Authors: Ellis Peters
Monk's Hood (25 page)
“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.”
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!”
“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. I 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 good
ness. 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 cortège 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.”