St. Peter's Fair (27 page)

His
armful of trestles thumped into the cart, and he turned to heave a stack of
boards after it.

“It
came from Wat’s tavern then, did it?” asked Cadfael, very thoughtfully gazing.

“It
has his mark on the thong. We all know where they belong, these better vessels.
But they’re not often left for us.”

“And
where was the stall where this one was left?” asked Hugh over Cadfael’s
shoulder.

“Not
ten yards back from where you’re standing.” They could not resist looking back
to measure, and it would do. It would do very well. “The odd thing is, the old
woman swore, when she came to put out her wares, that there was a stink of
spirits about the place. Said she could smell it in her skirts at night, as if
she’d been wading in it. But after the first day she
forgot
about it. She’s half-Welsh, and has a touch of the strange about her, I daresay
she imagined it.”

Cadfael
would have said, rather, that she had a keen nose, and some knowledge of the
distilling of spirits, and had accurately assessed the cause of her uneasiness.
Somewhere in the grass close to her stall, he was now certain, a good part of
that quart of liquor had been poured out generously over clothing and ground,
no wonder the turf retained it. A taste of it, perhaps, to scent the breath and
steady the mind, might have gone down a throat; but no more, for the mind had
been steady indeed, when stranger stooped over its fleshly habitation, and
sniffed at its flagrant drunkenness. Strangers, all but one! Cadfael began to
see what could hardly be called light, for he was looking into a profound
darkness.

“It
so happens,” he said, “that we have some business with Walter Renold. Will you
let us take your bottle back to him? You shall have the credit for it with
him.”

“Take
it, brother,” agreed the carter cheerfully, unleashing the bottle from the
shaft. “Tell him Rychart Nyall sent it. Wat knows me.”

“Nothing
in it, I suppose, when you found it?” hazarded Cadfael, hefting the fated thing
in one hand.

“Never
a drop, brother! Fair-goers may abandon the bottle, but they make sure of
what’s inside before they fall senseless!”

The
boards were stowed, the stripped ground lay trampled and naked, the cart moved
on. It would take no more than a handful of days and the next summer showers,
and all the green, fine hair would grow again, and the bald clay coil into
ringlets.

“It’s
mine, surely,” said Wat, receiving the bottle into a large hand. “The only one
of its kind I’m short. Who buys this measure of spirits, even at a fair? Who
has the money to afford it? And who chooses it afore decent ale and wine? Not
many! I’ve known men desperate to sink their souls fast, at whatever cost, but
seldom at a fair. They turn genial at fairs, even the sad fellows get the wind
of it, and mellow. I marvelled at that one, even when he asked for it and paid
the price, but he was plainly some lord’s servant, he had his orders. He had
money, and I sell liquor. But yes, if it’s of
worth to you,
that same fellow Philip here knows of, that’s the measure he bought.”

A
retired corner of Wat’s large taproom was as good a place as any to sit down
and think before action, and try to make sense of what they had gathered.

“Wat
has just put words to it,” said Cadfael. “We should have been quicker to see.
He was plainly some lord’s servant, he had his orders, he had money. One man
from a lord’s household suborned to murder by an unknown, one such setting out
on his own account to enrich himself by murder and theft, that I could believe
in. But two? From the same household? No, I think not! They never strayed from
their own manor. They served but one lord.”

“Their
own? Corbière?” whispered Philip, the breath knocked out of him by the enormity
of the implications. “But he… The way I heard it, the groom tried to ride him
down. Struck him into the dust when he tried to stop him. How can you account
for that? There’s no sense in it.”

“Wait!
Take it from the beginning. Say that on the night Master Thomas died, Fowler
was sent out to deal with him, to get possession of whatever it is someone so
much desires. His lord has spied out the land, told him of a handy scapegoat
who may yet be useful, given him money for the drink that will put him out of
the reckoning when the deed is done. The man would demand immunity, he must be
seen to be out of the reckoning. His lord keeps in close touch, joins us when
we go forth to look for the missing merchant. Recollect, Hugh, it was Corbière,
not we, who discovered his truant man. We had passed him by, and that would not
have done. He must be found, must be seen to be so drunk as to have been
helpless and harmless some hours, and must then be manifestly under lock and
key many hours more. Ten murders could have been committed that night, and no
one would ever have looked at Turstan Fowler.”

“All
for nothing,” pointed out Hugh. “Sooner or later he had to tell his master that
murder had been done in vain. Master Thomas did not carry his treasure on him.”

“I
doubt if he found that out until morning, when he had his man let out of
prison. Therefore he brought Fowler to lay evidence that made sure the finger
was pointed at Philip
here, and while we were all blamelessly
busy at the sheriff’s hearing, sent his second man to search the barge. And
again, vainly. Am I making sense of it thus far?”

“Sound
enough,” said Hugh sombrely. “The worst is yet to come. Which man, do you
suppose, did the work that day?”

“I
doubt if they ever involved the young one. Two were enough to do the business.
The groom Ewald, I think. Those two were the hands that did all. But they were
not the mind.”

“That
same night, then, they broke into the booth, and made their search there, and
still without success. The next night came the attack that killed Euan of
Shotwick.” Hugh said no word of the violation of Master Thomas’s coffin. “And,
as I remember you argued, once more in vain. So far, possible enough. But come
to yesterday’s thorny business. For God’s sake, how can sense be made of that
affair? I was there watching the man, I saw him change colour, I swear it!
Shock and anger and affronted honour, he showed them all. He would not send for
the groom, for fear a fellow-servant might warn him, he would fetch him
himself. He placed himself between his man and the gate, he risked maiming or
worse, trying to halt his flight…”

“All
that,” agreed Cadfael heavily, “and yet there is sense in it all, though a more
abominable sense even than you or I dreamed of. Ewald was in the stables, there
was no escape for him unless he could break out of our walls. Corbière came at
the sheriff’s bidding, and was told all. His man was detected past denying, and
driven into a corner, he would pour out everything he knew, lay the load on his
lord. Consider the order in which everything happened from that moment. Fowler
had been at the butts, and had his arbalest with him. Corbière set off to
summon Ewald from the stables, Turstan made to follow him, yes, and some words
were exchanged that sent him back. But what words? They were too distant to be
heard. Nor could we guess what was said in the stable-yard. We waited—you’ll
agree?—several minutes before they came. Long enough for Corbière to tell the
groom how things stood, bid him keep his head, promise him escape. Bring the
horse, I will ensure that only I stand between you and the gate, pick your
moment, mount and away. Lie up in hiding—doubtless at his manor—and you shan’t
be the loser.
But make it clear that I have no part in
this—attack me, make it good for your part, I will make it good for mine. And
so he did—the finest player of a part that ever I saw. He set himself between
Ewald and the gate, and between them they used the lively horse to edge us all
that way. He made a gallant grab at the rein, and took a heavy fall, and the
groom was clear.”

They
were both gazing at him in mute fascination, wide-eyed.

“Except
that his lord had one more trick to play,” said Cadfael. “He had never intended
to let him go. Escape was too great a risk, he might yet be taken, and open his
mouth. ‘Fetch him down!’ said Corbière, and Turstan Fowler did it. Without
compunction, like master, like man. A dangerous mouth—dangerous to both of
them—closed at no cost.”

There
was a long moment of appalled silence. Even Beringar, whose breadth of mind
could conceive, though with detestation, prodigies of evil and treachery, was
shocked out of words. Philip stared aghast, huge of eye, and came slowly to his
feet. His experience was narrow, local and decent, it was hard to grasp that
men could be monsters.

“You
mean it! You believe it! But this man—he visits her, he pays court to her! And
you say there was something he wanted from her uncle, and has missed
getting—not on his body, not in his barge, not in his booth—where is there
left, but with Emma? And we delay here!”

“Emma
is with my wife,” said Hugh reasonably, “in the abbey guest-hall, what harm can
come to her there?”

“What
harm?” cried Philip passionately. “When you tell me we are dealing not with
men, but with devils?” And he whirled on the heel of a trodden shoe and ran,
out of the tavern and arrow-straight along the road towards the Foregate, long
legs flashing.

Cadfael
and Hugh were left regarding each other mutely across the table, but for no
more than a moment. “By God,” said Hugh then, “we learn of the innocents! Come
on, we’d best make haste after. The lad’s shaken me!”

Philip
came to the guest-hall out of breath. With chest heaving from his running he
asked for Aline, and she came out, smiling but alone.

“Why, Philip, what’s the matter?” Then she thought
she knew, and was sorry for a lovesick boy who came too late even to take a
dignified farewell, and receive what comfort a few kind words, costing nothing,
could provide him. “Oh, Philip, I am sorry you’ve missed her, but they could
not linger, it was necessary to leave in good time. She would have wished me to
say her goodbye to you, and wish you…” The words faded on her lips. “Philip,
what is it? What ails you?”

“Gone?”
he said, hard and shrill. “She’s gone? They, you said! Who? Who is gone with
her?”

“Why,
she left with Messire Corbière, he has offered to escort her to Bristol with
his sister, who goes to a convent there. It seemed a lucky chance… Philip! What
have I said? What is wrong?” He had let out a great groan of fury and anguish,
and even reached a hand to grip her wrist.

“Where?
Where is he taking her? Now, today!”

“To
his manor of Stanton Cobbold for tonight—his sister is there…”

But
he was gone, the instant she had named the place, running like a purposeful demon,
and not towards the gatehouse, but across the court to the stable-yard. There
was no time to ask leave of any man, or respect any man’s property, whatever
the consequences. Philip took the best-looking horse he saw ready to hand,
which by luck—Philip’s luck, not the owner’s!—stood saddled and waiting for
departure, on a tether in the yard. Before Aline, bewildered and frightened,
reached the doorway of the hall, Philip was already out of the gate, and a
furious groom was haring across the court in voluble and hopeless pursuit.

Since
the nearest way to the road leading south towards Stretton and Stanton Cobbold
was to turn left at the gate, and left again by the narrow track on the near
side of the bridge, Brother Cadfael and Hugh Beringar, hastening along the
Foregate, saw nothing of the turmoil that attended Philip’s departure. They
came to the gatehouse and the great court without any intimation that things
could have gone amiss. There were still guests departing, the normal bustle of
the day after the fair, but nothing to give them pause. Hugh made straight for
the guest-hall, and Cadfael, following hard on his
heels, was
suddenly arrested by a large hand on his shoulder, and a familiar, hearty voice
hailing him in amiable Welsh.

“The
very man I was looking for! I come to make my farewells, brother, and thank you
for your companionship. A good fair! I’m off to my boat now, and away home with
a handsome profit.”

Rhodri
ap Huw beamed merrily from within the covert of his black beard and thorn-bush
of black hair.

“Far
from a good fair to two, at least, who came looking for a profit,” said Cadfael
ruefully.

“Ah,
but in cash, or some other currency? Though it all comes down to cash in the
end, cash or power. What else do men labour for?”

“For
a cause, perhaps, now and then one. You said yourself, I remember, no place
like one of the great fairs for meeting someone you’d liefer not be seen
meeting. Nowhere so solitary as the middle of a market place!” And he added
mildly: “I daresay Owain Gwynedd himself may have had his intelligencers here.
Though they’d need to have good English,” he said guilelessly, “to gather much
profit from it.”

“They
would so. No use employing me. I daresay you’re right, though. Owain needs to
have forward information, as much as any man, if he’s to keep his princedom
safe, and add a few more miles to it here and there. Now I wonder which of all
these traders I’ve rubbed shoulders with will be making his report in Owain’s
ear!”

“And
what advice he’ll be giving him,” said Cadfael.

Rhodri
stroked his splendid beard, and his dark eyes twinkled. “I think he might take
him word that the message Earl Ranulf expected from the south—who knows, maybe
even from overseas—will never be delivered, and if he wants to get the best out
of the hour, he should be aiming to enlarge his rule away from Chester’s
borders, for the earl will be taking no risks, but looking well to his own.
Owain would do better to make his bid in Maelienydd and Elfael, and let Ranulf
alone.”