“I did shamefully by you, long ago, now you tend and medicine me, and I have made no amends.”
“I’ve asked none,” said Cadfael equably, and began with patient care to unfold the wrappings from one maimed foot, to renew the dressings he had been replacing night and morning all this time.
“But I need to pay all that is due. How else can I be clean?”
“You have made full confession,” said Cadfael reasonably. “You have received absolution from Father Abbot himself, beware of asking more.”
“But I have done no penance. Absolution so cheaply won leaves me still a debtor,” said Haluin heavily.
Cadfael had laid bare the left foot, the worse mangled of the pair. The surface cuts and wounds had healed over, but what had happened to the labyrinth of small bones within could never be put right. They had fused into a misshapen clot, twisted and scarred, discolored in angry dark reds and purples. Yet the seamed skin had knitted and covered all.
“If you have debts,” said Cadfael bluntly, “they bid fair to be paid in pain to the day you die. You see this? You will never set this firmly to ground again. I doubt if you will ever walk again.”
“Yes.” said Haluin, staring out through the narrow chink of the window at the darkening wintry sky, “yes, I shall walk. I will walk. If God allows, I will go on my own feet again, though I must borrow crutches to help them bear me. And if Father Abbot gives me his countenance, when I have learned to use what props are left to me I will go myself to Hales, to beg forgiveness of Adelais de Clary, and keep a night’s vigil at Bertrade’s tomb.”
In his own mind Cadfael doubted if either the dead or the living would take any great comfort from Haluin’s fondly resolved atonement, or still be nursing any profound recollection of him, after eighteen years. But if the pious intent gave the lad courage and determination to live and labor and be fruitful again, why discourage him? So all he said was:
“Well, let’s first mend all that can be mended, and put back some of that lost blood into you, for you’ll get no leave to go anywhere as you are now.” And contemplating the right foot, which at least still bore some resemblance to a human foot, and had a perceptible and undamaged ankle-bone, he went on thoughtfully: “We might make some sort of thick felt boots for you, well padded within. You might get one foot to the ground yet, though you’ll need the crutches. Not yet - not yet, nor for weeks yet, more likely months. But we’ll take your measure, and see what we can fashion between us.”
On reflection, Cadfael felt that it might be wise to warn Abbot Radulfus of the expiation Brother Haluin had in mind, and did so after chapter, in the privacy of the abbot’s parlor.
“Once he had heaved the load off his heart,” said Cadfael simply, “he would have died content if it had been his fortune to die. But he is going to live. His mind is clear, his will is strong, and if his body is meager it’s wiry enough, and now that he sees a life ahead of him he’ll not be content to creep out of his sins by way of absolution without penance. If he was of a lighter mind, and could be coaxed to forget this resolve as he gets well, for my part I would not blame him, I’d be glad of it. But penitence without penance will never be enough for Haluin. I’ll hold him back as long as I can, but trust me, we shall hear of this again, as soon as he feels able to attempt it.”
“I can hardly frown upon so fitting a wish,” said the abbot reasonably, “but I can forbid it until he is fit to undertake it. If it will give him peace of mind I have no right to stand in his way. It may also be of some belated comfort to this unhappy lady whose daughter died so wretchedly. I am not familiar,” said Radulfus, pondering the proposed pilgrimage warily, “with this manor of Hales, though I have heard the name of de Clary. Do you know where it lies?”
“Towards the eastern edge of the shire, Father, it must be a matter of twenty-five miles or so from Shrewsbury.”
“And this lord who was absent in the Holy Land - he can have been told nothing of the true manner of his daughter’s death, if his lady went in such awe of him. It is many years past, but if he is still living this visit must not take place. It would be a very ill thing for Brother Haluin to salve his own soul by bringing further trouble and danger upon the lady of Hales. Whatever her errors, she has suffered for them.”
“For all I know, Father,” Cadfael admitted, “they may both be dead some years since. I saw the place once, on the way from Lichfield on an errand for Abbot Heribert, but I know nothing of the household of de Clary.”
“Hugh Beringar will know,” said the abbot confidently. “He has all the nobility of the shire at his finger ends. When he returns from Winchester we may ask him. There’s no haste. Even if Haluin must have his penance, it cannot be yet. He is not yet out of his bed.”
Chapter Three
Hugh and his escort came home four days after Epiphany. Much of the snow was gone by then, the weather grey, the days short and somber, the nights hovering on the edge of frost, so that the thaw continued its gradual way, and there was no flooding. After such a heavy fall a rapid thaw would have seen a great mass of water coming down the river and draining from every drift, and the Severn would have backed up the Meole Brook and flooded the lower part of the fields, even if the enclave itself escaped inundation. This year they were spared that trouble, and Hugh, kicking off his boots and shrugging off his cloak in his own house by Saint Mary’s Church, with his wife bringing him his furred shoes and his son clinging to his sword belt and clamoring to have his new, painted wooden knight duly admired, was able to report an easy journey for the time of year, and a satisfactory reception at court for his stewardship.
“Though I doubt if this Christmas truce will last long,” he said to Cadfael later, after acquainting the abbot with all the news from Winchester. “He’s swallowed the failure at Oxford gallantly enough, but for all that, he’s on his mettle for vengeance, he’ll not sit still for long, winter or no. He wants Wareham back, but it’s well stocked, and manned to the battlements, and Stephen never did have the patience for a siege. He’d like a fortress more to the west, to carry the war to Robert’s country. There’s no guessing what he’ll try first. But he wants none of me or my men there in the south, he’s far too wary of the earl of Chester to keep me long out of my shire. Thank God, for I’m of the same mind myself,” said Hugh blithely. “And how have you been faring? Sorry I am to hear your best illuminator had a fall that all but ended him. Father Abbot told me of it. I can hardly have left you an hour, that day, when it happened. Is it true he’s mending well?”
“Better than any of us ever expected,” said Cadfael, “least of all the man himself, for he was certainly bent on clearing his soul for death. But he’s out of the shadow, and in a day or two we’ll have him out of his bed. But his feet are crippled for life, the slates chopped them piecemeal. Brother Luke is cutting some crutches to his measure. Hugh,” said Cadfael directly, “what do you know of the de Clarys who hold the manor of Hales? There was one of them was a Crusader nearly twenty years back. I never knew him, he was after my time in the east. Is he still living?”
“Bertrand de Clary,” said Hugh promptly, and looked up at his friend with quickening interest. “What of him? He died years back, ten or more it must be. His son holds the honor now. I’ve had no dealings with them, Hales is the only manor they hold in this shire, the caput and most of their lands are in Staffordshire. Why, what’s put de Clary in your mind?”