The morning came greyly, under a sky lightly clouded over but lofty, and threatening no further falls of snow. Only a few threads and traceries of white lingered along the bases of walls and under the trees and bushes, and the frost was yielding. It would not be a bad day for travelers.
The household was up and in ferment early. Cenred’s servants rolled out of their brief sleep bleary-eyed and grim, well aware that there would be no rest for them that day. Whatever else had been decided in the solemn conference in the solar overnight, whatever possible asylums had been suggested as safe havens for Helisende, it was certain that Audemar would have patrols working every road in the countryside, and inquiring at every cottage, in case someone, somewhere, had seen and spoken with Edgytha, or seen anything of a solitary and furtive figure lurking along the path she had taken. They were already gathering in the courtyard, saddling up, tightening girths and waiting stoically for their orders, when Cadfael and Haluin, booted and girded for the road, presented themselves before Cenred.
He was deep in colloquy with his steward in the middle of the bustle in the hall, when they approached him, and he turned to them courteously but blankly for a moment, as if in these graver preoccupations he had forgotten he had ever before set eyes on them. Recollection came at once, but brought him no pleasure, only a gesture of hospitable compunction.
“Brothers, I ask your pardon, you have been neglected. If we have troubles here to deal with, don’t let that disturb you. Use my home as your own.”
“My lord,” said Haluin, “we owe you thanks for all your kindness, but we must be on our way. There is now no way I can serve you. There is no more haste, since there is no more secrecy. And we have duties waiting for us at home. We are come to take our leave.”
Cenred was too honest to pretend any reluctance to part with them, and made no demur. “I have delayed your return for my own ends,” he said ruefully, “and all to no purpose. I am sorry I ever drew you into so vexed a business. Believe me, at least, that my intent was good. And go with my goodwill, I wish you a peaceful journey.”
“And to you, sir, the safe recovery of the lady, and the guidance of God through all perplexities,” said Haluin.
Cenred did not offer horses for the first stage of the journey, as Adelais had done for the whole of it. He had need here of all the horses at his disposal. But he watched the two habited figures, the hale and the lame, make their way slowly down the steps from the hall door, Cadfael’s hand at Haluin’s elbow ready to support him at need, Haluin’s hands, calloused now from gripping the staves of his crutches, braced and careful at every tread. In the courtyard they threaded the bustle of preparation, and drew near to the gate. Cenred took his eyes from them with relief at being rid of one complication, and turned his face doggedly if wearily upon those remaining.
Roscelin, chafing at delay, stood bridle in hand at the gate, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, and peering impatiently back for his father or Audemar to give the word to mount. He gave the two monks a preoccupied glance as they drew near, and then, warming, bade them a good-morning, and even smiled through the grey, distorting mask of his own anxiety.
“You’re away for Shrewsbury? It’s a good step. I hope you’ll have easy traveling.”
“And you a blessed end to your search,” said Cadfael.
“Blessed for me?” said the boy, again clouding over. “I don’t look for it.”
“If you find her safe and well, and no man’s wife until she so pleases, that’s a fair measure of blessing. I doubt if you may ask for more. Not yet,” said Cadfael cautiously. “Take the day’s measure of good, and be thankful, and who knows but more may be added?”
“You talk of impossibilities,” said Roscelin implacably, “But you mean me well, and I take it as you mean it.”
“Where will you ride first, to look for Helisende?” asked Brother Haluin.
“Some of us back to Elford, to make sure she has not slipped between us and made her way there, after all. And to every manor around, for any word of her, or of Edgytha. She cannot have gone far.” He had truly grieved and been angry for Edgytha, but the “she” that drove all others from his mind was Helisende.
They left him chafing and agonizing, more restless than the horse that shifted and stamped to be off. When they looked back from outside the gate his foot was already in the stirrup, and behind him the rest of the hunters were gathering the reins and mounting. Back to Elford first, in case Helisende had slipped through their fingers, eluding the riders on both tracks, and come safe to shelter. Cadfael and Haluin must go in the opposite direction, towards the west. They had turned some way north from the highroad to reach the lights of the manor. They did not return that way, but turned due west at once, on a trodden path that skirted the manor fence. From the limit of the enclave they heard Audemar’s hunters ride forth, and turned to watch them stream out from the gate and lengthen out into a long, many-colored thread, dwindling into the east and vanishing among the trees of the first belt of woodland.
“And is that the end of it?” wondered Haluin, suddenly grieved. “And we shall never know what comes of it all! Poor lad, and his own case beyond hope. All his comfort in this world must be to see her happy, if that will ever be possible without him. I know,” said Brother Haluin, in compassion untainted by any lingering self-pity, “what they suffer.”
But it seemed that it was indeed over for them, and there was no sense in looking back. They set their faces towards the west, and went forward steadily on this untested path, with the rising sun behind them, casting their elongated shadows along the moist grass.
“By this way,” said Cadfael, taking his bearings thoughtfully when they halted to eat their midday bread and cheese and strip of salt bacon in the lee of a bushy bank, “I think we shall miss Lichfield. I judge we’re already passing to the north of it. No matter, we shall find a bed somewhere before nightfall.”
Meantime, the day was clear and dry, and the country through which they made their way was pleasant, but sparsely populated, and afforded them fewer human encounters than they had met with on the direct highway through Lichfield. Having had so little sleep they made no haste, but went steadily, and took whatever rests offered along the way, wherever a solitary assart provided the hospitality of a bench by the hearth, and a few minutes of neighborly gossip in passing.
A light wind sprang up with the approach of evening, warning them it was time to look for a night’s shelter. They were in country still wasted from harsh usage fifty years past. The people of these parts had not taken kindly to the coming of the Normans, and had paid the price for their obduracy. There were the relics of deserted holdings to be seen here and there, collapsing into grass and brambles, and the ruins of a mill rotting gently into its own overgrown stream. Hamlets were few and far between. Cadfael began to scan the landscape round for any sign of an inhabited roof.
An elderly man gathering firewood in a stand of old trees straightened his bent back to answer their greeting, and peered at them curiously from within his sacking hood.
“Not half a mile on, Brothers, you’ll see to your right the pale of a nunnery. They’re still building, it’s mostly timber yet, but the church and the cloister are in stone, you can’t miss it. There’s but two or three holdings in the hamlet, but the sisters take in travelers. You’ll get a bed there.” And he added, eyeing their black habits: “They’re of your own persuasion, it’s a Benedictine house.”