The Confession of Brother Haluin by Ellis Peters

meadows, a little
bleached and grey as yet in the cold air, but fertile and well cultivated, a
rich little island in a shire otherwise somewhat derelict still after the harsh
pacification of fifty years back. There before them lay the sleek curves of the
River Tame, the steep-pitched roof of a mill, and the close cluster of the
houses of Elford, beyond the water.
    In
the warm and welcoming hospitality of the clerics of Lichfield they had spent a
restful night, and received full directions as to the best road to Elford, and
with the first light of dawn they had set off on the last four miles or so of
this penitential journey. And here before them lay the goal of Haluin’s
pilgrimage, almost within reach, only an expanse of peaceful fields and a
wooden footbridge between him and his absolution. A fortunate place, prosperous
where much was impoverished, with not one mill by the waterside, but two, for
they could see the second one upstream, with ample meadowland, and rich soil
where the arable fields showed. A place that might well promise blessing and
peace of mind after labor and pain.
    The
pale thread of the path led them forward, and the roofs of Elford rose before
them, circled with trees and bushes still naked and dark at this distant view,
not yet so far advanced in bud as to show the first faint, elusive smoke of
green. They crossed the bridge, the uneven planks causing Haluin to watch
carefully how he placed his crutches, and came into the track between the
houses. A neat village, with housewives and husbandmen going cheerfully and
confidently about their daily business, alert to strangers but civil and
welcoming to the Benedictine habit. They exchanged greetings along the way, and
Haluin, cheered and vindicated at the successful completion of his journey,
began to flush and brighten with pleasure at being offered this spontaneous
omen of acceptance and release.
    No
need to ask how to reach the church, they had seen its low tower before they crossed
the bridge. It had been built since the Normans came, sturdy in grey stone,
with spacious churchyard very well stockaded for sanctuary at need, and full of
old and handsome trees. They entered under the round-arched portico, and came
into the familiar cool, echoing gloom of all stone-built churches, smelling
faintly of dust, and wax candles, and strongly and reassuringly of home, the
chosen abiding-place.
    Haluin
had halted in the tiled silence of the nave to get his bearings. Here there was
no Lady Chapel to accommodate a patron’s tomb between the altars. The lords of
Elford must lie aside, built into the stones of the walls they had raised. The
red eye of light from the altar lamp showed them where the tomb lay, a great
table slab filling a niche in the right-hand wall. Some dead de Clary, perhaps
the first who came over with King William, and got his reward later, showed as
a sleeping figure in relief on the sealing stone. Haluin had started forward
towards it, only to check and draw back after the first echoing step, for there
was a woman on her knees beside the tomb.
    They
saw her only as a shadowy figure, for the cloak she wore was dark grey like the
stone in this dim light, and they knew her for a woman and not a man because
the hood of the cloak was thrown back from her head, uncovering a white linen
coif and a gauze veil over it. They would have retired into the porch to let
her complete her prayers in peace, but she had heard the impact of the crutches
on the tiled floor, and turned her head sharply to look towards them. In a
single graceful, abrupt movement she rose to her feet, and coming towards them,
stepped into the light from a window, and showed them the proud, aging,
beautiful face of Adelais de Clary.

 
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
    “YOU?”
SHE SAID, staring, and turning her startled gaze from one face to the other,
seeking, it seemed, some logic in this unexpected visitation. Her voice was
neutral,