Free The Raven in the Foregate by Ellis Peters Page A

long riverside level of the Gaye loomed
like the dark fur of the earth’s winter pelt on his left hand, the flat, pale
sheen of the mill-pond opened out on his right, beyond the six little abbey
houses of grace, three on either side the near end of the water, a narrow path
slipping away from the road to serve each modest row. Silver and dark fell
behind, he saw the torchlight glow from the gatehouse golden before him.
    Still some twenty paces short of the gate he glimpsed
a tall black figure sweeping towards him with long, rapid, fierce strides. The
sidelong torchlight snatched it into momentary brightness as it strode past,
the darkness took it again as it swept by Cadfael without pause or glance, long
staff ringing against the frosty ruts, wide black garments flying, head and
shoulders thrusting forward hungrily, long pale oval of face fixed and grim,
and for one instant a vagrant light from the opened door of the nearest house
by the pool plucked two crimson sparks of fire from the dark pits of the eyes.
    Cadfael called a greeting that was neither heeded nor
heard. Father Ailnoth swept by, engendering round him the only turbulence in
the night’s stillness, and was lost in the dark. Like an avenging fury, Cadfael
thought later, like a scavenging raven swooping through the Foregate to hunt
out little venial sins, and consign the sinners to damnation.
     
    In the church of Saint Chad, Ralph Giffard bent the
knee with a satisfactory feeling of a duty done and fences securely mended. He
had lost one manor through loyalty to the cause of his overlord FitzAlan and his
sovereign, the Empress Maud, and it had taken him a good deal of cautious
treading and quiet submission to achieve the successful retention of what
remained. He had but one cause that mattered to him now, and that was to
preserve his own situation and leave his remaining estate intact to his son.
His life had never been threatened, he had not been so deeply involved as to
invite death. But possessions are possessions, and he was an ageing man, by no
means minded to abandon his lands and flee either abroad, to Normandy or Anjou,
where he had no status, or to Gloucester, to take up arms for the liege lady
who had already cost him dear. No, better far to sit still, shun every tempter,
and forget old allegiance. Only so could he ensure that young Ralph, busy this
Christmas happily playing lord of the manor at home, should survive this long
conflict for the crown without loss, no matter which of the two claimants
finally triumphed.
    Ralph welcomed midnight with deep and genuine
gratitude for the mercies shown forth upon men, and not least upon Ralph
Giffard.
    Benet slipped into the abbey church by the parish
door, and made his way softly forward towards a spot where he could look
through into the choir, and see the monks in their stalls, faintly lit by the
yellow sheen of candles and the red glow of the altar lamps. The chanting of
psalms came out into the nave muted and mild. Here the lighting was dim, and
the cloaked assembly of the Foregate laity shifted and stirred, kneeled and
rose again, every man nameless. There was a little while yet to wait before
Matins began at the midnight hour, the celebration of God made flesh,
virgin-born and wonderful. Why should not the Holy Spirit engender, as fire
kindles fire and light light, the necessary instrument of flesh no more than
the fuel that renders its substance to provide warmth and enlightenment? He who
questions has already denied himself any answer. Benet did not question. He was
breathing hard with haste and excitement, and even elation, for risk was meat
to him. But once within here, in the obscurity that was at once peopled and
isolated, he lost himself in awe, like the child he would never quite outgrow.
He found himself a pillar, rather to brace himself by than to hide behind, and
laid a hand to the cold stone, and waited, listening. The matched voices, soft
as