The Heretic's Apprentice

by Ellis Peters

  Anselm shook his head over him, but with unperturbed serenity and a tolerant grin. ‘Never write a book, son! You would certainly be made to burn it!’

  Now Elave sat in his solitude, which did not seem to him particularly lonely, and thought about this and other conversations which had passed between precentor and prisoner during the past few days, and seriously considered whether a man was really better for reading anything at all, let alone these labyrinthine works of theology that served only to make the clear and bright seem muddied and dim, by clothing everything they touched in words obscure and shapeless as mist, far out of the comprehension of ordinary men, of whom the greater part of the human creation is composed. When he looked out from the cell window, at a narrow lancet of pale blue sky fretted with the tremor of leaves and feathered with a few wisps of bright white cloud, everything appeared to him radiant and simple again, within the grasp of even the meanest, and conferring benevolence impartially and joyously upon all.

  He started when he heard the key grate in the lock, not having associated the murmur of voices outside with his own person. The sounds of the outer world came in to him throughout the day by the window, and the chime of the office bell marked off the hours for him. He was even becoming used to the horarium, and celebrated the regular observances with small inward genuflections of his own. For God was no part of the morass or the labyrinth and could not be blamed for what men had made of a shining simplicity and certainty.

  But the turning of the key in the lock belonged to his own practical workaday world, from which this banishment could only be temporary, possibly for a purpose, a halting place for thought after the journey half across the world. He sat watching the door open upon the summer day outside, and it was not opened inch by cautious inch but wide and generously, back to touch the wall, as Brother Cadfael came in.

  ‘Son, you have visitors!’ He waved them past him into the small, stony room, watching the sudden brightness flood over Elave’s dazzled face and set him blinking. ‘How is your head this morning?’

  The head in question had shed its bandages the previous day, only a dry scar was left in the thick hair. Elave said in a daze: ‘Well, very well!’

  ‘No aches and pains? Then that’s my business done. And now,’ said Cadfael, withdrawing to perch on the foot of the bed with his back to the room, ‘I am one of the stones of the wall. I am ordered to stay with you, but you may regard me as deaf and mute.’

  It seemed that he had made mutes of two of the three thus unceremoniously brought together, for Elave had come to his feet in a great start, and stood staring at Fortunata as she was staring at him, flushed and great-eyed, and stricken silent. Only their eyes were still eloquent, and Cadfael had not turned his back so completely that he could not observe them from the corner of his own eye, and read what was not being said. It had not taken those two long to make up their minds. Yet he must remember that this was not so sudden, except in its discovery. They had known each other and lived in the same household from her infancy until her eleventh year, and in another fashion there had surely been a strong fondness, indulgent and condescending, no doubt, on his part, probably worshipping and wistful on hers, for girls tend to achieve grown-up and painful affections far earlier than boys. She had had to wait for her fulfilment until he came home, to find the bud had blossomed, and to stand astonished at its beauty.

  ‘Well, lad!’ Girard said heartily, eyeing the young man from head to foot and shaking him warmly by both hands. ‘You’re home at last after all your ventures, and I not here to greet you! But greet you I do now, and gladly. I never looked to see you in this trouble, but God helping, it will all pass off safely in the end. From all accounts you did well by Uncle William. So far as is in us, we’ll do well by you.’

  Elave drew himself out of his daze with an effort, gulped, and sat down abruptly on his bed. ‘I never thought,’ he said, ‘they would have let you in to see me. It was good of you to trouble for me, but take no chances on my behalf. Touch no pitch, and it can’t stick to you! You know what they’re holding against me? You should not come near me,’ he said vehemently, ‘not yet, not until I’m freed. I’m contagious!’

  ‘But you do know,’ said Fortunata, ‘that you’re not suspect of ever harming Aldwin? That’s over, proven false.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Brother Anselm brought me word, after Prime. But that’s but the half of it.’

  ‘The greater half,’ said Girard, plumping himself down on the small, high stool, which his amplitude overflowed on every side.

  ‘Not everyone within here thinks so. Fortunata has already put herself in disfavour with some because she was not hot enough against me when they questioned her. I would not for the world,’ said Elave earnestly, ‘bring harm upon her or upon you. Stay from me, I shall be easier in my mind.’

  ‘We have the abbot’s leave to come,’ said Girard, ‘and for all I could see his goodwill, too. We came here to chapter, Fortunata and I, to make an offer on your behalf. And if you think we shall either of us draw off and leave you unfriended for fear of a few over-zealous sniffers-out of evil, with tongues that wag at both ends, you’re mistaken in us. My name stands sturdy enough in this town to survive a deal of buffeting by gossips. And so shall yours, before this is over. What we hoped was to have you released to come home with us, on my guarantee of your good behaviour. I pledged you to answer to your bail when you were called, and told them there’s now a place for you in my employ. Why not? You had no hand in Aldwin’s death and neither did I, nor would either of us ever have turned him off to make way for you. But for all that, it’s done! The poor soul’s gone, I need a clerk, and you need somewhere to lay your head when you get out of here. Where better than in the house you know, dealing with a business you used to know well, and can soon master again? So if you’re willing, there’s my hand on it, and we’re both bound. What do you say?’

  ‘I say there’s nothing in the world I’d like better!’ Elave’s face, carefully composed these last days into a wary calm, had slipped its mask and flushed into a warmth of pleasure and gratitude that made him look very young and vulnerable. It would cost him something to reassemble his breached defences when these two were gone, Cadfael reflected. ‘But we should not be talking of it now. We must not!’ Elave protested, quivering. ‘God knows I’m grateful to you for such generosity, but I dare hardly think of the future until I’m out of here. Out of here, and vindicated! You have not told me what they answered, but I can guess at it. They would not turn me loose, not even into your charge.’

  Girard owned it regretfully. ‘But the abbot gave us leave to come and see you, and tell you what I propose for you, so that you may at least know you have friends who are stirring for you. Every voice raised in your support must be of some help. I’ve told you of what I am keeping for you. Now Fortunata has somewhat to say to you on her own account.’

  Girard on entering had sensibly laid down the burden he was carrying upon the pallet beside Elave. Fortunata stirred out of her tranced stillness, and leaned to take it up and sit down beside him, nursing the box on her knees.

  ‘You remember how you brought this to our house? Father and I brought it here today to pledge as bail for your release, but they would not let you go. But if we could not buy your liberty with it one way,’ she said in a low deliberate voice, ‘there are other ways. Remember what I said to you when last we were together.’

  ‘I do remember,’ he said.

  ‘Such matters need money,’ said Fortunata, choosing her words with aching care. ‘Uncle William sent me a lot of money. I want it to be used for you. In whatever way may be needful. You’ve given no parole now. The one you did give they violated, not you.’

  Girard laid a restraining hand upon her arm, and said in a warning whisper, which nevertheless found a betraying echo from the stone walls: ‘Gently, my girl! Walls have ears!’

  ‘But no tongues,’ said Cadfael as softly. ‘No, speak freely, child, it’s not me you need fear. Say all you h
ave to say to him, and let him answer you. Expect no interference from me, one way or the other.’

  For answer Fortunata took up the box she was nursing, and thrust it into Elave’s hands. Cadfael heard the infinitesimal chink of small coins shifting, and turned his head in time to see the slight start Elave made as he received the weight, the stiffening of the young man’s shoulders and the sharp contraction of his brows. He saw him tilt the box between his hands to elicit a fainter echo of the small sound, and weigh it thoughtfully on his palms.

  ‘It was money Master William sent you?’ said Elave consideringly. ‘I never knew what was in it. But it’s yours. He sent it for you, I brought it here for you.’

  ‘If it profits you, it profits me,’ said Fortunata. ‘Yes, I will say what I came to say, even though I know Father does not approve. I don’t trust them to do you justice. I am afraid for you. I want you far away from here, and safe. This money is mine, I may do what I choose with it. It can buy a horse, shelter, food, perhaps even a man to turn a key and open the door. I want you to accept it – to accept the use of it, and whatever I can buy with it for you. I’m not afraid, except for you. I’m not ashamed. And wherever you may go, however far, I’ll follow you.’

  She had begun in a bleak, defiant calm, but she ended with contained and muted passion, her voice still level and low, her hands clenched together in her lap, her face very pale and fierce. Elave’s hand shook as he closed it tightly over hers, pushing the box aside on his bed. After a long pause, not of hesitation, rather of an unbending resolution that had difficulty in finding the clearest but least hurtful words in which to express himself, he said quietly: ‘No! I cannot take it, or let you make such use of it for my sake. You know why. I have not changed, I shall not change. If I ran away from this charge I should be opening the door to devils, ready to bay after other honest men. If this fight is not fought out to the end now, heresy can be cried against anyone who offends his neighbour, so easy is it to accuse when there are those willing to condemn for a doubt, for a question, for a word out of place. And I will not give way. I will not budge until they come to me and tell me they find no blame in me, and ask me civilly to come forth and go my way.’

  She had known all along, in spite of her persistence, that he would say no. She withdrew her hand from his very slowly, and rose to her feet, but could not for a moment bring herself to turn away from him, even when Girard took her gently by the arm.

  ‘But then,’ said Elave deliberately, his eyes holding hers, ‘then I will take your gift – if I can also have the bride who comes with it.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘I HAVE A REQUEST to make of you, Fortunata,’ said Cadfael, as he crossed the great court between the silent visitors, the girl disconsolate, her fosterfather almost certainly relieved at Elave’s dogged insistence on remaining where he was and relying on justice. Girard undoubtedly believed in justice. ‘Will you allow me to show this box to Brother Anselm? He’s well versed in all the crafts, and may be able to say where it came from, and how old it is. I should be interested to see for what purpose he thinks it was made. You certainly can’t lose by it, Anselm carries weight as an obedientiary, and he’s well disposed to Elave already. Have you time now to come to the scriptorium with me? You may like to know more about your box. It surely has a value in itself.’

  She gave her assent almost absently, her thoughts still left behind with Elave.

  ‘The lad needs all the friends he can get,’ said Girard ruefully. ‘I had hoped that now the worse charge has fallen to the ground those who blamed him for all might feel some shame, and soften even on the other charge. But here’s this great prelate from Canterbury claiming that over-bold thinking about belief is worse than murder. What sort of values are those? I don’t know but I’d help the boy to a horse myself if he’d agreed, but I’d rather my girl had no part in it.’

  ‘He will not let me have any part,’ said Fortunata bitterly.

  ‘And I think the more of him for it! And what I can do within the law to haul him safely out of this coil, that I’ll do, at whatever cost. If he’s the man you want, as it seems he wants you, then neither of you shall want in vain,’ said Girard roundly.

  Brother Anselm had his workshop in a corner carrel of the north walk of the cloister, where he kept the manuscripts of his music in neat and loving store. He was busy mending the bellows of his little portative organ when they walked in upon him, but he set it aside willingly enough when he saw the box Girard laid before him. He took it up and turned it about in the best light, to admire the delicacy of the carving, and the depth of colour time had given to the wood.

  ‘This is a beautiful thing! He was a true craftsman who made it. See the handling of the ivory, the great round brow, as if the carver had first drawn a circle to guide him, and then drawn in the lines of age and thought. I wonder what saint is pictured here? An elder, certainly. It could be Saint John Chrysostom.’ He followed the whorls and tendrils of the vine leaves with a thin, appreciative fingertip. ‘Where did he pick up such a thing, I wonder?’

  ‘Elave told me,’ said Cadfael, ‘that William bought it in a market in Tripoli, from some fugitive monks driven out of their monasteries, somewhere beyond Edessa, by raiders from Mosul. You think it was made there, in the east?’

  ‘The ivory may well have been,’ said Anselm judicially. ‘Somewhere in the eastern empire, certainly. The full-faced gaze, the great, fixed eyes… Of the carving of the box I am not so sure. I fancy it came from nearer home. Not an English house – perhaps French or German. Have we your leave, daughter, to examine it inside?’

  Fortunata’s curiosity was already caught and held, she was leaning forward eagerly to follow whatever Anselm might have to demonstrate. ‘Yes, open it!’ she said, and herself proffered the key.

  Girard turned the key in the lock and raised the lid, to lift out the little felt bags that uttered their brief insect sound as he handled them. The interior of the box was lined with pale brown vellum. Anselm raised it to the light and peered within. One corner of the lining was curled up slightly from the wood, and a thin edge of some darker colour showed there, pressed between vellum and wood. He drew it out carefully with a fingernail, and unrolled a wisp of dark purple membrane, frayed from some larger shape, for one edge of it was fretted away into a worn fringe, where it had parted, the rest presented a clear, cut edge, the segment of a circle or half-circle. So small a wisp, and so inexplicable. He smoothed it out flat upon the desk. Hardly bigger than a thumbnail, but the cut side was a segment of a larger curve. The colour, though rubbed, and perhaps paler than it had once been, was nevertheless a rich, soft purple.

  The pale lining in the base of the box seemed also to have the faintest of darker blooms upon its surface here and there. Cadfael drew a nail gently from end to end of it, and examined the fine dust of vellum he had collected, bluish rose, leaving a thin, clean line where he had scratched the membrane. Anselm stroked along the mark and smoothed down the ruffled pile, but the streak was still clear to be seen. He looked closely at his fingertip, and the faintest trace of colour was there, the translucent blue of mist. And something more, that made him look even more closely, and then take up the box again and hold it in full sunlight, tilting and turning it to catch the rays. And Cadfael saw what Anselm had seen, trapped in the velvety surface of the leather, invisible except by favour of the light, the scattered sparkle of gold dust.

  Fortunata stood gazing curiously at the wisp of purple smoothed out upon the desk. A breath would have blown it away. ‘What can this have been? What was it part of?’

  ‘It is a fragment from a tongue of leather, the kind that would be stitched to the top and base of the spines of books, if they were to be stored in chests. Stored side by side, spine upwards. The tongues were an aid to drawing out a single book.’

  ‘Do you think, then,’ she pursued, ‘that there was once a book kept in this box?’

  ‘It’s possible. The box may be a hundred, two hundred years old.
It may have been in many places, and used for many things before it found its way into the market in Tripoli.’

  ‘But a book kept in this would have no use for these tongues,’ she objected alertly, her interest quickening. ‘It would lie flat. And it would lie alone. There is no room for more than one.’

  ‘True. But books, like boxes, may travel many miles and be carried in many ways before they match and are put together. By this fragment, surely it did once carry a book, if only for a time. Perhaps the monks who sold the box had kept their breviary in it. The book they would not part with, even when they were destitute. In their monastery it may have been one of many in a chest, and they could not carry all, when the raiders from Mosul drove them out.’

  ‘This leather tongue was well worn,’ Fortunata continued her pursuit, fingering the frayed edge worn thin as gauze. ‘The book must have fitted very close within here, to leave this wisp behind.’

  ‘Leather perishes in the end,’ said Girard. ‘Much handling can wear it away into dry dust, and the books of the office are constantly in use. If there’s such a threat from these mamluks of Mosul, the poor souls round Edessa would have little chance to copy new service books.’

  Cadfael had begun thoughtfully restoring the felt bags of coins to the casket, packing them solidly. Before the base was covered he drew a finger along the vellum again, and studied the tip in the sunlight, and the invisible grains of gold caught the light, became visible for a fleeting instant, and vanished again as he flexed his hand. Girard closed the lid and turned the key, and picked up the box to tuck it under his arm. Cadfael had rolled up the bags tightly to muffle all movement, but even so, when the box was tilted, he caught the very faint and brief clink as silver pennies shifted.

  ‘I’m grateful to you for letting me see so fine a piece of craftmanship,’ said Anselm, relaxing with a sigh. ‘It’s the work of a master, and you are a fortunate lady to possess it. Master William had an eye for quality.’