Monk's Hood

CHAPTER 9

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!”

Brother Cadfael glanced once at Edwin, who stood motionless and pale, one hand advanced to take the old man pleadingly and comfortingly by the arm, but too much in awe and love of him to complete the gesture. Cadfael did it for him, laying a hand gently on the lean old wrist. For whatever was done and said now, they would take the boy with them. If there were three of them there, and two guarding the rear of the house, who was to stop them? And this was a self-assured, arrogant man, who might take petty revenges for past impudent reverses, but who would also have full regard for his own skin when dealing with a deputy sheriff of Beringar’s measure, who might unaccountably have strict scruples about the handling of prisoners. Better not alienate Warden unnecessarily, when a little sweet reasonableness might do more to protect Edwin.

“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 goodness. 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 cortége 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.”

But it was a long story, of which they, here in this solitude and with their own tranquil world undisturbed, knew not even the beginnings. Better say nothing.

He rose before dawn and saddled his horse, taking the same track he had ridden two days previously as far as the ford, where he had turned aside to cross the tributary and make his way to Ifor’s house. This time he did not turn aside, but rode on into the valley of the Cynllaith, and crossed by a wooden bridge. From there it was little more than a mile into Llansilin, and the sun was up, veiled but bright. The village was wide awake, and full of people, converging on the timber church. Every house in the neighbourhood must have given shelter overnight to friends and kin from other parts of the commote, for the normal population of this hamlet could be no more than a tenth part of those met here on this day. Cadfael turned his horse into the paddock by the churchyard, where there was a stone water-trough and peaceful grazing, and joined the leisurely procession of men entering the church. Out in the roadway he was conspicuous in his black Benedictine habit, the species being so rare here, but within, he could be well hidden in a retired corner. He had no wish to be noticed too soon.

He was glad that Ifor ap Morgan did not appear among the elders who came to see justice done, the duty of neighbours who knew the land and the people involved. Better by far the testimony of these familiar and respected men than the legal arguments of professional lawmen, though these, too, would be here in plenty. Nor did he see Cynfrith ap Rhys until after the bench of three judges had taken their places, and the first adjourned case was called. Then, when the plaintiff was asked to stand forth with his guarantors on one side, Cadfael recognised Cynfrith among his brother’s backers. Owain was the younger of the two, but very like his brother. Hywel Fychan, the defendant, was a wiry, dark man of belligerent aspect, with his own little cluster of witnesses at his back.

The presiding judge gave the verdict of the bench. They had viewed the two disputed holdings on the spot, and taken measurements to match with old charters. Their judgment was that Hywel Fychan had indeed moved the corner boundary stone in such a way as to filch some yards of his neighbour’s land, but they had also found that Owain ap Rhys, more discreetly, and admittedly after he had discovered the defendant’s fraud, had countered by shifting a whole length of fencing between them by a cautious yard, adequately repaying himself for his loss. They therefore decreed that both marks should be restored to their former positions, and amerced both parties by a negligible fine. Predictably, Owain and Hywel clasped hands amicably enough-in acceptance of the verdict; and probably they would be drinking away together, later in the day, the excess of their expected fines over those imposed. The game would be resumed next year. Cadfael was familiar with the national sport.

There were two more boundary disputes which had been awaiting a judgment arrived at on the disputed land, the one settled amicably, the other accepted with some bitterness by the losing party, but none the less accepted. There was a widow who claimed a patch of land against her husband’s kin, and won her claim by the testimony of no less than seven neighbours. The morning wore away, and Cadfael, constantly looking over his shoulder towards the door, began to wonder if he had been utterly mistaken in his reading of the probabilities. How if he had interpreted all the signs wrongly? Then he had all to do again, and Edwin was in genuine peril, and his only resort was Hugh Beringar, whose rule would end when Gilbert Prestcote returned from the king’s Christmas.

The grateful widow was withdrawing with her witnesses, flushed and happy, when the door of the church opened wide. The light of day flowed across the crowded assembly, and so remained for some minutes, as a numerous group entered the nave. Cadfael looked round, as half those met there were also doing, and saw Meurig advance into the open aisle, and there take his stand, with seven grave elders at his back.

He was wearing, Cadfael noted, the same cotte and hose in which he had always seen him, no doubt his best, worn to the commote court as they were worn to visit the abbey at Shrewsbury. His only other garment would be those he wore at work. And the linen scrip hanging by its leather thongs from his belt was the same Cadfael had seen on him at the infirmary, where he had laboured, certainly out of kindliness and with nothing to gain, to coax the aches and pains out of an old man’s rusty joints. Such scrips cost money, and are durable for many years. Doubtful if he even owned another such.

An ordinary enough figure, this square, sturdy, black-avised young fellow, anybody’s son or brother; but not ordinary now. He stood in the middle of the open aisle, feet spread, arms down at his sides but braced, as if either hand had a weapon within reach, though he surely had not so much as a hunting-knife on him, here in a place doubly sacred as church and court. He was shaven and bathed clean, and the subdued light within the nave found and plucked into relief every bony line of his powerful face, the outline of a skull drawn white and taut, shadowy dark flesh clothing it sparely. His eyes were like burning lamps sunk into cavernous hollows; he looked both piteously young and age-old, and hungry to starving.

“With the court’s leave,” he said, and his voice was high and clear, “I have a plea that will not wait.”

“We were about to declare this sitting at an end,” said the presiding judge mildly. “But we are here to serve. Declare yourself and your business.”

“My name is Meurig, son of Angharad, daughter of Ifor ap Morgan, who is known to all men here. By this same Angharad I am the son of Gervase Bonel, who held the manor of Mallilie while he lived. I am here to advance my claim to that manor, by reason of my birth, as the son, and the only child, of Gervase Bonel. I am here to introduce testimony that that same land is Welsh land, and subject to Welsh law, and that I am that man’s son, and the only child he ever engendered. And by Welsh law I lay claim to Mallilie, for by Welsh law a son is a son, whether born in or out of wedlock, provided only that his father has acknowledged him.” He drew breath, and the pale, drawn lines of his face sharpened yet further with tension. “Will the court hear me?”

The shudder and murmur that rippled through the church caused even the dark timber walls to quiver. The three on the bench stirred and peered, but kept their more than human balance and calm. The president said with the same restraint: “We must and will hear whoever comes with an urgent plea, however proffered, with or without legal advice, but the cause may involve adjournment for proper procedure. On that consideration, you may speak.”

“Then first, as to the land of Mallilie, here with me are four respected men, known to all here, who hold land bordering the manor, and their boundaries between them encircle nine-tenths of the manor lands. Only the remaining tenth touches English soil. And all is on the Welsh side of the dyke, as all men know. I ask my witnesses to speak for me.”

The oldest said simply: “The manor of Mallilie is within the land of Wales, and causes within it and concerning it have been tried by Welsh law within my lifetime, on two occasions, even though the manor was in English hands. True it is that some cases have also been heard in English court and by English law, but Gervase Bonel himself twice preferred to plead in this court and by Welsh law. I hold that Welsh law has never lost its right in any part of that land, for whatever its ownership, it is part of the commote of Cynllaith.”

“And we hold the same opinion,” said the second of the elders.

“That is the view of you all?” asked the judge.

“It is.”

“Is there any present here who wishes to refute that opinion?”

There were several, on the contrary, who spoke up in confirmation of it, one indeed who recalled that he had been the party in dispute with Bonel on the last occasion, over a matter of cattle straying, and had had his case heard in this court, by a bench on which one of the present judges had sat with two others. As doubtless the judge in question recalled without need of reminders.

“The bench is in agreement with the witness of neighbours,” said the president, having consulted his colleagues with hardly more than a glance and a nod.” There is no question that the land involved is within Wales, and any plaintiff advancing a claim on it is entitled to Welsh law if he desires it. Proceed!”

“As to the second matter of substance,” said Meurig, moistening lips dry with tension, “I declare that I am the son of Gervase Bonel, his only son, his only child. And I ask these who have known me from birth to testify to my parentage, and any here who may also know the truth to speak up in support of me.”

This time there were many in the body of the church who rose in turn to confirm the declaration of the elders: Meurig, son of Angharad, daughter of Ifor ap Morgan, had been born on the manor of Mallilie, where his mother was a maidservant, and it had been known to everyone before his birth that she was with child by her lord. It had never been any secret, and Bonel had housed and fed the boy.

“There is a difficulty here,” said the presiding judge. “It is not enough that the common opinion should be that a certain man is father, for common opinion could be mistaken. Even the acceptance of the duty of providing for a child is not in itself proof of acknowledgement. It must be shown that the father has himself acknowledged the child as his. That is the validation the kinship requires for the admittance of a young man into full rights, and that is the validation necessary before property can be inherited.”

“It is no difficulty,” said Meurig proudly, and drew out from the bosom of his cotte a rolled parchment. “If the court will examine this, they will see that in this indenture, when I took up a trade, Gervase Bonel himself called me his son, and set his seal to it.” He came forward and handed up the parchment to the judges’ clerk, who unrolled and studied it.

“It is as he says. This is an agreement between Martin Bellecote, master-carpenter, of Shrewsbury, and Gervase Bonel, for the young man Meurig to be taken and taught the whole craft of the carpenter and carver. A payment was made with him, and a small allowance made to him for his keep. The seal is in order, the young man is described as ‘my son.’ There is no doubt in the matter. He was acknowledged.”

Meurig drew breath deep, and stood waiting. The bench conferred in low and earnest tones.

“We are agreed,” said the president, “that the proof is irrefutable, that you are what you purport to be, and have the right to make claim upon the land. But it’s known that there was an agreement, never completed, to hand over the manor to the abbey of Shrewsbury, and on that ground, before the man’s unfortunate death, the abbey placed a steward in the house to administer the estate. A claim by a son, in these circumstances, must be overwhelmingly strong, but in view of the complications it should be advanced through the channels of law. There is an English overlord to be taken into account, as well as such claims as the abbey may advance, by virtue of Bonel’s having shown his intent even in an uncompleted agreement. You will have to bring formal suit for possession, and we would advise that you brief a man of law at once.”

“With respect,” said Meurig, paler and brighter than ever, and with hands cupped and curled at his sides, as if he had already filled them with the desired and coveted soil, “there is a provision in Welsh law by which I may take possession even now, before the case is tried. Only the son may do so, but I am the son of this man who is dead. I claim the right of dadanhudd, the right to uncover my father’s hearth. Give me the sanction of this court, and I will go, with these elders who uphold my claim, and enter the house which is mine by right.”

Brother Cadfael was so caught into the intensity of this consuming passion that he almost let the just moment slip by him. All his Welsh blood rose in helpless sympathy with so strong a hunger and love for the land, which Meurig’s blood would have granted him, but by Norman-English law his birth had denied him. There was almost a nobility about him in this hour, and the bleak force of his longing carried with him judges, witnesses, even Cadfael.

“It is the court’s judgment that your claim is justified,” said the president gravely, “and your right to enter the house cannot be denied you. For form’s sake we must put it to this assembly, since no notice has been given beforehand. If there is any here who has anything to raise an objection, let him stand forward now, and speak.”

“Yes,” said Cadfael, wrenching himself out of his daze with a great effort. “Here is one who has somewhat to say before this sanction is granted. There is an impediment.”

Every head turned to peer and crane and stare. The judges ranged the ranks looking for the source of the voice, for Cadfael was no taller than the majority of his fellow-countrymen, and even his tonsure could be matched by many here conferred by time rather than a cloistered order. Meurig’s head had turned with a wild start, his face suddenly fixed and bloodless, his eyes blank. The voice had pierced him like a knife, but he did not recognise it, and for the moment was too blind to be able to mark even the undulation of movement as Cadfael pushed his way clear of the crowd to be seen.

“You are of the Benedictine order?” said the presiding judge, bewildered, as the sturdy, habited figure emerged and stood in the aisle. “A monk of Shrewsbury? Are you here to speak on behalf of your abbey?”

“No,” said Brother Cadfael. He stood no more than two yards from Meurig now, and the mist of shock and unbelief had cleared from the black, brilliant eyes; they recognised him all too well. “No, I am here to speak on behalf of Gervase Bonel.”

By the brief, contorted struggle of Meurig’s throat, he made an attempt to speak, but could not.

“I do not understand you, brother,” said the judge patiently. “Explain yourself. You spoke of an impediment.”

“I am a Welshman,” said Cadfael. “I endorse and approve the law of Wales, that says a son is a son, in or out of marriage, and has the same rights though English law may call him a bastard. Yes, a son born out of wedlock may inherit—but not a son who has murdered his father, as this man has.”

He expected uproar, and instead there was such a silence as he had seldom known. The three judges sat rigid and staring, as though turned to stone, and every breath in the church seemed to be held in suspense. By the time they all stirred out of their daze, and turned almost stealthily, almost fearfully, to look at Meurig, he had regained his colour and his hardihood, though at a price. Forehead and high cheekbones had a wet sheen of sweat, and the muscles of his neck were drawn like bow-strings, but he had himself in hand again, he could look his accuser in the face, refrain from hurling himself upon him, even turn from him with dignity and calm to look at the judges, in eloquent protest against a charge he disdained to deny except by silent contempt. And probably, Cadfael reflected ruefully, there are some here who will take for granted that I am an agent sent by my order to prevent, or at least delay, the surrender of Mallilie to its rightful owner. By any means, however base, even by accusing a decent man of murder.

“This is a most grave charge,” said the presiding judge, formidably frowning. “If you are in earnest, you must now stand to it, and make good what you have said, or withdraw.”

“That I will do. My name is Cadfael, a brother of Shrewsbury, and the herbalist who made the oil with which Gervase Bonel was poisoned. My honour is involved. The means of comfort and healing must not be used to kill. I was called to attend the dying man, and I am here now to demand justice for him. Allow me, if you will, to tell you how this death befell.”

He told the story very baldly, the narrow circle of those present, of whom one, the stepson, seemed then to be the only one with anything to gain from the death.

“Meurig, as it seemed to us, had nothing to gain, but you and I have now seen how much, indeed, was at stake for him.

The agreement with my abbey had not been completed, and by Walsh law, which we had not understood could be invoked in the matter, he is the heir. Let me tell you his story as I see it. Ever since he grew a man he has been well aware that by Welsh law his position as heir was unassailable, and he was well content to wait for his father’s death, like any other son, before claiming his inheritance. Even the will Gervase Bonel made, after his second marriage, making his stepson his heir, did not trouble Meurig, for how could such a claim stand against his right as a true son of the man’s blood? But it was a different case when his father granted his manor to the abbey of Shrewsbury in return for housing, food and comfort for life, after the usual fashion of such retirements. I do believe that if that agreement had been completed and sealed at once, all would have been over, and this man would have grown reconciled to his loss and never become a murderer. But because my abbot was summoned away to London, with good reason to think that another may be appointed in his place, he would not complete the charter, and that respite caused Meurig to hope again, and to look about him desperately for the means to prevent it ever being completed. For, see, if the abbey ever established its legal right by final ratification, his position at law would have been hopeless. How could he fight Shrewsbury abbey? They have influence enough to ensure that any suit should be tried in an English court and by English law, and by English law, I acknowledge it with regret and shame, such children as Meurig are deprived, and cannot inherit. I say it was mere chance, and that resulting from an act of kindness, that showed him where to find the means to kill, and tempted him to use it. And great pity it is, for he was never meant to be a murderer. But here he stands in his guilt, and must not and cannot enter into possession of the fruit of his crime.”

The presiding judge sat back with a heavy and troubled sigh, and looked at Meurig, who had heard all this with a motionless face and a still body. “You have heard and understood what is charged against you. Do you wish now to answer?”

“I have nothing to answer,” said Meurig, wise in his desperation. “This is nothing but words. There is no substance. Yes, I was there in the house, as he has told you, with my father’s wife, the boy her son, and the two servants. But that is all. Yes, by chance I have been in the infirmary, and did know of this oil he speaks of. But where is there any thread to link me with the act? I could as well put forward the same story against any of those in that household that day, and with as little proof, but I will not. The sheriff’s officers have held from the beginning that my father’s stepson did this thing. I don’t say that is true. I say only that there is no proof to entangle me rather than any other.”

“Yes,” said Cadfael, “there is such proof. There is one small matter that makes this crime all the more grievous, for it is the only proof that it was not all impulsive, done in an angry instant and regretted after. For whoever took away a portion of my monk’s-hood oil from our infirmary must have brought with him a bottle in which to put it. And that bottle he had to conceal afterwards, as long as he was observed, but dispose of as soon as he privately might. And the place will show that it could not have been put there by the boy Edwin Gurney, Bonel’s stepson. By any other of the household, yes, but not by him. His movements are known. He ran straight from the house to the bridge and the town, as there are witnesses to declare.”

“We have still nothing but words, and deceptive words, too,” said Meurig, gaining a little confidence. “For this bottle has not been found, or we should have known it from the sheriff’s men. This is a whole-cloth tale compounded for this court alone.”

For of course he did not know; not even Edwin knew, not even Hugh Beringar, only Cadfael and Brother Mark. Thank God for Brother Mark, who had done the finding and marked the place, and was in no suspicion of being anyone’s corrupted agent.

Cadfael reached into his pouch, and brought forth the vial of flawed green glass, unwrapping it carefully from the napkin in which it was rolled. “Yes, it has been found. Here it is!” And he held it out sharply at the full stretch of his arm into Meurig’s appalled face.

The instant of sick disintegration passed valiantly, but Cadfael had witnessed it, and now there was no shadow of doubt left, none. And it was a piercing grief to him, for he had liked this young man.

“This,” said Cadfael, whirling to face the bench, “was found, not by me, but by an innocent novice who knew little of the case, and has nothing to gain by lying. And it was found—the place is recorded—in the ice of the millpond, under the window of the inner room of that house. In that room the boy Edwin Gurney was never for one moment alone, and could not have thrown this out from that window. Inspect it, if you will. But carefully, for the marks of the oil are there in a dried stream down one outer side of the vial, and the dregs are still easily identifiable within.”

Meurig watched the small, dreadful thing being passed among the three in its napkin, and said with arduous calm: “Even granted this—for we have not the finder here to speak for himself!—there were four of us there who could well have gone in and out of that inner room the rest of the day. Indeed, I was the only one to leave, for I went back to my master’s shop in the town. They remained there, living in the house.”

Nevertheless, it had become a trial. Even with his admirable and terrible gallantry, he could not entirely prevent the entry of a note of defence. And he knew it, and was afraid, not for himself, for the object of his absorbing love, the land on which he had been born. Brother Cadfael was torn in a measure he had hardly expected. It was time to end it, with one fatal cast that might produce success or failure, for he could not bear this partition of his mind much longer, and Edwin was in a prison cell, something even Meurig did not yet know, something that might have reassured him if he had been aware of it, but no less might have moved and dismayed him. Never once, in that long afternoon of questioning, had Meurig sought to turn suspicion upon Edwin, even when the sergeant pointed the way.

“Draw out the stopper,” said Cadfael to the three judges, almost strident now in his urgency. “Note the odour, it is still strong enough to be recognised again. You must take my word for it that it was the means of death. And you see how it has run down the vial. It was stoppered in haste after the act, for all was then done in haste. Yet some creature carried this vial on his person for a considerable while after, until the sheriffs officers had come and gone. In this condition, oiled without as well as within. It would leave a greasy stain not easy to remove, and a strong smell—yes, I see you detect the smell.” He swung upon Meurig, pointing to the coarse linen scrip that hung at his belt. “This, as I recall, you wore that day. Let the judges themselves examine, with the vial in their hands, and see whether it lay within there an hour, two hours or more, and left its mark and its odour. Come, Meurig, unbuckle and give up your scrip.”

Meurig indeed dropped a hand to the buckles, as though stunned into obedience. And after this while, Cadfael knew, there might be nothing to find, even though he no longer had any doubts that the vial had indeed lain within there all that prolonged and agonising afternoon of Bonel’s death. It needed only a little hardihood and a face of brass, and the single fragile witness against Meurig might burst like a bubble, and leave nothing but the scattered dew of suspicion, like the moisture a bubble leaves on the hand. But he could not be sure! He could not be sure! And to examine the scrip and find nothing would not be to exonerate him completely, but to examine it and find the seam stained with oil, and still with the penetrating scent clinging, would be to condemn him utterly. The fingers that had almost withdrawn the first thong suddenly closed into a clenched fist denying access.

“No!” he said hoarsely. “Why should I submit to this indignity? He is the abbey’s man sent to besmirch my claim.”

“It is a reasonable requirement,” said the presiding judge austerely. “There is no question of your surrendering it to anyone but this court. There can be no suspicion that we have anything to gain by discrediting you. The bench requires you to hand it over to the clerk.”

The clerk, accustomed to having the court’s orders respected without demur, advanced trustingly, extending a hand. Meurig dared not take the risk. Suddenly he whirled and sprang for the open door, scattering the old men who had come to back his claim. In a moment he was out into the wintry light of the morning, running like a deer. Behind him uproar broke out, and half of those in the church poured out after the fugitive, though their pursuit was half-hearted after the first instinctive rush. They saw Meurig vault the stone wall of the churchyard and head for the fringes of woodland that clothed the hillside behind. In a moment he was lost to view among the trees.

In the half-deserted church a heavy silence fell. The old men looked at one another helplessly, and made no move to join the hunt. The three judges conferred in low and anxious tones. Cadfael stood drooping in a weariness that seemed temporarily to have deprived him of energy or thought, until at last he drew breath long and deeply, and looked up.

“It is not a confession, nor has there been a formal charge, or any suit as yet brought against him. But it is evidence for a boy who is now in prison at Shrewsbury on suspicion of this crime. Let me say what can and should be said for Meurig: he did not know Edwin Gurney had been taken, of that I am sure.”

“We have now no choice but to pursue him,” said the presiding judge, “and it will be done. But certainly the record of this court must be sent, out of courtesy, to the sheriff at Shrewsbury, and at once. Will that content you?”

“It’s all I ask. Send also, if you will, the vial, concerning which a novice by the name of Mark will testify, for it was he who found it. Send all to Hugh Beringar, the sheriff’s deputy, who is in charge, and deliver the report only to him, of your kindness. I wish I might go, but I have still work to do here.”

“It will take some hours for our clerks to make the necessary copies and have them certified. But by tomorrow evening, at latest, the report shall be delivered. I think your prisoner will have nothing more to fear.”

Brother Cadfael uttered his thanks, and went out from the church into a village thronging with agitated, head-shaking neighbours. The tale of the morning’s events was on the wing by now, surely already being carried over the hills throughout the commote of Cynllaith, but even rumour had not flown so fast as Meurig, for nothing was seen of him all that day. Cadfael led his horse from the paddock, and mounted and rode. The weariness that had fallen upon him when the need for effort ended so suddenly was subsiding slowly into a desperate sadness, and that again into a drear but grateful calm. He took the journey back very slowly, for he needed time to think, and above all, time for another to do some even more urgent thinking. He passed by the manor-house of Mallilie with only a rueful glance. The ending would not be there.

He was very well aware that it was not yet over.

“You are back in good time, brother,” said Simon, stoking the brazier with fresh fuel for the evening. “Whatever your business, I trust God prospered it.”

“He did,” said Cadfael. “And now it must be your turn to rest, and leave the remaining work to me. I’ve stabled and groomed and fed the horse, he’s not overdone for I took things gently with him. After supper there’ll be time for shutting the hen-house and seeing to the cow, and light enough still to bring down the ewes in lamb to the barn, for I think there may be harder frost in the night. Curious how the light lies in these hills a good half-hour longer than in the town.”

“Your Welsh eyes, brother, are only just regaining their proper vision. There are few nights here that a man could not travel safely even among the upland bogs, knowing the ground at all well. Only in the woods is it ever truly dark. I talked with a wandering brother from the north once, a rough red-haired man with a tongue I could barely understand, a Scot. He said in his far country there were nights when the sun barely set before it rose again on the other side, and you could see your way in an endless afterglow. But I do not know,” said Brother Simon wistfully, “if he was romancing. I have never been further than Chester.”

Brother Cadfael forbore from citing his own travels, remembered now with the astonished contentment of a man at rest. To tell the truth, he had enjoyed the storms no less than he now enjoyed the calm, if this was indeed calm: but each had its own time and place.

“I’ve been glad of this stay with you,” he said, and that at least was true “It smells like Gwynedd here. And the folk hereabouts have me speaking Welsh to them, and that’s gain, for I use it little enough in Shrewsbury.”

Brother Barnabas came with the supper, his own good bread, barley gruel, ewe’s-milk cheese and dried apples. He breathed without labour, and strode round the house unwearied and energetic. “You see I’m ready and able for work, brother, thanks to your skills. I could fold the ewes myself tonight.”

“You will not,” said Cadfael firmly, “for I’ve taken that task for myself, having been truant all day. You be content to see us devouring this baking of yours, for that’s one art I have not, and at least I have the grace to know it, and be thankful for the skills of other men.”

They ate early at Rhydycroesau, having normally laboured out of doors from early morning. There was still a muted half-light, the east a clear, deep blueness, the west a pallid glow, when Cadfael went out to climb to the nearer crest and bring down the ewes already heavy with lamb. They were few but precious, once in a while they even dropped twins, and with care both survived. Cadfael discerned a deep and tranquil satisfaction in the shepherd’s life. The children of his solicitude were seldom killed, unless disease, injury or decrepitude threatened, or in time of desperation the flock could not all be fed through the winter. Their wool and milk were of more value than their meat, and their precious skins could be garnered only once, and better when for distress they had to be slaughtered. So they remained through their natural lives, growing into familiarity and affection, trusting and being understood, even acquiring names. Shepherds had a community of their own, peopled with gentle, obstinate, quiet companions, who did no murder or theft or banditry, broke no laws, made no complaints, fuelled no rebellions.

All the same, he thought, climbing the hill In long, easy strides, I could not be a shepherd for long. I should miss all the things I deplore, the range and grasp of man for good and evil. And instantly he was back with the struggles and victories and victims of the day.

On the crest of the ridge he stood to contemplate the coming night, aware that he must be seen from a good distance around. The sky above was immense and very lofty, a very deep blue, with a faint dappling of stars so new and fine that they were visible only when seen from the corner of the eye, and a direct stare immediately put them out. He looked down at the cluster of walled folds and the snug dark huddle of buildings, and could not be quite sure whether he had seen a mere quiver of movement at the corner of the barn. The ewes, accustomed to extra pampering, were gathering about him of their own will, ready to go down into the steamy, wool-scented warmth of the barn for the night. Their rounded sides and bellies swayed contentedly as they walked. By this light only an occasional gleam showed the disconcerting yellow stare of their eyes.

When at last he stirred, and began slowly to descend the hill, they followed daintily on their little, agile feet, crowding close, jostling one another, the mild, warm, greasy smell of their fleeces making a flowing cloud about them. He counted, called softly back to one or two stragglers, young ones in their first lamb, and irresponsible, though they came hurrying at his call. Now he had them all.

Apart from himself and his little flock, the night was empty and still, unless that was the momentary intrusion and instant withdrawal of some live thing he had caught between the buildings below. Blessedly, Brother Simon and Brother Barnabas had taken him at his word, and remained contentedly in the warmth of the house, by this time probably nodding over the brazier.

He brought his charges down to the large barn, half of which was cleared by now for their housing at night until they gave birth. The wide doors opened inwards, he thrust them open before him and ushered his flock within, where there was a rack filled for their use, and a trough of water. These needed no light to find their way. The interior of the barn was still peopled with vague, bulky shadows, but otherwise dark, and smelled of dried grass and clover and the fat scent of fleeces. The mountain sheep had not the long, curly wool of the lowlands, but they brought a very thick, short fleece that carried almost as much wool of a somewhat less valuable kind, and they converted handsomely the pasture their spoiled lowland cousins could not make use of. Their cheeses alone were worth their keep.

Cadfael chided the last and most unbiddable of his charges into the barn, and passed in after her, advancing into the dimness that left him temporarily blind. He felt the sudden presence behind him, and stood, every muscle stilled. The blade that was laid cold and sudden against the skin of his throat started no movement; he had had knives at his throat before, he was not such a fool as to provoke them into malice or fright, especially when he approached them forewarned.

An arm encircled him from behind, pinning both arms fast to his body, and he made no move to recoil or resist. “And did you think when you destroyed me, brother,” panted a suffocating voice in his ear, “that I would go into the dark alone?”

“I have been expecting you, Meurig,” said Brother Cadfael quietly. “Close the door! You may safely, I shall not move. You and I have no need now of witnesses.”