Virgin in the Ice by Ellis Peters Page A

passed almost within touch of his sister that day, and never known it.
    “Still a mile or so to go.”
    “I hope she may be there!”
    “So do we all,” said Hugh.
    They came to the manor of Ledwyche over a slight ridge, and emerged from woodland to look down an equally gentle slope towards the Ledwyche brook, into which all the others drained before it flowed on, mile after mile, southward to join the River Theme. Beyond the watered valley the ground rose again, and there, directly before them in the distance, hung the vast, bleak outline of Titterstone Clee, its top shrouded in low cloud. But in between, the valley lay sheltered on all sides from the worst winds. Trees had been cleared from round the manor, except for windbreaks left for protection to crops and stock in the most open places. From their ridge they looked down at an impressive array of buildings, the manor-house itself built long and steep-roofed over a squat undercroft, the entire visible sweep of the stockade lined within with barn and byre and store. A considerable holding, and surely a temptation to the hungry and covetous, in these lawless times, but perhaps too strongly manned to be easy prey.
    It seemed, however, that the holder was not quite easy about his property, for as they drew nearer they could see that on the narrow timber bridge that crossed the brook beyond the manor, men were working busily, erecting a barrier of logs, and above the old, dark wood of the stockade, and especially along that eastward side, glared the white, new wood of recent building. The lord of the manor was heightening his fences.
    “They are here, surely,” said Hugh, staring. “Here lives a man who has taken warning, and does not mean to be caught by surprise a second time.”
    They rode down with rising hopes to the open gate in the stockade, which here to the west was still only breast-high. Nevertheless, even on this side an archer rose in the gate to challenge them, and his bow was strung, and if he had not an arrow braced, he had a quiver on his shoulder.
    He was a shrewd fellow, so quick to measure the good equipment of the men-at-arms at Hugh’s back that he had changed his wary front for a smile before ever Hugh could recite his name and titles.
    “My lord, you’ve very welcome. The lord sheriff’s deputy could not come better. If our lord had known you were so near he would have sent to you. For he could not well come himself… But ride in, my lord, ride in, and my boy here will run for the steward.”
    The boy was already in full flight across the trampled snow within the pale. By the time they had ridden across to the stone stairway that led up to the great door of the hall, the steward was scurrying out to receive them, a stout elderly man, russet of beard and bald of head.
    “I am seeking Evrard Boterei,” said Hugh, descending with a flurry of snow at his heel. “He’s within?”
    “He is, my lord, but not yet in full health. He has been in a sharp fever, but it mends gradually. I’ll bring you to him.”
    He went before, stumping up the steep stairs, and Hugh followed him close, with Brother Cadfael and Yves on his heels. Within the great hall, at this hour of this winter day, and with hardly a soul using it and hardly a torch to light it, thick gloom hung heavy, warmed only grudgingly by the dampened fire on the stones of the central hearth. All the manor’s menfolk were working on the defense. A middle-aged matron jingled her keys along the passage behind the screens, a couple of maids whispered and peered from the kitchen.
    The steward brought them with a flourish into a small room at the upper end of the hall, where a man lay back languidly in a great, cushioned chair, with wine and a smoky oil-lamp on a table at his side. One small window was unshuttered, but the light it provided was growing dim, and the yellow flame from the wick of the lamp cast deceptive shadows, and gave them only a dusky view of the face that turned towards