Monk's Hood bc-3

by Ellis Peters

  “The boy tells me,” said Ifor, “that you are a friend. His friends are welcome.”

  “Brother Cadfael has been good to me,” said Edwin, “and to my nephew, Edwy, also, as Meurig told us. I have been well blessed in my friends. But how did you find me?”

  “By not looking for you,” said Cadfael. “Indeed, I’ve been at some pains not to know where you had taken yourself, and certainly I never rode this way to find you. I came with a harmless errand to Ifor ap Morgan here, from that same old brother you visited with Meurig in our infirmary. Your wife’s brother, friend, Rhys ap Griffith, is still living, and for his age hale, too, in our convent, and when he heard that I was bound into these parts he charged me to bring his kinsmen his greetings and prayers. He has not forgotten his kin, though it’s long since he came among you, and I doubt he’ll come no more. I have been with Cynfrith ap Rhys, and sent the same word by him to his brother Owain, and if there are any others of his generation left, or who would remember him, be kind enough to give them word, when chance offers, that he remembers his blood and his own soil yet, and all those whose roots are in it.”

  “So he would,” said Ifor, melting suddenly into a warm smile. “He was always a loyal kinsman, and fond of my child and all the other young in our clan, having none of his own. He lost his wife early, or he’d have been here among us yet. Sit down a while, brother, and tell me how he does, and if you’ll take my blessings back to him, I’ll be grateful.”

  “Meurig will have told you much of what I can tell,” and Cadfael, settling beside him on a bench at the rough table, “when he brought you Edwin to shelter. Is he not here with you?”

  “My grandson is away making the round of all his kin and neighbours,” said the old man, “for he comes home rarely now. He’ll be here again in a few days, I daresay. He did tell me he’d been to see the old man, along with the boy here, but he stayed only an hour or so before making off about his visiting. There’ll be time to talk when he comes back.”

  It was in Cadfael’s mind that he ought to cut short his own stay, for though it had never entered his mind that the officers of the law might find it worth while to keep a watch on him when he left Shrewsbury, the too easy discovery of Edwin in this house had shaken his assurance. It was true that he had neither expected nor wished to trace the boy as yet, but even Hugh Beringar, let alone his underlings, might well have considered the contrary as a possibility, and set a discreet hound on his trail. But he could not flatly deliver his message and go, while the old man clearly took pleasure in polishing up old memories. He was rambling away happily about the time when his wife was with him, and his daughter a fair and lively child. Now all that remained to him was a single grandson, and his own dignity and integrity.

  Exile and refuge in this remote place and this impressive company had had a strong effect on Edwin. He withdrew into the shadows to leave his elders undisturbed, making no plea, asking no question yet concerning his own troubled affairs. Quietly he went and brought beakers and a pitcher of mead, and served them unobtrusively and neatly, all dignity and humility, and again absented himself, until Ifor turned to reach a long arm and draw him to the table.

  “Young man, you must have things to ask of Brother Cadfael, and things to tell him.”

  The boy had not lost his tongue, after all, once invited he could talk as volubly and vehemently as ever. First he asked after Edwy, with an anxiety he would never have revealed to the object of it, and was greatly eased to hear how that adventure had ended better than it had threatened. “And Hugh Beringar was so fair and generous? And he listened to you, and is looking for my box? Now if he could but find it … ! I was not happy leaving Edwy to play that part for me, but he would have it so. And then I took Japhet a roundabout way to a place we used to play sometimes, a copse by the river, and Meurig met me there, and gave me a token to carry to his grandfather here, and told me how to find the place. And the next day he came, too, as he said he would.”

  “And what,” asked Cadfael gently, “had you planned to do, if truth never did come out? If you could not go back? Though God forbid it should end so, and God granting, I’ll see that it does not.”

  The boy’s face was solemn but clear; he had thought much, here in his haven, and spent so much time contemplating the noble face of his patron that a kind of shining likeness had arisen between them. “I’m strong, I can work, I could earn my keep in Wales, if need be, even if it must be as an outlander. Other men have had to leave their homes because of unjust accusations, and have made their way in the world, and so could I. But I’d rather go back. I don’t want to leave my mother, now that she’s alone, and her affairs in such disorder. And I don’t want to be remembered as the man who poisoned his stepfather and ran away, when I know I never did him harm or wished him any.”

  “That shall not happen,” said Cadfael firmly. “You lie close in cover a few days more, and put your trust in God, and I believe we shall get to the truth, and you can go home openly and proudly.”

  “Do you believe that? Or is it just to hearten me?”

  “I believe it. Your heart is not in want of bolstering up with false cheer. And I would not lie to you, even for good cause.” Yet there were lies, or at least unspoken truths, hanging heavy on his mind in this house, and he had better make his farewells and go, the passing of time and daylight giving him a sound excuse. “I must get back to Rhydycroesau,” he said, making to rise from the table, “for I’ve left Brother Simon to do all the work alone, and Brother Barnabas still shaky on his legs yet. Did I tell you I was sent there to get a sick man well again, and to supply his place while he was mending?”

  “You’ll come again if there’s news?” said Edwin, and if his voice was resolutely steady, his eyes were anxious.

  “I’ll come again when there’s news.”

  “You’ll be in Rhydycroesau some days yet?” asked Ifor ap Morgan. “Then we shall see you again at more leisure, I trust.”

  He was leading the way to the door to speed his guest, his hand again possessive on Edwin’s shoulder, when he halted suddenly, stiffening, and with the other hand, outstretched with spread fingers, halted them, too, and enjoined silence. Age had not dulled those ancient ears; he was the first to catch the muted sound of voices. Not muted by distance, close and deliberately quiet. The dry grass rustled. In the edge of the trees one of the tethered horses whinnied enquiringly, giving notice of other horses approaching.

  “Not Welsh!” said Ifor in a soundless whisper. “English! Edwin, go into the other room.”

  The boy obeyed instantly and silently; but in a moment he was back, shadowy in the doorway. “They’re there—two, outside the window. In leather, armed …”

  The voices had drawn nearer, outside the house-door, their whispers grew louder, satisfied, abandoning stealth.

  “That’s the pied beast … no mistaking it!”

  “What did I tell you? I said if we found the one we’d find the other.”

  Someone laughed, low and contentedly. Then abruptly a fist thudded at the door, and the same voice called aloud, peremptorily: “Open to the law!” The formality was followed up immediately by a strong thrust, hurling the door inwards to the wall, and the doorway was filled by the burly figure of the bearded sergeant from Shrewsbury, with two men-at-arms at his back. Brother Cadfael and William Warden confronted each other at a distance of a couple of feet; mutual recognition made the one bristle and the other grin.

  “Well met, Brother Cadfael! And sorry I am I have no writ for you, but my business is with the young man behind you. I’m addressed to Edwin Gurney. And you, I think, my lad, are he?”

  Edwin came forward a step from the inner doorway, pale as his shirt and huge-eyed, but with a chin jutting valiantly, and a stare like a levelled lance. He had learned a great deal in his few days here. “That is my name,” he said.

  “Then I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Gervase Bonel by poison, and I’m here to take you back in custody to answer the charge
in Shrewsbury.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Ifor ap Morgan drew himself up in a single long breath, seeming to grow half a head in the process, and stood forth to face his unexpected visitor.

  “Fellow,” he said in his deep voice, in itself a weapon, “I am the master of this house, and you have not, as yet, addressed yourself to me. There are visitors I invite, there are some I welcome, unexpected. You I do not know and have not invited, and you I do not welcome. Have the courtesy to make yourself known to me, if you have business with me or with others under my roof. Otherwise, leave this house.”

  It could not be said that the sergeant was abashed, since he was protected by his office from any personal humiliation; but he did make a shrewd appraisal of this venerable person, and abate what would otherwise have been a boldly abrasive manner. “I understand that you are Ifor ap Morgan. I am William Warden, a sergeant serving under Gilbert Prestcote, the sheriff of Shropshire, and I am in pursuit of Edwin Gurney on suspicion of murder. My commission is to bring him by. whatever means to Shrewsbury, where the charge stands, and that I shall do, as I am bound. You also, as an elder of this region, are bound by law.”

  “But not by English law,” said Ifor simply.

  “By law! Knowing murder for murder, by whatever law. Murder by poison, grandsire!”

  Brother Cadfael glanced once at Edwin, who stood motionless and pale, one hand advanced to take the old man pleadingly and comfortingly by the arm, but too much in awe and love of him to complete the gesture. Cadfael did it for him, laying a hand gently on the lean old wrist. For whatever was done and said now, they would take the boy with them. If there were three of them there, and two guarding the rear of the house, who was to stop them? And this was a self-assured, arrogant man, who might take petty revenges for past impudent reverses, but who would also have full regard for his own skin when dealing with a deputy sheriff of Beringar’s measure, who might unaccountably have strict scruples about the handling of prisoners. Better not alienate Warden unnecessarily, when a little sweet reasonableness might do more to protect Edwin.

  “Sergeant, you know me, and know I do not believe this boy has any guilt to answer for. But I know you, too, and know you have your duty to do. You must obey your orders, and we cannot stand in your way. Tell me, was it Hugh Beringar sent you here to look for me? For I’m sure I was not followed from Shrewsbury. What brought you to this house?”

  The sergeant was by no means averse to detailing his own cleverness. “No, we never thought to have you followed, brother, after you left us, for we thought you were bound back to your abbey., But when Hugh Beringar came back empty-handed from his follies down the river, and heard you’d been asking for him, he went down to the abbey after you, only to find you were gone north to Rhydycroesau. I bethought me then how close Bonel’s manor was, and took it upon me to bring a party up here to enquire what you were up to. The steward at the manor never questioned it when an officer from Shrewsbury came asking for Brother Cadfael. Why should he? Or his servants, either? They told us you’d been asking directions to a couple of houses this side the hills, and here at the second we’ve overtaken you. Where the one casts up, I said, the other won’t be far.”

  So no one had wittingly informed on the fugitive; that would be some compensatory good news for Ifor ap Morgan, who would have felt himself shamed and dishonoured for ever if one of his kin had betrayed the guest in his house. It was news of no less vital importance to Cadfael.

  “Then Hugh Beringar did not send you on this quest? ‘I took it upon me,’ you said. What’s he about, while you’re doing his work for him?”

  “He’s off on some more tomfoolery down the river. Madog of the Dead-boat sent up to him early this morning to come down to Atcham, and off he went as hopeful as ever, though nothing will come of it. So I took the chance of following my own notions, and a fine surprise he’ll get by this evening, when he comes back with nothing to show for his day, and finds I’ve brought him his prisoner.”

  That was reassuring, since he was clearly looking forward to the presentation of his prize, and pleased with his own success, therefore the less likely to find satisfaction in rough-handling the boy.

  “Edwin,” said Cadfael, “will you be guided now by me?”

  “I will,” said Edwin steadily.

  “Then go with them peaceably, and make no trouble. You know you have done no wrong, therefore you cannot be proven guilty, and on that you must take your stand. When you are delivered into the hand of Hugh Beringar, answer freely whatever he may ask of you, and tell him all the truth. 1 promise you, you will not be long in prison.” And God stand by me, he thought, and help me make that good! “If the boy gives you his pledge to go with you of his own will, sergeant, and attempt no escape, you surely need not bind him. It’s a long ride, and you’ll be pressing before the dark comes.”

  “He may have the use of his hands, and welcome,” said Warden indifferently, “seeing the two men I have outside are archers, and masters of their craft. If he tried to evade us he would not get many yards.”

  “I shall not try,” said Edwin firmly. “I give you my word. I’m ready!” He went to Ifor ap Morgan, and bent the knee to him reverently. “Grandfather, thank you for all your goodness. I know I’m not truly of your kinship—I wish I were!—but will you give me your kiss?”

  The old man took him by the shoulders, and stooped to kiss his cheek. “Go with God! And come again free!”

  Edwin took up his saddle and bridle from the corner where they were stowed, and marched out with his head up and his chin jutting, his attendants closing in on either side. In a few minutes the two left behind, gazing through the open door, saw the little cortčge form and move off, the sergeant ahead, the boy between two men-at-arms riding close, the archers behind. The day was already chilling, though the light had not yet dimmed. They would not reach Shrewsbury until after dark; a drear journey, and a stony cell in Shrewsbury castle at the end of it. But please God, not for long. Two or three days, if all went well. But well for whom?

  “What am I to tell my grandson Meurig,” said the old man sadly, “when he returns, and finds I have let his guest be taken?”

  Cadfael closed the door upon the last glimpse of Edwin’s brown head and slight figure; well grown as he was, he looked very small and young between his brawny guards.

  “Tell Meurig,” he said after heavy thought, “that he need have no fears for Edwin, for in the end truth will out, and the truth will deliver him.”

  He had one day of inactivity left to live through now, and since there was nothing he could do of use to Edwin’s cause in that time, it behoved him at least to try to turn the waiting time into a day of grace by some other means. Brother Barnabas, heartily convalescent, could at least be persuaded to forbear from the heavier work and keep the warmth of the house for a little longer. Brother Simon could take his own day of rest, all the more since on the morrow Cadfael would again be absent. Moreover, they could observe together all the -main offices of the day, as if they had been home in the abbey of St. Peter. The patient recital of the proper forms must surely in itself be regarded as prayer.

  There was time for thought all that day, while he scattered grain for the hens, milked the cow, groomed the old bay horse, and moved the sheep to a fresh hill-pasture. Edwin was lodged in his prison by now, though only, Cadfael hoped, after a long and calming interview with Hugh Beringar. Had Martin Bellecote yet heard that he was taken? Did Edwy know that his decoy ride had been all for nothing? And Richildis … Had Beringar seen it as his duty to visit her and tell her of her son’s capture? It would be done as courteously and kindly as possible, but there was no way of allaying the pain and dread she would feel.

  But Cadfael was even more exercised in mind for the old man Ifor ap Morgan, left alone now after his brief experience of being trusted and revered by a creature fresh and young, like a vision of his own youth returning. The unruly vigour which had made Edwin rebel and wage war against Gervase Bonel had
all been charmed and tamed into willing duty and service by Ifor ap Morgan. We are all both the victims and the heirs of our fellow-men.

  “Tomorrow,” said Cadfael at supper, round the brazier hissing with resiny logs and giving forth a blue, weaving smoke as aromatic as his workshop at Shrewsbury, “I must set out very early.” The commote court would sit as soon as there was daylight, and hope to adjourn in time for all present to reach their homes before night. “I’ll try to be back to fold the sheep in the evening. You have not asked me where I go this time.”

  “No, brother,” agreed Simon mildly. “We’ve seen that you have much on your mind, and would not trouble you yet with questions. When you wish it, you will tell us what we need to know.”

  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.