Monk's Hood (24 page)

“God
save you, son!” said Cadfael in Welsh. “If your bread’s all out now, do a
Christian deed, come out to the gate with me, and show a stranger the way to
the holding of Cynfrith ap Rhys or his brother Owain.”

The
boy gazed, eyes brightening into interest at being addressed placidly in his
own tongue. “You are from Shrewsbury abbey, sir? A monk?”

“I
am.”

“But
Welsh?”

“As
Welsh as you, lad, but not from these parts. The vale of Conwy is my native
place, near by Trefriw.”

“What’s
your will with Cynfrith ap Rhys?” asked the boy directly.

Now
I know I’m in Wales, thought Cadfael. An English servant, if he ventured to
challenge your proceedings at all, would do it roundabout and obsequiously, for
fear of getting his ears clipped, but your Welsh lad speaks his mind to princes.

“In
our abbey,” he said obligingly, “there’s an old brother who used to be known in
these parts as Rhys ap Griffith, and he’s cousin to these other sons of Rhys.
When I left Shrewsbury I said I’d take his greetings to his kin, and so I will
if I
can find them. And while we’re about it there’s one more
name he gave me, and you may at least be able to tell me if the man’s alive or
dead, for he must be old. Rhys had a sister Marared, who married one Ifor ap
Morgan, and they had a daughter Angharad, though I’m told she’s dead years ago.
But if Ifor is still living I’ll speak the good word to him, also.”

Under
this rain of Welsh names the boy thawed into smiles. “Sir, Ifor ap Morgan is
still alive. He lives a fair way beyond, nearly to Llansilin. I’ll come out with
you and show you the way.”

He
skipped down the stone staircase lightly, ahead of Cadfael, and trotted before
him to the gate. Cadfael followed, leading his horse, and looked where the boy
pointed, westward between the hills.

“To
the house of Cynfrith ap Rhys it is but half a mile, and it lies close by the
track, on your right hand, with the wattle fence round the yard. You’ll see his
white goats in the little paddock. For Ifor ap Morgan you must go further. Keep
to the same track again until you’re through the hills, and looking down into
the valley, then take the path to the right, that fords our river before it
joins the Cynllaith. Half a mile on, look to your right again, just within the
trees, and you’ll see a little wooden house, and that’s where Ifor lives. He’s
very old now, but he lives alone still.”

Cadfael
thanked him and mounted.

“And
for the other brother, Owain,” said the boy cheerfully, willing enough now to
tell all he knew that might be helpful, “if you’re in these parts two more days
you may catch him in Llansilin the day after tomorrow, when the commote court
meets, for he has a dispute that was put oft from the last sitting, along with
some others. The judges have been viewing the impleaded lands, and the day
after tomorrow they’re to give judgment. They never like to let bad blood
continue at the Christmas feast. Owain’s holding is well beyond the town, but
you’ll find him at Llansilin church, sure enough. One of his neighbours moved
his boundary stone, or so he claims.”

He
had said more than he realised, but he was serenely innocent of the impression
he had made on Brother Cadfael. One question, perhaps the most vital of all,
had been answered without ever having to be asked.

Cynfrith
ap Rhys—the kinship seemed to be so full of Rhyses that in some cases it was
necessary to list three generations back in order to distinguish them—was
easily found, and very willing to pass the time of day even with a Benedictine
monk, seeing that the monk spoke Welsh. He invited Cadfael in heartily, and the
invitation was accepted with pleasure. The house was one room and a cupboard of
a kitchen, a solitary man’s domain, and there was no sign of any other creature
here but Cynfrith and his goats and hens. A solid, thickset, prominent-boned
Welshman was Cynfrith, with wiry black hair now greying round the edges and
balding on the crown, and quick, twinkling eyes set in the webs of
good-humoured creases common to outdoor men. Twenty years at least younger than
his cousin in the infirmary at Shrewsbury. He offered bread and goat’s-milk
cheese, and wrinkled, sweet apples.

“The
good old soul, so he’s still living! Many a time I’ve wondered. He’s my
mother’s cousin in the first degree, not mine, but time was I knew him well.
He’ll be nearing four-score now, I suppose. And still comfortable in his
cloister? I’ll send him a small flask of the right liquor, brother, if you’ll
be so kind as to carry it. I distil it myself, it will stand him in good stead
through the winter, a drop in season is good for the heart, and does the memory
no harm, either. Well, well, and to think he still remembers us all! My
brother? Oh, be sure I’ll pass on the word to Owain when I see him. He has a
good wife, and grown sons, tell the old man, the elder, Elis, is to marry in
the spring. The day after tomorrow I shall be seeing my brother, he has a
judgment coming up at the commote court at Llansilin.”

“So
they told me at Mallilie,” said Cadfael. “I wish him good speed with it.”

“Ah,
well, he claims Hywel Fychan, who lives next him,
shifted one
of his boundary stones, and I daresay he did, but I wouldn’t say but what Owain
has done the like by Hywel in his time. It’s an old sport with us… But I
needn’t tell you, you being of the people yourself. They’ll make it up as the
court rules, they always do until the next time, and no hard feelings. They’ll
drink together this Christmas.”

“So
should we all,” said Cadfael, somewhat sententiously.

He
took his leave as soon but as graciously as he well might, truthfully claiming
another errand and the shortness of the daylight, and rode on his way by the
little river, both heartened and chastened by contact with open and fearless
goodwill. The little flask of powerful home-distilled spirit swung in his
scrip; he was glad he had left the other, the poisoned one, behind at the
sheepfold.

He
came through the defile, and saw the valley of the Cynllaith open before him,
and the track to the right weaving a neat line through rising grass to ford the
little tributary. Half a mile beyond, woodland clothed the slope of the ridge,
and in the full leaf of summer it might have been difficult to detect the low
wooden house within the trees; but now, with all the leaves fallen, it stood
clear behind the bare branches like a contented domestic hen in a coop. There
was clear grass almost to its fence, and on one side continuing behind it, the
veil of trees drawn halfway round like a curtain. Cadfael turned in towards it,
and circled with the skirt of grass, seeing no door in the side that faced the
track. A horse on a long tether came ambling round the gable end, placidly
grazing; a horse as tall and rakish and unbeautiful as the one he rode, though
probably some years older. At sight of it he pulled up short, and sat at gaze
for a moment, before lighting down into the coarse grass.

There
must, of course, be many horses that would answer to the description given: a
bony old piebald. This one was certainly that, very strikingly black and white
in improbable patterns. But they could not all, surely, be called by the same
name?

Cadfael
dropped his bridle and went softly forward towards the serenely feeding beast,
which paid him no attention what
ever after a single, glance.
He chirruped to it, and called quietly: “Japhet!”

The
piebald pricked long ears and lifted a gaunt, amiable head, stretching out a
questing muzzle and dilated nostrils towards the familiar sound, and having
made up his mind he was not mistaken, advanced confidently and briskly to the
hand Cadfael extended. He ran caressing fingers up the tall forehead, and along
the stretched, inquisitive neck. “Japhet, Japhet, my friend, what are you doing
here?”

The
rustle of feet in the dry grass, while all four feet of this mild creature were
still, caused Cadfael to look up sharply towards the corner of the house. A
venerable old man stood looking at him steadily and silently; a tall old man,
white-haired and white-bearded, but still with brows black and thick as
gorse-bushes, and eyes as starkly blue as a winter sky beneath them. His dress
was the common homespun of the countryman, but his carriage and height turned
it into purple.

“As
I think,” said Cadfael, turning towards him with one hand still on Japhet’s
leaning neck, “you must be Ifor ap Morgan. My name is Cadfael, sometime Cadfael
ap Meilyr ap Dafydd of Trefriw. I have an errand to you from Rhys ap Griffith,
your wife’s brother, who is now Brother Rhys of the abbey of Shrewsbury.”

The
voice that emerged from the long, austere, dry lips was deep and sonorous, a
surprising music. “Are you sure your errand is not to a guest of mine,
brother?”

“It
was not,” said Cadfael, “it was to you. Now it is to both. And the first thing
I would say is, keep this beast out of sight, for if I can know him again from
a mere description, so can others.”

The
old man gave him a lengthy, piercing blue stare. “Come into the house,” he
said, and turned on his heel and led the way. But Cadfael took time to lead
Japhet well behind the house and shorten his tether to keep him there, before
he followed.

In
the dimness within, smoky and wood-scented, the old man stood with a hand
protectively on Edwin’s shoulder; and Edwin, with the impressionable generosity
of youth, had
somehow gathered to himself a virgin semblance
of the old man’s dignity and grace, and stood like him, erect and quiet within
his untried body as was Ifor ap Morgan in his old and experienced one, copied
the carriage of his head and the high serenity of his regard.

“The
boy tells me,” said Ifor, “that you are a friend. His friends are welcome.”

“Brother
Cadfael has been good to me,” said Edwin, “and to my nephew, Edwy, also, as
Meurig told us. I have been well blessed in my friends. But how did you find
me?”

“By
not looking for you,” said Cadfael. “Indeed, I’ve been at some pains not to
know where you had taken yourself, and certainly I never rode this way to find
you. I came with a harmless errand to Ifor ap Morgan here, from that same old
brother you visited with Meurig in our infirmary. Your wife’s brother, friend,
Rhys ap Griffith, is still living, and for his age hale, too, in our convent,
and when he heard that I was bound into these parts he charged me to bring his
kinsmen his greetings and prayers. He has not forgotten his kin, though it’s
long since he came among you, and I doubt he’ll come no more. I have been with
Cynfrith ap Rhys, and sent the same word by him to his brother Owain, and if
there are any others of his generation left, or who would remember him, be kind
enough to give them word, when chance offers, that he remembers his blood and
his own soil yet, and all those whose roots are in it.”

“So
he would,” said Ifor, melting suddenly into a warm smile. “He was always a
loyal kinsman, and fond of my child and all the other young in our clan, having
none of his own. He lost his wife early, or he’d have been here among us yet.
Sit down a while, brother, and tell me how he does, and if you’ll take my
blessings back to him, I’ll be grateful.”

“Meurig
will have told you much of what I can tell,” and Cadfael, settling beside him
on a bench at the rough table, “when he brought you Edwin to shelter. Is he not
here with you?”

“My
grandson is away making the round of all his kin and neighbours,” said the old
man, “for he comes home rarely
now. He’ll be here again in a
few days, I daresay. He did tell me he’d been to see the old man, along with
the boy here, but he stayed only an hour or so before making off about his
visiting. There’ll be time to talk when he comes back.”

It
was in Cadfael’s mind that he ought to cut short his own stay, for though it
had never entered his mind that the officers of the law might find it worth
while to keep a watch on him when he left Shrewsbury, the too easy discovery of
Edwin in this house had shaken his assurance. It was true that he had neither
expected nor wished to trace the boy as yet, but even Hugh Beringar, let alone
his underlings, might well have considered the contrary as a possibility, and
set a discreet hound on his trail. But he could not flatly deliver his message
and go, while the old man clearly took pleasure in polishing up old memories.
He was rambling away happily about the time when his wife was with him, and his
daughter a fair and lively child. Now all that remained to him was a single
grandson, and his own dignity and integrity.

Exile
and refuge in this remote place and this impressive company had had a strong
effect on Edwin. He withdrew into the shadows to leave his elders undisturbed,
making no plea, asking no question yet concerning his own troubled affairs.
Quietly he went and brought beakers and a pitcher of mead, and served them
unobtrusively and neatly, all dignity and humility, and again absented himself,
until Ifor turned to reach a long arm and draw him to the table.

“Young
man, you must have things to ask of Brother Cadfael, and things to tell him.”

The
boy had not lost his tongue, after all, once invited he could talk as volubly
and vehemently as ever. First he asked after Edwy, with an anxiety he would
never have revealed to the object of it, and was greatly eased to hear how that
adventure had ended better than it had threatened. “And Hugh Beringar was so
fair and generous? And he listened to you, and is looking for my box? Now if he
could but find it…! I was not happy leaving Edwy to play that part for me, but
he would have it so. And then I took Japhet a roundabout way to a place we used
to play sometimes, a
copse by the river, and Meurig met me
there, and gave me a token to carry to his grandfather here, and told me how to
find the place. And the next day he came, too, as he said he would.”