Ellis Peters - The Sanctuary Sparrow

The undercroft ran under stone-vaulted ceilings the length of the house. On impulse Cadfael left the cold, abandoned bed, and lit himself through to the front, where a narrow stair ran up to a door into the shop. Directly opposite to him, as he opened it, stood the pillaged coffer where Walter had kept his wealth. There had been no shadow that night, no sound, only the candle had flickered as the door was silently opened.

A few yards away, when Cadfael retraced his steps and again climbed the outdoor stair, lay the well. And on his right hand, the door into Susanna’s chamber, by which she could pass quickly between hall and kitchen, and a young man from below-stairs could as well enter when all was dark.

They were gone, as they had surely planned to go one night earlier and been detained by death. Acting on another thought, Cadfael went in by Susanna’s door, and asked Margery to open for him the locked door of the store. The big stone crock in which Susanna had kept her stock of oatmeal stood in one corner. Cadfael lifted the lid, and held his lantern over it. There was still a respectable quantity of grain left in the bottom of it, enough to hide quite a large bundle, suitably disposed, but bereft of that padding it showed much less than a quarter full. Juliana with her keys had been before him, and left what she found there, intending, as always, to manage the fortunes of her own clan with no interference from any other. She had known, and she had held her peace when she could have spoken. And that stark girl, her nearest kin, all desperation and all iron calm, had tended her scrupulously, and waited to learn her fate without fear or complaint. The one as strong as the other, for good or for evil, neither giving nor asking quarter.

Cadfael replaced the lid, went out and relocked the door. In the hall they were fluttering and bleating, anxious to insist on their own innocence and respectability at all costs, distracted at the thought that a kinswoman should be suspect of such an enormity as robbing her own family. Walter stammered out his answers, aghast at such treachery, almost incoherent with grief for his lost money, lost to his own child. Hugh turned rather to Daniel.

“If she intended a long journey tonight, to take her out of our writ, or at least out of our hold, where would she run? They would need horses. Have you horses they may have taken?”

“Not here in the town,” said Daniel, pale-faced and tousled from bed, his comeliness looking almost idiot at this pass, “but over the river we have a pasture and a stable. Father keeps two horses there.”

“Which way? In Frankwell?”

“Through Frankwell and along the westward road.”

“And the westward road may well be our road,” said Cadfael, coming in from the store, “for there’s a Welshman missing from under here, and what little he had gone with him, and once well into Wales he can thumb his nose at the sheriff of Shropshire. Whatever he may have taken with him.”

He had barely got it out, to indignant and disbelieving protests from Walter, outraged at the mere suggestion of such a depraved alliance, when Liliwin came bursting in from the rear quarters, his small person stiff and quivering with alarm.

“I’ve been to the kitchen—Rannilt is not there. Her bed’s cold, she’s left her things just as they are, nothing taken.” How little she must have to take, but he knew the value, to one with virtually nothing, of the poor possessions she had left behind. “They’ve taken her with them—they’re afraid of what she knows and may tell. That woman has taken her,” he cried, challenging the household, the law and all; “and she has killed and will kill again if she sees need. Where will they have gone? For I am going after them!”

“So are we all,” said Hugh, and turned on Walter Aurifaber. Let the father sweat for his own, as the lover did for his love. For his own by blood or by greed. “You, sir, come with us. You say she had but an hour’s start of us and on foot. Come, then, let’s be after them mounted. I sent for horses from the castle, they’ll be in the lane by now. You best know the way to your own stable, bring us there fast.”

The night was dark, clear and still young, so that light lingered in unexpected places, won from a smooth plane of the river, a house-front of pale stone, a flowering bush, or scattered stars of windflowers under the trees. The two women had passed through the Welsh gate and over the bridge without question. Owain Gwynedd, the formidable lord of much of Wales, withheld his hand courteously from interfering in England’s fratricidal war, and very cannily looked after his own interests, host to whoever fled his enemy, friend to whoever brought him useful information. The borders of Shrewsbury he did not threaten. He had far more to gain by holding aloof. But his own firm border he maintained with every severity. It was a good night, and a good time of night, for fugitives to ride to the west, if their tribal references were good.

Through the dark streets of the suburb of Frankwell they passed like shadows, and Susanna turned westward, keeping the river still in view, along a path between fields. The smaller bundle, but the heavier, Susanna carried. The large and unwieldy one that held all her good clothes they carried between them. It would have been too clumsy for one to manage alone. If I had not your help, she had said, I must have left half my belongings behind, and I shall have need of them.

“Shall you get far tonight?” wondered Rannilt, hesitant but anxious for assurance.

“Out of this land, I hope. Iestyn, who is nobody here, has a kinship of his own, and a place of his own, in his own country. There we shall be safe enough together. After tonight, if we make good speed, we cannot be pursued. You are not afraid, Rannilt, coming all this way with me in the dark?”

“No,” said Rannilt sturdily, “I’m not afraid. I wish you well, I wish you happy, I’m glad to carry your goods for you, and to know that you don’t go unprovided.”

“No,” agreed Susanna, with a curious twist to her voice that suggested laughter, “not quite penniless. I have earned my future, have I not? Look back now,” she said, “over your left shoulder, at that mole-hill of the town.” It showed as a hunched shadow in the shadowy night, stray flickers of light cast up the pale stone of the wall from the silver of the river in between. “A last glimpse,” said Susanna, “for we have not far now to go. Has the load been heavy? You shall soon lay it down.”

“Not heavy at all,” said Rannilt. “I would do more for you if I could.”

The track along the headlands was rough and rutted, but Susanna knew it well, and stepped securely. On their right the ground rose, its darkness furred and fragrant with trees. On their left the smooth green meadows swept down to the lambent, murmuring Severn. Ahead, a roof heaved dimly out of the night, bushes banked about it, rough ground sheltering it to northwards, the pasture opening serenely to the south.

“We are there,” said Susanna, and hastened her step, so that Rannilt hurried to keep up with her and balance their burden.

Not a large building, this one that loomed out of the night, but stout in its timbers, and tall enough to show that above the stable it had a loft for hay and fodder. There was a double door set wide upon deep darkness, out of which the scent of horseflesh and hay and grainy, dusty warmth came to meet them. A man emerged, a dark shape, tensed to listen for any approaching foot. Susanna’s step he knew at once and he came with spread arms; she dropped her end of the bundle and opened her arms to him. Not a word, not a sound had passed between them. Rannilt stood clutching her end of the load, and shook as though the earth had trembled under her, as they came together in that silent, exultant embrace, laced arms straining. Once at least, if never again, she had experienced a small spark of this devouring flame. She closed her eyes, and stood quivering.