“Brother,” said the man slowly, “what’s your interest in these matters? I stay within doors when armed men pass by, and let alone all who let me alone. Yes, there was some sort of outcry, not here, a piece back along the way, heard, not seen. Shouting, and sudden crashing about among the trees, but all was over in minutes. And then one man came riding at a gallop after the company, crying news, and later another set off back along the route in haste. Brother, if you know more of all this than I do who heard it, why question me?”
“And next morning, by daylight,” said Cadfael, “did you go to view that place where the attack was made? And what signs did you find there? How many men, would you judge? And which way did they go, afterwards?”
“They had been waiting in hiding,” said the man, “very patiently, most on the southern side of the track, but a few to the north. Their horses had trampled the sward among the trees. I would say at least a dozen in all. And when it was done, whatever was done, they massed and rode at speed, southward. There is a path there. Bushes broken and torn as they crashed through.”
“Due south?” said Cadfael.
“And in a hurry. Men who knew their way well enough to hurry, even in the dark. And now that I’ve told you what I heard and saw, and but for your cloth I would have kept my mouth shut, do you tell me what business you have with such night surprises.”
“To the best of my understanding,” said Cadfael, consenting to a curiosity as practical and urgent as his own, “those who struck at the empress’s rearguard and rode away in haste southward have seized and taken with them into captivity a young man of my close acquaintance, who has done nothing wrong but for incurring the hatred of Philip FitzRobert. And my business is to find where they have taken him, and win him free.”
“Gloucester’s son, is it? In these parts it’s he calls the tune, true enough, and has boltholes everywhere. But, brother,” urged the cottar, appalled, “you’d as well beard the devil himself as walk into La Musarderie and confront Philip FitzRobert.”
“La Musarderie? Is that where he is?” echoed Cadfael.
“So they’re saying. And has a hostage or two in there already, and if there’s one more since that tussle here, you have as much chance of winning him free as of being taken up to heaven living. Think twice and again before you venture.”
“Friend, I will. And do you live safe here from all armed men, and say a prayer now and then for all prisoners and captives, and you’ll be doing your share.”
Here among the trees the light was perceptibly fading. He had best be moving on to Deerhurst. At least he had gleaned a crumb of evidence to help him on his way. A hostage or two in there already. And Philip himself installed there. And where he was, surely he would bring with him his perverse treasure of bitterness and hatred, and hoard up his revenges.
Cadfael was about to turn his horse to the track once more, when he thought of one more thing he most needed to know, and brought out the rolled leaf of vellum from the breast of his habit, and spread it open on his thigh to show the drawings of the salamander seal.
“Have you ever seen this badge, on pennant, or harness, or seal? I am trying to find its owner.”
The man viewed it attentively, but shook his head. “I know nothing of these badges and devices of the gentles, barring the few close hereabouts. No, I never saw it. But if you’re bound for Deerhurst, there’s a brother of the house studies such things, and prides himself on knowing the devices of every earl and baron in the land. He can surely give this one a name.”
He emerged from the dusk of the woodland into the full daylight of the wide water-meadows flanking that same Severn he had left behind at Shrewsbury, but here twice the width and flowing with a heavy dark power. And there gleaming through trees no great way inland from the water was the creamy silver stone of the church tower, solid Saxon work, squat and strong as a castle keep. As he approached, the long line of the nave roof came into view, and an apse at the east end, with a semicircular base and a faceted upper part. An old, old house, centuries old, and refounded and endowed by the Confessor, and bestowed by him upon Saint Denis. The Confessor was always more Norman in his sympathies than English.
Once again Cadfael found himself approaching almost with reluctance the Benedictine ambience that had been home to him for so many years, and feeling that he came unworthily and without rights. But here his conscience must endure its own deception if he was to enquire freely after the knowledge he needed. When all was done, if he survived the doing, he would make amends.
The porter who admitted him into the court was a round and amiable soul in his healthy middle years, proud of his house, and happy to show off the beauties of his church. There was work going on south of the choir, a masons’ lodge shelved out against the wall of the apse, and ashlar stacked for building. Two masons and their labourers were just covering the banker and laying by their tools as the light faded. The porter indicated fondly the foundations of walls outlining the additions to be made to the fabric.
“Here we are building another southeast chapel, and the like to balance it on the northern side. Our master mason is a local man, and the works of the Church are his pride. A good man! He gives work to some unfortunates other masters might find unprofitable. You see the labourer who goes lame of one leg there, from an injury. A man-at-arms until recently, but useless to his lord now, and Master Bernard took him on, and has had no cause to regret it, for the man works hard and well.”
The labourer who went heavily on the left leg, surely after some very ill-knit fracture, was otherwise a fine, sturdy fellow, and very agile for all his disability. Probably about thirty years old, with large, able hands, and a long reach. He stood back civilly to give them passage, and then completed the covering of the stacked timber under the wall, and followed the master-mason towards the outer gate.
As yet there had been nothing harder than mild ground frosts, or building would have ceased already for the winter, and the growing walls been bedded down in turf and heather and straw to sleep until spring.
“There’ll be work within for them when the winter closes in,” said the porter. “Come and see.”
Within Deerhurst’s priory church there was as yet no mark of the Norman style, all was Saxon, and the first walls of the nave centuries old. Not until the porter had shown forth all the curiosities and beauties of his church to the visitor did he hand Cadfael over to the hospitaller, to be furnished with a bed, and welcomed into the community at supper in the frater.
Before Compline he asked after the learned brother who was knowledgeable about the devices and liveries of the noble houses of England, and showed the drawings he had made in Coventry. Brother Eadwin studied them and shook his head. “No, this I have not seen. There are among the baronage some families who use several personal variations among their many members and branches. This is certainly none of the most prominent. I have never seen it before.”
Neither, it seemed, had the prior, or any of the brethren. They studied the drawings, but could not give the badge a family name or a location.
“If it belongs in these parts,” said Brother Eadwin, willing to be helpful, “you may find an answer in the village rather than within here. There are some good but minor families holding manors in this shire, besides those of high rank. How did it come into your hands, brother?”
“It was in the baggage of a dead man,” said Cadfael, “but not his. And the original is in the hands of the bishop of Coventry now, until we can discover its owner and restore it.” He rolled up the leaf of vellum, and retied the cord that bound it. “No matter. The lord bishop will pursue it.”