Brother Cadfael 11: An Excellent Mystery

detail of that journey he was recalling now, threading them frantically through his mind like the beads of a rosary in the hands of a terrified man. But he was not terrified, only alerted to danger, to the pains of memory, to the necessity to think fast, and perhaps select between truth, partial truth and lying. Behind that firm, impenetrable face he might have been thinking anything.
    'My lord,' said Adam, stirring slowly out of his stillness, 'yes, of her certainly I know. I rode with her, I and three others from her father's household, when she went to take the veil at Wherwell. And I do know, seeing I serve in those parts, I do know how the nunnery there was burned out. But vanished three years since? How is that possible, seeing it was well known to her kin where she was living? Vanished now - yes, all too certainly, for I've been asking in vain since the fire. If you know more of my lady Julian since then than I, I beg you tell me. I could get no word whether she's living or dead.'
    It had all the ring of truth, if he had not so strongly contained himself in those few moments of silence. It might be more than half truth, even so. If he was honest, he would have looked for her there, after the holocaust. If dishonest - well, he knew and could use the recent circumstances.
    'You went with her to Wherwell,' said Hugh, answering nothing and volunteering nothing. 'Did you then see her 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 last night 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, and said 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 a year old,' he said, with the first flash of fire out of his dark 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 for home all together.'
    Hugh said nothing yet about the discrepancy in time. That might well be held in reserve, to be sprung on him when he was away from this family solidarity, and less sure of himself.
    'And you know nothing of Julian Cruce since that day?'
    'No, my lord, nothing. And if you do, for God's sake let me know of it, worst or best!'
    'You were devoted to this lady?'
    'I would have died for her. I would die for her now.'
    Well, so you may yet, thought Hugh, if you turn out to be the best player of a part that ever put on a false face. He was in two minds about this man, whose brief flashes of passion had all the force of truth, and yet who picked his way among words with a rare subtlety.
    Why, if he had nothing to hide?
    'You have a horse here, Adam?'
    The man lifted upon him a long, calculating stare, from eyes deep-set beneath bushy brows. 'I have, my lord.'
    'Then I must ask you to saddle and ride with me.'
    It was an asking that could not be refused, and Adam Heriet was well aware of it, but at least it was put in a fashion which enabled him to rise and go with composed dignity. He pushed back the bench and stood clear.
    'Ride where, my lord?' And to the freckled boy, watching dubiously from the shadows, he said: 'Go and saddle for me, lad, make yourself useful.'
    Adam the younger went, though not willingly, and with a long backward glance over his shoulder, and in a moment or two hooves thudded on the hard-beaten earth of the yard.
    'You must know,' said Hugh, 'all the circumstances of the lady's decision to enter a convent. You know she was betrothed as a child to Godfrid Marescot, and that he broke off the match to become a monk at Hyde Mead.'
    'Yes, I do know.'
    'After the - burning of Hyde, Godfrid Marescot came to Shrewsbury in the dispersal that followed. Since the sack of Wherwell, he frets for news of the girl, and whether you can bring him any or no, Adam, I would have you come with me and visit him.' Not a word yet of the small matter of her non-arrival at the refuge she had chosen. Nor was there any way of knowing from this experienced and well-regulated face whether Adam knew of it or no. 'If you cannot shed light,' said Hugh amiably, 'at least you can speak to him of her, share a remembrance heavy enough, as