by Ellis Peters
But it was a long story, of which they, here in this solitude and with their own tranquil world undisturbed, knew not even the beginnings. Better say nothing.
*
He rose before dawn and saddled his horse, taking the same track he had ridden two days previously as far as the ford, where he had turned aside to cross the tributary and make his way to Ifor’s house. This time he did not turn aside, but rode on into the valley of the Cynllaith, and crossed by a wooden bridge. From there it was little more than a mile into Llansilin, and the sun was up, veiled but bright. The village was wide awake, and full of people, converging on the timber church. Every house in the neighbourhood must have given shelter overnight to friends and kin from other parts of the commote, for the normal population of this hamlet could be no more than a tenth part of those met here on this day. Cadfael turned his horse into the paddock by the churchyard, where there was a stone water-trough and peaceful grazing, and joined the leisurely procession of men entering the church. Out in the roadway he was conspicuous in his black Benedictine habit, the species being so rare here, but within, he could be well hidden in a retired corner. He had no wish to be noticed too soon.
He was glad that Ifor ap Morgan did not appear among the elders who came to see justice done, the duty of neighbours who knew the land and the people involved. Better by far the testimony of these familiar and respected men than the legal arguments of professional lawmen, though these, too, would be here in plenty. Nor did he see Cynfrith ap Rhys until after the bench of three judges had taken their places, and the first adjourned case was called. Then, when the plaintiff was asked to stand forth with his guarantors on one side, Cadfael recognised Cynfrith among his brother’s backers. Owain was the younger of the two, but very like his brother. Hywel Fychan, the defendant, was a wiry, dark man of belligerent aspect, with his own little cluster of witnesses at his back.
The presiding judge gave the verdict of the bench. They had viewed the two disputed holdings on the spot, and taken measurements to match with old charters. Their judgment was that Hywel Fychan had indeed moved the corner boundary stone in such a way as to filch some yards of his neighbour’s land, but they had also found that Owain ap Rhys, more discreetly, and admittedly after he had discovered the defendant’s fraud, had countered by shifting a whole length of fencing between them by a cautious yard, adequately repaying himself for his loss. They therefore decreed that both marks should be restored to their former positions, and amerced both parties by a negligible fine. Predictably, Owain and Hywel clasped hands amicably enough in acceptance of the verdict; and probably they would be drinking away together, later in the day, the excess of their expected fines over those imposed. The game would be resumed next year. Cadfael was familiar with the national sport.
There were two more boundary disputes which had been awaiting a judgment arrived at on the disputed land, the one settled amicably, the other accepted with some bitterness by the losing party, but none the less accepted. There was a widow who claimed a patch of land against her husband’s kin, and won her claim by the testimony of no less than seven neighbours. The morning wore away, and Cadfael, constantly looking over his shoulder towards the door, began to wonder if he had been utterly mistaken in his reading of the probabilities. How if he had interpreted all the signs wrongly? Then he had all to do again, and Edwin was in genuine peril, and his only resort was Hugh Beringar, whose rule would end when Gilbert Prestcote returned from the king’s Christmas.
The grateful widow was withdrawing with her witnesses, flushed and happy, when the door of the church opened wide. The light of day flowed across the crowded assembly, and so remained for some minutes, as a numerous group entered the nave. Cadfael looked round, as half those met there were also doing, and saw Meurig advance into the open aisle, and there take his stand, with seven grave elders at his back.
He was wearing, Cadfael noted, the same cotte and hose in which he had always seen him, no doubt his best, worn to the commote court as they were worn to visit the abbey at Shrewsbury. His only other garment would be those he wore at work. And the linen scrip hanging by its leather thongs from his belt was the same Cadfael had seen on him at the infirmary, where he had laboured, certainly out of kindliness and with nothing to gain, to coax the aches and pains out of an old man’s rusty joints. Such scrips cost money, and are durable for many years. Doubtful if he even owned another such.
An ordinary enough figure, this square, sturdy, black-avised young fellow, anybody’s son or brother; but not ordinary now. He stood in the middle of the open aisle, feet spread, arms down at his sides but braced, as if either hand had a weapon within reach, though he surely had not so much as a hunting-knife on him, here in a place doubly sacred as church and court. He was shaven and bathed clean, and the subdued light within the nave found and plucked into relief every bony line of his powerful face, the outline of a skull drawn white and taut, shadowy dark flesh clothing it sparely. His eyes were like burning lamps sunk into cavernous hollows; he looked both piteously young and age-old, and hungry to starving.
“With the court’s leave,” he said, and his voice was high and clear, “I have a plea that will not wait.”
“We were about to declare this sitting at an end,” said the presiding judge mildly. “But we are here to serve. Declare yourself and your business.”
“My name is Meurig, son of Angharad, daughter of Ifor ap Morgan, who is known to all men here. By this same Angharad I am the son of Gervase Bonel, who held the manor of Mallilie while he lived. I am here to advance my claim to that manor, by reason of my birth, as the son, and the only child, of Gervase Bonel. I am here to introduce testimony that that same land is Welsh land, and subject to Welsh law, and that I am that man’s son, and the only child he ever engendered. And by Welsh law I lay claim to Mallilie, for by Welsh law a son is a son, whether born in or out of wedlock, provided only that his father has acknowledged him.” He drew breath, and the pale, drawn lines of his face sharpened yet further with tension. “Will the court hear me?”
The shudder and murmur that rippled through the church caused even the dark timber walls to quiver. The three on the bench stirred and peered, but kept their more than human balance and calm. The president said with the same restraint: “We must and will hear whoever comes with an urgent plea, however proffered, with or without legal advice, but the cause may involve adjournment for proper procedure. On that consideration, you may speak.”
“Then first, as to the land of Mallilie, here with me are four respected men, known to all here, who hold land bordering the manor, and their boundaries between them encircle nine-tenths of the manor lands. Only the remaining tenth touches English soil. And all is on the Welsh side of the dyke, as all men know. I ask my witnesses to speak for me.”
The oldest said simply: “The manor of Mallilie is within the land of Wales, and causes within it and concerning it have been tried by Welsh law within my lifetime, on two occasions, even though the manor was in English hands. True it is that some cases have also been heard in English court and by English law, but Gervase Bonel himself twice preferred to plead in this court and by Welsh law. I hold that Welsh law has never lost its right in any part of that land, for whatever its ownership, it is part of the commote of Cynllaith.”
“And we hold the same opinion,” said the second of the elders.
“That is the view of you all?” asked the judge.
“It is.”
“Is there any present here who wishes to refute that opinion?”
There were several, on the contrary, who spoke up in confirmation of it, one indeed who recalled that he had been the party in dispute with Bonel on the last occasion, over a matter of cattle straying, and had had his case heard in this court, by a bench on which one of the present judges had sat with two others. As doubtless the judge in question recalled without need of reminders.
“The bench is in agreement with the witness of neighbours,” said the president, having consulted his colleag
ues with hardly more than a glance and a nod.” There is no question that the land involved is within Wales, and any plaintiff advancing a claim on it is entitled to Welsh law if he desires it. Proceed!”
“As to the second matter of substance,” said Meurig, moistening lips dry with tension, “I declare that I am the son of Gervase Bonel, his only son, his only child. And I ask these who have known me from birth to testify to my parentage, and any here who may also know the truth to speak up in support of me.”
This time there were many in the body of the church who rose in turn to confirm the declaration of the elders: Meurig, son of Angharad, daughter of Ifor ap Morgan, had been born on the manor of Mallilie, where his mother was a maidservant, and it had been known to everyone before his birth that she was with child by her lord. It had never been any secret, and Bonel had housed and fed the boy.
“There is a difficulty here,” said the presiding judge. “It is not enough that the common opinion should be that a certain man is father, for common opinion could be mistaken. Even the acceptance of the duty of providing for a child is not in itself proof of acknowledgement. It must be shown that the father has himself acknowledged the child as his. That is the validation the kinship requires for the admittance of a young man into full rights, and that is the validation necessary before property can be inherited.”
“It is no difficulty,” said Meurig proudly, and drew out from the bosom of his cotte a rolled parchment. “If the court will examine this, they will see that in this indenture, when I took up a trade, Gervase Bonel himself called me his son, and set his seal to it.” He came forward and handed up the parchment to the judges’ clerk, who unrolled and studied it.
“It is as he says. This is an agreement between Martin Bellecote, master-carpenter, of Shrewsbury, and Gervase Bonel, for the young man Meurig to be taken and taught the whole craft of the carpenter and carver. A payment was made with him, and a small allowance made to him for his keep. The seal is in order, the young man is described as ‘my son.’ There is no doubt in the matter. He was acknowledged.”
Meurig drew breath deep, and stood waiting. The bench conferred in low and earnest tones.
“We are agreed,” said the president, “that the proof is irrefutable, that you are what you purport to be, and have the right to make claim upon the land. But it’s known that there was an agreement, never completed, to hand over the manor to the abbey of Shrewsbury, and on that ground, before the man’s unfortunate death, the abbey placed a steward in the house to administer the estate. A claim by a son, in these circumstances, must be overwhelmingly strong, but in view of the complications it should be advanced through the channels of law. There is an English overlord to be taken into account, as well as such claims as the abbey may advance, by virtue of Bonel’s having shown his intent even in an uncompleted agreement. You will have to bring formal suit for possession, and we would advise that you brief a man of law at once.”
“With respect,” said Meurig, paler and brighter than ever, and with hands cupped and curled at his sides, as if he had already filled them with the desired and coveted soil, “there is a provision in Welsh law by which I may take possession even now, before the case is tried. Only the son may do so, but I am the son of this man who is dead. I claim the right of dadanhudd, the right to uncover my father’s hearth. Give me the sanction of this court, and I will go, with these elders who uphold my claim, and enter the house which is mine by right.”
Brother Cadfael was so caught into the intensity of this consuming passion that he almost let the just moment slip by him. All his Welsh blood rose in helpless sympathy with so strong a hunger and love for the land, which Meurig’s blood would have granted him, but by Norman-English law his birth had denied him. There was almost a nobility about him in this hour, and the bleak force of his longing carried with him judges, witnesses, even Cadfael.
“It is the court’s judgment that your claim is justified,” said the president gravely, “and your right to enter the house cannot be denied you. For form’s sake we must put it to this assembly, since no notice has been given beforehand. If there is any here who has anything to raise an objection, let him stand forward now, and speak.”
“Yes,” said Cadfael, wrenching himself out of his daze with a great effort. “Here is one who has somewhat to say before this sanction is granted. There is an impediment.”
Every head turned to peer and crane and stare. The judges ranged the ranks looking for the source of the voice, for Cadfael was no taller than the majority of his fellow-countrymen, and even his tonsure could be matched by many here conferred by time rather than a cloistered order. Meurig’s head had turned with a wild start, his face suddenly fixed and bloodless, his eyes blank. The voice had pierced him like a knife, but he did not recognise it, and for the moment was too blind to be able to mark even the undulation of movement as Cadfael pushed his way clear of the crowd to be seen.
“You are of the Benedictine order?” said the presiding judge, bewildered, as the sturdy, habited figure emerged and stood in the aisle. “A monk of Shrewsbury? Are you here to speak on behalf of your abbey?”
“No,” said Brother Cadfael. He stood no more than two yards from Meurig now, and the mist of shock and unbelief had cleared from the black, brilliant eyes; they recognised him all too well. “No, I am here to speak on behalf of Gervase Bonel.”
By the brief, contorted struggle of Meurig’s throat, he made an attempt to speak, but could not.
“I do not understand you, brother,” said the judge patiently. “Explain yourself. You spoke of an impediment.”
“I am a Welshman,” said Cadfael. “I endorse and approve the law of Wales, that says a son is a son, in or out of marriage, and has the same rights though English law may call him a bastard. Yes, a son born out of wedlock may inherit—but not a son who has murdered his father, as this man has.”
He expected uproar, and instead there was such a silence as he had seldom known. The three judges sat rigid and staring, as though turned to stone, and every breath in the church seemed to be held in suspense. By the time they all stirred out of their daze, and turned almost stealthily, almost fearfully, to look at Meurig, he had regained his colour and his hardihood, though at a price. Forehead and high cheekbones had a wet sheen of sweat, and the muscles of his neck were drawn like bow-strings, but he had himself in hand again, he could look his accuser in the face, refrain from hurling himself upon him, even turn from him with dignity and calm to look at the judges, in eloquent protest against a charge he disdained to deny except by silent contempt. And probably, Cadfael reflected ruefully, there are some here who will take for granted that I am an agent sent by my order to prevent, or at least delay, the surrender of Mallilie to its rightful owner. By any means, however base, even by accusing a decent man of murder.
“This is a most grave charge,” said the presiding judge, formidably frowning. “If you are in earnest, you must now stand to it, and make good what you have said, or withdraw.”
“That I will do. My name is Cadfael, a brother of Shrewsbury, and the herbalist who made the oil with which Gervase Bonel was poisoned. My honour is involved. The means of comfort and healing must not be used to kill. I was called to attend the dying man, and I am here now to demand justice for him. Allow me, if you will, to tell you how this death befell.”
He told the story very baldly, the narrow circle of those present, of whom one, the stepson, seemed then to be the only one with anything to gain from the death.
“Meurig, as it seemed to us, had nothing to gain, but you and I have now seen how much, indeed, was at stake for him.
The agreement with my abbey had not been completed, and by Walsh law, which we had not understood could be invoked in the matter, he is the heir. Let me tell you his story as I see it. Ever since he grew a man he has been well aware that by Welsh law his position as heir was unassailable, and he was well content to wait for his father’s death, like any other son, before claiming his inheritance. Eve
n the will Gervase Bonel made, after his second marriage, making his stepson his heir, did not trouble Meurig, for how could such a claim stand against his right as a true son of the man’s blood? But it was a different case when his father granted his manor to the abbey of Shrewsbury in return for housing, food and comfort for life, after the usual fashion of such retirements. I do believe that if that agreement had been completed and sealed at once, all would have been over, and this man would have grown reconciled to his loss and never become a murderer. But because my abbot was summoned away to London, with good reason to think that another may be appointed in his place, he would not complete the charter, and that respite caused Meurig to hope again, and to look about him desperately for the means to prevent it ever being completed. For, see, if the abbey ever established its legal right by final ratification, his position at law would have been hopeless. How could he fight Shrewsbury abbey? They have influence enough to ensure that any suit should be tried in an English court and by English law, and by English law, I acknowledge it with regret and shame, such children as Meurig are deprived, and cannot inherit. I say it was mere chance, and that resulting from an act of kindness, that showed him where to find the means to kill, and tempted him to use it. And great pity it is, for he was never meant to be a murderer. But here he stands in his guilt, and must not and cannot enter into possession of the fruit of his crime.”
The presiding judge sat back with a heavy and troubled sigh, and looked at Meurig, who had heard all this with a motionless face and a still body. “You have heard and understood what is charged against you. Do you wish now to answer?”
“I have nothing to answer,” said Meurig, wise in his desperation. “This is nothing but words. There is no substance. Yes, I was there in the house, as he has told you, with my father’s wife, the boy her son, and the two servants. But that is all. Yes, by chance I have been in the infirmary, and did know of this oil he speaks of. But where is there any thread to link me with the act? I could as well put forward the same story against any of those in that household that day, and with as little proof, but I will not. The sheriff’s officers have held from the beginning that my father’s stepson did this thing. I don’t say that is true. I say only that there is no proof to entangle me rather than any other.”
