faintly luminous
round the rims of vision. Cadfael rode in a deep content of mind through the
thickest part of the woodland growth, with a glimmer of light from the open
fields ahead before him.
It
was the rustling movement on his left, among the trees, that startled him out
of his muse. Something vaguely pale in the gloom moved alongside him, and he
heard the slight jingling of a horse’s bit and bridle. A riderless horse,
wandering astray but saddled and bridled, for the small metallic sounds rang
clear. He had not been riderless when he set out from his stable. In glimpses
of moonlight between the branches the pale shape shone elusively, drawing
nearer to the path. Cadfael had seen that light roan hide before, that same
afternoon in the great court of the abbey.
He
dismounted in haste, and called, advancing to take the slack bridle and run a
hand over the dappled forehead. The saddle was still in place, but the straps
that had held a small saddle-roll behind it had been sliced through. And where
was the rider? And why, indeed, had he set out yet again, after returning
empty-handed from a day’s hunting? Had someone provided him a clue to start him
off again after his prey, even thus late at night? Cadfael parted the bushes
and turned in from the path, where he had first glimpsed the pale form moving.
Here nothing seemed disturbed, the tangle of branches showed no disrupting
passage. He worked back a little to emerge again on the path, and there, aside
under the bushes in long grass, so hidden that he had ridden past it and seen
no sign, he found what he had feared to find. Drogo Bosiet lay sprawled on his
face, sunk deep in the ripe autumnal herbage, and even against the dark
colouring of his gown, Cadfael could just distinguish the darker blot that was
his blood, welling out under his left shoulder blade, where the dagger that had
killed him had plunged and been withdrawn.
Chapter Six
AT
SO LATE AN HOUR there was small chance of reaching immediate help at either
abbey or castle, and none of deriving any knowledge from the darkening scene
here in the forest. All Cadfael could do, thus alone, was to kneel beside the
mute body and feel for a heartbeat or pulse, and listen for any faint sign of
breathing. But though Drogo’s flesh was warm, and yielded pliably to handling,
there was no breath in him, and the heart in his great chest, almost certainly
pierced by the thrust from behind, was stonily still. He could not have been
dead very long, but the gush of blood that had sprung out with the blade had
ceased to flow, and was beginning to dry at its edges into a dark crust. More
than an hour ago, Cadfael thought, judging by what signs he had, perhaps as
much as two hours. And his saddle-roll cut loose and taken. Here, in our woods!
When did any man ever hear of footpads so close? Or has some cutthroat from the
town heard of Eilmund being laid up at home, and ventured to try his luck here
for a chance traveller riding alone?
Delay
could not harm Drogo now, and daylight might show at least some trace to lead
to his murderer. Best leave him so, and take word to the castle, where there
was always a guard waking, and leave a message for Hugh, to be delivered as
soon as there was light. At midnight the brothers would rise for Matins, and
the same grim news could and should be delivered then to Abbot Radulfus. The
dead man was the abbey’s guest, and his son expected within a few days, and to
the abbey he must be taken for proper and reverent care. No, there was nothing
more to be done for Drogo Bosiet, but at least he could get the horse back to his
stable. Cadfael mounted, and gathered the loose bridle in his left hand, and
the horse came with him docilely. There was no haste. He had until midnight. No
need to save time, since even if he reached his bed before Matins, sleep would
be impossible. Better take care of the horses and then wait for the
round the rims of vision. Cadfael rode in a deep content of mind through the
thickest part of the woodland growth, with a glimmer of light from the open
fields ahead before him.
It
was the rustling movement on his left, among the trees, that startled him out
of his muse. Something vaguely pale in the gloom moved alongside him, and he
heard the slight jingling of a horse’s bit and bridle. A riderless horse,
wandering astray but saddled and bridled, for the small metallic sounds rang
clear. He had not been riderless when he set out from his stable. In glimpses
of moonlight between the branches the pale shape shone elusively, drawing
nearer to the path. Cadfael had seen that light roan hide before, that same
afternoon in the great court of the abbey.
He
dismounted in haste, and called, advancing to take the slack bridle and run a
hand over the dappled forehead. The saddle was still in place, but the straps
that had held a small saddle-roll behind it had been sliced through. And where
was the rider? And why, indeed, had he set out yet again, after returning
empty-handed from a day’s hunting? Had someone provided him a clue to start him
off again after his prey, even thus late at night? Cadfael parted the bushes
and turned in from the path, where he had first glimpsed the pale form moving.
Here nothing seemed disturbed, the tangle of branches showed no disrupting
passage. He worked back a little to emerge again on the path, and there, aside
under the bushes in long grass, so hidden that he had ridden past it and seen
no sign, he found what he had feared to find. Drogo Bosiet lay sprawled on his
face, sunk deep in the ripe autumnal herbage, and even against the dark
colouring of his gown, Cadfael could just distinguish the darker blot that was
his blood, welling out under his left shoulder blade, where the dagger that had
killed him had plunged and been withdrawn.
Chapter Six
AT
SO LATE AN HOUR there was small chance of reaching immediate help at either
abbey or castle, and none of deriving any knowledge from the darkening scene
here in the forest. All Cadfael could do, thus alone, was to kneel beside the
mute body and feel for a heartbeat or pulse, and listen for any faint sign of
breathing. But though Drogo’s flesh was warm, and yielded pliably to handling,
there was no breath in him, and the heart in his great chest, almost certainly
pierced by the thrust from behind, was stonily still. He could not have been
dead very long, but the gush of blood that had sprung out with the blade had
ceased to flow, and was beginning to dry at its edges into a dark crust. More
than an hour ago, Cadfael thought, judging by what signs he had, perhaps as
much as two hours. And his saddle-roll cut loose and taken. Here, in our woods!
When did any man ever hear of footpads so close? Or has some cutthroat from the
town heard of Eilmund being laid up at home, and ventured to try his luck here
for a chance traveller riding alone?
Delay
could not harm Drogo now, and daylight might show at least some trace to lead
to his murderer. Best leave him so, and take word to the castle, where there
was always a guard waking, and leave a message for Hugh, to be delivered as
soon as there was light. At midnight the brothers would rise for Matins, and
the same grim news could and should be delivered then to Abbot Radulfus. The
dead man was the abbey’s guest, and his son expected within a few days, and to
the abbey he must be taken for proper and reverent care. No, there was nothing
more to be done for Drogo Bosiet, but at least he could get the horse back to his
stable. Cadfael mounted, and gathered the loose bridle in his left hand, and
the horse came with him docilely. There was no haste. He had until midnight. No
need to save time, since even if he reached his bed before Matins, sleep would
be impossible. Better take care of the horses and then wait for the
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