either
side of mine. And not even to a proper bride. Hikrude is old . At least
twenty-two.”
“A
venerable age,” agreed Hyacinth gravely.
“But
even if she was young and pretty I don’t want her. I don’t want any woman. I
don’t like women. I don’t see any need for them.”
“You’re
in the right place to escape them, then,” suggested Hyacinth helpfully, and
under his long copper lashes his amber eyes flashed a gleam of laughter.
“Become a novice, and be done with the world, you’ll be safe enough here.”
“No,
that’s no sport, neither. Listen, I’ll tell you all about it.” And the tale of
his threatened marriage, and his grandmother’s plans to enlarge her little
palatine came tripping volubly from his tongue. “So will you keep an eye open
for me, and let me know what I must be ware of? I need someone who’ll be honest
with me, and not keep everything from me, as if I were still a child.”
“I
will!” promised Hyacinth contentedly, smiling. “I’ll be your lordship’s liege
man in the camp at Eaton, and be eyes and ears for you.”
“And
make plain my side of it to Cuthred? I shouldn’t like him to think evil of
Father Abbot; he’s only doing what my father wanted for me. And you haven’t
told me your name. I must have a name for you.”
“My
name is Hyacinth. I’m told there was a bishop so named, but I’m none. Your
secrets are safer with a sinner than with a saint, and I’m closer than the
confessional, never fear me.”
They
had somehow become so content and familiar with each other that only the timely
reminder of Richard’s stomach, nudging him that it was time for his dinner,
finally roused them to separate. Richard trotted beside his new friend along
the path that skirted the enclave wall as far as the Foregate, and there parted
from him, and watched the light, erect figure as it swung away along the
highroad, before he turned and went dancing gleefully back to the wicket in the
enclave wall.
Hyacinth
covered the first miles of his return journey at a springy, long-stepping lope,
less out of any sense of haste or duty than for pure pleasure in the ease of
his own gait, and the power and precision of his body. He crossed the river by
the bridge at Attingham, waded the watery meadows of its tributary the Tern,
and turned south from Wroxeter towards Eyton. When he came into the fringes of
the forest land he slowed to a loitering walk, reluctant to arrive when the way
was so pleasant. He had to cross abbey land to reach the hermitage which lay in
the narrow, thrusting finger of Ludel land probing into its neighbour woods. He
went merrily whistling along the track that skirted the brook, close round the
northern rim of Eilmund’s coppice. The bank that rose beyond, protecting the
farmed woodland, was high and steep, but well kept and well turfed, never
before had it subsided at any point, nor was the brook so large or rapid that
it should have undercut the seasoned slope. But so it had, the raw soil showed
in a steep dark scar well before he reached the place. He eyed it as he
approached, gnawing a thoughtful lip, and then as suddenly shrugged and
laughed. “The more mischief the more sport!” he said half-aloud, and passed on
to where the bank had been deeply undercut. He was still some yards back from
the worst, when he heard a muted cry that seemed to come from within the earth,
and then an indrawn howl of struggle and pain, and a volley of muffled curses.
Startled but quick in reaction, he broke into a leaping run, and pulled up as
abruptly on the edge of the ditch, no more than placidly filled now with the
still muddied stream, but visibly rising. On the other side of the water there
had been a fresh fall, and a solitary old willow, its roots partially stripped
by the first slip, had heeled over and fallen athwart the brook. Its branches
heaved and rustled with the struggles of someone pinned beneath, half
side of mine. And not even to a proper bride. Hikrude is old . At least
twenty-two.”
“A
venerable age,” agreed Hyacinth gravely.
“But
even if she was young and pretty I don’t want her. I don’t want any woman. I
don’t like women. I don’t see any need for them.”
“You’re
in the right place to escape them, then,” suggested Hyacinth helpfully, and
under his long copper lashes his amber eyes flashed a gleam of laughter.
“Become a novice, and be done with the world, you’ll be safe enough here.”
“No,
that’s no sport, neither. Listen, I’ll tell you all about it.” And the tale of
his threatened marriage, and his grandmother’s plans to enlarge her little
palatine came tripping volubly from his tongue. “So will you keep an eye open
for me, and let me know what I must be ware of? I need someone who’ll be honest
with me, and not keep everything from me, as if I were still a child.”
“I
will!” promised Hyacinth contentedly, smiling. “I’ll be your lordship’s liege
man in the camp at Eaton, and be eyes and ears for you.”
“And
make plain my side of it to Cuthred? I shouldn’t like him to think evil of
Father Abbot; he’s only doing what my father wanted for me. And you haven’t
told me your name. I must have a name for you.”
“My
name is Hyacinth. I’m told there was a bishop so named, but I’m none. Your
secrets are safer with a sinner than with a saint, and I’m closer than the
confessional, never fear me.”
They
had somehow become so content and familiar with each other that only the timely
reminder of Richard’s stomach, nudging him that it was time for his dinner,
finally roused them to separate. Richard trotted beside his new friend along
the path that skirted the enclave wall as far as the Foregate, and there parted
from him, and watched the light, erect figure as it swung away along the
highroad, before he turned and went dancing gleefully back to the wicket in the
enclave wall.
Hyacinth
covered the first miles of his return journey at a springy, long-stepping lope,
less out of any sense of haste or duty than for pure pleasure in the ease of
his own gait, and the power and precision of his body. He crossed the river by
the bridge at Attingham, waded the watery meadows of its tributary the Tern,
and turned south from Wroxeter towards Eyton. When he came into the fringes of
the forest land he slowed to a loitering walk, reluctant to arrive when the way
was so pleasant. He had to cross abbey land to reach the hermitage which lay in
the narrow, thrusting finger of Ludel land probing into its neighbour woods. He
went merrily whistling along the track that skirted the brook, close round the
northern rim of Eilmund’s coppice. The bank that rose beyond, protecting the
farmed woodland, was high and steep, but well kept and well turfed, never
before had it subsided at any point, nor was the brook so large or rapid that
it should have undercut the seasoned slope. But so it had, the raw soil showed
in a steep dark scar well before he reached the place. He eyed it as he
approached, gnawing a thoughtful lip, and then as suddenly shrugged and
laughed. “The more mischief the more sport!” he said half-aloud, and passed on
to where the bank had been deeply undercut. He was still some yards back from
the worst, when he heard a muted cry that seemed to come from within the earth,
and then an indrawn howl of struggle and pain, and a volley of muffled curses.
Startled but quick in reaction, he broke into a leaping run, and pulled up as
abruptly on the edge of the ditch, no more than placidly filled now with the
still muddied stream, but visibly rising. On the other side of the water there
had been a fresh fall, and a solitary old willow, its roots partially stripped
by the first slip, had heeled over and fallen athwart the brook. Its branches
heaved and rustled with the struggles of someone pinned beneath, half
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