by Ellis Peters
“Yes,” said Cadfael, “there is such proof. There is one small matter that makes this crime all the more grievous, for it is the only proof that it was not all impulsive, done in an angry instant and regretted after. For whoever took away a portion of my monk’s-hood oil from our infirmary must have brought with him a bottle in which to put it. And that bottle he had to conceal afterwards, as long as he was observed, but dispose of as soon as he privately might. And the place will show that it could not have been put there by the boy Edwin Gurney, Bonel’s stepson. By any other of the household, yes, but not by him. His movements are known. He ran straight from the house to the bridge and the town, as there are witnesses to declare.”
“We have still nothing but words, and deceptive words, too,” said Meurig, gaining a little confidence. “For this bottle has not been found, or we should have known it from the sheriff’s men. This is a whole-cloth tale compounded for this court alone.”
For of course he did not know; not even Edwin knew, not even Hugh Beringar, only Cadfael and Brother Mark. Thank God for Brother Mark, who had done the finding and marked the place, and was in no suspicion of being anyone’s corrupted agent.
Cadfael reached into his pouch, and brought forth the vial of flawed green glass, unwrapping it carefully from the napkin in which it was rolled. “Yes, it has been found. Here it is!” And he held it out sharply at the full stretch of his arm into Meurig’s appalled face.
The instant of sick disintegration passed valiantly, but Cadfael had witnessed it, and now there was no shadow of doubt left, none. And it was a piercing grief to him, for he had liked this young man.
“This,” said Cadfael, whirling to face the bench, “was found, not by me, but by an innocent novice who knew little of the case, and has nothing to gain by lying. And it was found—the place is recorded—in the ice of the mill-pond, under the window of the inner room of that house. In that room the boy Edwin Gurney was never for one moment alone, and could not have thrown this out from that window. Inspect it, if you will. But carefully, for the marks of the oil are there in a dried stream down one outer side of the vial, and the dregs are still easily identifiable within.”
Meurig watched the small, dreadful thing being passed among the three in its napkin, and said with arduous calm: “Even granted this—for we have not the finder here to speak for himself!—there were four of us there who could well have gone in and out of that inner room the rest of the day. Indeed, I was the only one to leave, for I went back to my master’s shop in the town. They remained there, living in the house.”
Nevertheless, it had become a trial. Even with his admirable and terrible gallantry, he could not entirely prevent the entry of a note of defence. And he knew it, and was afraid, not for himself, for the object of his absorbing love, the land on which he had been born. Brother Cadfael was torn in a measure he had hardly expected. It was time to end it, with one fatal cast that might produce success or failure, for he could not bear this partition of his mind much longer, and Edwin was in a prison cell, something even Meurig did not yet know, something that might have reassured him if he had been aware of it, but no less might have moved and dismayed him. Never once, in that long afternoon of questioning, had Meurig sought to turn suspicion upon Edwin, even when the sergeant pointed the way.
“Draw out the stopper,” said Cadfael to the three judges, almost strident now in his urgency. “Note the odour, it is still strong enough to be recognised again. You must take my word for it that it was the means of death. And you see how it has run down the vial. It was stoppered in haste after the act, for all was then done in haste. Yet some creature carried this vial on his person for a considerable while after, until the sheriffs officers had come and gone. In this condition, oiled without as well as within. It would leave a greasy stain not easy to remove, and a strong smell—yes, I see you detect the smell.” He swung upon Meurig, pointing to the coarse linen scrip that hung at his belt. “This, as I recall, you wore that day. Let the judges themselves examine, with the vial in their hands, and see whether it lay within there an hour, two hours or more, and left its mark and its odour. Come, Meurig, unbuckle and give up your scrip.”
Meurig indeed dropped a hand to the buckles, as though stunned into obedience. And after this while, Cadfael knew, there might be nothing to find, even though he no longer had any doubts that the vial had indeed lain within there all that prolonged and agonising afternoon of Bonel’s death. It needed only a little hardihood and a face of brass, and the single fragile witness against Meurig might burst like a bubble, and leave nothing but the scattered dew of suspicion, like the moisture a bubble leaves on the hand. But he could not be sure! He could not be sure! And to examine the scrip and find nothing would not be to exonerate him completely, but to examine it and find the seam stained with oil, and still with the penetrating scent clinging, would be to condemn him utterly. The fingers that had almost withdrawn the first thong suddenly closed into a clenched fist denying access.
“No!” he said hoarsely. “Why should I submit to this indignity? He is the abbey’s man sent to besmirch my claim.”
“It is a reasonable requirement,” said the presiding judge austerely. “There is no question of your surrendering it to anyone but this court. There can be no suspicion that we have anything to gain by discrediting you. The bench requires you to hand it over to the clerk.”
The clerk, accustomed to having the court’s orders respected without demur, advanced trustingly, extending a hand. Meurig dared not take the risk. Suddenly he whirled and sprang for the open door, scattering the old men who had come to back his claim. In a moment he was out into the wintry light of the morning, running like a deer. Behind him uproar broke out, and half of those in the church poured out after the fugitive, though their pursuit was half-hearted after the first instinctive rush. They saw Meurig vault the stone wall of the churchyard and head for the fringes of woodland that clothed the hillside behind. In a moment he was lost to view among the trees.
In the half-deserted church a heavy silence fell. The old men looked at one another helplessly, and made no move to join the hunt. The three judges conferred in low and anxious tones. Cadfael stood drooping in a weariness that seemed temporarily to have deprived him of energy or thought, until at last he drew breath long and deeply, and looked up.
“It is not a confession, nor has there been a formal charge, or any suit as yet brought against him. But it is evidence for a boy who is now in prison at Shrewsbury on suspicion of this crime. Let me say what can and should be said for Meurig: he did not know Edwin Gurney had been taken, of that I am sure.”
“We have now no choice but to pursue him,” said the presiding judge, “and it will be done. But certainly the record of this court must be sent, out of courtesy, to the sheriff at Shrewsbury, and at once. Will that content you?”
“It’s all I ask. Send also, if you will, the vial, concerning which a novice by the name of Mark will testify, for it was he who found it. Send all to Hugh Beringar, the sheriff’s deputy, who is in charge, and deliver the report only to him, of your kindness. I wish I might go, but I have still work to do here.”
“It will take some hours for our clerks to make the necessary copies and have them certified. But by tomorrow evening, at latest, the report shall be delivered. I think your prisoner will have nothing more to fear.”
Brother Cadfael uttered his thanks, and went out from the church into a village thronging with agitated, head-shaking neighbours. The tale of the morning’s events was on the wing by now, surely already being carried over the hills throughout the commote of Cynllaith, but even rumour had not flown so fast as Meurig, for nothing was seen of him all that day. Cadfael led his horse from the paddock, and mounted and rode. The weariness that had fallen upon him when the need for effort ended so suddenly was subsiding slowly into a desperate sadness, and that again into a drear but grateful calm. He took the journey back very slowly, for he needed time to think, and above all, time for another to
do some even more urgent thinking. He passed by the manor-house of Mallilie with only a rueful glance. The ending would not be there.
He was very well aware that it was not yet over. “You are back in good time, brother,” said Simon, stoking the brazier with fresh fuel for the evening. “Whatever your business, I trust God prospered it.”
“He did,” said Cadfael. “And now it must be your turn to rest, and leave the remaining work to me. I’ve stabled and groomed and fed the horse, he’s not overdone for I took things gently with him. After supper there’ll be time for shutting the hen-house and seeing to the cow, and light enough still to bring down the ewes in lamb to the barn, for I think there may be harder frost in the night. Curious how the light lies in these hills a good half-hour longer than in the town.”
“Your Welsh eyes, brother, are only just regaining their proper vision. There are few nights here that a man could not travel safely even among the upland bogs, knowing the ground at all well. Only in the woods is it ever truly dark. I talked with a wandering brother from the north once, a rough red-haired man with a tongue I could barely understand, a Scot. He said in his far country there were nights when the sun barely set before it rose again on the other side, and you could see your way in an endless afterglow. But I do not know,” said Brother Simon wistfully, “if he was romancing. I have never been further than Chester.”
Brother Cadfael forbore from citing his own travels, remembered now with the astonished contentment of a man at rest. To tell the truth, he had enjoyed the storms no less than he now enjoyed the calm, if this was indeed calm: but each had its own time and place.
“I’ve been glad of this stay with you,” he said, and that at least was true “It smells like Gwynedd here. And the folk hereabouts have me speaking Welsh to them, and that’s gain, for I use it little enough in Shrewsbury.”
Brother Barnabas came with the supper, his own good bread, barley gruel, ewe’s-milk cheese and dried apples. He breathed without labour, and strode round the house unwearied and energetic. “You see I’m ready and able for work, brother, thanks to your skills. I could fold the ewes myself tonight.”
“You will not,” said Cadfael firmly, “for I’ve taken that task for myself, having been truant all day. You be content to see us devouring this baking of yours, for that’s one art I have not, and at least I have the grace to know it, and be thankful for the skills of other men.”
They ate early at Rhydycroesau, having normally laboured out of doors from early morning. There was still a muted half-light, the east a clear, deep blueness, the west a pallid glow, when Cadfael went out to climb to the nearer crest and bring down the ewes already heavy with lamb. They were few but precious, once in a while they even dropped twins, and with care both survived. Cadfael discerned a deep and tranquil satisfaction in the shepherd’s life. The children of his solicitude were seldom killed, unless disease, injury or decrepitude threatened, or in time of desperation the flock could not all be fed through the winter. Their wool and milk were of more value than their meat, and their precious skins could be garnered only once, and better when for distress they had to be slaughtered. So they remained through their natural lives, growing into familiarity and affection, trusting and being understood, even acquiring names. Shepherds had a community of their own, peopled with gentle, obstinate, quiet companions, who did no murder or theft or banditry, broke no laws, made no complaints, fuelled no rebellions.
All the same, he thought, climbing the hill In long, easy strides, I could not be a shepherd for long. I should miss all the things I deplore, the range and grasp of man for good and evil. And instantly he was back with the struggles and victories and victims of the day.
On the crest of the ridge he stood to contemplate the coming night, aware that he must be seen from a good distance around. The sky above was immense and very lofty, a very deep blue, with a faint dappling of stars so new and fine that they were visible only when seen from the corner of the eye, and a direct stare immediately put them out. He looked down at the cluster of walled folds and the snug dark huddle of buildings, and could not be quite sure whether he had seen a mere quiver of movement at the corner of the barn. The ewes, accustomed to extra pampering, were gathering about him of their own will, ready to go down into the steamy, wool-scented warmth of the barn for the night. Their rounded sides and bellies swayed contentedly as they walked. By this light only an occasional gleam showed the disconcerting yellow stare of their eyes.
When at last he stirred, and began slowly to descend the hill, they followed daintily on their little, agile feet, crowding close, jostling one another, the mild, warm, greasy smell of their fleeces making a flowing cloud about them. He counted, called softly back to one or two stragglers, young ones in their first lamb, and irresponsible, though they came hurrying at his call. Now he had them all.
Apart from himself and his little flock, the night was empty and still, unless that was the momentary intrusion and instant withdrawal of some live thing he had caught between the buildings below. Blessedly, Brother Simon and Brother Barnabas had taken him at his word, and remained contentedly in the warmth of the house, by this time probably nodding over the brazier.
He brought his charges down to the large barn, half of which was cleared by now for their housing at night until they gave birth. The wide doors opened inwards, he thrust them open before him and ushered his flock within, where there was a rack filled for their use, and a trough of water. These needed no light to find their way. The interior of the barn was still peopled with vague, bulky shadows, but otherwise dark, and smelled of dried grass and clover and the fat scent of fleeces. The mountain sheep had not the long, curly wool of the lowlands, but they brought a very thick, short fleece that carried almost as much wool of a somewhat less valuable kind, and they converted handsomely the pasture their spoiled lowland cousins could not make use of. Their cheeses alone were worth their keep.
Cadfael chided the last and most unbiddable of his charges into the barn, and passed in after her, advancing into the dimness that left him temporarily blind. He felt the sudden presence behind him, and stood, every muscle stilled. The blade that was laid cold and sudden against the skin of his throat started no movement; he had had knives at his throat before, he was not such a fool as to provoke them into malice or fright, especially when he approached them forewarned.
An arm encircled him from behind, pinning both arms fast to his body, and he made no move to recoil or resist. “And did you think when you destroyed me, brother,” panted a suffocating voice in his ear, “that I would go into the dark alone?”
“I have been expecting you, Meurig,” said Brother Cadfael quietly. “Close the door! You may safely, I shall not move. You and I have no need now of witnesses.”
Chapter 10
“NO,” SAID THE VOICE in his ear, low and savagely, “no need of witnesses. My business is with you alone, monk, and brief enough.” But the arms withdrew from him, and in a moment the heavy doors closed with a hollow sound upon the glimpse of sky in which, from this walled darkness within, the stars showed doubly large and bright.
Cadfael stood motionless, and heard the soft brushing of cloth as Meurig leaned back against the closed door, arms spread, drawing deep breaths to savour the moment of arrival, and anticipate the last vengeful achievement. There was no other way out, and he knew his quarry had not moved by so much as a step.
“You have branded me murderer, why should I draw back now from murder? You have ruined me, shamed me, made me a reproach to my own kin, taken from me my birthright, my land, my good name, everything that made my existence worth calling a life, and I will have your life in recompense. I cannot live now, I cannot even die, until I have been your death, Brother Cadfael.”
Strange how the simple act of giving his victim a name changed everything, even this blind relationship, like the first gleam of light. Further light could only assist the change.
“Hanging behind the door, where you are,” said Cadfael practic
ally, “you’ll find a lantern, and on another nail there a leather bag with flint and steel and tinder in it. We may as well see each other. Take care with the sparks, you’ve nothing against our sheep, and fire would bring people running. There’s a shelf where the lantern will stand.”
“And you will make your bid to keep your forfeit life… I know!”
“I shall not move hand or foot,” said Cadfael patiently. “Why do you suppose I have made so certain the last work tonight should fall to me? Did I not say I was expecting you? I have no weapon, and if I had I would not use it. I finished with arms many years ago.”
There was a long pause, during which, though he felt that more was expected of him, he added nothing more. Then he heard the creek of the lantern as Meurig’s questing hand found it, the grating noise of the horn shutter being opened, the groping of fingers to find the shelf, and the sound of the lantern being set down there. Flint and steel tapped sharply several times, sparks flashed and vanished, and then a corner of charred cloth caught and held the tiny fire, and Meurig’s face hung ghostlike over it, blowing until the wick caught in its turn, and sent up a lengthening flame. Dim yellow light brought into being the feeding-rack, the trough, the forest of shadows in the network of beams above, and the placid, incurious ewes; and Cadfael and Meurig stood looking intently at each other.
“Now,” said Cadfael, “you can at least see to take what you came for.” And he sat down and settled himself solidly on a corner of the feeding-rack.
Meurig came towards him with long, deliberate strides through the straw-dust and chaff of the floor. His face was fixed and grey, his eyes sunken deep into his head and burning with frenzy and pain. So close that their knees touched, he advanced the knife slowly until the point pricked Cadfael’s throat; along eight inches of steel they eyed each other steadily.
