Monk's Hood (10 page)

“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 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.