7

The ride out through Sutton into the long forest, dense and primitive through all but the heathy summits of its fifteen square miles, was like a sudden return visit to aspects of his past, night raids and desperate ambushes once so familiar to him as to be almost tedious, but now, in this shadowy, elderly form, as near excitement as he wished to come. The horse under him was lofty and mettlesome and of high pedigree, he had not been astride such a creature for nearly twenty years, and the flattery and temptation reminded him of days past, when exalted and venturesome companions made all labours and privations pleasurable.

Hugh Beringar, once away from the used roads and into the trees and the night shadows, seemed to have no cares in the world, certainly no fear of any treachery on his companion’s part. He chattered, even, to pass the time along the way, curious about Brother Cadfael’s uncloistral past, and about the countries he had known as well as he knew this forest.

“So you lived in the world all those years, and saw so much of it, and never thought to marry? And half the world women, they say?” The light voice, seemingly idle and faintly mocking, nevertheless genuinely questioned and required an answer.

“I had thought to marry, once,” said Cadfael honestly, “before I took the Cross, and she was a very fair woman, too, but to say truth, I forgot her in the east, and in the west she forgot me. I was away too long, she gave up waiting and married another man, small blame to her.”

“Have you ever seen her again?” asked Hugh.

“No, never. She has grandchildren by now, may they be good to her. She was a fine woman, Richildis.”

“But the east was also made up of men and women, and you a young crusader. I cannot but wonder,” said Beringar dreamily.

“So, wonder! I also wonder about you,” said Cadfael mildly. “Do you know any human creatures who are not strangers, one to another?”

A faint gleam of light showed among the trees. The lay brothers sat up late with a reed dip, Cadfael suspected playing at dice. Why not? The tedium here must be extreme. They were bringing these decent brothers a little diversion, undoubtedly welcome.

That they were alive and alert to the slightest sound of an unexpected approach was soon proved, as both emerged ware and ready in the doorway. Brother Anselm loomed huge and muscular, like an oak of his own fifty-five years, and swung a long staff in one hand. Brother Louis, French by descent but born in England, was small and wiry and agile, and in this solitude kept a dagger by him, and knew how to use it. Both of them came forth prepared for anything, placid of face and watchful of eye; but at sight of Brother Cadfael they fell to an easy grinning.

“What, is it you, old comrade? A pleasure to see a known face, but we hardly looked for you in the middle of the night. Are you biding over until tomorrow? Where’s your errand?” They looked at Beringar with measuring interest, but he left it to Cadfael to do the dealing for him here, where the abbey’s writ ran with more force than the king’s.

“Our errand’s here, to you,” said Cadfael, lighting down. “My lord here asks that you’ll give stabling and shelter for a few days to these two beasts, and keep them out of the public eye.” No need to bide the reason from these two, who would have sympathised heartily with the owner of such horseflesh in his desire to keep it. “They’re commandeering baggage horses for the army, and that’s no fit life for these fellows, they’ll be held back to serve in a better fashion.”

Brother Anselm ran an appreciative eye over Beringar’s mount, and an affectionate hand over the arched neck. “A long while since the stable here had such a beauty in it! Long enough since it had any at all, barring Prior Robert’s mule when he visited, and he does that very rarely now. We expect to be recalled, to tell truth, this place is too isolated and unprofitable to be kept much longer. Yes, we’ll give you house-room, my fine lad, gladly, and your mate, too. All the more gladly, my lord, if you’ll let me get my leg across him now and again by way of exercise.”

“I think he may carry even you without trouble,” acknowledged Beringar amiably. “And surrender them to no one but myself or Brother Cadfael.”

“That’s understood. No one will set eyes on them here.” They led the horses into the deserted stable, very content with the break in their tedious existence, and with Beringar’s open-handed largesse for their services. “Though we’d have taken them in for the pleasure of it,” said Brother Louis truthfully. “I was groom once in Earl Robert of Gloucester’s household, I love a fine horse, one with a gloss and a gait to do me credit.”

Cadfael and Hugh Beringar turned homeward together on foot. “An hour’s walking, hardly more,” said Cadfael, “by the way I’ll take you. The path’s too overgrown in parts for the horses, but I know it well, it cuts off the Foregate. We have to cross the brook, well upstream from the mill, and can enter the abbey grounds from the garden side, unnoticed, if you’re willing to wade.”

“I believe,” said Beringar reflectively, but with complete placidity, “you are having a game with me. Do you mean to lose me in the woods, or drown me in the mill-race?”

“I doubt if I should succeed at either. No, this will be a most amicable walk together, you’ll see. And well worth it, I trust.”

And curiously, for all each of them knew the other was making use of him, it was indeed a pleasant nocturnal journey they made, the elderly monk without personal ambitions, and the young man whose ambitions were limitless and daring. Probably Beringar was working hard at the puzzle of why Cadfael had so readily accommodated him, certainly Cadfael was just as busy trying to fathom why Beringar had ever invited him to conspire with him thus; it did not matter, it made the contest more interesting. And which of them was to win, and to get the most out of the tussle, was very much in the balance.

Keeping pace thus on the narrow forest path they were much of a height, though Cadfael was thickset and burly, and Beringar lean and lissome and light of foot. He followed Cadfael’s steps attentively, and the darkness, only faintly alleviated by starlight between the branches, seemed to bother him not at all. And lightly and freely he talked.

“The king intends to move down into Gloucester’s country again, in more strength, hence this drive for men and horses. In a few more days he’ll surely be moving.”

“And you go with him?” Since he was minded to be talkative, why not encourage him? Everything he said would be calculated, of course, but sooner or later even he might make a miscalculation.

“That depends on the king. Will you credit it, Brother Cadfael, the man distrusts me! Though in fact I’d liefer be put in charge of my own command here, where my lands lie. I’ve made myself as assiduous as I dare—to see the same face too constantly might have the worst effect, not to see it in attendance at all would be fatal. A nice question of judgment.”

“I feel,” said Cadfael, “that a man might have considerable confidence in your judgment. Here we are at the brook, do you hear it?” There were stones there by which to cross dryshod, though the water was low and the bed narrowed, and Beringar, having rested his eyes a few moments to assay the distance and the ground, crossed in a nicely balanced leap that served to justify Cadfael’s pronouncement.

“Do you indeed?” resumed the young man, falling in beside him again as they went on. “Have a high opinion of my judgment? Of risks and vantages only? Or, for instance, of men?—And women?”

“I can hardly question your judgment of men,” said Cadfael drily, “since you’ve confided in me. If I doubted, I’d hardly be likely to own it.”

“And of women?” They were moving more freely now through open fields.

“I think they might all be well advised to beware of you. And what else is gossiped about in the king’s court, besides the next campaign? There’s no fresh word of FitzAlan and Adeney being sighted?”

“None, nor will be now,” said Beringar readily. “They had luck, and I’m not sorry. Where they are by now there’s no knowing, but wherever it is, it’s one stage on the way to France.”

There was no reason to doubt him; whatever he was about he was making his dispositions by way of truth, not lies. So the news for Godith’s peace of mind was still good, and every day better, as the distance between her father and Stephen’s vengeance lengthened. And now there were two excellent horses well positioned on an escape road for Godith and Torold, in the care of two stalwart brothers who would release them at Cadfael’s word. The first step was accomplished. Now to recover the saddle-bags from the river, and start them on their way. Not so simple a matter, but surely not impossible.

“I see now where we are,” said Beringar, some twenty minutes later. They had cut straight across the mile of land enclosed by the brook’s wanderings, and stood again on the bank; on the other side the stripped fields of pease whitened in the starlight, and beyond their smooth rise lay the gardens, and the great range of abbey buildings. “You have a nose for country, even in the dark. Lead the way, I’ll trust you for an unpitted ford, too.”

Cadfael had only to kilt his habit, having nothing but his sandals to get wet. He strode into the water at the point opposite the low roof of Godith’s hut, which just showed above the trees and bushes and the containing wall of the herbarium. Beringar plunged in after him, boots and hose and all. The water was barely knee-deep, but clearly he cared not at all. And Cadfael noted how he moved, gently and steadily, hardly a ripple breaking from his steps. He had all the intuitive gifts of wild creatures, as alert by night as by day. On the abbey bank he set off instinctively round the edge of the low stubble of peasehaulms, to avoid any rustle among the dry roots soon to be dug in.

“A natural conspirator,” said Cadfael, thinking aloud; and that he could do so was proof of a strong, if inimical, bond between them.

Beringar turned on him a face suddenly lit by a wild smile. “One knows another,” he said. They had grown used to exchanging soundless whispers, and yet making them clear to be heard. “I’ve remembered one rumour that’s making the rounds, that I forgot to tell you. A few days ago there was some fellow hunted into the river by night, said to be one of FitzAlan’s squires. They say an archer got him behind the left shoulder, maybe through the heart. However it was, he went down, somewhere by Atcham his body may be cast up. But they caught a riderless horse, a good saddle-horse, the next day, sure to be his.”

“Do you tell me?” said Cadfael, mildly marvelling. “You may speak here, there’ll be no one prowling in my herb-garden by night, and they’re used to me rising at odd times to tend my brews here.”

“Does not your boy see to that?” asked Hugh Beringar innocently.

“A boy slipping out of the dortoir,” said Brother Cadfael, “would soon have cause to rue it. We take better care of our children here, my lord, than you seem to think.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s well enough for seasoned old soldiers turned monk to risk the chills of the night, but the young things ought to be protected.” His voice was sweet and smooth as honey. “I was telling you of this odd thing about the horses... A couple of days later, if you’ll believe it, they rounded up another saddle-horse running loose, grazing up in the heathlands north of the town, still saddled. They’re thinking there was a single bodyguard sent out from the castle, when the assault came, to pick up Adeney’s daughter from wherever she was hidden, and escort her safely out of the ring round Shrewsbury. They think the attempt failed,” he said softly, “when her attendant took to the river to save her. So she’s still missing, and still thought to be somewhere here, close in hiding. And they’ll be looking for her, Brother Cadfael—they’ll be looking for her now more eagerly than ever.”

They were up at the edge of the inner gardens by then. Hugh Beringar breathed an almost silent “Good night!” and was gone like a shadow towards the guest house.

*

Before he slept out the rest of the night, Brother Cadfael lay awake long enough to do some very hard thinking. And the longer he thought, the more convinced he became that someone had indeed approached the mill closely enough and silently enough to catch the last few sentences spoken within; and that the someone was Hugh Beringar, past all doubt. He had proved how softly he could move, how instinctively he adapted his movements to circumstances, he had provoked a shared expedition committing each of them to the other’s discretion, and he had uttered a number of cryptic confidences calculated to arouse suspicion and alarm, and possibly precipitate unwise action—though Cadfael had no intention of giving him that last satisfaction. He did not believe the listener had been within earshot long. But the last thing Cadfael himself had said gave away plainly enough that he intended somehow to get hold of two horses, retrieve the hidden treasury, and see Torold on his way with “her”. If Beringar had been at the door just a moment earlier, he must also have heard the girl named; but even without that he must surely have had his suspicions. Then just what game was he playing, with his own best horses, with the fugitives he could betray at any moment, yet had not so far betrayed, and with Brother Cadfael? A better and larger prize offered than merely one young man’s capture, and the exploitation of a girl against whom he had no real grudge. A man like Beringar might prefer to risk all and play for all, Torold, Godith and treasure in one swoop. For himself alone, as once before, though without success? Or for the king’s gain and favour? He was indeed a young man of infinite possibilities.

Cadfael thought about him for a long time before he slept, and one thing, at least, was clear. If Beringar knew now that Cadfael had as good as undertaken to recover the treasury, then from this point on he would hardly let Cadfael out of his sight, for he needed him to lead him to the spot. A little light began to dawn, faint but promising, just before sleep came. It seemed no more than a moment before the bell was rousing him with the rest for Prime.

“Today,” said Cadfael to Godith, in the garden after breakfast, “do all as usual, go to the Mass before chapter, and then to your schooling. After dinner you should work a little in the garden, and see to the medicines, but after that you can slip away to the old mill, discreetly, mind, until Vespers. Can you dress Torold’s wound without me? I may not be seen there today.”

“Surely I can,” she said blithely. “I’ve seen it done, and I know the herbs now. But... If someone, if he, was spying on us yesterday, how if he comes today?” She had been told of the night’s expedition, briefly, and the implications at once heartened and alarmed her.

“He will not,” said Cadfael positively. “If all goes well, wherever I am today, there he will be. That’s why I want you away from me, and why you may breathe more easily away from me. And there’s something I may want you and Torold to do for me, late tonight, if things go as I expect. When we come to Vespers, then I’ll tell you, yes or no. If it’s yes, that’s all I need say, and this is what you must do...”

She listened in glowing silence throughout, and nodded eager comprehension. “Yes, I saw the boat, leaning against the wall of the mill. Yes, I know the thicket of bushes at the beginning of the garden, close under the end of the bridge... Yes, of course we can do it, Torold and I together!”

“Wait long enough to be sure,” cautioned Cadfael. “And now run off to the parish Mass, and your lessons, and look as like the other boys as you can, and don’t be afraid. If there should be any cause for fear, I intend to hear of it early, and I’ll be with you at once.”

*

A part of Cadfael’s thinking was rapidly proved right. He made it his business to be very active about the precincts that Sunday, attendant at every service, trotting on various errands from gate house to guest house, to the abbot’s lodging, the infirmary, the gardens; and everywhere that he went, somewhere within view, unobtrusive but present, was Hugh Beringar. Never before had that young man been so constantly at church, in attendance even when Aline was not among the worshippers. Now let’s see, thought Cadfael, with mild malice, whether I can lure him from the lists even when she does attend, and leave the field open for the other suitor. For Aline would certainly come to the Mass after chapter, and his last foray to the gate house had shown him Adam Courcelle, dressed for peace and piety, approaching the door of the small house where she and her maid were lodged.

It was unheard of for Cadfael to be absent from Mass, but for once he invented an errand which gave him fair excuse. His skills with medicines were known in the town, and people often asked for his help and advice. Abbot Heribert was indulgent to such requests, and lent his herbalist freely. There was a child along the Foregate towards St. Giles who had been under his care from time to time for a skin infection, and though he was growing out of it gradually, and there was no great need for a visit this day, no one had the authority to contradict Cadfael when he pronounced it necessary to go.

In the gateway he met Aline Siward and Adam Courcelle entering, she slightly flushed, certainly not displeased with her escort, but perhaps a little embarrassed, the king’s officer devoutly attentive and also warmly flushed, clearly in his case with pleasure. If Aline was expecting to be accosted by Beringar, as had become usual by this time, for once she was surprised. Whether relieved or disappointed there was no telling. Beringar was nowhere to be seen.

Proof positive, thought Cadfael, satisfied, and went on his physicianly visit serenely and without haste. Beringar was discretion itself in his surveillance, he contrived not to be seen at all until Cadfael, on his way home again, met him ambling out gently for exercise on one of his remaining horses, and whistling merrily as he rode.

He saluted Cadfael gaily, as though no encounter could have been more unexpected or more delightful. “Brother Cadfael, you astray on a Sunday morning?”

Very staidly Cadfael rehearsed his errand, and reported its satisfactory results.

“The range of your skills is admirable,” said Beringar, twinkling. “I trust you had an undisturbed sleep after your long working day yesterday?”

“My mind was over-active for a while,” said Cadfael, “but I slept well enough. And thus far you still have a horse to ride, I see.”

“Ah, that! I was at fault, I should have realised that even if the order was issued on a Sunday, they would not move until the sabbath was over. Tomorrow you’ll see for yourself.” Unquestionably he was telling the truth, and certain of his information. “The hunt is likely to be very thorough,” he said, and Cadfael knew he was not talking only of the horses and the provisions. “King Stephen is a little troubled about his relations with the church and its bishops. I ought to have known he would hold back on Sunday. Just as well, it gives us a day’s credit and grace. Tonight we can stay blamelessly at home in all men’s sight, as the innocent should. Eh, Cadfael?” And he laughed, and leaned to clap a hand on Brother Cadfael’s shoulder, and rode on, kicking his heels into his horse’s sides and rousing to a trot towards St. Giles.

Nevertheless, when Cadfael emerged from the refectory after dinner, Beringar was visible just within the doorway of the guest-hall opposite, seemingly oblivious but well aware of everything within his field of vision. Cadfael led him harmlessly to the cloister, and sat down there in the sun, and dozed contentedly until he was sure that Godith would be well away and free from surveillance. Even when he awoke he sat for a while, to make quite sure, and to consider the implications.

No question but all his movements were being watched very narrowly, and by Beringar in person. He did not delegate such work to his men-at-arms, or to any other hired eyes, but did the duty himself, and probably took pleasure in it, too. If he was willing to surrender Aline to Courcelle, even for an hour, then maximum importance attached to what he was doing instead. I am elected, thought Cadfael, as the means to the end he desires, and that is FitzAlan’s treasury. And his surveillance is going to be relentless. Very well! There’s no way of evading it. The only thing to do is to make use of it.

Do not, therefore, tire out the witness too much, or alert him too soon of activities planned. He has you doing a deal of guessing, now keep him guessing.

So he betook himself to his herbarium, and worked conscientiously on all his preparations there, brewing and newly begun, all that afternoon until it was time to repair to church for Vespers. Where Beringar secreted himself he did not trouble to consider, he hoped the vigil was tedious in the extreme to a man so volatile and active.

Courcelle had either stayed—the opportunity being heaven-sent, and not to be wasted—or returned for the evening worship, he came with Aline demure and thoughtful on his arm. At sight of Brother Cadfael sallying forth from the gardens he halted, and greeted him warmly.

“A pleasure to see you in better circumstances than when last we met, brother. I hope you may have no more such duties. At least Aline and you, between you, lent some grace to what would otherwise have been a wholly ugly business. I wish I had some way of softening his Grace’s mind towards your house, he still keeps a certain grudge that the lord abbot was in no hurry to come to his peace.”

“A mistake a great many others also made,” said Cadfael philosophically. “No doubt we shall weather it.”

“I trust so. But as yet his Grace is in no mind to extend any privileges to the abbey above the other townsfolk. If I should be compelled to enforce, even within your walls, orders I’d rather see stop at the gates, I hope you’ll understand that I do it reluctantly, and have no choice about it.”

He is asking pardon in advance, thought Cadfael, enlightened, for tomorrow’s invasion. So it’s true enough, as I supposed, and he has been given the ill work to do, and is making it clear beforehand that he dislikes the business and would evade it if he could. He may even be making rather more than he need of his repugnance, for the lady’s benefit.

“If that should happen,” he said benignly, “I’m sure every man of my order will realise that you do only what you must, like any soldier under orders. You need not fear that any odium will attach to you.”

“So I have assured Adam many times,” said Aline warmly, and flushed vividly at hearing herself call him by his Christian name. Perhaps it was for the first time. “But he’s hard to convince. No, Adam, it is true—you take to yourself blame which is not your due, as if you had killed Giles with your own hand, which you know is false. How could I even blame the Flemings? They were under orders, too. In such dreadful times as these no one can do more than choose his own road according to his conscience, and bear the consequences of his choice, whatever they may be.”

“In no times, good or bad,” said Cadfael sententiously, “can man do more or better than that. Since I have this chance, lady, I should render you account of the alms you trusted to me, for all are bestowed, and they have benefited three poor, needy souls. For want of names, which I did not enquire, say some prayer for three worthy unfortunates who surely pray for you.”

And so she would, he reflected as he watched her enter the church on Courcelle’s arm. At this crisis season of her life, bereaved of kin, left mistress of a patrimony she had freely dedicated to the king’s service, he judged she was perilously hesitant between the cloister and the world, and for all he had chosen the cloister in his maturity, he heartily wished her the world, if possible a more attractive world than surrounded her now, to employ and fulfil her youth.

Going in to take his place among his brothers, he met Godith making for her own corner. Her eyes questioned brightly, and he said softly: “Yes! Do all as I told you.”

*

So now what mattered was to make certain that for the rest of the evening he led Beringar into pastures far apart from where Godith operated. What Cadfael did must be noted, what she did must go unseen and unsuspected. And that could not be secured by adhering faithfully to the evening routine. Supper was always a brief meal, Beringar would be sure to be somewhere within sight of the refectory when they emerged. Collations in the chapter house, the formal reading from the lives of the saints, was a part of the day that Cadfael had been known to miss on other occasions, and he did so now, leading his unobtrusive attendant first to the infirmary, where he paid a brief visit to Brother Reginald, who was old and deformed in the joints, and welcomed company, and then to the extreme end of the abbot’s own garden, far away from the herbarium, and farther still from the gate house. By then Godith would be freed from her evening lesson with the novices, and might appear anywhere between the hut and the herbarium and the gates, so it was essential that Beringar should continue to concentrate on Cadfael, even if he was doing nothing more exciting than trimming the dead flowers from the abbot’s roses and clove-pinks. By that stage Cadfael was checking only occasionally that the watch on his movements continued; he was quite certain that it would, and with exemplary patience. During the day it seemed almost casual, hardly expecting action, except that Cadfael was a tricky opponent, and might have decided to act precisely when it was unexpected of him. But it was after dark that things would begin to happen.

When Compline was over there was always, on fine evenings, a brief interlude of leisure in the cloister or the gardens, before the brothers went to their beds. By then it was almost fully dark, and Cadfael was satisfied that Godith was long since where she should be, and Torold beside her. But he thought it best to delay yet a while, and go to the dortoir with the rest. Whether he emerged thence by way of the night stairs into the church, or the outer staircase, someone keeping watch from across the great court, where the guest hall lay, would be able to pick up his traces without trouble.

He chose the night stairs and the open north door of the church, and slipped round the east end of the Lady Chapel and the chapter house to cross the court into the gardens. No need to look round or listen for his shadow, he knew it would be there, moving at leisure, hanging well back from him but keeping him in sight. The night was reasonably dark, but the eyes grew accustomed to it soon, and he knew how securely Beringar could move in darkness. He would expect the night-wanderer to leave by the ford, as they had returned together the previous night. Someone bound on secret business would not pass the porter on the gate, whatever his normal authority.

After he had waded the brook, Cadfael did pause to be sure Beringar was with him. The breaks in the rhythm of the water were very slight, but he caught them, and was content. Now to follow the course of the brook downstream on this side until nearing its junction with the river. There was a little footbridge there, and then it was only a step to the stone bridge that crossed into Shrewsbury. Over the road, and down the slope into the main abbey gardens, and he was already under the shadow of the first archway of the bridge, watching the faint flashes of light from the eddies where once a boat-mill had been moored. In this corner under the stone pier the bushes grew thick, such an awkward slope of ground was not worth clearing for what it would bear. Half-grown willows leaned, trailing leaves in the water, and the bushy growth under their branches would have hidden half a dozen well-screened witnesses.

The boat was there, afloat and tied up to one of the leaning branches, though it was of the light, withy-and-hide type that could be ported easily overland. This time there was good reason it should not, as it usually would, be drawn ashore and turned over in the turf. There was, Cadfael hoped, a solid bundle within it, securely tied up in one or two of the sacks from the mill. It would not have done for him to be seen to be carrying anything. Long before this, he trusted, he had been clearly seen to be empty-handed.

He stepped into the boat and loosed the mooring-rope. The sacking bundle was there, and convincingly heavy when he cautiously tested. A little above him on the slope, drawn into the edge of the bushes, he caught the slight movement of a deeper shadow as he pushed off with the long paddle into the flow under the first archway.

In the event it proved remarkably easy. No matter how keen Hugh Beringar’s sight, he could not possibly discern everything that went on under the bridge, detail by detail. However sharp his hearing, it would bring him only a sound suggesting the rattling of a chain drawn up against stone, with some considerable weight on the end, the splash and trickle of water running out from something newly drawn up, and then the iron rattle of the chain descending; which was exactly what it was, except that Cadfael’s hands slowed and muted the descent, to disguise the fact that the same weight was still attached, and only the bundle concealed in the boat had been sluiced in the Severn briefly, to provide the trickle of water on the stone ledge. The next part might be more risky, since he was by no means certain he had read Beringar’s mind correctly. Brother Cadfael was staking his own life and those of others upon his judgment of men.

So far, however, it had gone perfectly. He paddled his light craft warily ashore, and above him a swift-moving shadow withdrew to higher ground, and, he surmised, went to earth close to the roadway, ready to fall in behind him whichever way he took. Though he would have wagered that the way was already guessed at, and rightly. He tied up the boat again, hastily but securely; haste was a part of his disguise that night, like stealth. When he crept cautiously up to the highroad again, and loomed against the night sky for a moment in stillness, ostensibly waiting to be sure he could cross unnoticed, the watcher could hardly miss seeing that he had now a shape grossly humped by some large bundle he carried slung over his shoulder.

He crossed, rapidly and quietly, and returned by the way he had come, following the brook upstream from the river after passing the ford, and so into the fields and woods he had threaded with Beringar only one night past. The bundle he carried, mercifully, had not been loaded with the full weight it was supposed to represent, though either Torold or Godith had seen fit to give it a convincing bulk and heft. More than enough, Cadfael reflected ruefully, for an ageing monk to carry four miles or more. His nights were being relentlessly curtailed. Once these young folk were wafted away into relative safety he would sleep through Matins and Lauds, and possibly the next morning’s Prime, as well, and do fitting penance for it.

Now everything was matter for guesswork. Would Beringar take it for granted where he was bound, and turn back too soon, and with some residue of suspicion, and ruin everything? No! Where Cadfael was concerned he would take nothing for granted, not until he was sure by his own observation where this load had been bestowed in safekeeping, and satisfied that Cadfael had positively returned to his duty without it. But would he, by any chance, intercept it on the way? No, why should he? To do so would have been to burden himself with it, whereas now he had an old fool to carry it for him, to where he had his horses hidden to convey it with ease elsewhere.

Cadfael had the picture clear in his mind now, the reckoning at its worst. If Beringar had killed Nicholas Faintree in the attempt to possess himself of the treasury, then his aim now would be not only to accomplish what he had failed to do then, but also something beyond, a possibility which had been revealed to him only since that attempt. By letting Brother Cadfael stow away for him both horses and treasure at an advantageous place, he had ensured his primary objective; but in addition, if he waited for Cadfael to convey his fugitives secretly to the same spot, as he clearly intended to do, then Beringar could remove the only witness to his former murder, and capture his once affianced bride as hostage for her father. What an enormous boon to bestow on King Stephen! His own favoured place would be assured, his crime buried for ever.

So much, of course, for the worst. But the range of possibilities was wide. For Beringar might be quite innocent of Faintree’s death, but very hot on the trail of FitzAlan’s valuables, now he had detected their whereabouts; and an elderly monk might be no object to his plans for his own enrichment, or, if he preferred to serve his interests in another way, his means of ingratiating himself with the king. In which case Cadfael might not long survive his depositing this infernal nuisance he carried, on shoulders already aching, at the grange where the horses were stabled. Well, thought Cadfael, rather exhilarated than oppressed, we shall see!

Once into the woods beyond the coil of the brook, he halted, and dropped the load with a huge grunt from his shoulders, and sat down on it, ostensibly to rest, actually to listen for the soft sounds of another man halting, braced, not resting. Very soft they were, but he caught them, and was happy. The young man was there, tireless, serene, a born adventurer. He saw a dark, amused, saturnine face ready for laughter. He was reasonably sure, then, how the evening would end. With a little luck—better, with God’s blessing, he reproved!—he would be back in time for Matins.

There was no perceptible light in the grange when he reached it, but it needed only the rustle and stir of footsteps, and Brother Louis was out with a little pine-flare in one hand and his dagger in the other, as wide awake as at midday, and more perilous.

“God bless you, brother,” said Cadfael, easing the load gratefully from his back. He would have something to say to young Torold when next he talked to him! Someone or something other than his own shoulders could carry this the next time. “Let me within, and shut the door to.”

“Gaily!” said Brother Louis, and haled him within and did as he was bid.

*

On the way back, not a quarter of an hour later, Brother Cadfael listened carefully as he went, but he heard nothing of anyone following or accompanying him, certainly of no menace. Hugh Beringar had watched him into the grange from cover, possibly even waited for him to emerge unburdened, and then melted away into the night to which he belonged, and made his own lightsome, satisfied way home to the abbey. Cadfael abandoned all precautions and did the same. He was certain, now, where he stood. By the time the bell rang for Matins he was ready to emerge with the rest of the dortoir, and proceed devoutly down the night-stairs to give due praise in the church.