Monk's Hood

CHAPTER 4

Brother Denis the hospitaller, who always had all the news of the town from the wayfarers who came to the guest-hall, reported on the way to Vespers that the story of Bonel’s death and the hunt for his stepson was all over Shrewsbury, and the sheriff’s sergeant had drawn a blank at Martin Bellecote’s shop. A thorough search of the premises had turned up no trace of the boy, and the sergeant was having him cried through the streets; but if the populace joined in the hunt with no more than their usual zeal for the sheriff’s law, it was likely the crier would be wasting his breath. A boy not yet fifteen, and known to a great many of the town, and with nothing against him but a bit of riotous mischief now and then … no, they were not likely to give up their night’s sleep to help in his capture.

The first necessity, it seemed to Cadfael no less than to the sergeant, was to find the boy. Mothers are partial, especially towards only sons, late sons conceived after hope of a son has faded. Cadfael felt a strong desire to see and hear and judge for himself before he made any other move in the matter.

Richildis, relieved by her fit of weeping, had told him where to find her son-in-law’s shop and house, and it fell blessedly at the near end of the town. A short walk past the millpond, over the bridge, in through the town gates, which would be open until after Compline, and it was but a couple of minutes up the steep, curving Wyle to Bellecote’s premises. Half an hour to go and return. After supper, and a quick supper at that, he would slip away, cutting out Collations—safe enough, for Prior Robert would absent himself on principle, standing on his privacy as abbot-designate, and leaving the mundane direction of the house to Brother Richard, who certainly would not meddle where it might cost him effort.

Supper was salt fish and pulse, and Cadfael disposed of it with scant attention, and made off across the great court in haste, and out at the gates. The air was chill, but as yet barely on the edge of frost, and there had been no snow at all so far. All the same, he had muffled his sandalled feet in well-wound strips of wool, and drawn his hood close.

The town porters saluted him respectfully and cheerfully, knowing him well. The right-hand curve of the Wyle drew him upward, and he turned off, again to the right, into the open yard under the eaves of Bellecote’s house. After his knock at the closed door there was a longish silence, and that he could well understand, and forbore from knocking again. Clamour would only have alarmed them. Patience might reassure.

The door opened cautiously on a demure young person of about eleven years, erect and splendidly on guard for a troubled household at her back; all of whom, surely, were stretching sharp ears somewhere there beyond. She was bright, well primed and vulnerable; she saw the black Benedictine habit, drew deep breath, and smiled.

“I’m come from Mistress Bonel,” said Cadfael, “with a word to your father, child, if he’ll admit me. There’s none else here, never fear.”

She opened the door with a matron’s dignity, and let him in. The eight-year-old Thomas and the four-year-old Diota, naturally the most fearless creatures in the house, erupted round her skirts to examine him with round, candid eyes, even before Martin Bellecote himself appeared from a half-lit doorway within, and drew the younger children one either side of him, his hands spread protectively round their shoulders. A pleasant, square-built, large-handed man with a wide, wholesome face, and a deep reserve in his eyes, which Cadfael was glad to see. Too much trust is folly, in an imperfect world.

“Step in, brother,” said Martin, “and, Alys, do you close and bar the door.”

“Forgive me if I’m brisk,” said Cadfael as the door was closed behind him, “but time’s short. They came looking for a lad here today, and I’m told they did not find him.”

“That’s truth,” said Martin. “He never came home.”

“I don’t ask you where he is. Tell me nothing. But I do ask you, who know him, is it possible he can have done what they are urging against him?”

Bellecote’s wife came through from the inner room, a candle in her hand. A woman like enough to be known for her mother’s daughter, but softer and rounder and fairer in colouring, though with the same honest eyes. She said with indignant conviction: “Rankly impossible! If ever there was a creature in the world who made his feelings known, and did all his deeds in the daylight, that’s my brother. From an imp just crawling, if he had a grievance everyone within a mile round knew it, but grudges he never bore. And my lad’s just such another.”

Yes, of course, there was the as yet unseen Edwy, to match the elusive Edwin. No sign of either of them here.

“You must be Sibil,” said Cadfael. “I’ve been lately with your mother. And for my credentials—did ever you hear her speak of one Cadfael, whom she used to know when she was a girl?”

The light from the candle was reflected pleasingly in eyes suddenly grown round and bright with astonishment and candid curiosity. “You are Cadfael? Yes, many a time she talked of you, and wondered …” She viewed his black habit and cowl, and her smile faded into a look of delicate sympathy. Of course! She was reflecting, woman-like, that he must have been heartbroken at coming home from the holy wars to find his old love married, or he would never have taken these bleak vows. No use telling her that vocations strike from heaven like random arrows of God, by no means all because of unrequited love. “Oh, it must be comfort to her,” said Sibil warmly, “to find you near her again, at this terrible pass. You she would trust!”

“I hope she does,” said Cadfael, gravely enough. “I know she may. I came only to let you know that I am there to be used, as she already knows. The specific that was used to kill was of my making, and that is something that involves me in this matter. Therefore I am friend to any who may fall suspect unjustly. I will do what I can to uncover the guilty. Should you, or anyone, have reason to speak with me, anything to tell me, anything to ask of me, I am usually to be found between offices in the workshop in the herb-gardens, where I shall be tonight until I go to Matins at midnight. Your journeyman Meurig knows the abbey grounds, if he has not been to my hut. He is here?”

“He is,” said Martin. “He sleeps in the loft across the yard. He has told us what passed at the abbey. But I give you my word, neither he nor we have set eyes on the boy since he ran from his mother’s house. What we know, past doubt, is that he is no murderer, and never could be.”

“Then sleep easy,” said Cadfael, “for God is awake. And now let me out again softly, Alys, and bar the door after me, for I must hurry back for Compline.”

The young girl, great-eyed, drew back the bolt and held the door. The little ones stood with spread feet, sturdily staring him out of the house, but without fear or hostility. The parents said never a word but their still: “Good night!” but he knew, as he hastened down the Wyle, that his message had been heard and understood, and that it was welcome, here in this beleaguered household.

“Even if you are desperate to have a fresh brew of cough syrup boiled up before tomorrow,” said Brother Mark reasonably, coming out from Compline at Cadfael’s side, “is there any reason why I should not do it for you? Is there any need for you, after the day you’ve had, to be stravaiging around the gardens all night, into the bargain? Or do you think I’ve forgotten where we keep mullein, and sweet cicely, and rue, and rosemary, and hedge mustard?” The recital of ingredients was part of the argument. This young man was developing a somewhat possessive sense of responsibility for his elder.

“You’re young,” said Brother Cadfael, “and need your sleep.”

“I forbear,” said Brother Mark cautiously, “from making the obvious rejoinder.”

“I think you’d better. Very well, then, you have signs of a cold, and should go to your bed.”

“I have not,” Brother Mark disagreed firmly. “But if you mean that you have some work on hand that you’d rather I did not know about, very well, I’ll go to the warming-room like a sensible fellow, and then to bed.”

“What you know nothing about can’t be charged against you,” said Brother Cadfael, conciliatory.

“Well, then, is there anything I can be doing for you in blessed ignorance? I was bidden to be obedient to you, when they sent me to work under you in the garden.”

“Yes,” said Cadfael. “You can secure me a habit much your own size, and slip it into my cell and out of sight under my bed before you sleep. It may not be needed, but …”

“Enough!” Brother Mark was cheerful and unquestioning, though that did not prove he was not doing some hard and accurate thinking. “Will you be needing a scissor for the tonsure, too?”

“You are growing remarkably saucy,” observed Cadfael, but with approval rather than disapproval. “No, I doubt that would be welcomed, we’ll rely on the cowl, and a chilly morning. Go away, boy, go and get your half-hour of warmth, and go to bed.”

The concoction of a syrup, boiled up lengthily and steadily with dried herbs and honey, made the use of the brazier necessary; should a guest have to spend the night in the workshop, he would be snug enough until morning. In no haste, Cadfael ground his herbs to a finer powder, and began to stir the honeyed brew on the hob over his brazier. There was no certainty that the bait he had laid would be taken, but beyond doubt young Edwin Gurney was in urgent need of a friend and protector to help him out of the morass into which he had fallen. There was no certainty, even, that the Bellecote household knew where to find him, but Cadfael had a shrewd inkling that the eleven-year-old Alys of the matronly dignity and the maidenly silence, even if she were not in her own brother’s confidence, would be very well acquainted with what he probably considered his secrets. Where Edwy was, there would Edwin be, if Richildis had reported them truly. When trouble threatened the one, the other would be by his side. It was a virtue Cadfael strongly approved.

The night was very still, there would be sharp frost by dawn. Only the gently bubbling of his brew and the occasional rustling of his own sleeve as he stirred punctured the silence. He had begun to think that the fish had refused the bait, when he caught, past ten o’clock, and in the blackest of the darkness, the faint, slow sound of the door-latch being carefully raised. A breath of cold air came in as the door opened a hair’s-breadth. He sat still and gave no sign; the frightened wild thing might be easily alarmed. After a moment a very light, young, wary voice outside uttered just above a whisper: “Brother Cadfael … ?”

“I’m here,” said Cadfael quietly. “Come in and welcome.”

“You’re alone?” breathed the voice.

“I am. Come in and close the door.”

The boy stole in fearfully, and pushed the door to at his back, but Cadfael noticed that he did not latch it. “I got word …” He was not going to say through whom. “They told me you spoke with my sister and brother this evening, and said you would be here. I do need a friend … You said you knew my gr—my mother, years ago, you are the Cadfael she used to speak about so often, the one who went to the Crusade … I swear I had no part in my stepfather’s death! I never knew any harm had come to him, till I was told the sheriff’s men were hunting for me as a murderer. You said my mother knows you for a good friend, and can rely on your help, so I’ve come to you. There’s no one else I can turn to. Help me! Please help me!”

“Come to the fire,” said Cadfael mildly, “and sit down here. Draw breath and answer me one thing truly and solemnly, and then we can talk. On your soul, mind! Did you strike the blow that laid Gervase Bonel dead in his blood!”

The boy had perched himself gingerly on the edge of the bench, almost but not quite within touch. The light from the brazier, cast upwards over his face and form, showed a rangy, agile youngster, lightly built but tall for his years, in the long hose and short cotte of the country lads, with capuchon dangling at his back, and a tangled mop of curling hair uncovered. By this reddish light it looked chestnut-brown, by daylight it might well be the softer mid-brown of seasoned oak. His face was still childishly rounded of cheek and chin, but fine bones were beginning to give it a man’s potential. At this moment half the face was two huge, wary eyes staring unwaveringly at Brother Cadfael.

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.

“Master Edwin Gurney?” enquired Cadfael gently, and released the topknot of rich brown hair with a gesture almost caressing. “I’ve been expecting you.” He closed the door, thoroughly this time; there was no one now left outside there to listen, and take warning by what he heard, like a small, hunted animal crouching in the night where the hunters stirred. “Well, now that you’re here, sit down with your twin—is it uncle or nephew? I shall never get used to sorting you!—and put yourself at ease. It’s warmer here than outside, and you are two, and I have just been reminded gently that I am not as young as once I was. I don’t propose to send for help to deal with you, and you have no need of help to deal with me. Why should we not put together our versions of the truth, and see what we have?”

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 illwill 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.”

The pair of them, soiled and tired and harried as they were, stared in horrified understanding at last, and drew together on the bench as threatened litters of young in burrow and nest huddle for comfort. Years bordering on manhood dropped from them; they were children indeed, frightened and hunted. Edwy said strenuously: “He didn’t know! All they said was, dead, murdered. But so quickly! He ran out, and there was nobody there but those of the house. He never even saw any dish waiting …”

“I did know,” said Edwin, “about the dish. She told us, I knew it was there. But what did it matter to me? I only wanted to go home …”

“Hush, now, hush!” said Cadfael chidingly. “You speak to a man convinced. I’ve made my own tests, all I need. Now sit quiet, and trouble your minds no more about me, I know you have nothing to repent.” That was much, perhaps, to say of any man, but at least these two had nothing on their souls but the ordinary misdemeanours of the energetic young. And now that he had leisure to look at them without looking for prevarication or deceit, he was able to notice other things. “You must give me a little while for thought, but the time need not be wasted. Tell me, has either of you eaten, all these hours? The one of you, I know, made a very poor dinner.”

They had been far too preoccupied with worse problems, until then, to notice hunger, but now that they had an ally, however limited in power, and shelter, however temporary, they were suddenly and instantly ravenous.

“I’ve some oat-cakes here of my own baking, and a morsel of cheese, and some apples. Fill up the hollows, while I think what’s best to be done. You, Edwy, had best make your way home as soon as the town gates open in the morning, slip in somehow without being noticed, and make as though you’ve never been away but on some common errand. Keep a shut mouth except with those you’re sure of.” And that would be the whole united family, embattled in defence of their own. “But for you, my friend—you’re a very different matter.”

“You’ll not give him up?” blurted Edwy round a mouthful of oat-cake, instantly alarmed.

“That I certainly will not do.” Yet he might well have urged the boy to give himself up, stand fast on his innocence, and trust in justice, if he had had complete trust himself in the law as being infallibly just. But he had not. The law required a culprit, and the sergeant was comfortably convinced that he was in pursuit of the right quarry, and would not easily be persuaded to look further. Cadfael’s proofs he had not witnessed, and would shrug off contemptuously as an old fool fondly believing a cunning young liar.

“I can’t go home,” said Edwin, the solemnity of his face in no way marred by one cheek distended with apple, and a greenish smudge from some branch soiling the other. “And I can’t go to my mother’s. I should only be bringing worse trouble on her.”

“For tonight you can stay here, the pair of you, and keep my little brazier fed. There are clean sacks under the bench, and you’ll be warm and safe enough. But in the day there’s coming and going here from time to time, we must have you out early, the one of you for home, the other… . Well, we’ll hope you need stay hidden only a matter of a few days. As well close here at the abbey as anywhere, they’ll hardly look for you here.” He considered, long and thoughtfully. The lofts over the stables were always warned from the hay, and the bodies of the horses below, but too many people came and went there, and with travellers on the roads before the festival, there might well be servants required to sleep there above their beasts. But outside the enclave, at one corner of the open space used for the horse-fairs and the abbey’s summer fair, there was a barn where beasts brought to market could be folded before sale, and the loft held fodder for them. The barn belonged to the abbey, but was open to all travelling merchants. At this time of year its visitors would be few or none, and the loft well filled with good hay and straw, a comfortable enough bed for a few nights. Moreover, should some unforeseen accident threaten danger to the fugitive, escape from outside the walls would be easier than from within. Though God forbid it should come to that!

“Yes, I know a place that will serve, we’ll get you to it early in the morning, and see you well stocked with food and ale for the day. You’ll need patience, I know, to lie by, but that you must endure.”

“Better,” said Edwin fervently, “than falling into the sheriff’s clutches, and I do thank you. But … how am I bettered by this, in the end? I can’t lie hidden for ever.”

“There’s but one way,” said Cadfael emphatically, “that you can be bettered in this affair, lad, and that’s by uncovering the man who did the thing you’re charged with doing. And since you can hardly undertake that yourself, you must leave the attempt to me. What I can do, I’ll do, for my own honour as well as for yours. Now I must leave you and go to Matins. In the morning before Prime I’ll come and see you safely out of here.”

Brother Mark had done his part, the habit was there, rolled up beneath Brother Cadfael’s bed. He wore it under his own, when he rose an hour before the bell for Prime, and left the dortoir by the night stairs and the church. Winter dawns come very late, and this night had been moonless and overcast; the darkness as he crossed the court from cloister to gardens was profound, and there was no one else stirring. There was perfect cover for Edwy to withdraw unobserved through the church and the parish door, as he had come, and make his chilly way to the bridge, to cross into Shrewsbury as soon as the gate was opened. Doubtless he knew his own town well enough to reach his home by ways devious enough to baffle detection by the authorities, even if they were watching the shop.

As for Edwin, he made a demure young novice, once inside the black habit and the sheltering cowl. Cadfael was reminded of Brother Mark, when he was new, wary and expecting nothing but the worst of his enforced vocation; the springy, defensive gait, the too tightly folded hands in the wide sleeves, the flickering side-glances, wild and alert for trouble. But there was something in this young thing’s performance that suggested a perverse enjoyment, too; for all the danger to himself, and his keen appreciation of it, he could not help finding pleasure in this adventure. And whether he would manage to behave himself discreetly in hiding, and bear the inactive hours, or be tempted to wander and take risks, was something Cadfael preferred not to contemplate.

Through cloister and church, and out at the west door, outside the walls, they went side by side, and turned right, away from the gatehouse. It was still fully dark.

“This road leads in the end to London, doesn’t it?” whispered Edwin from within his raised cowl.

“It does so. But don’t try leaving that way, even if you should have to run, which God forbid, for they’ll have a check on the road out at St. Giles. You be sensible and lie still, and give me a few days, at least, to find out what I may.”

The wide triangle of the horse-fair ground gleamed faintly pallid with light frost. The abbey barn loomed at one corner, close to the enclave wall. The main door was closed and fastened, but at the rear there was an outside staircase to the loft, and a small door at the top of it. Early traffic was already abroad, though thin at this dark hour, and no one paid attention to two monks of St. Peter’s mounting to their own loft. The door was locked, but Cadfael had brought the key, and let them in to a dry, hay-scented darkness.

“The key I can’t leave you, I must restore it, but neither will I leave you locked in. The door must stay unfastened for you until you may come forth freely. Here you have a loaf, and beans, and curd, and a few apples, and here’s a flask of small ale. Keep the gown, you may need it for warmth in the night, but the hay makes a kindly bed. And when I come to you, as I will, you may know me at the door by this knock… . Though no one else is likely to come. Should anyone appear without my knock, you have hay enough to hide in.”

The boy stood, suddenly grave and a little forlorn. Cadfael reached a hand, and put back the cowl from the shock-head of curls, and there was just filtering dawn-light enough to show him the shape of the solemn oval face, all steady, dilated, confronting eyes.

“You have not slept much. If I were you, I’d burrow deep and warm, and sleep the day out. I won’t desert you.”

“I know,” said Edwin firmly. He knew that even together they might avail nothing, but at least he knew he was not alone. He had a loyal family, with Edwy as link, and he had an ally within the enclave. And he had one other thinking of him and agonising about him. He said in a voice that lost its firmness only for one perilous instant, and stubbornly recovered: “Tell my mother I did not ever do him or wish him harm.”

“Fool child,” said Cadfael comfortably, “I’ve been assured of that already, and who do you suppose told me, if not your mother?” The very faint light was magically soft, and the boy stood at that stage between childhood and maturity when his face, forming but not yet formed, might have been that of boy or girl, woman or man. “You’re very like her,” said Cadfael, remembering a girl not much older than this sprig, embraced and kissed by just such a clandestine light, her parents believing her abed and asleep in virginal solitude.

At this pass he had momentarily forgotten all the women he had known between, east and west, none of them, he hoped and believed, left feeling wronged. “I’ll be with you before night,” he said, and withdrew to the safety of the winter air outside.

Good God, he thought with reverence, making his way back by the parish door in good time for Prime, that fine piece of young flesh, as raw and wild and faulty as he is, he might have been mine! He and the other, too, a son and a grandson both! It was the first and only time that ever he questioned his vocation, much less regretted it, and the regret was not long. But he did wonder if somewhere in the world, by the grace of Arianna, or Bianca, or Mariam, or—were there one or two others as well loved here and there, now forgotten?—he had left printings of himself as beautiful and formidable as this boy of Richildis’s bearing and another’s getting.