Monk's Hood

by Ellis Peters

  “Do you think so?” said Brother Mark hopefully, forgetting his own anxieties.

  “I do, and I have a thought—no more than the gleam of an idea, that they loosed in me at chapter… Now make yourself useful! Go and bespeak me a good mule at the stables, and see all these things into the saddlebags for me. I have an errand to the infirmary before I leave.”

  *

  Brother Rhys was in his privileged place by the fire, hunched in his chair in a contented half-doze, but awake enough to open one eye pretty sharply at every movement and word around him. He was in the mood to welcome a visitor, and brightened into something approaching animation when Cadfael told him that he was bound for the north-west of the county, to the sheepfolds of Rhydycroesau.

  “Your own countryside, brother! Shall I carry your greetings to the borderland? You’ll still have kinsfolk there, surely, three generations of them.”

  “I have so!” Brother Rhys bared toothless gums in a dreamy smile. “If you should happen to meet with my cousin Cynfrith ap Rhys, or his brother Owain, give them my blessings. Ay, there’s a mort of my people in those parts. Ask after my niece Angharad, my Sister Marared’s girl—my youngest sister, that is, the one who married Ifor ap Morgan. I doubt Ifor’s dead before this, but if you should hear of him living, say I remember, and give him my good word. The girl ought to come and visit me, now her lad’s working here in the town. I remember her as a little lass no higher than a daisy, and that pretty…”

  “Angharad was the girl who went as maidservant in the house of Bonel of Mallilie?” said Cadfael, gently prompting.

  “She did, a pity it was! But they’ve been there many years now, the Saxons. You get used to foreigner families, in time. They never got further, though. Mallilie’s nothing but a thorn stuck in the side of Cynllaith. Stuck far in—nigh broken off, as some day it may be yet! It touches Saxon land barely at all, only by a claw…”

  “Is that truth!” said Cadfael. “Then properly speaking Mallilie, for all it was held by an Englishman, and has been three generations now, is rightly within Wales?”

  “As Welsh as Snowdon,” said Brother Rhys, harking back to catch once again a spark of his old patriotic fire. “And all the neighbours Welsh, and most of the tenants. I was born just to the west of it, nearby the church of Llansilin, which is the centre of the commote of Cynllaith. Welsh land from the beginning of the world!”

  Welsh land! That could not be changed, merely because a Bonel in William Rufus’s reign had pushed his way in and got a hold on some acres of it, and maintained his grasp under the patronage of the earl of Chester ever since. Why did I never think, wondered Cadfael, to enquire earlier where this troublous manor lay?

  “And Cynllaith has properly appointed Welsh judges? Competent to deal according to the code of Hywel Dda, not of Norman England?”

  “Surely it has! A sound commote court as there is in Wales! The Bonels in their time have pleaded boundary cases, and suchlike, by whichever law best suited their own purposes, Welsh or English, what matter, provided it brought them gain? But the people like their Welsh code best, and the witness of neighbours, the proper way to settle a dispute. The just way!” said Brother Rhys righteously, and wagged his old head at Cadfael. “What’s all this of law, brother? Are you thinking of bringing suit yourself?” And he fell into a moist, pink-gummed giggling at the thought.

  “Not I,” said Cadfael, rising, “but I fancy one that I know of may be thinking of it.”

  He went out very thoughtfully, and in the great court the low winter sun came out suddenly and flashed in his eyes, dazzling him for the second time. Paradoxically, in this momentary blindness he could see his way clearly at last.

  Chapter 8

  HE WOULD HAVE LIKED to turn aside from the wyle to have a word with Martin Bellecote and see for himself that the family were not being hounded, but he did not do it, partly because he had a more urgent errand on his mind, partly because he did not want to call attention to the house or the household. Hugh Beringar was one man, of independent mind and a strong attachment to justice, but the officers of the sheriffry of Shropshire were a very different matter, looking for their lead rather to Gilbert Prestcote, understandably enough, since Prestcote was King Stephen’s official representative in these parts; and Prestcote’s justice would be sharper, shorter-sighted, content with a brisk and tidy ending. Prestcote might be away in Westminster, Beringar might be nominally in charge, but the sergeants and their men would still be proceeding on their usual summary course, making for the most obvious quarry. If there was a watch set on Bellecote’s shop, Cadfael had no intention of giving it any provocation. If there was not, so much the better, Hugh’s orders had prevailed.

  So Cadfael paced demurely up the Wyle and past the Bellecote yard without a glance, and on through the town. His way to the north-west lay over the bridge that led towards Wales, but he passed that, too, and climbed the hill to the High Cross; from that point the road descended slightly, to mount again into the castle gatehouse.

  King Stephen’s garrison was in full possession since the summer siege, and the watch, though vigilant, was assured and easy. Cadfael lighted down at the approach, and led his mule up the causeway and into the shadow of the gate. The guard waited for him placidly.

  “Goodmorrow, brother! What’s your will?”

  “A word with Hugh Beringar of Maesbury,” said Cadfael. “Tell him Brother Cadfael, and I think he’ll spare me a short while of his time.”

  “You’re out of luck, brother, for the present while. Hugh Beringar is not here, and likely won’t be till the light fails, for he’s off on some search down the river with Madog of the Dead-boat.” That was news that heartened Cadfael as suddenly as the news of Hugh’s absence had disheartened and dismayed him. He might have done better, after all, to leave the vial with Brother Mark, who could have paid a second visit after the first one had missed its mark. Of all but Beringar here, Cadfael had his doubts, but now he was caught in a situation he should have foreseen. Hugh had lost no time in setting the hunt in motion after Edwin’s reliquary, and better still, was pursuing it himself instead of leaving it to underlings. But long delay here to wait for him was impossible; Brother Barnabas lay ill, and Cadfael had undertaken to go and care for him, and the sooner he reached him the better. He pondered whether to entrust his precious evidence to another, or keep it until he could deliver it to Beringar in person. Edwin, after all, was somewhere at liberty yet, no immediate ill could befall him.

  “If it’s the matter of the poisoning you’re here about,” said the guard helpfully, “speak a word to the sergeant who’s left in charge here. I hear there’s been strange goings-on down at the abbey. You’ll be glad when you’re left in quiet again, and the rascal taken. Step in, brother, and I’ll tether your mule and send to let William Warden know you’re here.”

  Well, no harm, at any rate, in taking a look at the law’s surrogate and judging accordingly. Cadfael waited in a stony anteroom within the gatehouse, and let the object of his visit lie hidden in his scrip until he made up his mind. But the first glimpse of the sergeant as he entered rendered it virtually certain that the vial would remain in hiding. The same officer who had first answered the prior’s summons to Bonel’s house, bearded, brawny, hawk-beaked, self-assured and impatient of caution once his nose had found an obvious trail. He knew Cadfael again just as promptly; large white teeth flashed in a scornful grin in the bushy beard.

  “You again, brother? And still finding a dozen reasons why young Gurney must be blameless, when all that’s wanting is a witness who stood by and watched him do the deed? Come to throw some more dust in our eyes, I suppose, while the guilty make off into Wales?”

  “I came,” said Brother Cadfael, not strictly truthfully, “to enquire whether anything had yet come to light, concerning what I reported to Hugh Beringar yesterday.”

  “Nothing has and nothing will. So it was you who set him off on this fool’s errand down the river! I might have guessed it!
A glib young rogue tells you a tall tale like that, and you swallow it, and infect your betters into the bargain! Wasteful nonsense! To spare men to row up and down Severn in the cold, after a reliquary that never was! You have much to answer for, brother.”

  “No doubt I have,” agreed Cadfael equably. “So have we all, even you. But to exert himself for truth and justice is Beringar’s duty, and so it is yours and mine, and I do it as best I may, and forbear from snatching at what offers first and easiest, and shutting my eyes to everything else in order to be rid of the labour, and at ease again. Well, it seems I’ve troubled you for nothing. But let Hugh Beringar know that I was here asking for him.”

  He eyed the sergeant closely at that, and doubted whether even that message would be delivered. No, grave evidence that pointed the wrong way could not be left with this man, who was so sure of his rightness he might bend even circumstances and facts to match his opinions. No help for it, the vial would have to go on to Rhydycroesau and wait its time, when Brother Barnabas was restored, and back among his sheep.

  “You mean well, brother,” said William generously, “but you are far out of your cloister in matters like these. Best leave them to those who have experience.”

  Cadfael took his leave without further protest, mounted his mule, and rode back through the town to the foot of the hill, where the street turning off to the right led him to the westward bridge. At least nothing was lost, and Beringar was following up the lead he had given. It was time now to keep his mind on the journey before him, and put aside the affairs of Richildis and her son until he had done his best for Brother Barnabas.

  *

  The road from Shrewsbury to Oswestry was one of the main highroads of the region, and fairly well maintained. The old people, the Romans, had laid it long ago when they ruled in Britain, and the same road ran south-eastward right to the city of London, where King Stephen was now preparing to keep Christmas among his lords, and Cardinal-bishop Alberic of Ostia was busy holding his legatine council for the reform of the church, to the probable discomfiture of Abbot Heribert. But here, riding in the opposite direction, the road ran straight and wide, only a little overgrown with grass here and there, and encroached upon by the wild verges, through fat farming country and woods to the town of Oswestry, a distance of no more than eighteen miles. Cadfael took it at a brisk but steady pace, to keep the mule content. Beyond the town it was but four miles to the sheepfolds. In the distance, as he rode due west in the dimming light, the hills of Wales rose blue and noble, the great rolling ridge of Berwyn melting into a faintly misted sky.

  He came to the small, bare grange in a fold of the hills before dark. A low, solid wooden hut housed the brothers, and beyond lay the much larger byres and stables, where the sheep could be brought in from ice and snow, and beyond again, climbing the gentle slopes, the long, complex greystone walls of the field enclosures, where they grazed in this relatively mild beginning of winter, and were fed roots and grain if ever stubble and grass failed them. The hardiest were still out at liberty in the hills. Brother Simon’s dog began to bark, pricking his ears to the neat hooves that hardly made a sound in the thin turf of the ride.

  Cadfael lighted down at the door, and Simon came eagerly out to welcome him, a thin, wiry, dishevelled brother, some forty years old but still distrait as a child when anything went wrong with other than sheep. Sheep he knew as mothers know their babes, but Brother Barnabas’s illness had utterly undone him. He clasped Cadfael’s hands in his, and shook them and himself in his gratitude at no longer being alone with his patient.

  “He has it hard, Cadfael, you hear the leaves of his heart rustling as he breathes, like a man’s feet in the woods in autumn. I cannot break it with a sweat, I’ve tried…”

  “We’ll try again,” said Cadfael comfortably, and went into the dark, timber-scented hut before him. Within it was blessedly warm and dry; wood is the best of armours against weather, where there’s small fear of fire, as in this solitude there was none. A bare minimum of furnishing, yet enough; and within, in the inner room, Brother Barnabas lay in his bed neither asleep nor awake, only uneasily in between, rustling at every breath as Simon had said, his forehead hot and dry, his eyes half-open and vacant. A big, massive man, all muscle and bone, with reserves of fight in him that needed only a little guidance.

  “You go look to whatever you should be doing,” said Cadfael, unbuckling his scrip and opening it on the foot of the bed, “and leave him to me.”

  “Is there anything you will need?” asked Simon anxiously.

  “A pan of water on the fire, out there, and a cloth, and a beaker ready, and that’s all. If I want for more, I’ll find it.”

  Blessedly, he was taken at his word; Brother Simon had a childlike faith in all who practised peculiar mysteries. Cadfael worked upon Brother Barnabas without haste all the evening, by a single candle that Simon brought as the light died. A hot stone wrapped in Welsh flannel for the sick man’s feet, a long and vigorous rub for chest and throat and ribs, down to the waist, with an ointment of goose-grease impregnated with mustard and other heat-giving herbs, and chest and throat then swathed in a strip of the same flannel, cool cloths on the dry forehead, and a hot draught of wine mulled with spices and borage and other febrifuge herbs. The potion went down patiently and steadily, with eased breathing and relaxing sinews. The patient slept fitfully and uneasily; but in the middle of the night the sweat broke like a storm of rain, drenching the bed. The two attentive nurses lifted the patient, when the worst was past, drew the blanket from under him and laid a fresh one, rolled him close in another, and covered him warmly again.

  “Go and sleep,” said Cadfael, content, “for he does very well. By dawn he’ll be wake and hungry.”

  In that he was out by some hours, for Brother Barnabas, once fallen into a deep and troubled sleep, slept until almost noon the following day, when he awoke clear-eyed and with quiet breathing, but weak as a new lamb.

  “Never trouble for that,” said Cadfael cheerfully. “Even if you were on your feet, we should hardly let you out of here for a couple of days, or longer. You have time in plenty, enjoy being idle. Two of us are enough to look after your flock for you.”

  Brother Barnabas, again at ease in his body, was content to take him at his word, and luxuriate in his convalescence. He ate, at first doubtfully, for savour had left him in his fever, then, rediscovering the pleasures of taste, his appetite sharpened into fierce hunger.

  “The best sign we could have,” said Cadfael. “A man who eats heartily and with enjoyment is on his way back to health.” And they left the patient to sleep again as thoroughly as he had eaten, and went out to the sheep, and the chickens and the cow, and all the rest of the denizens of the fold.

  “An easy year so far,” said Brother Simon, viewing his leggy, tough hill-sheep with satisfaction. Sheep as Welsh as Brother Cadfael gazed towards the southwest, where the long ridge of Berwyn rose in the distance; long, haughty, inscrutable faces, and sharp ears, and knowing yellow eyes that could outstare a saint. “Plenty of good grazing still, what with the grass growing so late, and the good pickings they had in the stubble after harvest. And we have beet-tops, they make good fodder, too. There’ll be better fleeces than most years, when next they’re shorn, unless the winter turns cruel later on.”

  From the crest of the hill above the walled folds Brother Cadfael gazed towards the south-west, where the long ridge dipped towards lower land, between the hills. “This manor of Mallilie will be somewhere in the sheltered land there, as I judge.”

  “It is. Three miles round by the easy track, the manor-house drawn back between the slopes, and the lands open to the south-east. Good land for these parts. And main glad I was to know we had a steward there, when I needed a messenger. Have you an errand there, brother?”

  “There’s something I must see to, when Brother Barnabas is safely on the way to health again, and I can be spared.” He turned and looked back towards the east. “Even here we must be a good
mile or more the Welsh side of the old boundary dyke. I never was here before, not being a sheep man. I’m from Gwynedd myself, from the far side of Conwy. But even these hills look like home to me.”

  Gervase Bonel’s manor must lie somewhat further advanced into Welsh land even than these high pastures. The Benedictines had very little hold in Wales. Welshmen preferred their own ancient Celtic Christianity, the solitary hermitage of the self-exiled saint and the homely little college of Celtic monks rather than the shrewd and vigorous foundations that looked to Rome. In the south, secular Norman adventurers had penetrated more deeply, but here Mallilie must, indeed, as Brother Rhys had said, be lodged like a single thorn deep in the flesh of Wales.

  “It does not take long to ride to Mallilie,” said Brother Simon, anxiously helpful. “Our horse here is elderly, but strong, and gets little enough work as a rule. I could very well manage now, if you want to go tomorrow.”

  “First let’s see,” said Cadfael, “how Brother Barnabas progresses by tomorrow.”

  Brother Barnabas progressed very well once he had the fever out of him. Before nightfall he was sick of lying in his bed, and insisted on rising and trying his enfeebled legs about the room. His own natural strength and stout heart were all he needed now to set him up again, though he swallowed tolerantly whatever medicines Cadfael pressed upon him, and consented to have his chest and throat anointed once again with the salve.

  “No need to trouble yourself for me now,” he said. “I shall be hale as a hound pup in no time. And if I can’t take to the hills again for a day or two—though I very well could, if you would but let me!—I can see to the house here, and the hens and the cow, for that matter.”

  The next morning he rose to join them for Prime, and would not return to his bed, though when they both harried him he agreed to sit snugly by the fire, and exert himself no further than in baking bread and preparing dinner.