Monk's Hood Part 3

And so it sounded when her fond, maternal voice spoke of it, yet sons no older than fourteen had been known to remove their fathers to clear their own paths, as Cadfael knew well enough. And this was not Edwin's own father, and little love lost between them.

"Tell me," he said, "about this second marriage, and the bargain you struck."

"Why, Eward died when Edwin was nine years old, and Martin took over his shop, and runs it as Eward did before him, and as Eward taught him. We all lived together until Gervase came ordering some panelling for his house, and took a strong fancy to me. And he was a fine figure of a man, too, and in good health, and very attentive... He promised if I would have him he'd make Edwin his heir, and leave Mallilie to him. And Martin and Sibil had three more children to provide for by then, so with all those mouths to feed he needed what the business can bring in, and I thought to see Edwin set up for life."

"But it was not a success," said Cadfael, "understandably. A man who had never had children, and getting on in years, and a l.u.s.ty lad busy growing up-they were bound to cross swords."

"It was ten of one and half a score of the other," she owned, sighing. "Edwin had been indulged, I fear, he was used to his freedom and to having his own way, and he was for ever running off with Edwy, as he'd always been used to do. And Gervase held it against him that he ran with simple folk and craftsmen-he thought that low company, beneath a young man with a manor to inherit, and that was bound to anger Edwin, who loves his kin. Not to claim that he had not some less respectable friends, too! They rubbed each other the wrong way daily. When Gervase beat him, Edwin ran away to Martin's shop and stayed for days. And when Gervase locked him up, he'd either make his way out all the same, or else take his revenge in other ways. In the end Gervase said as the brat's tastes obviously ran to mere trade, and running loose with all the scallywags of the town, he might as well go and apprentice himself in good earnest, it was all he was fit for. And Edwin, though he knew better, pretended to take that, word for word, as well meant, and went and did that very thing, which made Gervase more furious than ever. That was when he vowed he'd hand over his manor by charter to the abbey, and live here retired. 'He cares nothing for the lands I meant to leave him,' he said, 'why should I go on nursing them for such an ingrate?' And he did it, there and then, while he was hot, he had this agreement drawn up, and made ready to move here before Christmas."

"And what did the boy say to that? For I suppose he never realised what was intended?"

"He did not! He came with a rush, penitent but indignant, too. He swore he does love Mallilie, he never meant to scorn it, and he would take good care of it if it came to him. But my husband would not give way, though we all pleaded with him. And Edwin was bitter, too, for he had been promised, and a promise should be kept. But it was done, and n.o.body could make my lord undo it. Not being his own son, Edwin's consent was never asked nor needed-it would never have been given! He went flying back to Martin and Sibil with his raging grievance, and I haven't seen him again until this day, and I wish he'd never come near us today. But he did, and now see how the sheriff's man is hunting him as a villain who would kill his own mother's husband! Such a thought could never enter that child's head, I swear to you, Cadfael, but if they take him... Oh, I can't bear to think of it!"

"You've had no word since they left here? News travels this highroad fast. I think it would have reached us before now if they had found him at home."

"Not a word yet. But where else would he go? He knew no reason why he should hide. He ran from here knowing nothing of what was to happen after his going, he was simply sore about his bitter welcome."

"Then he might not wish to take such a mood home with him, not until he'd come to terms with it. Hurt things hide until the fright and pain wears off. Tell me all that happened at this dinner. It seems Meurig has been a go-between for you, and tried to bring him to make peace. Some mention was made of a former visit..."

"Not to me," said Richildis sadly. "The two of them came to bring down the lectern Martin has been making for the Lady Chapel, and Meurig took my boy with him to see the old brother, his kinsman. He tried to persuade Edwin then to come and see me, but he would not. Meurig is a good fellow, he's done his best. Today he did prevail on Edwin to come, but see what came of it! Gervase was in high glee about it, and monstrously unfair-he taunted my boy with coming like a beggar to plead to be restored, and get his inheritance back, which was never Edwin's intent. He'd die sooner! Tamed at last, are you, says Gervase! Well, if you go down on your knees, he says, and beg pardon for your frowardness who knows, I might relent yet. Crawl, then, he says, and beg for your manor! And so it went, until Edwin blazed out that he was not and never would be tamed by a wicked, tyrannical, vicious old monster-which I grant you," she sighed hopelessly, "Gervase was not, only a stubborn and ill-tempered one. Oh, I can't tell you all they yelled at each other! But I do say this, it took a lot of goading today to get Edwin to blaze, and that's credit to him. For my sake he would have borne it, but it was too much for him. So he said what he had to say, very loudly, and Gervase flung the platter at him, and a beaker, too, and then Aldith and Aelfric and Meurig came rus.h.i.+ng in to try and help me calm him down. And Edwin stamped out-and that was all."

Cadfael was silent for a moment, ruminating on these other members of the household. A hot-tempered, proud, affronted boy seemed to him a possible suspect had Bonel been struck down with fist or even dagger, but a very unlikely poisoner. True, the lad had been twice with Meurig in the infirmary, and probably seen where the medicines were kept, he had a reason for action, he had the opportunity; but the temperament for a poisoner, secret, dark and bitter, surely that was an impossibility to such a youngster, by all his breeding and training open, confident, with a fine conceit of himself. There were, after all, these others, equally present.

"The girl, Aldith-you've had her long?"

"She's distant kin to me," said Richildis, almost startled into a smile. "I've known her from a child, and took her when she was left orphan, two years ago. She's like my own girl."

It was what he had supposed, seeing Aldith so protective while they waited for the law. "And Meurig? I hear he was also of Master Bonel's household once, before he went to work for your son-in-law."

"Meurig-ah, well, you see, it's this way with Meurig. His mother was a Welsh maidservant at Mallilie, and like so many such, bore her master a by-blow. Yes, he's Gervase's natural son. My lord's first wife must have been barren, for Meurig is the only child he ever fathered, unless there are one or two we don't know of, somewhere about the s.h.i.+re there. He maintained Angharad decently until she died, and he had Meurig taken care of, and gave him employment on the manor. I was not easy about him," she admitted, "when we married. Such a good, willing, sensible young man, and with no claims on any part of what was his father's, it seemed hard. Not that he ever complained! But I asked him if he would not be glad to have a trade of his own, that would last him for life, and he said he would. So I persuaded Gervase to let Martin take him, to teach him all he knew. And I did ask him," said Richildis, with a quaver in her voice, "to keep a watch on Edwin, after he ran from us, and try to bring him to make terms with Gervase. I never expected my son to give way, for he's able, too, and he could make his own road. I just wanted to have him back. There was a time when he blamed me-as having to choose between them, and choosing my husband. But I'd married him... and I was sorry for him..." Her voice snapped off short, and she was silent a moment. "I've been glad of Meurig, he has stood friend to us both."

"He got on well enough with your husband, did he? There was no bad blood between them?"

"Why, no, none in the world!" She was astonished at the question. "They rubbed along together quietly, and never any sparks. Gervase was generous to him, you know, though he never paid him much attention. And he makes him a decent living allowance-that is, he did... Oh, how will he fare now, if that ends? I shall have to have advice, law is a tangle to me..."

Nothing there to raise a brow, it seemed, even if Meurig knew as well as anyone how to lay hands on poison. So did Aelfric, who had been in the workshop and seen it dispensed. And whoever gained by Bonel's death, it seemed, Meurig stood only to lose. Manorial b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were thick on the ground everywhere, the lord who had but one had been modest and abstemious indeed, and the by-blow who was set up with an expanding trade and an allowance to provide for him was fortunate, and had no cause for complaint. Good cause, in fact, to lament his father's pa.s.sing.

"And Aelfric?"

The darkness outside had made the light of the little lamp seem brighter; her face, oval and grave, shone in the pallid radiance, and her eyes were round as moons. "Aelfric is a hard case. You must not think my husband was worse than his kind, or ever knowingly took more than was his by law. But the law limps, sometimes. Aelfric's father was born free as you or I, but younger son in a holding that was none too large even for one, and rather than have it split, when his father died, he left it whole for his brother, and took a villein yardland that had fallen without heirs, on my husband's manor. He took it on villein tenure, to do the customary duties for it, but never doubting to keep his status as a free man, doing villein service of his own undertaking. And Aelfric in his turn was a younger son, and foolishly accepted service in the manor household when his elder had family enough to run his yardland without him. So when the manor was to be surrendered, and we were ready to come here, Gervase chose him to be his manservant, for he was the neatest-handed and best we had. And when Aelfric chose rather to go elsewhere and find employment, Gervase brought suit that he was villein, both his brother and his father having done customary service for the land they held. And the court found that it was so, and he was bound, however free-born his father had been. He takes it hard," said Richildis ruefully. "He never felt himself villein before, he was a free man doing work for pay. Many and many a one has found himself in the same case, never having dreamed of losing his freedom until it was lost."

Cadfael's silence p.r.i.c.ked her. He was reflecting that here was another who had a burning grudge, knew where to find the means, and of all people had the opportunity; but her mind was on the painful picture she had just drawn, and she mistook his brooding for disapproval of her dead husband, censure he was unwilling to express to her. Valiantly she sought to do justice, at least, if there was no affection left.

"You are wrong if you think the fault was all on one side. Gervase believed he was doing no more than his right, and the law agreed with him. I've never known him wilfully cheat any man, but he did stand fast on his own dues. And Aelfric makes his own situation worse. Gervase never used to harry or press him, for he worked well by nature, but now he's unfree he sticks stubbornly on every last extreme of servile labour, purposely, drives home his villein condition at every turn... It is not servility, but arrogance, he deliberately rattles his chains. He did give offence by it, and truly I think they grew to hate each other. And then, there's Aldith... Oh, Aelfric never says word of it to her, but I know! He looks after her as if his heart's being drawn out of him. But what has he to offer a free girl like her? Even if Meurig wasn't casting an eye in that direction, too, and he so much more lively company. Oh, I tell you, Cadfael, I've had such trouble and grief with all this household of mine. And now this! Do help me! Who else will, if not you? Help my boy! I do believe you can, if you will."

"I can promise you," said Cadfael after scrupulous thought, "that I'll do everything I can to find out the murderer of your husband. That I must, whoever he may be. Will that content you?"

She said: "Yes! I know Edwin is guiltless. You don't, yet. But you will!"

"Good girl!" said Cadfael heartily. "That's how I remember you from when time was. And even now, before your knowledge becomes my knowledge also, I can promise you one thing more. Yes, I will help your son to the utmost I may, guilty or innocent, though not by hiding the truth. Will that do?"

She nodded, for the moment unable to speak. The stresses not only of this disastrous day, but of many days before, showed suddenly in her face.

"I fear," said Cadfael gently, "you went too far aside from your own kind, Richildis, in marrying the lord of the manor."

"I did so!" she said, and incontinently burst into tears at last, and wept, alarmingly, on his shoulder.

Chapter Four.

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 mill-pond, 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 m.u.f.fled 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 rea.s.sure.

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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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, st.u.r.dily 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 mora.s.s 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 s.h.i.+vering," added Edwy for good measure.

There was no ill-will whatever in these exchanges, they were the normal endearments current between these two, who would certainly have championed each other to the death against any outside threat. There was no malice in it when Edwin punched his nephew neatly and painfully in the muscles of the upper arm, and Edwy as promptly plucked Edwin round by the shoulder while he was less securely balanced, and spilled him on to the floor. Cadfael took them both by the scruff of the neck, a fistful of capuchon in either hand, and plumped them back firmly on to the beach, a yard apart this time, rather in defence of his softly bubbling syrup than in any very serious exasperation. The brief scuffle had warmed them, and shaken fear away to a magical distance; they sat grinning, only slightly abashed.

"Will you sit still a minute, and let me get the measure of you? You, Edwin, are the uncle, and the younger... yes, I could know you apart. You're darker, and st.u.r.dier 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 c.o.c.k 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."