Authors: Ellis Peters
Monk's Hood (11 page)
Most
earnestly and vehemently the boy said: “I never raised hand against him. He
insulted me in front of my mother, and I hated him then, but I did not strike
him. I swear it on my soul!”
Even
the young, when bright in the wits and very much afraid, may exercise all
manner of guile to protect themselves, but Cadfael was prepared to swear there
was no deceit here. The boy really did not know how Bonel had been killed; that
could not have been reported to his family or cried in the streets, and murder,
most often, means the quick blow with steel in anger. He had accepted that
probability without question.
“Very
well! Now tell me your own story of what happened there today, and be sure I’m
listening.”
The
boy licked his lips and began. What he had to tell agreed with the account Richildis
had given; he had gone with Meurig, at his well-intentioned urging, to make his
peace
with Bonel for his mother’s sake. Yes, he had felt very
bitter and angry about being cheated out of his promised heritage, for he loved
Mallilie and had good friends there, and would have done his best to run it
well and fairly when it came to him; but also he was doing well enough at
learning his craft, and pride would not let him covet what he could not have,
or give satisfaction to the man who had taken back what he had pledged. But he
did care about his mother. So he went with Meurig.
“And
went with him first to the infirmary,” Cadfael mentioned helpfully, “to see his
old kinsman Rhys.”
The
boy was brought up short in surprise and uncertainty. It was then that Cadfael
got up, very gently and casually, from his seat by the brazier, and began to
prowl the workshop. The door, just ajar, did not noticeably draw him, but he
was well aware of the sliver of darkness and cold lancing in there.
“Yes…
I…”
“And
you had been there with him, had you not, once before, when you helped Meurig
bring down the lectern for our Lady Chapel.”
He
brightened, but his brow remained anxiously knotted. “Yes, the—yes, we did
bring that down together. But what has that…”
Cadfael
in his prowling had reached the door, and laid a hand to the latch, hunching
his shoulders, as though to close and fasten it, but as sharply plucked it wide
open on the night, and reached his free hand through, to fasten on a fistful of
thick, springy hair. A muted squeal of indignant outrage rewarded him, and the
creature without, abruptly scorning the flight shock had suggested to him,
reared upright and followed the fist into the workshop. It was, in its way, a
magnificent entrance, erect, with jutted jaw and blazing eyes, superbly
ignoring Cadfael’s clenched hold on his curls, which must have been painful.
A
slender, athletic, affronted young person the image of the first, only,
perhaps, somewhat darker and fiercer, because more frightened, and more
outraged by his fear.
The
second boy was cloakless like the first, and shivering lightly with cold. He
came to the bench by the brazier gladly, rubbing numbed hands, and sat down
submissively beside his fellow. Thus cheek to cheek they were seen to share a
very strong family likeness, in which Cadfael could trace subtle recollections
of the young Richildis, but they were not so like as to give rise to any
confusion when seen together. To encounter one alone might present a problem of
identification, however.
“So,
as I thought,” observed Cadfael, “Edwy has been playing Edwin for my benefit,
so that Edwin could stay out of the trap, if trap it turned out to be, and not
reveal himself until he was certain I had no intention of making him prisoner
and handing him over to the sheriff. And Edwy was well primed, too…”
“And
still made a hash of it,” commented Edwin, with candid and tolerant scorn.
“I
did not!” retorted Edwy heatedly. “You never told me more than half a tale.
What was I supposed to answer when Brother Cadfael asked me about going to the
infirmary this morning? Never a word you said about that.”
“Why
should I? I never gave it a thought, what difference could it make? And you did
make a hash of it. I heard you start to say grandmother instead of mother—yes,
and they
instead of we. And so did Brother Cadfael, or how did
he guess I was listening outside?”
“He
heard you, of course! Blowing like a wheezy old man—and shivering,” added Edwy
for good measure.
There
was no ill-will whatever in these exchanges, they were the normal endearments
current between these two, who would certainly have championed each other to
the death against any outside threat. There was no malice in it when Edwin
punched his nephew neatly and painfully in the muscles of the upper arm, and
Edwy as promptly plucked Edwin round by the shoulder while he was less securely
balanced, and spilled him on to the floor. Cadfael took them both by the scruff
of the neck, a fistful of capuchon in either hand, and plumped them back firmly
on to the beach, a yard apart this time, rather in defence of his softly
bubbling syrup than in any very serious exasperation. The brief scuffle had
warmed them, and shaken fear away to a magical distance; they sat grinning,
only slightly abashed.
“Will
you sit still a minute, and let me get the measure of you? You, Edwin, are the
uncle, and the younger… yes, I could know you apart. You’re darker, and
sturdier in the build, and I think your eyes must be brown. And Edwy’s…”
“Hazel,”
said Edwin helpfully.
“And
you have a small scar by your ear, close to the cheekbone. A small white
crescent.”
“He
fell out of a tree, three years ago,” Edwy informed him. “He never could
climb.”
“Now,
enough of that! Master Edwin, now that you are here, and I know which one you
are, let me ask you the same question I asked your proxy here a while ago. On
your soul and honour, did you strike the blow that killed Master Bonel?”
The
boy looked back at him with great eyes suddenly solemn enough, and said firmly:
“I did not. I carry no weapon, and even if I did, why should I try to harm him?
I know what they must be saying of me, that I grudged it that he broke his
word, for so he did. But I was not born to manor, but to trade, and I can make my
way in trade, I would
be ashamed if I could not. No, whoever
wounded him to the death—but how could it happen, so suddenly?—it was not I. On
my soul!”
Cadfael
was in very little doubt of him by then, but he gave no sign yet. “Tell me what
did happen.”
“I
left Meurig in the infirmary with the old man, and went on to my mother’s house
alone. But I don’t understand about the infirmary. Is that important?”
“Never
mind that now, go on. How were you welcomed?”
“My
mother was pleased,” said the boy. “But my stepfather crowed over me like a
cock that’s won its bout. I answered him as little as I might, and bore it for
my mother’s sake, and that angered him more, so that he would find some way to
sting me. We were three sitting at table, and Aldith had served the meat, and
she told him the prior had paid him the compliment of sending a dish for him
from his own table. My mother tried to talk about that, and flatter him with
the distinction of it, but he wanted me to burn and smart at all costs, and he
wouldn’t be put off. He said I’d come, as he knew I would, my tail between my
legs, like a whipped hound, to beg him to change his mind and restore me my
inheritance, and he said if I wanted it, I should kneel and beg him, and he
might take pity on me. And I lost my temper, for all I could do, and shouted
back at him that I’d see him dead before I’d so much as once ask him a favour,
let alone crawl on my knees. I don’t know now all I said, but he began throwing
things, and… and my mother was crying, and I rushed out, and straight back over
the bridge and into the town.”
“But
not to Master Bellecote’s house. And did you hear Aelfric calling after you as
far as the bridge, to fetch you back?”
“Yes,
but what would have been the use? It would only have made things worse.”
“But
you did not go home.”
“I
was not fit. And I was ashamed.”
“He
went to brood in Father’s wood-store by the river,”
said Edwy
helpfully. “He always does when he’s out of sorts with the world. Or if we’re
in trouble, we hide there until it’s blown over, or at least past the worst.
That’s where I found him. When the sheriff’s sergeant came to the shop, and
said they wanted him, and his stepfather was murdered, I knew where to look for
him. Not that I ever supposed he’d done any wrong,” stated Edwy firmly, “though
he can make a great fool of himself sometimes. But I knew something bad must
have happened to him. So I went to warn him, and of course he knew nothing
whatever about the murder, he’d left the man alive and well, only in a rage.”
“And
you’ve both been hiding since then? You’ve not been home?”
“He
couldn’t, could he? They’ll be watching for him. And I had to stay with him. We
had to leave the woodyard, we knew they’d come there. But there are places we
know of. And then Alys came and told us about you.”
“And
that’s the whole truth,” said Edwin. “And now what are we to do?”
“First,”
said Cadfael, “let me get this brew of mine off the fire, and stand it to cool
before I bottle it. There! You got in here, I suppose, by the parish door of
the church, and through the cloisters?” The west door of the abbey church was
outside the walls, and never closed except during the bad days of the siege of
the town, that part of the church being parochial. “And followed your noses, I
daresay, once you were in the gardens. This syrup-boiling gives off a powerful
odour.”
“It
smells good,” said Edwy, and his respectful stare ranged the workshop, and the
bunches and bags of dried herbs stirring and rustling gently in the rising heat
from the brazier.
“Not
all my medicines smell so appetising. Though myself I would not call even this
unpleasant. Powerful, certainly, but a fine, clean smell.” He unstoppered the
great jar of anointing oil of monk’s-hood, and tilted the neck beneath Edwin’s
inquisitive nose. The boy blinked at the sharp scent, drew back his head, and
sneezed. He looked up at Cadfael
with an open face, and laughed
at his own pricked tears. Then he leaned cautiously and inhaled again, and
frowned thoughtfully.
“It
smells like that stuff Meurig was using to rub the old man’s shoulder. Not this
morning, the last time I came with him. There was a flask of it in the
infirmary cupboard. Is it the same?”
“It
is,” said Cadfael, and hoisted the jar back to its shelf. The boy’s face was
quite serene, the odour meant nothing more to him than a memory blessedly
removed from any connection with tragedy and guilt. For Edwin, Gervase Bonel
had died, inexplicably suddenly, of some armed attack, and the only guilt he
felt was because he had lost his temper, infringed his own youthful dignity,
and made his mother cry. Cadfael no longer had any doubts at all. The child was
honest as the day, and caught in a deadly situation, and above all, badly in
need of friends.
He
was also very quick and alert of mind. The diversion began to trouble him just
as it was over. “Brother Cadfael…” he began hesitantly, the name new and almost
reverent on his lips, not for this elderly and ordinary monk, but for the
crusader Cadfael he had once been, fondly remembered even by a happy and
fulfilled wife and mother, who had certainly much exaggerated his good looks,
gallantry and daring. “You knew about my going to the infirmary with Meurig…
you asked Edwy about it. I couldn’t understand why. Is it important? Has it
something to do with my stepfather’s death? I can’t see how.”
“That
you can’t see how, child,” said Brother Cadfael, “is your proof of an innocence
we may have difficulty in proving to others, though I accept it absolutely. Sit
down again by your nephew—dear God, shall I ever get these relationships
straight?—and refrain from fighting him for a little while, till I explain to
you what isn’t yet public knowledge outside these walls. Yes, your two visits
to the infirmary are truly of great importance, and so is this oil you have
seen used there, though I must say that many others know of it, and are better
acquainted than you with its properties, both
bad and good. You
must forgive me if I gave you to understand that Master Bonel was hacked down
in his blood with dagger or sword. And forgive me you should, since in
accepting that tale you quite delivered yourselves from any guilt, at least to
my satisfaction. It was not so, boys. Master Bonel died of poison, given in the
dish the prior sent him, and the poison was this same oil of monk’s-hood.
Whoever added it to the partridge drew it either from this workshop or from the
flask in the infirmary, and all who knew of either source, and knew the peril
if it was swallowed, are in suspicion.”