Ellis Peters - The Sanctuary Sparrow

“You were there?” asked Cadfael mildly, walking on the girl’s heels along the pitch-dark passage. “You saw what happened?”

“Yes, sir. I couldn’t sleep. You were there this morning when they all turned against her, and even the old woman said she must yield her place… You know…”

“I know, yes. And you were aggrieved for her.”

“She—was never unkind to me…” How was it possible to say that Susanna had been kind, where the chill forbade any such word? “It was not fair that they should turn and elbow her out, like that.”

“And you were watching and listening, and grieving. And you went in. When was that?”

She told him, as plainly as if she lived it again. She told him, as far as she could recall it, and that was almost word for word, what she had heard pass between grandmother and grandchild, and how she had heard the shriek that heralded the old woman’s seizure, and burst in to see her panting and swaying and clutching her bosom, the lamp tilting out of her hand, before she rolled headlong down the stairs.

“And there was no other soul stirring then? No one within hand’s-touch of her, there above?”

“Oh no, no one. She dropped the lamp just as she fell.” The little snake of fire, spitting sparks and sudden leaping flame as it found the end of tow, seemed to Rannilt to have nothing to do with what had happened. “And then it was dark, and the mistress said keep still, and went for a light.”

Certain, then, yes quite certain she fell. No one was there to help her fall, the only witnesses were below. And if they had not gone to her aid at once, and sent as promptly for him, he would never have arrived here in time to see Dame Juliana die. Let alone hear the only words she had spoken before dying. For what they were worth! “I bred them all… For all that, I should have liked to hold my great-grandchild…”

Well, her grandson, the only being she was reported to dote upon, was now a husband, her proud old mind might well strain forward to embrace a future generation.

“No, don’t come out into the lane, child, time for you to be withindoors, and I know my way.”

She went, shy, wild and silent. And Cadfael made his way back thoughtfully to his own cell in the dortoir and took what comfort he might, and what enlightenment, but it was not much. In this death, at least, there was no question of foul play. Juliana had fallen when no other person was near by, and in an unquestionable seizure such as she had suffered twice before. The dissensions within the house, moreover, had broken out in a disturbing form that same day, cause enough for an old woman’s body and heart and irascible nature to fail her. The wonder was this had not happened earlier. Yet for all he could do, Cadfael’s mind could not separate this death from the first, nor that from the felony of which Liliwin stood accused. There was, there must be, a thread that linked them all together. Not by freakish chance was an ordinary burgess household thus suddenly stricken with blow after blow. A human hand had set off the chain; from that act all these later events stemmed, and where the impetus would finally run out and the sequence of fatalities end was a speculation that kept Cadfael awake half the night.

In Dame Juliana’s death chamber the single lamp burned, a steady eye of fire, at the head of the bed. The night hung deep and silent over the town, past the mid-point between dusk and dawn. On a stool on one side Susanna sat, her own hands folded in her lap, quiet at last. Rannilt crouched at the foot of the bed, very weary but unwilling to go to her humble place, and certain that sleep would not come to her if she did. The lofty timbers of the roof soared above them into deep darkness. The three women, two living and one dead, were drawn together into a close, mute intimacy, for these few hours islanded from the world.

Juliana lay straight and austere, her grey hair combed into smooth order, her face uncovered, the sheet folded at her chin. Already the contortion was beginning to ease out of her features, and leave her at peace.

Neither of the two who watched beside her had spoken a word since their work was finished. Susanna had made no bones about dismissing Margery’s reluctant offer of help, and had no difficulty in getting rid of all three of her kin. They were not sorry to return to their beds and leave all to her. Mistress and maid had the vigil to themselves.

“You’re cold,” said Rannilt, breaking the silence very softly as she saw Susanna shiver. “Shall I fetch up your cloak? You felt the want of it even about the store, when you were on the move, and now we sit here, and the night chiller than then. I’ll creep down for it.”

“No,” said Susanna absently. “It was a goose walking over my grave. I’m warm enough.” She turned her head and gave the girl a long, sombre stare. “Were you so vexed for me that you must wake and watch into the night with me? I thought you came very quickly. Did you see and hear all?”

Rannilt trembled at the thought of having intruded uninvited, but Susanna’s voice was equable and her face calm. “No. I wasn’t listening, but some part I couldn’t help hearing. She praised your providing. Perhaps she was sorry then… It was strange she should take to thinking on such things, and suddenly take pride that you should still have the oatmeal crock above half-full… That I heard. Surely she was sorry in the end that you should be so misprised. She thought better of you than of any other.”

“She was returning to the days when she ruled all,” said Susanna, “and had all on her shoulders, as I have had. The old go back, before the end.” Her eyes, large and intent upon Rannilt’s face, gleamed in the dim, reflected light from the lamp. “You’ve burned your hand,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” said Rannilt, removing her hands hurriedly from sight into her lap. “I was clumsy. The tow flared. It doesn’t hurt.”

“The tow…?”

“Tied round the bundle that was lying there. It had a frayed end and took the flame before I was aware.”

“A pity!” said Susanna, and sat silent for some moments, watching her grandmother’s dead face. The corners of her lips curved briefly in what hardly had time to become a smile. “There was a bundle there, was there? And I was wearing my cloak… yes! You noticed much, considering the fright we must have given you, between us.”

In the prolonged silence Rannilt watched her lady’s face and went in great awe, having trodden where she had no right to go, and feeling herself detected in a trespass she had never intended.

“And now you are wondering what was in that bundle, and where it vanished to before ever we began lighting candles. Along with my cloak!” Susanna fixed her austere, half-smiling regard upon Rannilt’s daunted face. “It is only natural you should wonder.”

“Are you angry with me?” ventured Rannilt in a whisper.

“No. Why should I be angry? I believe, I do believe, you have sometimes felt for me as a woman for a woman. Is that true, Rannilt?”

“This morning…” faltered Rannilt, half-afraid, “I could not choose but grieve…”

“I know. You have seen how I am despised here.” She went very gently and quietly, a woman speaking with a child, but a child whose understanding she valued. “How I have always been despised. My mother died, my grandmother grew old, I was of value until my brother should take a wife. Yes, but barely a day longer. All those years gone for nothing, and I am left here husbandless and barren and out of office.”

There was another silence, for though Rannilt felt her breast bursting with indignant sympathy, her tongue was frozen into silence. In the lofty darkness of the roof-beams the faint, soft light quivered in a passing draught.