Authors: Ellis Peters
“Is
that truth!” said Cadfael. “Then properly speaking Mallilie, for all it was
held by an Englishman, and has been three generations now, is rightly within
Wales?”
“As
Welsh as Snowdon,” said Brother Rhys, harking back to catch once again a spark
of his old patriotic fire. “And all the neighbours Welsh, and most of the
tenants. I was born just to the west of it, nearby the church of Llansilin,
which is the centre of the commote of Cynllaith. Welsh land from the beginning
of the world!”
Welsh
land! That could not be changed, merely because a Bonel in William Rufus’s
reign had pushed his way in and got a hold on some acres of it, and maintained
his grasp under the patronage of the earl of Chester ever since. Why did I
never think, wondered Cadfael, to enquire earlier where this troublous manor
lay? “And Cynllaith has properly appointed Welsh judges? Competent to deal
according to the code of Hywel Dda, not of Norman England?”
“Surely
it has! A sound commote court as there is in Wales! The Bonels in their time
have pleaded boundary cases, and suchlike, by whichever law best suited their
own purposes, Welsh or English, what matter, provided it brought them gain? But
the people like their Welsh code best, and the witness of neighbours, the
proper way to settle a dispute. The
just way!” said Brother
Rhys righteously, and wagged his old head at Cadfael. “What’s all this of law,
brother? Are you thinking of bringing suit yourself?” And he fell into a moist,
pink-gummed giggling at the thought.
“Not
I,” said Cadfael, rising, “but I fancy one that I know of may be thinking of
it.”
He
went out very thoughtfully, and in the great court the low winter sun came out
suddenly and flashed in his eyes, dazzling him for the second time.
Paradoxically, in this momentary blindness he could see his way clearly at
last.
HE
WOULD HAVE LIKED TO TURN ASIDE FROM THE WYLE to have a word with Martin
Bellecote and see for himself that the family were not being hounded, but he
did not do it, partly because he had a more urgent errand on his mind, partly
because he did not want to call attention to the house or the household. Hugh
Beringar was one man, of independent mind and a strong attachment to justice,
but the officers of the sheriffry of Shropshire were a very different matter,
looking for their lead rather to Gilbert Prestcote, understandably enough,
since Prestcote was King Stephen’s official representative in these parts; and
Prestcote’s justice would be sharper, shorter-sighted, content with a brisk and
tidy ending. Prestcote might be away in Westminster, Beringar might be
nominally in charge, but the sergeants and their men would still be proceeding
on their usual summary course, making for the most obvious quarry. If there was
a watch set on Bellecote’s shop, Cadfael had no intention of giving it any
provocation. If there was not, so much the better, Hugh’s orders had prevailed.
So
Cadfael paced demurely up the Wyle and past the Bellecote yard without a
glance, and on through the town. His way to the north-west lay over the bridge
that led towards Wales, but he passed that, too, and climbed the hill to the
High Cross; from that point the road descended slightly, to mount
again into the castle gatehouse.
King
Stephen’s garrison was in full possession since the summer siege, and the
watch, though vigilant, was assured and easy. Cadfael lighted down at the
approach, and led his mule up the causeway and into the shadow of the gate. The
guard waited for him placidly.
“Goodmorrow,
brother! What’s your will?”
“A
word with Hugh Beringar of Maesbury,” said Cadfael. “Tell him Brother Cadfael,
and I think he’ll spare me a short while of his time.”
“You’re
out of luck, brother, for the present while. Hugh Beringar is not here, and
likely won’t be till the light fails, for he’s off on some search down the
river with Madog of the Dead-boat.” That was news that heartened Cadfael as
suddenly as the news of Hugh’s absence had disheartened and dismayed him. He
might have done better, after all, to leave the vial with Brother Mark, who
could have paid a second visit after the first one had missed its mark. Of all
but Beringar here, Cadfael had his doubts, but now he was caught in a situation
he should have foreseen. Hugh had lost no time in setting the hunt in motion
after Edwin’s reliquary, and better still, was pursuing it himself instead of
leaving it to underlings. But long delay here to wait for him was impossible;
Brother Barnabas lay ill, and Cadfael had undertaken to go and care for him,
and the sooner he reached him the better. He pondered whether to entrust his
precious evidence to another, or keep it until he could deliver it to Beringar
in person. Edwin, after all, was somewhere at liberty yet, no immediate ill
could befall him.
“If
it’s the matter of the poisoning you’re here about,” said the guard helpfully,
“speak a word to the sergeant who’s left in charge here. I hear there’s been
strange goings-on down at the abbey. You’ll be glad when you’re left in quiet
again, and the rascal taken. Step in, brother, and I’ll tether your mule and
send to let William Warden know you’re here.”
Well,
no harm, at any rate, in taking a look at the law’s
surrogate
and judging accordingly. Cadfael waited in a stony anteroom within the
gatehouse, and let the object of his visit lie hidden in his scrip until he
made up his mind. But the first glimpse of the sergeant as he entered rendered
it virtually certain that the vial would remain in hiding. The same officer who
had first answered the prior’s summons to Bonel’s house, bearded, brawny,
hawk-beaked, self-assured and impatient of caution once his nose had found an
obvious trail. He knew Cadfael again just as promptly; large white teeth
flashed in a scornful grin in the bushy beard.
“You
again, brother? And still finding a dozen reasons why young Gurney must be
blameless, when all that’s wanting is a witness who stood by and watched him do
the deed? Come to throw some more dust in our eyes, I suppose, while the guilty
make off into Wales?”
“I
came,” said Brother Cadfael, not strictly truthfully, “to enquire whether
anything had yet come to light, concerning what I reported to Hugh Beringar
yesterday.”
“Nothing
has and nothing will. So it was you who set him off on this fool’s errand down
the river! I might have guessed it! A glib young rogue tells you a tall tale
like that, and you swallow it, and infect your betters into the bargain!
Wasteful nonsense! To spare men to row up and down Severn in the cold, after a
reliquary that never was! You have much to answer for, brother.”
“No
doubt I have,” agreed Cadfael equably. “So have we all, even you. But to exert
himself for truth and justice is Beringar’s duty, and so it is yours and mine,
and I do it as best I may, and forbear from snatching at what offers first and
easiest, and shutting my eyes to everything else in order to be rid of the
labour, and at ease again. Well, it seems I’ve troubled you for nothing. But
let Hugh Beringar know that I was here asking for him.”
He
eyed the sergeant closely at that, and doubted whether even that message would
be delivered. No, grave evidence that pointed the wrong way could not be left
with this man, who was so sure of his rightness he might bend even
circumstances and facts to match his opinions. No help for it, the
vial would have to go on to Rhydycroesau and wait its time, when
Brother Barnabas was restored, and back among his sheep.
“You
mean well, brother,” said William generously, “but you are far out of your
cloister in matters like these. Best leave them to those who have experience.”
Cadfael
took his leave without further protest, mounted his mule, and rode back through
the town to the foot of the hill, where the street turning off to the right led
him to the westward bridge. At least nothing was lost, and Beringar was
following up the lead he had given. It was time now to keep his mind on the
journey before him, and put aside the affairs of Richildis and her son until he
had done his best for Brother Barnabas.
The
road from Shrewsbury to Oswestry was one of the main highroads of the region,
and fairly well maintained. The old people, the Romans, had laid it long ago
when they ruled in Britain, and the same road ran south-eastward right to the
city of London, where King Stephen was now preparing to keep Christmas among
his lords, and Cardinal-bishop Alberic of Ostia was busy holding his legatine
council for the reform of the church, to the probable discomfiture of Abbot
Heribert. But here, riding in the opposite direction, the road ran straight and
wide, only a little overgrown with grass here and there, and encroached upon by
the wild verges, through fat farming country and woods to the town of Oswestry,
a distance of no more than eighteen miles. Cadfael took it at a brisk but
steady pace, to keep the mule content. Beyond the town it was but four miles to
the sheepfolds. In the distance, as he rode due west in the dimming light, the
hills of Wales rose blue and noble, the great rolling ridge of Berwyn melting
into a faintly misted sky.
He
came to the small, bare grange in a fold of the hills before dark. A low, solid
wooden hut housed the brothers, and beyond lay the much larger byres and
stables, where the sheep could be brought in from ice and snow, and beyond
again, climbing the gentle slopes, the long, complex grey
stone
walls of the field enclosures, where they grazed in this relatively mild
beginning of winter, and were fed roots and grain if ever stubble and grass
failed them. The hardiest were still out at liberty in the hills. Brother
Simon’s dog began to bark, pricking his ears to the neat hooves that hardly
made a sound in the thin turf of the ride.
Cadfael
lighted down at the door, and Simon came eagerly out to welcome him, a thin,
wiry, dishevelled brother, some forty years old but still distrait as a child
when anything went wrong with other than sheep. Sheep he knew as mothers know
their babes, but Brother Barnabas’s illness had utterly undone him. He clasped
Cadfael’s hands in his, and shook them and himself in his gratitude at no
longer being alone with his patient.
“He
has it hard, Cadfael, you hear the leaves of his heart rustling as he breathes,
like a man’s feet in the woods in autumn. I cannot break it with a sweat, I’ve
tried…”
“We’ll
try again,” said Cadfael comfortably, and went into the dark, timber-scented
hut before him. Within it was blessedly warm and dry; wood is the best of
armours against weather, where there’s small fear of fire, as in this solitude
there was none. A bare minimum of furnishing, yet enough; and within, in the
inner room, Brother Barnabas lay in his bed neither asleep nor awake, only
uneasily in between, rustling at every breath as Simon had said, his forehead
hot and dry, his eyes half-open and vacant. A big, massive man, all muscle and
bone, with reserves of fight in him that needed only a little guidance.
“You
go look to whatever you should be doing,” said Cadfael, unbuckling his scrip
and opening it on the foot of the bed, “and leave him to me.”
“Is
there anything you will need?” asked Simon anxiously.
“A
pan of water on the fire, out there, and a cloth, and a beaker ready, and
that’s all. If I want for more, I’ll find it.”
Blessedly,
he was taken at his word; Brother Simon had a childlike faith in all who
practised peculiar mysteries. Cadfael worked upon Brother Barnabas without
haste all the evening, by a single candle that Simon brought as the light died.
A hot
stone wrapped in Welsh flannel for the sick man’s feet,
a long and vigorous rub for chest and throat and ribs, down to the waist, with
an ointment of goose-grease impregnated with mustard and other heat-giving
herbs, and chest and throat then swathed in a strip of the same flannel, cool
cloths on the dry forehead, and a hot draught of wine mulled with spices and
borage and other febrifuge herbs. The potion went down patiently and steadily,
with eased breathing and relaxing sinews. The patient slept fitfully and
uneasily; but in the middle of the night the sweat broke like a storm of rain,
drenching the bed. The two attentive nurses lifted the patient, when the worst
was past, drew the blanket from under him and laid a fresh one, rolled him
close in another, and covered him warmly again.
“Go
and sleep,” said Cadfael, content, “for he does very well. By dawn he’ll be
wake and hungry.”
In
that he was out by some hours, for Brother Barnabas, once fallen into a deep
and troubled sleep, slept until almost noon the following day, when he awoke
clear-eyed and with quiet breathing, but weak as a new lamb.
“Never
trouble for that,” said Cadfael cheerfully. “Even if you were on your feet, we
should hardly let you out of here for a couple of days, or longer. You have
time in plenty, enjoy being idle. Two of us are enough to look after your flock
for you.”
Brother
Barnabas, again at ease in his body, was content to take him at his word, and
luxuriate in his convalescence. He ate, at first doubtfully, for savour had
left him in his fever, then, rediscovering the pleasures of taste, his appetite
sharpened into fierce hunger.
“The
best sign we could have,” said Cadfael. “A man who eats heartily and with
enjoyment is on his way back to health.” And they left the patient to sleep
again as thoroughly as he had eaten, and went out to the sheep, and the
chickens and the cow, and all the rest of the denizens of the fold.