds made by careful and experienced men. Not that they would be followed tonight. No need! The one who might have been following was already in position at the end of the journey, and waiting for them.

Constance opened the door of the house, and was startled and silenced by the apparition of this young, secular person, instead of the monk she had expected. But Godith was there, intent and burning with impatience at her shoulder, and flew past her with a brief, wordless soundless cry, into his arms and on to his heart. She was Godric again, though for him she would never now be anyone but Godith, whom he had never yet seen in her own proper person. She clung to him, and laughed, and wept, hugged, reviled, threatened him all in a breath, felt tenderly at his swathed shoulder, demanded explanations and cancelled all her demands, finally lifted to him an assuaged face in sudden silence, and waited to be kissed. Stunned and enlightened, Torold kissed her.

“You must be Torold,” said Aline from the background, so serenely that she must have known rather more about their relationship, by now, than he knew himself. “Close the door, Constance, all’s well.” She looked him over, with eyes alert to a young man’s qualities by reason of certain recent experiences of her own, and thought well of him. “I knew Brother Cadfael would send. She wanted to go back as she came this morning, but I said no. He said he would come. I didn’t know he would be sending you. But Cadfael’s messenger is very welcome.”

“She has told you about me?” enquired Torold, a little flushed at the thought.

“Nothing but what I needed to know. She is discretion itself, and so am I,” said Aline demurely. She, too, was flushed and glittering, but with excitement and enjoyment of her own plotting, half-regretful that her share must end here. “If Brother Cadfael is waiting, we mustn’t lose time. The farther you get by daybreak, the better. Here is the bundle Godith brought. Wait here within, until I see if everything is quiet below in the garden.”

She slipped away into the soft darkness, and stood by the edge of the pond, listening intently. She was sure they had left no guard behind, for why should they, when they had searched everywhere, and taken all they had been sent to take? Yet there might still be someone stirring in the houses opposite. But all were in darkness, she thought even the shutters were closed, in spite of the warm night, for fear some solitary Fleming should return to help himself to what he could find, under cover of the day’s official looting. Even the willow leaves hung motionless here, sheltered from the faint breeze that stirred the grasses along the river bank.

“Come!” she whispered, opening the door narrowly. “All’s quiet. Follow where I step, the slope is rough.” She had even thought to change her pale gown for a dark one since afternoon, to be shadowy among the shadows. Torold hoisted FitzAlan’s treasury in its sacking shroud by the rope that secured it, and put off Godith firmly when she would have reached to share the weight with him. Surprisingly, she yielded meekly, and went before him very quickly and quietly to where the boat rode on its short mooring, half-concealed by the stooping willow branches. Aline lay down at the edge of the bank, and leaned to draw the boat in and hold it steady, for there was a two-foot hollow of undercut soil between them and the water. Very quickly and happily this hitherto cloistered and dutiful daughter was learning to be mistress of her own decisions and exploiter of her own powers.