Chapter Eight

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I f Robert of Gloucester had not been trapped andcaptured in the waters of the river Test, and the EmpressMaud in headlong flight with the remnant of her army intoGloucester, by way of Ludgershall and Devizes, the hunt for AdamHeriet might have gone on for a much longer time. But the freezingchill of stalemate between the two armies, each with a king incheck, had loosed many a serving man, bored with inaction and gladof a change, to stretch his legs and take his leisure elsewhere,while the lull lasted and the politicians argued and bargained. Andamong them an ageing, experienced practitioner of sword and bow,among the Earl of Worcester’s forces.

Hugh was a man of the northern part of the shire himself, butfrom the Welsh border; and the manors to the north-east, dwindlinginto the plain of Cheshire, were less familiar to him and lesscongenial. Over in the tamer country of the hundred of Hodnet thesoil was fat and well-farmed, and the gleaned grain-fields full ofplump, contented cattle at graze, at once making good use of whataftermath there was in a dry season, and leaving their droppings tofeed the following year’s tilth. There were abbey tenantshere and there in these parts, and abbey stock turned into thefields now the crop was reaped. Their treading and manuring of theground was almost as valuable as their fleeces.

The manor of Harpecote lay in open plain, with a small coppicedwoodland on the windward side, and a low ridge of common land tothe south. The house was small and of timber, but the fields wereextensive, and the barns and byres that clung within the boundaryfence were well-kept, and probably well-filled. Cruce’ssteward came out into the yard to greet the sheriff and his twosergeants, and direct them to the homestead of Edric Heriet.

It was one of the more substantial cottages of the hamlet, witha kitchen-garden before it and a small orchard behind, where atousled girl with kilted skirts was hanging out washing on thehedge. Hens ran in the orchard grass, and a she-goat was tetheredto graze there. A free man, this Edric was said to be, farming ayardland as a rent-paying tenant of his lord, a dwindlingphenomenon in a country where a tiller of the soil was increasinglytied to it by customary services. These Heriets must be goodhusbandmen and hard workers to continue to hold their land and makeit provide them a living. Such families could make good use ofyounger sons, needing all the hands they could muster. Adam wasclearly the self-willed stray who had gone to serve for pay, andcultivated the skills of arms and forestry and hunting instead ofthe land.

A big, tow-headed, shaggy fellow in a frayed leather coat cameducking out of the low byre as Hugh and his officers halted at thegate. He stared, stiffening, and stood fronting them with a waryface, recognising authority though he did not know the man who woreit.

“You’re wanting something here, masters?”Civil but not servile, he eyed them narrowly, and straddled his owngateway like a man on guard.

Hugh gave him good-day with the special amiability he usedtowards uneasy poor men bitterly aware of their disadvantages.“You’ll be Edric Heriet, I’m told. We’relooking for word of where to find one Adam of that name, who shouldbe your uncle. And you’re all his kin that we know of, andmay be able to tell us where to seek him. And that’s thewhole of it, friend.”

The big young man, surely no more than thirty years old, andmost likely husband to the dishevelled but comely girl in theorchard, and father to the baby that was howling somewhere withinthe croft, shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, made up his mind,and stood squarely, his face inclined to clear.

“I’m Edric Heriet. What is it you want with uncle ofmine? What has he done?”

Hugh was not displeased with that. There might be small warmthof kinship between them, but this one was not going to open hismouth until he knew what was in the wind. Blood thickened at thehint of offence and danger.

“To the best of my knowledge, nothing amiss. But we needto have out of him as witness what he knows about a matter he had ahand in some years ago, sent by his lord on an errand from Lai. Iknow he is—or was—in the service of the Earl ofWorcester since then, which is why he may be hard to find, thetimes being what they are. If you’ve had word from him, orcan tell us where to look for him, we’ll be thankful toyou.”

He was curious now, though still uncertain. “I have butone uncle, and Adam he’s called. Yes, he was huntsman at Lai,and I did hear from my father that he went into arms for hislord’s overlord, though I never knew who that might be. Butas long as I recall, he never came near us here. I never rememberhim but from when I was a child shooing the birds off theploughland. They never got on well, those brothers. Sorry I am, mylord,” he said, and though it was doubtful if he felt muchsorrow, it was plain he spoke truth as to his ignorance. “Ihave no notion where he may be now, nor where he’s been theseseveral years.”

Hugh accepted that, perforce, and considered a moment.

“Two brothers, were they? And no more? Never a sisterbetween them? No tie to fetch him back into the shire?”

“There’s an aunt I have, sir, only the one. It was athin family, ours, my father was hard put to it to work the landafter his brother left, until I grew up, and two younger brothersafter me. We do well enough now between us. Aunt Elfrid was theyoungest of the three, she married a cooper, bastard Norman he was,a little dark fellow from Brigge, called Walter.” He lookedup, unaware of indiscretion, at the little dark Norman lord on thetall, raw-boned dapple-grey horse, and wondered at Hugh’sblazing smile. “They’re settled in Brigge, I think shehas childer. She might know. They were nearer.”

“And no other beside?”

“No, my lord, that was all of them. I think,” hesaid, hesitant but softening, “he was godfather to her first.He might take that to heart.”

“So he might,” said Hugh mildly, thinking of his ownmasterful heir, to whom Cadfael stood godfather, “so he verywell might. I’m obliged to you, friend. At least we’llask there.” He wheeled his horse, without haste, to thehomeward way. “A good harvest to you!” he said over hisshoulder, smiling, and chirruped to the grey and was off, with hissergeants at his heels.

Walter the cooper had a shop in the hilltop townof Brigge, in a narrow alley no great way from the shadow of thecastle walls. His booth was a narrow-fronted cave that drove deepwithin, and backed on an open, well-lit yard smelling of cuttimber, and stacked with his finished and half-finished barrels,butts and pails, and the tools and materials of his craft. Over thelow wall the ground fell away by steep, grassy terraces to wherethe Severn coiled, almost as it coiled at Shrewsbury, close aboutthe foot of the town, broad and placid now at low summer water,with sandy shoals breaking its surface, but ready to wake and rageif sudden rains should come.

Hugh left his sergeants in the alley, and himself dismounted andwent in through the dark booth to the yard beyond. A freckled boyof about seventeen was stooped over his jointer, busy bevelling abarrel-stave, and another a year or two younger was carefullyparing long bands of willow for binding the staves together whenthe barrel was set up in its truss hoop. Yet a third boy, perhapsten years old, was energetically sweeping up shavings and crammingthem into bags for firing. It seemed that Walter had a full quiverof helpers in his business, for they were all alike, and allplainly sons of one father, and he the small, spry, dark man whostraightened up from his shaving-horse, knife in hand.

“Serve you, sir?”

“Master cooper,” said Hugh, “I’m lookingfor one Adam Heriet, who I’m told is brother to your wife.They know nothing of his whereabouts at his nephew’s croft atHarpecote, but thought you might be in closer touch with him. Ifyou can tell me where he’s to be found, I shall begrateful.”

There was a silence, sudden and profound. Walter stood gravelystaring, and the hand that held the draw-knife with its curvedblade sank quite slowly to hang at his side while he thought.Manual dexterity was natural to him, but thought came withdeliberation, and slowly. All three boys stood equally mute andstared as their father stared. The eldest, Hugh supposed, must beAdam’s godson, if Edric had the matter aright.

“Sir,” said Walter at length, “I don’tknow you. What’s your will with my wife’skin?”

“You shall know me, Walter,” said Hugh easily.“My name is Hugh Beringar, I am sheriff of this shire, and mybusiness with Adam Heriet is to ask him some questions concerning amatter three years old now, in which I trust he’ll be able tohelp us do right. If you can bring me to have speech with him, youmay be helping him no less than me.”

Even a law-abiding man, in the circumstances, might have hisdoubts of that, but a law-abiding man with a decent business and awife and family to look after would also take a careful look allround the matter before denying the sheriff a fair answer. Walterwas no fool. He shuffled his feet thoughtfully in the sawdust andthe small shavings his youngest son had missed in his sweeping, andsaid with every appearance of candour and goodwill: “Why, mylord, Adam’s been away soldiering some years, but now itseems there’s almost quiet down in the southern parts, andhe’s free to take his pleasure for a few days. You come veryapt to your time, sir, as it chances, for he’s here withinthe house this minute.”

The eldest boy had made to start forward softly towards thehouse door by this, but his father plucked him unobtrusively backby the sleeve, and gave him a swift glance that froze him where hestood. “This lad here is Adam’s godson andnamesake,” said Walter guilelessly, putting him forward bythe hand which had restrained him. “You show the lord sheriffinto the room, boy, and I’ll put on my coat andfollow.”

It was not what the younger Adam had intended, but he obeyed,whether in awe of his father or trusting him to know best. But hisfreckled face was glum as he led the way through the door into thelarge single room that served as hall and sleeping-quarters for hiselders. An uncovered window, open over the descent to the river,let in ample light on the centre of the room, but the cornersreceded into a wood-scented darkness. At a big trestle table sat asolid, brown-bearded, balding man with his elbows spreadcomfortably on the board, and a beaker of ale before him. He hadthe weathered look of a man who lives out of doors in all but thebleakest seasons, and an air of untroubled strength about his easystillness. The woman who had just come in from her cupboard of akitchen, ladle in hand, was built on the same generous fashion, andhad the same rich brown colouring. It was from their father thatthe boys got their wiry build and dark hair, and the fair skinsthat dappled in the sun.

“Mother,” said the youth, “here’s thelord sheriff asking after Uncle Adam.”

His voice was flat and loud, and he halted a moment, blockingthe doorway, before he moved within and let Hugh pass by him. Itwas the best he could do. The unshuttered window was large enoughfor an active man, if he had anything on his conscience, to vaultthrough it and make off down the slope to a river he could wade nowwithout wetting his knees. Hugh warmed to the loyal godson, andrefrained from letting him see even the trace of a smile. Adreaming soul, evidently, who saw no use in a sheriff but to bringtrouble to lesser men. But Adam the elder sat attentive andinterested a reasonable moment before he got to his feet and gaveamiable greeting.

“My lord, you have your asking. That name and titlebelongs to me.”

One of Hugh’s sergeants would be circling the slope belowthe window by now, while the other stayed with the horses. Butneither the man nor the boy could have known that. Evidently Adamhad seen action enough not to be easily startled or affrighted, andhere had no reason he could see, so far, to be either.

“Be easy,” he said. “If it’s a matter ofsome of King Stephen’s men quitting their service, no need tolook here. I have leave to visit my sister. You may have a fewstrays running loose, for all I know, but I’mnone.”

The woman came to his side slowly and wonderingly, bewilderedbut not alarmed. She had a round, wholesome, rosy face, and honesteyes.

“My lord, here’s my good brother come so far to seeme. Surely there’s no wrong in that?”

“None in the world,” said Hugh, and went on withoutpreamble, and in the same mild manner: “I’m seekingnews of a lady who vanished three years since. What do you know ofJulian Cruce?”

That was sheer blank bewilderment to mother and son, and toWalter, who had just come into the room at Hugh’s back, butit was plain enough vernacular to Adam Heriet. He froze where hestood, half-risen from the bench, leaning on the trestle table, andhung there staring into Hugh’s face, his own countenance waryand still. He knew the name, it had flung him back through theyears, every detail of that journey he was recalling now, threadingthem frantically through his mind like the beads of a rosary in thehands of a terrified man. But he was not terrified, only alerted todanger, to the pains of memory, to the necessity to think fast, andperhaps select between truth, partial truth and lying. Behind thatfirm, impenetrable face he might have been thinking anything.

“My lord,” said Adam, stirring slowly out of hisstillness, “yes, of her certainly I know. I rode with her, Iand three others from her father’s household, when she wentto take the veil at Wherwell. And I do know, seeing I serve inthose parts, I do know how the nunnery there was burned out. Butvanished three years since? How is that possible, seeing it waswell known to her kin where she was living? Vanished now—yes,all too certainly, for I’ve been asking in vain since thefire. If you know more of my lady Julian since then than I, I begyou tell me. I could get no word whether she’s living ordead.”

It had all the ring of truth, if he had not so stronglycontained himself in those few moments of silence. It might be morethan half truth, even so. If he was honest, he would have lookedfor her there, after the holocaust. If dishonest—well, heknew and could use the recent circumstances.

“You went with her to Wherwell,” said Hugh,answering nothing and volunteering nothing. “Did you then seeher safe within the convent gates there?”

This silence was brief indeed, but pregnant. If he said yes,boldly, he lied. If not, at least he might be telling truth.

“No, my lord, I did not,” said Adam heavily.“I wish I had, but she would not have it so. We lay the lastnight at Andover, and then I went on with her the last few miles.When we came within a mile—but it was not within sight yet,and there were small woodlands between—she sent me back, andsaid she would go the end of the way alone. I did what she wished.I had done what she wished since I carried her in my arms, barely ayear old,” he said, with the first flash of fire out of hisdark composure, like brief lightning out of banked clouds.

“And the other three?” asked Hugh mildly.

“We left them in Andover. When I returned we set out forhome all together.”

Hugh said nothing yet about the discrepancy in time. That mightwell be held in reserve, to be sprung on him when he was away fromthis family solidarity, and less sure of himself.

“And you know nothing of Julian Cruce since thatday?”

“No, my lord, nothing. And if you do, for God’s sakelet me know of it, worst or best!”

“You were devoted to this lady?”

“I would have died for her. I would die for hernow.”

Well, so you may yet, thought Hugh, if you turn out to be thebest player of a part that ever put on a false face. He was in twominds about this man, whose brief flashes of passion had all theforce of truth, and yet who picked his way among words with a raresubtlety.

Why, if he had nothing to hide?

“You have a horse here, Adam?”

The man lifted upon him a long, calculating stare, from eyesdeep-set beneath bushy brows. “I have, my lord.”

“Then I must ask you to saddle and ride withme.”

It was an asking that could not be refused, and Adam Heriet waswell aware of it, but at least it was put in a fashion whichenabled him to rise and go with composed dignity. He pushed backthe bench and stood clear.

“Ride where, my lord?” And to the freckled boy,watching dubiously from the shadows, he said: “Go and saddlefor me, lad, make yourself useful.”

Adam the younger went, though not willingly, and with a longbackward glance over his shoulder, and in a moment or two hoovesthudded on the hard-beaten earth of the yard.

“You must know,” said Hugh, “all thecircumstances of the lady’s decision to enter a convent. Youknow she was betrothed as a child to Godfrid Marescot, and that hebroke off the match to become a monk at Hyde Mead.”

“Yes, I do know.”

“After the burning of Hyde, Godfrid Marescot came toShrewsbury in the dispersal that followed. Since the sack ofWherwell, he frets for news of the girl, and whether you can bringhim any or no, Adam, I would have you come with me and visithim.” Not a word yet of the small matter of her non-arrivalat the refuge she had chosen. Nor was there any way of knowing fromthis experienced and well-regulated face whether Adam knew of it orno. “If you cannot shed light,” said Hugh amiably,“at least you can speak to him of her, share a remembranceheavy enough, as things are now, to carry alone.”

Adam drew a long, slow, cautious breath. “I will well, mylord. He was a fine man, so everyone reports of him. Old for her,but a fine man. It was great pity. She used to prattle about him,proud as if he was making a queen of her. Pity such a lass shouldever take to the cloister. She would have been his fair match. Iknew her. I’ll ride with you in goodwill.” And to thehusband and wife who stood close together, wondering anddistrustful, he said calmly: “Shrewsbury is not far.You’ll see me back again before you know it.”

It was a strange and yet an everyday ride back toShrewsbury. All the way this hardened and resilient man-at-armsconducted himself as though he did not know he was a prisoner, andsuspect of something not yet revealed, while very well knowing thattwo sergeants rode one at either quarter behind him, in case heshould make a break for freedom. He rode well, and had a verydecent horse beneath him, and must be a man held in good repute andtrusted by his commander to be loosed as he pleased, and thus wellprovided. Concerning his own situation he asked nothing, andbetrayed no anxiety; but three times at least before they came insight of Saint Giles he asked:

“My lord, did you ever hear word of her at all, after thetroubles fell on Winchester?”

“Sir, if you have made enquiries round Wherwell, did youcome upon any trace? There must have been many nuns scatteredthere.”

And last, in abrupt pleading: “My lord, if you do know, isshe living or dead?”

To none of which could he get a direct answer, since there wasnone to give him. Last, as they passed the low hillock of SaintGiles, with its squat roofs and modest little turret, he saidreflectively: “That must have been a hard journey for a sickand ageing man, all this way from Hyde alone. I marvel how the lordGodfrid bore it.”

“He was not alone,” said Hugh almost absently.“They were two who came here from Hyde Mead.”

“As well,” said Adam, nodding approval, “forthey said he was a sorely wounded man. He might have foundered onthe way, without a helper.” And he drew a slow, cautiousbreath.

After that he went in silence, perhaps because of the loomingshadow of the abbey wall on his left, that cut off the afternoonsun with a sharp black knife-stroke along the dusty road.

They rode in under the arch of the gatehouse to the usual stirof afternoon, following the half-hour or so allowed for the youngerbrothers to play, and the older ones to sleep after dinner. Nowthey were rousing and going forth to their various occupations, totheir desks in the scriptorium, or their labours in the gardensalong the Gaye, or at the mill or the hatcheries of the fishponds.Brother Porter came out from his lodge at sight of Hugh’sgangling grey horse, observed the attendant officers, and lookedwith some natural curiosity at the unknown who rode with them.

“Brother Humilis? No, you won’t find him in thescriptorium, nor in the dortoir, either. After Mass this morning heswooned, here crossing the court, and though the fall did him nogreat harm, the young one catching him in his arms and bringing himdown gently, it took some time to bring him round afterwards.They’ve carried him to the infirmary. Brother Cadfael isthere with him now.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Hugh, checking indismayed concern. “Then I can hardly trouble himnow…” And yet, if this was one more step towards theend which Cadfael said was inevitable and daily drawing nearer,Hugh could not afford to delay any enquiry which might shed lighton the fate of Julian Cruce. Humilis himself most urgently desiredknowledge.

“Oh, he’s come to himself now,” said theporter, “and as much his own master—under God, themaster of us all!—as ever he was. He wants to come back tohis own cell in the dortoir, and says he can still fulfil all hisduties a while longer here, but they’ll keep him where he is.He’s in his full wits, and has all his will. If you have wordfor him of any import, I would at least go and see if they’lllet you in to him.”

‘They’, when it came to authority in the infirmary,meant Brother Edmund and Brother Cadfael, and their judgement wouldbe decisive.

“Wait here!” said Hugh, making up his mind, andswung down from the saddle to stride across the court to itsnorthwestern corner, where the infirmary stood withdrawn into theangle of the precinct wall. The two sergeants also dismounted, andstood in close and watchful attendance on their charge, though itseemed that Adam was quite prepared to brazen out whatever therewas to be answered, for he sat his horse stolidly for a fewmoments, and then lit down and freely surrendered his bridle to thegroom who had come to see to Hugh’s mount. They waited insilence, while Adam looked about the clustered buildings round thecourt with wary interest.

Hugh encountered Brother Edmund just emerging from the doorwayof the infirmary, and put his question to him briskly. “Ihear you have Brother Humilis within. Is he fit to have visitors? Ihave the one missing man here under guard, with luck we may startsomething out of him between us, before he has too much time tothink out his cover and make it impregnable.”

Edmund blinked at him for a moment, hard put to it to leave hisown preoccupations for another man’s. Then he said, aftersome hesitation: “He grows daily feebler, but he’sresting well now, and he has been fretting over this matter of thegirl, feeling his own acts brought her to this. His mind is strongand determined. I think he would certainly wish to see you. Cadfaelis there with him—his wound broke again when he fell, whereit was newly healed, but it’s clean. Yes, go in tohim.” His face said, though his lips did not utter it:“Who knows how long his time may be? An easy mind couldlengthen it.”

Hugh went back to his men. “Come, we may go in.” Andto the two sergeants he said: “Wait outside thedoor.”

He heard the familiar tones of Cadfael’s voice as soon ashe entered the infirmary with Adam docile at his heels. They hadnot taken Brother Humilis into the open ward, but into one of thesmall, quiet cells apart, and the door stood open between. A cot, astool and a small desk to support book or candle were all thefurnishings, and wide-open door and small, unshuttered window letin light and air. Brother Fidelis was on his knees by the bed,supporting the sick man in his arm while Cadfael completed thebandaging of hip and groin where the frail new scar tissue hadsplit slightly when Humilis fell. They had stripped him naked, andthe cover was drawn back, but Cadfael’s solid body blockedthe view of the bed from the doorway, and at the sound of feetentering Fidelis quickly drew up the sheet to the patient’swaist. So emaciated was the long body that the young man could liftit briefly on one arm, but the gaunt face showed clear and firm asever, and the hollow eyes were bright. He submitted to beinghandled with a wry and patient smile, as to a salutary discipline.It was the boy who so jealously reached to conceal the ruined bodyfrom uninitiated eyes. Having drawn up the sheet, he turned to takeup and shake out the clean linen shirt that lay ready, lifted itover Humilis’s head, and very adroitly helped his thin armsinto the sleeves, and lifted him to smooth the folds comfortablyunder him. Only then did he turn and look towards the doorway.

Hugh was known and accepted, even welcomed. Humilis and Fidelisas one looked beyond him to see who followed.

From behind Hugh’s shoulder the taller stranger lookedquickly from face to face, the mere flicker of a sharp glance thattouched and took flight, a lightning assessment by way of takingstock of what he might have to deal with. Brother Cadfael, clearly,belonged here and was no threat, the sick man in the bed was knownby repute, but the third brother, who stood close by the cotutterly still, wide eyes gleaming within the shadow of the cowl,was perhaps not so easily placed. Adam Heriet looked last andlongest at Fidelis, before he lowered his eyes and composed hisface into a closed book.

“Brother Edmund said we might come in,” said Hugh,“but if we tire you, turn us out. I am sorry to hear you arenot so well.”

“It will be the best of medicines,” said Humilis,“if you have any better news for me. Brother Cadfael will notgrudge another doctor having a say. I am not so sick, it was only afaintness—the heat gets ever more oppressive.” Hisvoice was a little less steady than usual, and slower in utterance,but he breathed evenly, and his eyes were clear and calm.“Who is this you have brought with you?”

“Nicholas will have told you, before he left,” saidHugh, “that we have already questioned three of the four whorode as escort to the lady Julian when she left for Wherwell. Thisis the fourth—Adam Heriet, who went the last part of the waywith her, leaving his fellows in Andover to wait for hisreturn.”

Brother Humilis stiffened his frail body and sat upright togaze, and Brother Fidelis kneeled and braced an arm about him,behind the supporting pillow, stooping his head into shadow behindhis lord’s lean shoulder.

“Is it so? Then we know all those who guarded her now. Soyou,” said Humilis, urgently studying the stalwart figure andblunt, brow-bent face that stooped a sunburned forehead to him,like a challenged bull, “you must be that one they said lovedher from a child.”

“So I did,” said Adam Heriet firmly.

“Tell him,” said Hugh, “how and when you lastparted from the lady. Speak up, it is your story.”

Heriet drew breath long and deeply, but without any evidence offear or stress, and told it again as he had told it to Hugh atBrigge. “She bade me go and leave her. And so I did. She wasmy lady, to command me as she chose. What she asked of me, that Idid.”

“And returned to Andover?” asked Hugh mildly.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Scarcely in haste,” said Hugh with the samedeceptive gentleness. “From Andover to Wherwell is but a fewshort miles, and you say you were dismissed a mile short of that.Yet you returned to Andover in the dusk, many hours later. Wherewere you all that time?”

There was no mistaking the icy shock that went through Adam,stopping his breath for an instant. His carefully hooded eyesrolled wide and flashed one wild glance at Hugh, then were againlowered. It took him a brief and perceptible struggle to mastervoice and thoughts, but he did it with heroic smoothness, and eventhe pause seemed too brief for the inspired concoction of lies.

“My lord, I had never been so far south before, andreckoned at that time I never should again. She dismissed me, andthe city of Winchester was there close. I had heard tell of it, butnever thought to see it. I know I had no right so to borrow time,but I did it. I rode into the town, and there I stayed all thatday. It was peace there, then, a man could walk abroad, view thegreat church, eat at an alehouse, all without fear. And so I did,and went back to Andover only late in the evening. If they havetold you so, they tell truth. We never set out for home until nextmorning.”

It was Humilis, who knew the city of Winchester like his ownpalm, who took up the interrogation there, drily and calmly, eyesand voice again alert and vigorous. “Who could blame you fortaking a few hours to yourself, with your errand done? And what didyou see and do in Winchester?”

Adam’s wary breathing eased again readily. This was noproblem for him. He launched into a very full and detailed accountof Bishop Henry’s city, from the north gate, where he hadentered, to the meadows of St Cross, and from the cathedral and thecastle of Wolvesey to the north-western fields of Hyde Mead. Hecould describe in detail the frontages of the steep High Street,the golden shrine of Saint Swithun, and the magnificent crosspresented by Bishop Henry to his predecessor BishopWalkelin’s cathedral. No doubt but he had seen all he claimedto have seen. Humilis exchanged glances with Hugh and assured himof that. Neither Hugh nor Cadfael, who stood a little apart, takingnote of all, had ever been in Winchester.

“So that is all you know of Julian Cruce’sfate,” said Hugh at length.

“Never word of her, my lord, since we parted thatday,” said Adam, with every appearance of truth.“Unless there is something you can tell me now, as you know Ihave asked and asked.” But he was asking no longer, even thisrepetition had lost all its former urgency.

“Something I can and will tell you,” said Hughabruptly and harshly. “Julian Cruce never entered Wherwell.The prioress of Wherwell never heard of her. From that day she hasvanished, and you were the last ever to see her. What’s youranswer to that?”

Adam stood mute, staring, a long minute. “Do you tell methis is true?” he said slowly.

“I do tell you so though I think there never was any needto tell you, for you knew it, none better. As you are now left, theonly one who may, who must, know where she did go, since she neverreached Wherwell. Where she went and what befell her, and whethershe is now on this earth or under it.”

“I swear to God,” said Adam slowly, “that whenI parted from my lady at her wish, I left her whole and well, and Ipray she is now, wherever she may be.”

“You knew, did you not, what valuables she carried withher? Was that enough to tempt you? Did you, I ask you now in dueform, did you rob your mistress and do her violence when she wasleft alone with you, and no witness by?”

Fidelis laid Humilis gently back against his pillows, and stoodup tall and straight beside him. The movement drew Adam’sgaze, and for a moment held it. He said loudly and clearly:“So far from that, I would have died for her then, and so Iwould, gladly, now, rather than she should suffer even onemoment’s grief.”

“Very well!” said Hugh shortly. “That’syour plea. But I must and will keep you in hold until I know more.For I will know more, Adam, before I let go of this knot.” Hewent to the door, where his sergeants waited for their orders, andcalled them in. “Take this man and lodge him in the castle.Securely!”

Adam went out between them without a word of surprise orprotest. He had looked for nothing else, events had hedged him intoo closely not to lock the door on him now. It seemed that he wasnot greatly discomforted or alarmed, either, though he was a stout,practised man who would not betray his thoughts. He did cast onelook back from the doorway, a look that embraced them all, but saidnothing and conveyed nothing to Hugh, and little enough to Cadfael.A mere spark, too small as yet to cast any light.