Monk's Hood

by Ellis Peters

  Brother Mark fell in at their heels and followed to the gatehouse, altogether cast down and out of comfort, unable to find a hopeful word to say. He felt in his heart that that was sin, the sin of despair; not despair for himself, but despair of truth and justice and right, and the future of wretched mankind. Nobody had bidden him attend, but he went, all the same, a soul committed to a cause about which, in fact, he knew very little, except the youth of the protagonist, and the absolute nature of Cadfael’s faith in him, and that was enough.

  Cadfael entered the porter’s room with a heavy heart but not in despair; it was a luxury he could not afford. All eyes turned upon him, understandably, since he entered upon a heavy silence. Robert had abandoned his kindly meant but patronising exhortations, and the men of law had given up the attempt to get any admissions out of their captive, and were content to see him safely under lock and key, and get to their beds in the castle. A ring of large, well-equipped men on guard round a willowy lad in country homespun, bareheaded and cloakless on a frosty night, who sat braced and neat and alert on a bench by the wall, pleasantly flushed now from the fire, and looking, incredibly, almost complacent. His eyes met Brother Cadfael’s eyes, and danced; clear, dark-fringed, greenish eyes. His hair was light brown, like seasoned oak. He was lightly built but tall for his years. He was tired, sleepy, bruised and dirty, and behind the wary eyes and solemn face he was undoubtedly laughing.

  Brother Cadfael looked long, and understood much, enough at that moment to have no great worries about what as yet he did not understand. He looked round the attentive circle, looked last and longest at Prior Robert.

  “Father Prior, I am grateful that you sent for me, and I welcome the duty laid on me, to do what may be done for the prisoner. But I must tell you that these gentlemen are in some error. I cast no doubt on what they may have to report of how this boy was taken, but I do advise them to make enquiry how and where he spent this morning’s hours, when he is said to have escaped from the abbey barn on the horse belonging to Mistress Bonel. Gentlemen,” he informed the sheriff’s bewildered patrol very gravely, “this is not Edwin Gurney you have captured, but his nephew, Edwy Bellecote.”

  Chapter 7

  THE ABBEY PRISON was two little cells attached to the rear of the gatehouse, very clean, furnished with benchbeds no worse than the novices endured, and very rarely occupied. The summer period of Saint Peter’s fair was the chief populator of the cells, since it could be relied upon to provide two happy drunken servants or lay brothers nightly, who slept off their excesses and accepted their modest fines and penances without rancour, thinking the game well worth the candle. From time to time some more serious disturbance might cast up an inmate, some ill-balanced brother who nursed a cloistered hate long enough to attempt violence, or a lay servant who stole, or a novice who offended too grossly against the imposed code. The abbey court was not a busy one.

  In one of the two cells Brother Cadfael and Edwy sat side by side, warmly and companionably. There was a grille in the door, but it was most improbable that anyone was paying attention to anything that could be heard through it. The brother who held the keys was sleepy, and in any case indifferent to the cause that had brought him a prisoner. The difficulty would probably be to batter loudly enough to wake him when Cadfael wanted to leave.

  “It wasn’t so hard,” said Edwy, sitting back with a grateful sigh after demolishing the bowl of porridge a tolerant cook had provided him, “there’s a cousin of father’s lives along the riverside, just beyond your property of the Gaye, he has an orchard there, and a shed for the donkey and cart, big enough to hide Rufus. His boy brought word into the town to us, and I took father’s horse and came out to meet Edwin there. Nobody was looking for a bony old piebald like our Japhet, I never got a second glance as I crossed the bridge, and I didn’t hurry. Alys came with me pillion, and kept watch in case they got close. Then we changed clothes and horses, and Edwin made off towards—”

  “Don’t tell me!” said Cadfael quickly.

  “No, you can truly say you don’t know. Plainly not the way I went. They were slow sighting me,” said Edwy scornfully, “even with Alys helping them. But once they had me in view it was a matter of how long I could keep them busy, to give him time to get well away. I could have taken them still further, but Rufus was tiring, so I let them have me. I had to, in the end, it kept them happy several more hours, and they sent one man ahead to call off the hunt. Edwin’s had a clear run. Now what do you think they’ll do with me?”

  “If you hadn’t already been in abbey charge, and the prior by, at that,” said Cadfael frankly, “they’d have had the hide off you for leading them such a dance and making such fools of them. I wouldn’t say Prior Robert himself wouldn’t have liked to do as much, but dignity forbids, and authority forbids letting the secular arm skin you on his behalf. Though I fancy,” he said with sympathy, viewing the blue bruises that were beginning to show on Edwy’s jaw and cheekbone, “they’ve already paid you part of your dues.”

  The boy shrugged disdainfully. “I can’t complain. And it wasn’t all one way. You should have seen the sergeant flop belly-down into the bog… and heard him when he got up. It was good sport, and we got Edwin away. And I’ve never had such a horse under me before, it was well worth it. But now what’s to happen? They can’t accuse me of murder, or of stealing Rufus, or even the gown, because I was never near the barn this morning, and there are plenty of witnesses to where I was, about the shop and the yard.”

  “I doubt if you’ve broken any law,” agreed Cadfael, “but you have made the law look very foolish, and no man in authority and office enjoys that. They could well keep you in close hold in the castle for a while, for helping a wanted man to escape. They may even threaten you in the hope of fetching Edwin back to get you out of trouble.”

  Edwy shook his head vigorously. “He need take no notice of that, he knows in the end there’s nothing criminal they can lay against me. And I can sit out threats better than he. He loses his temper. He’s getting better, but he has far to go yet.” Was he as buoyant about his prospects as he made out? Cadfael could not be quite sure, but certainly this elder of the pair had turned his four months seniority into a solid advantage, perhaps by reason of feeling responsible for his improbable uncle from the cradle. “I can keep my mouth shut and wait,” said Edwy serenely.

  “Well, since Prior Robert has so firmly demanded that the sheriff come in person tomorrow to remove you,” sighed Cadfael, “I will at least make sure of being present, and try what can be got for you. The prior has given me a spiritual charge, and I’ll stand fast on it. And now you’d better get your rest. I am supposed to be here to exhort you to an amended life, but to tell the truth, boy, I find your life no more in need of amendment than mine, and I think it would be presumption in me to meddle. But if you’ll join your voice to mine in the night prayers, I think God may be listening.”

  “Willingly,” said Edwy blithely, and plumped to his knees like a cheerful child, with reverently folded hands and closed eyes. In the middle of the prayers before sleeping his lips fluttered in a brief smile; perhaps he was remembering the extremely secular language of the sergeant rising dripping from the bog.

  *

  Cadfael was up before Prime, alert in case the prisoner’s escort should come early. Prior Robert had been extremely angry at last night’s comedy, but grasped readily at the plain fact that it gave him full justification for demanding that the sheriff should at once relieve him of an offender who had turned out to be no concern of his at all. This was not the boy who had taken away a Benedictine habit and a horse in Benedictine care, he was merely the mischievous brat who had worn the one and ridden the other to the ludicrous discomfiture of several gullible law officers. They could have him, and welcome; but the prior considered that it was due to his dignity—in this mood fully abbatial—that the senior officer then in charge, sheriff or deputy, should come in person to make amends for the inconvenience to which the abbey had been s
ubjected, and remove the troublesome element. Robert wanted a public demonstration that henceforth all responsibility lay with the secular arm, and none within his sacred walls.

  Brother Mark hovered close at Cadfael’s elbow as the escort rode in, about half past eight in the morning, before the second Mass. Four mounted men-at-arms, and a spruce, dark, lightly built young nobleman on a tall, gaunt and self-willed horse, dappled from cream to almost black. Mark heard Brother Cadfael heave a great, grateful sigh at the sight of him, and felt his own heart rise hopefully at the omen.

  “The sheriff must have gone south to keep the feast with the king,” said Cadfael with immense satisfaction. “God is looking our way at last. That is not Gilbert Prestcote, but his deputy, Hugh Beringar of Maesbury.”

  *

  “Now,” said Beringar briskly, a quarter of an hour later, “I have placated the prior, promised him deliverance from the presence of this desperate bravo, sent him off to Mass and chapter in tolerable content, and retrieved you, my friend, from having to accompany him, on the grounds that you have questions to answer.” He closed the door of the room in the gatehouse from which all his men-at-arms had been dismissed to wait his pleasure, and came and sat down opposite Cadfael at the table. “And so you have, though not, quite as he supposes. So now, before we go and pick this small crab out of his shell, tell me everything you know about this curious business. I know you must know more of it than any other man, however confidently my sergeant sets out his case. Such a break in the monastic monotony could never occur, and you not get wind of it and be there in the thick of it. Tell me everything.”

  And now that it was Beringar in the seat of authority, while Prestcote attended dutifully at his sovereign lord’s festal table, Cadfael saw no reason for reserve, at least so far as his own part was concerned. And all, or virtually all, was what he told.

  “He came to you, and you hid him,” mused Beringar.

  “I did. So I would again, in the same circumstances.”

  “Cadfael, you must know as well as I the strength of the case against this boy. Who else has anything to gain? Yet I know you, and where you have doubts, I shall certainly not be without them.”

  “I have no doubts,” said Cadfael firmly. “The boy is innocent even of the thought of murder. And poison is so far out of his scope, he never would or could conceive the idea. I tested them both, when they came, and they neither of them even knew how the man had died, they believed me when I said he had been cut down in his blood. I stuck the means of murder under the child’s nose, and he never paled. All it meant to him was a mild memory of sniffing the same sharp smell while Brother Rhys was having his shoulders rubbed in the infirmary.”

  “I take your word for all that,” said Beringar, “and it is good evidence, but it is not in itself proof. How if we should both of us underestimate the cunning of the young, simply because they are young?”

  “True,” agreed Cadfael with a wry grin, “you are none so old yourself, and of your cunning, as I know, the limit has not yet been found. But trust me, these two are not of the same make as you. I have known them, you have not; agreed? I have my duty to do, according to such lights as I see. So have you your duty to do, according to your office and commission. I don’t quarrel with that. But at this moment, Hugh, I don’t know and have no means of guessing where Edwin Gurney is, or I might well urge him to give himself up to you and rely on your integrity. You will not need me to tell you that this loyal nephew of his, who has taken some sharp knocks for him, does know where he is, or at least knows where he set out to go. You may ask him, but of course he won’t tell you. Neither for your style of questioning nor Prestcote’s.”

  Hugh drummed his fingers on the table, and pondered in silence for a moment. “Cadfael, I must tell you I shall pursue the hunt for the boy to the limit, and not spare any tricks in the doing, so look to your own movements.”

  “That’s fair dealing,” said Cadfael simply. “You and I have been rivals in trickery before, and ended as allies. But as for my movements, you’ll find them monstrously dull. Did Prior Robert not tell you? I’m confined within the abbey walls, I may not go beyond.”

  Hugh’s agile black brows shot up to meet his hair. “Good God, for what cloistered crime?” His eyes danced. “What have you been about, to incur such a ban?”

  “I spent too long in talk with the widow, and a stretched ear gathered that we had known each other very well, years ago, when we were young.” That was one thing he had not thought necessary to tell, but there was no reason to withhold it from Hugh. “You asked me, once, how it came I had never married, and I told you I once had some idea of the kind, before I went to the Holy Land.”

  “I do remember! You even mentioned a name. By now, you said, she must have children and grandchildren… Is it really so, Cadfael? This lady is your Richildis?”

  “This lady,” said Cadfael with emphasis, “is indeed Richildis, but mine she is not. Two husbands ago I had a passing claim on her, and that’s all.”

  “I must see her! The charmer who caught your eye must be worth cultivating. If you were any other man I should say this greatly weakens the force of your championship of her son, but knowing you, I think any scamp of his age in trouble would have you by the nose. I will see her, however, she may need advice or help, for it seems there’s a legal tangle there that will take some unravelling.”

  “There’s another thing you can do, that may help to prove to you what I can only urge. I told you the boy says he threw into the river an inlaid wooden box, quite small.” Cadfael described it minutely. “If that could come to light, it would greatly strengthen his story, which I, for one, believe. I cannot go out and contact the fishermen and watermen of Severn, and ask them to keep watch for such a small thing in the places they’ll know of, where things afloat do wash up. But you can, Hugh. You can have it announced in Shrewsbury and downstream. It’s worth the attempt.”

  “That I’ll certainly do,” said Beringar readily. “There’s a man whose grim business it is, when some poor soul drowns in Severn, to know exactly where the body will come ashore. Whether small things follow the same eddies is more than I know, but he’ll know. I’ll have him take this hunt in charge. And now, if we’ve said all, we’d better go and see this twin imp of yours. Lucky for him you knew him, they’d hardly have believed it if he’d told them himself that he was the wrong boy. Are they really so like?”

  “No, no more than a general family look about them if you know them, or see them side by side. But apart, a man might be in doubt, unless he did know them well. And your men were after the rider of that horse, and sure who it must be. Come and see!”

  He was still in doubt, as they went together to the cell where Edwy waited, by this time in some trepidation, exactly what Beringar meant to do with his prisoner, though he had no fear that any harm would come to the boy. Whatever Hugh might think about Edwin’s guilt or innocence, he was not the man to lean too heavily upon Edwy’s staunch solidarity with his kinsman.

  “Come forth, Edwy, into the daylight,” said Beringar, holding the cell door wide, “and let me look at you. I want to be in no doubt which of you I have on my hands, the next time you change places.” And when Edwy obediently rose and stepped warily out into the court, after one nervous side-glance to make sure Brother Cadfael was there, the deputy sheriff took him by the chin and raised his face gently enough, and studied it attentively. The bruises were purple this morning, but the hazel eyes were bright. “I’ll know you again,” said Hugh confidently. “Now, young sir! You have cost us a great deal of time and trouble, but I don’t propose to waste even more by taking it out of your skin. I’ll ask you but once: Where is Edwin Gurney?”

  The phrasing of the question and the cut of the dark face left in doubt what was to happen if he got no answer; in spite of the mild tone, the potentialities were infinite. Edwy moistened dry lips, and said in the most conciliatory and respectful tone Cadfael had heard from him: “Sir, Edwin is my kin and my fri
end, and if I had been willing to tell where he is, I should not have gone to such pains to help him get there. I think you must see that I can’t and won’t betray him.”

  Beringar looked at Brother Cadfael, and kept his face grave but for the sparkle in his eye. “Well, Edwy, I expected no other, to tell the truth. Nobody does ill to keep faith. But I want you where I may lay hand on you whenever I need to, and be sure you are not stravaiging off on another wild rescue.”

  Edwy foresaw a cell in Shrewsbury castle, and stiffened a stoical face to meet the worst.

  “Give me your parole not to leave your father’s house and shop,” said Beringar, “until I give you your freedom, and you may go home. Why should we feed you at public expense over the Christmas feast, when I fancy your word, once given, will be your bond? What do you say?”

  “Oh, I do give you my word!” gasped Edwy, startled and radiant with relief. “I won’t leave the yard until you give me leave. And I thank you!”

  “Good! And I take your word, as you may take mine. My task, Edwy, is not to convict your uncle, or any man, of murder at all costs, it is to discover truly who did commit murder, and that I mean to do. Now come, I’ll take you home myself, a word with your parents may not come amiss.”

  *

  They were gone before High Mass at ten, Beringar with Edwy pillion behind him, the raw-boned dapple being capable of carrying double his master’s light weight, the men-at-arms of the escort two by two behind. Only in the middle of Mass, when his mind should have been on higher things, did Cadfael recall vexedly two more concessions he might have gained if he had thought of them in time. Martin Bellecote, for certain, was now without a horse, and the abbey was willing to part with Rufus, while Richildis would surely be glad to have him settled with her son-in-law, and no longer be beholden to the abbey for his keep. It would probably have tickled Beringar’s humour to restore the carpenter a horse, on the pretext of relieving the abbey of an incubus. But the other thing was more important. He had meant to go searching the shores of the pond for the poison vial the previous day, and instead had found himself confined within the walls. Why had he not remembered to ask Beringar to follow up that tenuous but important line of inquiry, while he was asking him to have the watermen watch for the pear-wood reliquary? Now it was too late, and he could not follow Beringar into the town to remedy the omission. Vexed with himself, he even snapped at Brother Mark, when that devoted young man questioned him about the outcome of the morning’s events. Undeterred, Mark followed him, after dinner, to his sanctuary in the garden.