pursuit was possible, Nicol
intended to demand it of whatever authority held the writ in these parts.
Hugh
and Prior Robert had arrived at the priory late in the evening, paid their
respects to the prior, attended Vespers to do reverence to the saints of the
foundation, Saints Oswald and Wulstan, and taken Herluin and his attendants
into their confidence about the loss, or at the very least the misplacement, of
Saint Winifred’s reliquary; with a sharp eye, at least on Hugh’s part, for the way
the news was received. But he could find no fault with Herluin’s reaction,
which displayed natural dismay and concern, but not to excess. Too much
exclaiming and protesting would have aroused a degree of doubt as to his
sincerity, but Herluin clearly felt that here was nothing worse than some
confused stupidity among too many helpers in too much panic and haste, and what
was lost would be found as soon as everyone calmed down and halted the hunt for
a while to take thought. It was impressive, too, that he instantly stated his
intention of returning at once to Shrewsbury, to help to clarify the confusion,
though he seemed to be relying on his natural authority and leadership to
produce order out of chaos, rather than having anything practical in mind. He himself
had nothing to contribute. He had taken no part in the hurried labours within
the church, but had held himself aloof with dignity in the abbot’s lodging,
which was still high and dry. No, he knew nothing of who had salvaged Saint
Winifred. His last sight of her reliquary had been at morning Mass.
Tutilo,
awed and mute, shook his head, still in its aureole of unshorn curls, and
opened his amber eyes wide at hearing the disturbing news. Given leave to
speak, he said he had gone into the church to help, and had simply obeyed such
orders as were given to him, and he knew nothing of where the saint’s coffin
might be at this moment.
“This
must not go by default,” pronounced Herluin at his most majestic. “Tomorrow we
will ride back with you to Shrewsbury. She cannot be far. She must be found.”
“After
Mass tomorrow,” said Prior Robert, firmly reasserting his own leadership as
representing Shrewsbury, “we will set out.”
And
so they would have done, but for the coming of Nicol.
Their
horses were saddled and waiting, their farewells to the prior and brothers
already made, and Hugh just reaching for his bridle, when Nicol came trudging
sturdily in at the gatehouse, soiled and bruised and hoisting himself along on
a staff he had cut for himself in the forest. Herluin saw him, and uttered a
wordless cry, rather of vexation than surprise or alarm, for by this time the
steward should have been home in Ramsey, all his booty safely delivered. His
unexpected appearance here, whatever its cause, boded no good.
“Nicol!”
pronounced Herluin, suppressing his first exasperation, at this or any
disruption of his plans. “Man, what are you doing here? Why are you not back in
Ramsey? I had thought I could have complete trust in you to get your charge
safely home. What has happened? Where have you left the wagon? And your
fellows, where are they?”
Nicol
drew deep breath, and told him. “Father, we were set upon in woodland, south of
Leicester. Five of us, and a dozen of them, with cudgels and daggers, and two
archers among them. Horses and wagon were what they wanted, and what they took,
for all we could do to stop them. They were on the run, and in haste, or we
should all be dead men. They had one at least of their number wounded, and they
needed to move fast. They battered us into the bushes, and made off into the
forest with the cart and the team and the load, and left us to limp away on
foot wherever we would. And that’s the whole tale,” he said, and shut his mouth
with a snap, confronting Herluin with the stony stare of an elder provoked and
ready to do battle.
The
abbey’s wagon gone, a team of horses
intended to demand it of whatever authority held the writ in these parts.
Hugh
and Prior Robert had arrived at the priory late in the evening, paid their
respects to the prior, attended Vespers to do reverence to the saints of the
foundation, Saints Oswald and Wulstan, and taken Herluin and his attendants
into their confidence about the loss, or at the very least the misplacement, of
Saint Winifred’s reliquary; with a sharp eye, at least on Hugh’s part, for the way
the news was received. But he could find no fault with Herluin’s reaction,
which displayed natural dismay and concern, but not to excess. Too much
exclaiming and protesting would have aroused a degree of doubt as to his
sincerity, but Herluin clearly felt that here was nothing worse than some
confused stupidity among too many helpers in too much panic and haste, and what
was lost would be found as soon as everyone calmed down and halted the hunt for
a while to take thought. It was impressive, too, that he instantly stated his
intention of returning at once to Shrewsbury, to help to clarify the confusion,
though he seemed to be relying on his natural authority and leadership to
produce order out of chaos, rather than having anything practical in mind. He himself
had nothing to contribute. He had taken no part in the hurried labours within
the church, but had held himself aloof with dignity in the abbot’s lodging,
which was still high and dry. No, he knew nothing of who had salvaged Saint
Winifred. His last sight of her reliquary had been at morning Mass.
Tutilo,
awed and mute, shook his head, still in its aureole of unshorn curls, and
opened his amber eyes wide at hearing the disturbing news. Given leave to
speak, he said he had gone into the church to help, and had simply obeyed such
orders as were given to him, and he knew nothing of where the saint’s coffin
might be at this moment.
“This
must not go by default,” pronounced Herluin at his most majestic. “Tomorrow we
will ride back with you to Shrewsbury. She cannot be far. She must be found.”
“After
Mass tomorrow,” said Prior Robert, firmly reasserting his own leadership as
representing Shrewsbury, “we will set out.”
And
so they would have done, but for the coming of Nicol.
Their
horses were saddled and waiting, their farewells to the prior and brothers
already made, and Hugh just reaching for his bridle, when Nicol came trudging
sturdily in at the gatehouse, soiled and bruised and hoisting himself along on
a staff he had cut for himself in the forest. Herluin saw him, and uttered a
wordless cry, rather of vexation than surprise or alarm, for by this time the
steward should have been home in Ramsey, all his booty safely delivered. His
unexpected appearance here, whatever its cause, boded no good.
“Nicol!”
pronounced Herluin, suppressing his first exasperation, at this or any
disruption of his plans. “Man, what are you doing here? Why are you not back in
Ramsey? I had thought I could have complete trust in you to get your charge
safely home. What has happened? Where have you left the wagon? And your
fellows, where are they?”
Nicol
drew deep breath, and told him. “Father, we were set upon in woodland, south of
Leicester. Five of us, and a dozen of them, with cudgels and daggers, and two
archers among them. Horses and wagon were what they wanted, and what they took,
for all we could do to stop them. They were on the run, and in haste, or we
should all be dead men. They had one at least of their number wounded, and they
needed to move fast. They battered us into the bushes, and made off into the
forest with the cart and the team and the load, and left us to limp away on
foot wherever we would. And that’s the whole tale,” he said, and shut his mouth
with a snap, confronting Herluin with the stony stare of an elder provoked and
ready to do battle.
The
abbey’s wagon gone, a team of horses
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