A Morbid Taste For Bones bc-1

by Ellis Peters

  “Yes,” she said, “I still wish it.” If he had spoken the whole truth, and she was persuaded that he had, it was well that he should take his appeal to Rhisiart, in a form every man there would acknowledge. In otherworldly justice the body would clear him of the evil he had not committed, now that confession was made of what he had.

  Peredur went forward steadily enough now, sank to his knees beside Rhisiart’s body, and laid first his hand, and then Sioned’s cross, upon the heart he had pierced, and no gush of blood sprang at his touch. And if there was one thing certain, it was that here was a man who did believe. He hesitated a moment, still kneeling, and then, feeling a need rather to give thanks for this acceptance than to make any late and unfitting display of affection, stooped and kissed the right hand that lay quiet over the left on Rhisiart’s breast, their clasped shape showing through the close shroud. That done, he rose and went firmly away by the downhill path towards his father’s house. The people parted to let him through in a great silence, and Cadwallon, starting out of a trance of unbelieving misery, lurched forward in haste and went trotting after his son.

  Chapter Nine

  The evening was drawing in by the time they had buried Rhisiart, and it was too late for Prior Robert and his companions to take their prize and leave at once for home, even if it had been a seemly thing to do, after all that had happened. Some ceremony was due to the community the saint was leaving, and the houses that had offered hospitality freely even to those who came to rob them.

  “We will stay this night over, and sing Vespers and Compline in the church with you, and give due thanks,” said the prior. “And after Compline one of us will again watch the night through with Saint Winifred, as is only proper. And should the prince’s bailiff require that we stay longer, we will do as he asks. For there is still the matter of Brother John, who stands in contempt of the law, to our disgrace.”

  “At present,” said Father Huw deprecatingly, “the bailiff is giving his attention to the case of Rhisiart’s murder. For though we have suffered many revelations in that matter, you see that we are no nearer knowing who is guilty. What we have seen today is one man who certainly is innocent of the crime, whatever his other sins may be.”

  “I fear,” said Prior Robert with unwonted humility, “that without ill intent we have caused you great grief and trouble here, and for that I am sorry. And greatly sorry for the parents of that sinful young man, who are suffering, I think, far worse than he, and without blame.”

  “I am going to them now,” said Huw. “Will you go on ahead, Father Prior, and sing Vespers for me? For I may be delayed some time. I must do what I can for this troubled household.”

  The people of Gwytherin had begun to drift away silently by many paths, vanishing into the woods to spread the news of the day’s happening to the far corners of the parish. In the long grass of the graveyard, trampled now by many feet, the dark, raw shape of Rhisiart’s grave made a great scar, and two of his men were filling in the earth over him. It was finished. Sioned turned towards the gate, and all the rest of her people followed.

  Cadfael fell in beside her as the subdued, straggling procession made its way home towards the village.

  “Well,” he said resignedly, “it was worth trying. And we can’t say it got us nothing. At least we know now who committed the lesser crime, if we’re very little nearer knowing who committed the greater. And we know why there were two, for they made no sense, being one and the same. And at any rate, we have shaken the devil off that boy’s back. Are you quite revolted at what he did? As he is?”

  “Strangely,” said Sioned, “I don’t believe I am. I was too sick with horror, that short time while I thought him the murderer. After that, it was simple relief that he was not. He has never gone short of anything he wanted, you see, until he wanted me.”

  “It was a real wanting,” said Brother Cadfael, remembering long-past hungers of his own. “I doubt if he’ll ever quite get over it, though I’m pretty sure he’ll make a sound marriage, and get handsome children like himself, and be fairly content. He grew up today, she won’t be disappointed, whoever she may be. But she’ll never be Sioned.”

  Her tired, woeful, discouraged face had softened and warmed, and suddenly she was smiling beside him, faintly but reassuringly. “You are a good man. You have a way of reconciling people. But no need! Do you think I did not see how he dragged himself painfully to this afternoon’s business, and has gone striding away with his head up to embrace his punishment? I might really have loved him a little, if there had been no Engelard. But only a little! He may do better than that.”

  “You are a fine girl,” said Brother Cadfael heartily. “If I had met you when I was thirty years younger, I should have made Engelard sweat for his prize. Peredur should be thankful even for such a sister. But we’re no nearer knowing what we want and need to know.”

  “And have we any more shafts left to loose?” she asked ruefully. “Any more snares to set? At least we’ve freed the poor soul we caught in the last one.”

  He was silent, glumly thinking.

  “And tomorrow,” she said sadly, “Prior Robert will take his saint and all his brothers, and you with them, and set out for home, and I shall be left with nobody to turn to here. Father Huw is as near a saint himself, in his small, confused way, as ever Winifred was, but no use to me. And Uncle Meurice is a gentle creature who knows about running a manor, but nothing about anything else, and wants no trouble and no exertion. And Engelard must go on hiding, as well you know. Peredur’s plot against him is quite empty now, we all know it. But does that prove he did not kill my father, after a raging quarrel?”

  “In the back?” said Cadfael, unguardedly indignant.

  She smiled. “All that proves is that you know him! Not everyone does. Some will be saying at this moment, perhaps, after all… that Peredur may have been right without even knowing it.”

  He thought about it and was dismayed, for no question but she was right. What, indeed, did it prove if another man had wished to burden him with the guilt? Certainly not that the guilt was not his. Brother Cadfael confronted his own voluntarily assumed responsibility, and braced himself to cope with it.

  “There is also Brother John to be considered,” said

  Sioned. It may well be that Annest, walking behind, had prodded her.

  “I have not forgotten Brother John,” agreed Cadfael.

  “But I think the bailiff well may have done. He would shut his eyes or look the other way, if Brother John left for Shrewsbury with the rest of you. He has troubles enough here, what does he want with alien trouble?”

  “And if Brother John should seem to him to have left for Shrewsbury, he would be satisfied? And ask no questions about one more outlander taken up by a patron here?”

  “I always knew you were quick,” said Sioned, brown and bright and animated, almost herself again. “But would Prior Robert pursue him still, when he hears he’s gone from custody? I don’t see him as a forgiving man.”

  “No, nor he is, but how would he set about it? The Benedictine order has no real hold in Wales. No, I think he’d let it ride, now he has what he came for. I’m more concerned for Engelard. Give me this one more night, child, and do this for me! Send your people home, and stay the night over with Annest at Bened’s croft, and if God aids me with some new thought — for never forget God is far more deeply offended even than you or I by this great wrong! — I’ll come to you there.”

  “We’ll do that,” said Sioned. “And you’ll surely come.”

  They had slowed to let the cortege move well ahead of them, so that they could talk freely. They were approaching the gatehouse of Cadwallon’s holding, and Prior Robert and his companions were far in front and had passed by the gate, bent upon singing Vespers in good time. Father Huw, issuing forth in haste and agitation in search of help, seemed relieved rather than dismayed to find only Cadfael within call. The presence of Sioned checked him to a decent walk and a measured tone, but did nothi
ng to subdue the effect of his erected hair and frantic mien.

  “Brother Cadfael, will you spare some minutes for this afflicted household? You have some skills with medicines, you may be able to advise….”

  “His mother!” whispered Sioned in immediate reassurance. “She weeps herself into a frenzy at everything that crosses her. I knew this would set her off. Poor Peredur, he has his penance already! Shall I come?”

  “Better not,” he said softly, and moved to meet Father Huw. Sioned was, after all, the innocent cause of Peredur’s fall from grace, she would probably be the last person calculated to calm his mother’s anguish. And Sioned understood him so, and went on, and left the matter to him, so calmly that it was clear she expected no tragic results from the present uproar. She had known Cadwallon’s wife all her life, no doubt she had learned to treat her ups and downs as philosophically as Cadfael did Brother Columbanus’ ecstasies and excesses. He never really hurt himself in his throes, either!

  “Dame Branwen is in such a taking,” fluttered Father Huw distractedly, steering Cadfael in haste towards the open door of the hall. “I fear for her wits. I’ve seen her upset before, and hard enough to pacify, but now, her only child, and such a shock…. Really, she may do herself an injury if we cannot quiet her.”

  Dame Branwen was indeed audible before they even entered the small room where husband and son were trying to soothe her, against a tide of vociferous weeping and lamentation that all but deafened them. The lady, fat and fair and outwardly fashioned only for comfortable, shallow placidity, half-sat, half-lay on a couch, throwing her substantial person about in extravagant distress, now covering her silly, fond face, now throwing her arms abroad in sweeping gestures of desolation and despair, but never for one moment ceasing to bellow her sorrow and shame. The tears that flowed freely down her round cheeks and the shattering sobs that racked her hardly seemed to impede the flow of words that poured out of her like heavy rain.

  Cadwallon on one side and Peredur on the other stroked and patted and comforted in vain. As often as the father tried to assert himself she turned on him with wild reproaches, crying that he had no faith in his own son, or he could never have believed such a terrible thing of him, that the boy was bewitched, under some spell that forced false confession out of him, that he ought to have stood up for him before everybody and prevented the tale from being accepted so lightly, for somewhere there was witchcraft in it. As often as Peredur tried to convince her he had told the truth, that he was willing to make amends, and she must accept his word, she rounded on him with fresh outbursts of tears, screaming that her own son had brought dreadful disgrace upon himself and her, that she wondered he dare come near her, that she would never be able to lift up her head again, that he was a monster….

  As for poor Father Huw, when he tried to assert his spiritual authority and order her to submit to the force of truth and accept her son’s act with humility, as Peredur himself had done in making full confession and offering full submission, she cried out that she had been a God-fearing and law-abiding woman all her life, and done everything to bring up her child in the same way, and she could not now accept his guilt as reflecting upon her.

  “Mother,” said Peredur, haggard and sweating worse than when he faced Rhisiart’s body, “nobody blames you, and nobody will. What I did I did, and it’s I who must abide the consequence, not you. There isn’t a woman in Gwytherin won’t feel for you.”

  At that she let out a great wail of grief, and flung her arms about him, and swore that he should not suffer any grim penalties, that he was her own boy, and she would protect him. And when he extricated himself with fading patience, she screamed that he meant to kill her, the unfeeling wretch, and went off into peals of ear-piercing, sobbing laughter.

  Brother Cadfael took Peredur firmly by the sleeve, and hauled him away to the back of the room. “Show a little sense, lad, and take yourself out of her sight, you’re fuel to her fire. If nobody marked her at all she’d have stopped long ago, but now she’s got herself into this state she’s past doing that of her own accord. Did our two brothers stop in here, do you know, or go on with the prior?”

  Peredur was shaking and tired out, but responded hopefully to this matter-of-fact treatment. “They’ve not been here, or I should have seen them. They must have gone on to the church.”

  Naturally, neither Columbanus nor Jerome would dream of absenting himself from Vespers on such a momentous day.

  “Never mind, you can show me where they lodge. Columbanus brought some of my poppy syrup with him, in case of need, the phial should be there with his scrip, he’d hardly have it on him. And as far as I know, he’s had no occasion to use it, his cantrips here in Wales have been of a quieter kind. We can find a use for it now.”

  “What does it do?” asked Peredur, wide-eyed.

  “It soothes the passions and kills pain — either of the body or the spirit.”

  “I could use some of that myself,” said Peredur with a wry smile, and led the way out to one of the small huts that lined the stockade. The guests from Shrewsbury had been given the best lodging the house afforded, with two low brychans, and a small chest, with a rush lamp for light. Their few necessaries occupied almost no space, but each had a leather scrip to hold them, and both of these dangled from a nail in the timber wall. Brother Cadfael opened first one, and then the other, and in the second found what he was seeking.

  He drew it out and held it up to the light, a small phial of greenish glass. Even before he saw the line of liquid in it, its light weight had caused him to check and wonder. Instead of being full to the stopper with the thick, sweet syrup, the bottle was three-quarters empty.

  Brother Cadfael stood stock-still for a moment with the phial in his hand, staring at it in silence. Certainly Columbanus might at some time have felt the need to forestall some threatening spiritual disturbance but Cadfael could recall no occasion when he had said any word to that effect, or shown any sign of the rosy, reassuring calm the poppies could bring. There was enough gone from the bottle to restore serenity three times over, enough to put a man to sleep for hours. And now that he came to think back, there had been at least one occasion when a man had slept away hours of the day, instead of keeping the watch he was set to keep. The day of Rhisiart’s death Columbanus had failed of his duty, and confessed as much with heartfelt penitence. Columbanus, who had the syrup in his possession, and knew its use….

  “What must we do?” asked Peredur, uneasy in the silence. “If it tastes unpleasant you’ll have trouble getting her to drink it.”

  “It tastes sweet.” But there was not very much of it left, a little reinforcement with something else soothing and pleasant might be necessary. “Go and get a cup of strong wine, and we’ll see how that goes down.”

  They had taken with them a measure of wine that day, he remembered, the ration for the two of them, when they set off for the chapel. Columbanus had drawn and carried it. And a bottle of water for himself, since he had made an act of piety of renouncing wine until their mission was accomplished. Jerome had done well, getting a double ration.

  Brother Cadfael stirred himself out of his furious thoughts to deal with the immediate need. Peredur hurried to do his bidding, but brought mead instead of wine.

  “She’s more likely to drink it down before she minks to be obstinate, for she likes it better. And it’s stronger.”

  “Good!” said Cadfael. “It will hide the syrup better. And now, go somewhere quiet, and harden your heart and stop your ears and stay out of her sight, for it’s the best thing you can do for her, and God knows the best for yourself, after such a day. And leave agonising too much over your sins, black as they are, there isn’t a confessor in the land who hasn’t heard worse and never turned a hair. It’s a kind of arrogance to be so certain you’re past redemption.”

  The sweet, cloying drink swirled in the cup, the syrup unwinding into it in a long spiral that slowly melted and vanished. Peredur with shadowy eyes watched and was
silent.

  After a moment he said, very low: “It’s strange! I never could have done so shabbily by anyone I hated.”

  “Not strange at all,” said Cadfael bluntly, stirring his potion. “When harried, we go as far as we dare, and with those we’re sure of we dare go very far, knowing where forgiveness is certain.”

  Peredur bit his lip until it was biddable. “Is it certain?”

  “As tomorrow’s daylight, child! And now be off out of my way, and stop asking fool questions. Father Huw will have no time for you today, there’s more important business waiting.”

  Peredur went like a docile child, startled and comforted, and wherever he hid himself, he did it effectively, for Cadfael saw no more of him that evening. He was a good lad at heart, and this wild lunge of his into envy and meanness had brought him up short against an image of himself that he did not like at all. Whatever prayers Huw set him by way of penance were likely to hit heaven with the irresistible fervour of thunderbolts, and whatever hard labour he was given, the result was likely to stand solid as oak and last for ever.

  Cadfael took his draught, and went back to where Dame Branwen was still heaving and quivering with uncontrollable sobs, by this time in genuine distress, exhausted by her efforts but unable to end them. He took advantage of her sheer weariness to present the cup to her as soon as he reached her side, and with abrupt authority that acted on her before she could muster the fibre of stubbornness.

  “Drink this!” And automatically she drank it, half of it going down out of pure surprise, the second half because the first had taught her how dry and sore her throat was from all its exertions, and how smooth was the texture and how sweet the taste of this brew. The very act of swallowing it broke the frightening rhythm of the huge sighs that had convulsed her almost worse than the sobbing. Father Huw had time to mop his brow with a fold of his sleeve before she was able to resume her complaints. Even then, by comparison with what had gone before, they sounded half-hearted.