Ellis Peters - Monk's Hood

“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.”

“And what,” asked Cadfael gently, “had you planned to do, if truth never did come out? If you could not go back? Though God forbid it should end so, and God granting, I’ll see that it does not.”

The boy’s face was solemn but clear; he had thought much, here in his haven, and spent so much time contemplating the noble face of his patron that a kind of shining likeness had arisen between them. “I’m strong, I can work, I could earn my keep in Wales, if need be, even if it must be as an outlander. Other men have had to leave their homes because of unjust accusations, and have made their way in the world, and so could I. But I’d rather go back. I don’t want to leave my mother, now that she’s alone, and her affairs in such disorder. And I don’t want to be remembered as the man who poisoned his stepfather and ran away, when I know I never did him harm or wished him any.”

“That shall not happen,” said Cadfael firmly. “You lie close in cover a few days more, and put your trust in God, and I believe we shall get to the truth, and you can go home openly and proudly.”

“Do you believe that? Or is it just to hearten me?”

“I believe it. Your heart is not in want of bolstering up with false cheer. And I would not lie to you, even for good cause.” Yet there were lies, or at least unspoken truths, hanging heavy on his mind in this house, and he had better make his farewells and go, the passing of time and daylight giving him a sound excuse. “I must get back to Rhydycroesau,” he said, making to rise from the table, “for I’ve left Brother Simon to do all the work alone, and Brother Barnabas still shaky on his legs yet. Did I tell you I was sent there to get a sick man well again, and to supply his place while he was mending?”

“You’ll come again if there’s news?” said Edwin, and if his voice was resolutely steady, his eyes were anxious.

“I’ll come again when there’s news.”

“You’ll be in Rhydycroesau some days yet?” asked Ifor ap Morgan. “Then we shall see you again at more leisure, I trust.”

He was leading the way to the door to speed his guest, his hand again possessive on Edwin’s shoulder, when he halted suddenly, stiffening, and with the other hand, outstretched with spread fingers, halted them, too, and enjoined silence. Age had not dulled those ancient ears; he was the first to catch the muted sound of voices. Not muted by distance, close and deliberately quiet. The dry grass rustled. In the edge of the trees one of the tethered horses whinnied enquiringly, giving notice of other horses approaching.

“Not Welsh!” said Ifor in a soundless whisper. “English! Edwin, go into the other room.”

The boy obeyed instantly and silently; but in a moment he was back, shadowy in the doorway. “They’re there—two, outside the window. In leather, armed …”

The voices had drawn nearer, outside the house-door, their whispers grew louder, satisfied, abandoning stealth.

“That’s the pied beast … no mistaking it!”

“What did I tell you? I said if we found the one we’d find the other.”

Someone laughed, low and contentedly. Then abruptly a fist thudded at the door, and the same voice called aloud, peremptorily: “Open to the law!” The formality was followed up immediately by a strong thrust, hurling the door inwards to the wall, and the doorway was filled by the burly figure of the bearded sergeant from Shrewsbury, with two men-at-arms at his back. Brother Cadfael and William Warden confronted each other at a distance of a couple of feet; mutual recognition made the one bristle and the other grin.