The Devils Novice (19 page)

They
took their basket and departed, and Meriet went about his work in dead, cold
silence all that day. A desperate case—yes, so it sounded. As good as hanged!
Starved and runaway and living wild, thin to emaciation…

He
said no word to Brother Mark, but one of the brightest and most inquisitive of
the children had stretched his ears in the kitchen doorway and heard the
exchanges, and spread the news through the household with natural relish. Life
in Saint Giles, however sheltered, could be tedious, it was none the worse for
an occasional sensation to vary the routine of the day. The story came to
Brother Mark’s ears. He debated whether to speak or not, watching the chill
mask of Meriet’s face, and the inward stare of his hazel eyes. But at last he
did venture a word.

“You
have heard, they have taken up a man for the killing of Peter Clemence?”

“Yes,”
said Meriet, leaden-voiced, and looked through him and far away.

“If
there is no guilt in him,” said Mark emphatically, “there will no harm come to
him.”

But
Meriet had nothing to say, nor did it seem fitting to Mark to add anything
more. Yet he did watch his friend from that moment with unobtrusive care, and
fretted to see how utterly he had withdrawn into himself with this knowledge
that seemed to work in him like poison.

In
the darkness of the night Mark could not sleep. It was some time now since he
had stolen across to the barn by night, to listen intently at the foot of the
ladder stair that led up into the loft, and take comfort in the silence that
meant Meriet was deeply asleep; but on this night he made that pilgrimage
again. He did not know the true cause and nature of Meriet’s pain, but he knew
that it was heart-deep and very bitter. He rose with careful quietness, not to
disturb his neighbours, and made his way out to the barn.

The
frost was not so sharp that night, the air had a stillness and faint haze
instead of the piercing starry glitter of past nights. In the loft there would
be warmth enough, and the homely scents of timber, straw and grain, but also
great loneliness for that inaccessible sleeper who shrank from having
neighbours, for fear of frightening them. Mark had wondered lately whether he
might not appeal to Meriet to come down and rejoin his fellowmen, but it would
not have been easy to do without alerting that austere spirit to the fact that
his slumbers had been spied upon, however benevolently, and Mark had never
quite reached the point of making the assay.

He
knew his way in pitch darkness to the foot of the steep stairway, a mere
step-ladder unprotected by any rail. He stood there and held his breath, nose
full of the harvest-scent of the barn. Above him the silence was uneasy,
stirred by slight tremors of movement. He thought first that sleep was shallow,
and the sleeper turning in his bed to find a posture from which he could
submerge deeper into peace. Then he knew that he was listening to Meriet’s
voice, withdrawn into a strange distance but unmistakable, without
distinguishable words, a mere murmur, but terrible in its sustained argument
between one need and another need, equally demanding. Like some obdurate soul
drawn apart by driven horses, torn limb from limb. And yet so slight and faint
a sound, he had to strain his ears to follow it.

Brother
Mark stood wretched, wondering whether to go up and either awake this sleeper,
if indeed he slept, or lie by him and refuse to leave him if he was awake.
There is a time to let well or ill alone, and a time to go forward into
forbidden places with banners flying and trumpets sounding, and demand a
surrender. But he did not know if they were come to that extreme. Brother Mark
prayed, not with words, but by somehow igniting a candle-flame within him that
burned immensely tall, and sent up the smoke of his entreaty, which was all for
Meriet.

Above
him in the darkness a foot stirred in the small, dry dust of chaff and straw,
like mice venturing forth by night. Soft steps moved overhead, even and slow.
In the dimness below, softened now by filtering starlight, Mark stared upward,
and saw the darkness stir and swirl. Something suave and pale dipped from the
yawning trap, and reached for the top rung of the ladder; a naked foot. Its
fellow followed, stooping a rung lower. A voice, still drawn back deep into the
body that leaned at the head of the stair, said distantly but clearly: “No I will
not suffer it!”

He
was coming down, he was seeking help. Brother Mark breathed gratitude, and said
softly into the dimness above him: “Meriet! I am here!” Very softly, but it was
enough.

The
foot seeking its rest on the next tread balked and stepped astray. There was a
faint, distressed cry, weak as a bird’s and then an awakened shriek, live and
indignant in bewilderment. Meriet’s body folded sidelong and fell, hurtling,
half into Brother Mark’s blindly extended arms, and half askew from him with a
dull, deflating thud to the floor of the barn. Mark clung desperately to what
he held, borne down by the weight, and lowered it as softly as he might,
feeling the limbs fold together to lie limp and still. There was a silence but
for his own labouring breath.

With
anguished hands he felt about the motionless body, stooped his ear to listen
for breathing and the beat of the heart, touched a smooth cheek and the thick
thatch of dark hair, and drew his fingers away warm and sticky with blood.
“Meriet!” he urged, whispering close to a deaf ear, and knew that Meriet was
far out of reach.

Mark
ran for lights and help, but even at this pass was careful not to alarm the
whole dortoir, but only to coax out of their sleep two of the most able-bodied
and willing of his flock, who slept close to the door, and could withdraw
without disturbing the rest. Between them they brought a lantern, and examined
Meriet on the floor of the barn, still out of his senses. Mark had partially
broken his fall, but his head had struck the sharp edge of the step-ladder, and
bore a long graze that ran diagonally across his right temple and into his hair
which bled freely, and he had fallen with his right foot twisted awkwardly
beneath him.

“My
fault, my fault!” whispered Mark wretchedly, feeling about the limp body for
broken bones. “I startled him awake. I didn’t know he was asleep, I thought he
was coming to me of his own will…”

Meriet
lay oblivious and let himself be handled as they would. There seemed to be no
fractures, but there might well be sprains, and his head wound bled alarmingly.
To move him as little as need be they brought down his pallet from the loft,
and set it below in the barn where he lay, so that he might have quiet from the
rest of the household. They bathed and dressed his head and lifted him gently
into his cot with an added brychan for warmth, injury and shock making him very
cold to the touch. And all the while his face, beneath the swathing bandage,
was remote and peaceful and pale as Mark had never seen it before, his trouble
for these few hours stricken out of him.

“Go
now and get your own rest,” said Brother Mark to his concerned helpers.
“There’s nothing more we can do at this moment. I shall sit with him. If I need
you I’ll call you.”

He
trimmed the lantern to burn steadily, and sat beside the pallet all the rest of
the night. Meriet lay mute and motionless until past the dawn, though his
breathing perceptibly lengthened and grew calmer as he passed from senselessness
into sleep, but his face remained bloodless. It was past Prime when his lips
began to twitch and his eyelids to flutter, as if he wished to open them, but
had not the strength. Mark bathed his face, and moistened the struggling lips
with water and wine.

“Lie
still,” he said, with a hand cupping Meriet’s cheek. “I am here—Mark. Be
troubled by nothing, you are safe here with me.” He was not aware that he had
meant to say that. It was promising infinite blessing, and what right had he to
claim any such power? And yet the words had come to him unbidden.

The
heavy eyelids heaved, fought for a moment with the unknown weight holding them
closed, and parted upon a reflected flame in desperate green eyes. A shudder
passed through Meriet’s body. He worked a dry mouth and got out faintly: “I
must go—I must tell them… Let me up!”

The
effort he made to rise was easily suppressed by a hand on his breast; he lay
helpless but shaking.

“I
must go! Help me!”

“There
is nowhere you need go,” said Mark, leaning over him. “If there is any message
you wish sent to any man, lie still, and only tell me. You know I will do it
faithfully. You had a fall, you must lie still and rest.”

“Mark…
It is you?” He felt outside his blankets blindly, and Mark took the wandering
hand and held it. “It
is
you,” said Meriet, sighing. “Mark—the man
they’ve taken… for killing the bishop’s clerk… I must tell them… I must go to
Hugh Beringar…”

“Tell
me,” said Mark, “and you have done all. I will see done whatever you want done,
and you may rest. What is it I am to tell Hugh Beringar?” But in his heart he
already knew.

“Tell
him he must let this poor soul go… Say he never did that slaying. Tell him I
know
!
Tell him,” said Meriet, his dilated eyes hungry and emerald-green on Mark’s
attentive face, “that I confess my mortal sin… that it was I who killed Peter
Clemence. I shot him down in the woods, three miles and more from Aspley. Say I
am sorry, so to shame my father’s house.”

He
was weak and dazed, shaking with belated shock, the tears sprang from his eyes,
startling him with their unexpected flood. He gripped and wrung the hand held.
“Promise! Promise you will tell him so…”

“I
will, and bear the errand myself, no other shall,” said Mark, stooping low to
straining, blinded eyes to be seen and believed. “Every word you give me I will
deliver. If you will also do a good and needful thing for yourself and for me,
before I go. Then you may sleep more peacefully.”

The
green eyes cleared in wonder, staring up at him. “What thing is that?”

Mark
told him, very gently and firmly. Before he had the words well out, Meriet had
wrenched away his hand and heaved his bruised body over in the bed, turning his
face away. “No!” he said in a low wail of distress. “No, I will not! No…”

Mark
talked on, quietly urging what he asked, but stopped when it was still denied,
and with ever more agitated rejection. “Hush!” he said then placatingly. “You
need not fret so. Even without it, I’ll do your errand, every word. You be
still and sleep.”

He
was instantly believed; the body stiff with resistance softened and eased. The
swathed head turned towards him again; even the dim light within the barn
caused his eyes to narrow and frown. Brother Mark put out the lantern, and drew
the brychans close. Then he kissed his patient and penitent, and went to do his
errand.

Brother
Mark walked the length of the Foregate and across the stone bridge into the
town, exchanging the time of day with all he met, enquired for Hugh Beringar at
his house by Saint Mary’s, and walked on undismayed and unwearied when he was
told that the deputy-sheriff was already at the castle. It was by way of a
bonus that Brother Cadfael happened to be there also, having just emerged from
applying another dressing to the festered wound in the prisoner’s forearm.
Hunger and exposure are not conducive to ready healing, but Harald’s hurts were
showing signs of yielding to treatment. Already he had a little more flesh on
his long, raw bones, and a little more of the texture of youth in his hollow
cheeks. Solid stone walls, sleep without constant fear, warm blankets and three
rough meals a day were a heaven to him.

Against
the stony ramparts of the inner ward, shut off from even what light there was
in this muted morning, Brother Mark’s diminutive figure looked even smaller,
but his grave dignity was in no way diminished. Hugh welcomed him with
astonishment, so unexpected was he in this place, and haled him into the
anteroom of the guard, where there was a fire burning, and torchlight, since
full daylight seldom penetrated there to much effect.

“I’m
sent with a message,” said Brother Mark, going directly to his goal, “to Hugh
Beringar, from Brother Meriet. I’ve promised to deliver it faithfully word for
word, since he cannot do it himself, as he wanted to do. Brother Meriet learned
only yesterday, as did we all at Saint Giles, that you have a man held here in
prison for the murder of Peter Clemence. Last night, after he had retired,
Meriet was desperately troubled in his sleep, and rose and walked. He fell from
the loft, sleeping, and is now laid in his bed with a broken head and many
bruises, but he has come to himself, and I think with care he’ll take no grave
harm. But if Brother Cadfael would come and look at him I should be easier in
my mind.”

“Son,
with all my heart!” said Cadfael, dismayed. “But what was he about, wandering
in his sleep? He never left his bed before in his fits. And men who do commonly
tread very skilfully, even where a waking man would not venture.”

“So
he might have done,” owned Mark, sadly wrung, “if I had not spoken to him from
below. For I thought he was well awake, and coming to ask comfort and aid, but
when I called his name he stepped at fault, and cried out and fell. And now he
is come to himself, I know where he was bound, even in his sleep, and on what
errand. For that errand he has committed to me, now he is helpless, and I am
here to deliver it.”