Monk's Hood (9 page)

“Very
happy! I couldn’t have had a better man. But there were no more children then.
And when Sibil was seventeen she married Eward’s journeyman, Martin Bellecote,
and a good lad he is, too, and she’s as happy in her match as I was in mine,
thank God! Well, then, in two years the girl was with child, and it was like
being young again myself—the first grandchild!—it’s always so. I was so joyful,
looking after her and making plans for the birth, and Eward was as proud as I
was, and what with one thing and another, you’d have thought we old folk were
young newlyweds again ourselves. And I don’t know how it happens, but when
Sibil was four months gone, what should I find but I was carrying, too!

After
all those years! And I in my forty-fourth year—it was like a miracle! And the
upshot is, she and I both brought forth boys, and though there’s the four
months between them, they might as well be twins as uncle and nephew—and the
uncle the younger, at that! They even look very much like, both taking after my
man. And from the time they were first on their feet they’ve been as close as
any brothers, and closer than most, and both as wild as fox-cubs. So that’s my
son Edwin and my grandson Edwy. Not yet turned fifteen, either of them. It’s
for Edwin I’m praying your help, Cadfael. For I swear to you he never did nor
even could do such wicked harm, but the sheriff’s man has it fixed fast in his
head that
it was Edwin who put poison in the dish. If you knew
him, Cadfael, if only you knew him, you’d know it’s madness.”

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 lusty 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 nobody 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 rushing 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 shire 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 bastards 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
passing.

“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 pricked 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.”