Chapter 32      Gavin Sets a Puzzle

 

 

 

Edward and Stewart stood in the open door, looking out.  Behind them, through the passage, in the bed chamber, lay Aubrey.  They had paid their respects, but had retreated to the door as Una, with Alexander's help, prepared the blanket which would be his coffin.

The smith made a rumbling sound of dissatisfaction.  "Here I am," he said, "nearly fifty, half-bald, gut-bellied, up to my beard in mud, burying a young lad who by rights ought stand with us now.  It is not right, Stewart.  It is not right."  Edward ruminated a moment longer, then moved off.  Under his breath he reiterated to himself, "It is not right!"

Stewart, amidst the sadness, felt a nudge of humor.  Edward had expressed himself in parody, and he appreciated parody.  A man who spoke thus had few illusions, but still retained hope.  In a vague way, it was an affirmation of humanity.  As he thought about the remark, Stewart found himself liking the smith.

The gray forest and dripping sky, the muddy track between the ruin that was Gavin's home and the out buildings of his farmstead, these acquired a symbolic aspect wholly apart from their convention.  The road, in particular, held portent.  Its coming and going was hidden.  It was their path.  On one end, vile men followed.  On the other -- what?

Under the steady decay of drizzle, the depressions made by the hooves of Cadmon's and Alexander's horses melted into the mud.  Stewart closed the door and let the latch drop into its notch.  It made a lonely sound.  He joined the others in the bed chamber.  They felt an obligation to be there, but there was no edification in it.  James pressed himself against the shadowy part of the wall.  On a plank which had become his bier, Aubrey lay, his skin pallid and waxy.  Peaceful death.  Death, anyway.

They watched Una stitch a blanket around his body.  She moved with a practiced hand.  This was not the first body she had enshrouded.  The coarse thread moving in and out of the fabric moaned with a melancholy portamento.  It was the voice of a dirge, the same voice uttered for the dead since the first needle threaded its way along a sheet.  Stewart watched Una's hands, thin, bony, strong and dexterous in their dreadful manipulation.

Una left the blanket open from the neck up.  Aubrey would lie in state, a candle at his head, for a day.  That was custom.  Then, they would drop him beneath the earth and cherish their memories.  That was death.

With Cadmon gone, a quiet pervaded their company which they had not felt since the knight's coming.  His almost voiceless presence so filled the spaces between them that they had become like a wall of stone welded by mortar.  Now, with him gone, the mortar crumbled.  Without his presence, their spirits waned.  If ever they needed him, it was in this time of bereavement.  But, fate held otherwise. 

The day passed with miserable, itchy slowness.  No one knew how to occupy himself.  Hardly anyone stirred, and when he did, it was to attend nature, check the animals, chew some cold mutton or carve out a handful of bread.  James resisted all company or fellowship.  He had banished himself.

In the afternoon, Gavin and Una wordlessly crossed the room to a heavy drape on the wall where the crucifix hung.  Gavin pulled the drape aside and entered the passage behind it, which they had learned earlier, led to the remains of the tower which dominated his home.  He entered the passage without additional clothing or even a lamp.  Una rearranged the drape behind him, shutting out the cold air which poured from the opening like spring water.  Neither Gavin nor Una offered any explanation for this activity, but it moved so smoothly, so routinely, it seemed a typical feature of their day, a habit which even the presence of a corpse in the back room and a handful of dissolute knights and their men, did nothing to dissuade.

Why would he go up there?

Stewart saw Thomas also puzzling the activity.  From the outside, Stewart had seen the old turret, knocked to bits at the top but standing a good two ceiling heights above the rest of the ruin.  Arrow loupes in the sides had been mortared up, so that any chamber within must have been stagnant, cold and dark, unless light or ventilation penetrated from some unknown conduit.  What could Gavin want up there?  He watched the drape after Una moved away.  At first, he expected Gavin to come down after a few minutes, perhaps with a ham or a jug, but as the wait extended, he accustomed himself to the probability that Gavin intended to spend some time in there.  But to what end?  Odd behavior, Stewart shrugged.  Odd.  Like Cadmon, himself.

Who were these people?  A hunchback and a woman with her tongue cut out, a former knight and a former nun?  How did Cadmon know such people?  Stewart could not fathom it.  In the short space of their journey, he had discovered two men who had renounced knighthood for more humble pursuits.  He had never heard of anyone stepping down from the social position of knight.  On the contrary, he had known many who would kill to reach such a position.

Fundamentally, it bothered him.  It was disconcerting to find two who had stepped down, though Gavin had, admittedly, been cast down.  Yet, both had once shared Cadmon's rank, both had been his friend.  Both still harbored such feelings of loyalty that they left or opened their homes at his merest bidding.  Cadmon moved about the earth as a planet moved about the heavens, eclipsing some bodies, drawing others.  In his presence, people were transformed.

The Crusade of the Kings.  That remained the constant thread.  The key to it all lay there.  Knights becoming swordsmiths, knights becoming farmers, knights becoming wanderers.  Could what they had seen, done, have so turned them?  It was conceivable.  The natures of some men were more sensitive than others, but such thoughts were difficult to reconcile with the likes of Edward.  Yet, beneath his growl lay something more.  Had he not expressed an unexpected sympathy with unexpected depth for Morkin's bear?  Now, with England at war, only this, with so much at stake, would these men return to their former callings, their former allegiances.  No, not entirely.  If not for Cadmon, Edward would never have stirred from his forge, nor Gavin from his retreat.  The war had moved Cadmon only, conjured him from wherever it was that men like Cadmon came from, and only then because of a chance meeting.  Would he have stirred otherwise?

Who could divine it?  Yet, if he survived the journey, it would be the adventure of his life, something to tell his children and grandchildren about.  His and Mayda's children.  The thought warmed him and made him blush.  Mayda, Mayda, oh Mayda.  He longed to have her with him and hoped she still felt the same.  Her wide set eyes smiled at him from memory.  God grant my hopes, he prayed. 

Evening came.  Still Gavin had not reappeared.  Stewart's eyes ranged to the ceiling, his mind wandering into the dark recesses of the turret.

"I wonder what it is he does up there?"

The voice startled him.  It was Thomas.

"Sorry," apologized Thomas.  "I took you unawares."

"No harm," he said and tilted his head toward the door to the turret.  "I have wondered, also.  It is very strange."

"The whole place is strange.  Cadmon has unusual friends."

Stewart nodded and said, "Excepting us."

Thomas smiled.

The door to the stable shivered open with force.  Edward entered looking big and rumpled, his face reflecting a humorless mood.  He caught sight of Stewart.

"What are we doing for victuals this evening?" he asked.  He meant, "What are you doing?"

Thomas interceded, "I have not seen Gavin since noon."

Edward glanced at the passage leading to the bed chamber where Aubrey lay, but said nothing in response.  To Stewart, he said, "I am hungry."

"Una should be back in a short while," said Stewart.  "I will see what she wants to make for dinner."

Edward thought this over, then his glance strayed to the waxed linen window covers.

"Damn this gray mist!" said the smith emphatically.  "I want a big, hot meal tonight.  There has been enough of death and sadness.  Tonight, we have a wake for Aubrey.  Tonight, we celebrate!"

When Edward spoke, it was like a wind catching a sail.  When Edward entered a room, all noticed.  When Edward spoke, all listened.  And when he commanded a feast, the motion was unanimously rejoined.  His enthusiasm, like his ill temper, swept wide and strong.