Heretic's Apprentice bc-16 Page 14

  “One little act of contrition will do?” ventured Girard mildly. “He may have gone to another priest. Who knows? The thought could have come upon him somewhere else, and seemed to him a mortal matter there and then.”

  “There are four parishes within the walls,” said Elias with grudging tolerance. “I will ask. Though one who misses Mass so often

  Well, I will ask, here within the town and beyond. It may even be that he feared to come to me. Men are feeble, and go aside to hide their feebleness.”

  “So they are, Father, so they do! Wouldn’t he be ashamed to come to you, if he’d never shown his face at Mass for so long? And mightn’t he go rather to another, one who didn’t know him so well, and might be easier on his sins? You ask, Father, and you’ll find excuse for him somewhere. Then there’s this matter of Conan. He’s our man, too, whatever he may have been up to. You say he gave evidence about this lad of William’s talking some foolishness about the Church? What do you say, Jevan, did they put their heads together to do him harm?”

  “It’s likely enough,” said Jevan, shrugging. “Though I wouldn’t say they understood rightly what they were doing. It turns out Aldwin, the silly soul, feared he’d be thrown out to let Elave back in.”

  “That would be like him, surely!” agreed Girard, sighing. “Always one to look on the black side. Though he should have had more sense, all the years he’s known us. I daresay he thought the youngster would take to his heels, and be off to find his fortune elsewhere, as soon as he felt the threat. But why should Conan want to be rid of him?”

  There was a brief, blank silence and some head-shaking, then Jevan said with his small, rueful smile: “I think our shepherd has also taken to thinking of Elave as a perilous rival, though not for employment. He has an eye on Fortunata

  “

  “On me?” Fortunata sat bolt upright with astonishment, and gaped at her uncle across the table. “I’ve never seen signs of it! And I’m sure I never gave him any cause.”

  “

  and fancies and fears,” continued Jevan, his smile deepening, “that Elave, if he stays, will make a more personable suitor. Not to say a more welcome one! And who’s to say he’s wrong?” And he added, his black eyes bent on the girl in teasing affection: “On both counts!”

  “Conan has never paid me any attention,” said Fortunata, past sheer amazement now, and quick to examine what might very well be true, even if it had eluded her notice. “Never! I can’t believe he has ever given me a thought.”

  “He would certainly never make a winning lover,” said Jevan, “but there’s been a change in these past few days. You’ve been too busy looking in another direction to notice it.”

  “You mean he’s been casting sheep’s eyes at my girl?” demanded Girard, and laughed aloud at the notion.

  “Hardly that! I would call it a very calculating eye. Has not Margaret told you, Fortunata has an endowment now from William, to be her dowry.”

  “There was a box mentioned that has yet to be opened. Why, does any man think I would let my girl want for a dowry, when she has a mind to marry? Though it’s good that the old man remembered her, and thought to send her his blessing, too. If she did have a mind to Conan, well, I suppose he’s not a bad fellow, a girl could do worse. He should have known I’d never let her go empty-handed, whoever she chose.” And he added, with an appreciative glance at Fortunata: “Though our girl might do a great deal better, too!”

  “Coin in the hand,” said Jevan sardonically, “is more worth than all the promises.”

  “Ah, you surely do the man an injustice! What’s to prevent him waking up to the fact that our little lass has grown into a beauty, and as good as she is pretty, too. And even if he did bear witness against Elave to elbow him out of the running, and urge Aldwin not to recant for the same none too creditable reason, men have done worse, and not been made to pay too highly for it. But this business of Aldwin is murder. No, that’s out of Conan’s scope, surely!” He looked down the length of the table to Father Elias, sitting small, attentive, and sharp-eyed under his wispy grey tonsure. “Surely, Father?”

  “I have learned,” said the little priest, “not to put any villainy out of any man’s reach. Nor any goodness, either. A life is a very fragile thing, created in desperate labor and snuffed out by a breath of wind—anger, or drunkenness, or mere horseplay, it takes no more than an instant.”

  “Conan has merely a few hours of time to account for,” Jevan pointed out mildly. “He must surely have met with someone who knew him on his way out to the sheep. He has only to name them, they have only to say where and when they saw him. This time, if he tells all the truth instead of half, he cannot miscarry.”

  And that would leave only Elave. The grossly offended, the most aggrieved, suddenly approached by his accuser, among trees, without witnesses, too enraged to wait to hear what his enemy wanted to say to him. It was what almost every soul in Shrewsbury must be saying, taking the ending for granted. One charge of heresy, one of murder. All that afternoon until Vespers he was at liberty, and who had seen Aldwin alive since he passed the porter on the town gate? Two and a half hours between then and Vespers, when Elave was again in custody, two and a half hours in which he could have done murder. Even the objection that Aldwin’s wound was in the back could easily be set aside. He came running to plead his penitence, Elave turned on him so furious a face and so menacing a front that he took fright and turned to flee, and got the knife in his back as he fled. Yes, they would all say so. And if it was argued that Elave had no knife on him, that it was left in his bundle in the guest hall? He had another, doubtless at the bottom of the river now. There was an answer to everything.

  “Father,” said Fortunata abruptly, rising from her place, “will you open my box for me now? Let us see what I am worth. And then I must talk to you. About Elave!”

  Margaret brought the box from the corner press, and cleared an end of the table to make room for it before her husband. Girard’s bushy brows rose appreciatively at the sight of it, and he handled it admiringly.

  “Why, this is a beautiful thing in itself. This could bring you in an extra penny or two if ever you need it.” He took up the gilded key and fitted it into the lock. It turned smoothly and silently, and Girard opened the lid to reveal a neat, thick swathing of felt, folded in such a way that it could be opened to disclose what the box contained without removing it. Six little bags of similar felt were packed within. All of a size, snugly fitted together to fill the space.

  “Well, they’re yours,” said Girard, smiling at Fortunata, who was leaning over to stare at them with her face in shadow. “Open one!”

  She drew out one of the bags, and the soft chink of silver sounded under her fingers. There was no drawstring, the top of the bag was simply folded over. She tipped the contents streaming out upon the table, a flood of silver pennies, more than she had ever seen at one time, and yet somehow curiously disappointing. The casket was so beautiful and unusual, a work of art; the contents, however valuable, mere everyday money, the traffic of trade. But yes, they might have their uses, urgent uses if it came to the worst.

  “There you are, girl!” said Girard, delighted. “Good coin of the realm, and all yours. Nigh on a hundred pence there,

  I should guess. And five more like it. Uncle William did well by you. Shall we count them for you?”

  She hesitated for a moment, and then she said: “Yes!” and herself curved a hand round the little pile of thin, small silver pieces, and began to tell them over one by one back into the bag. There were ninety-three of them. By the time she had folded the bag closed again and restored it to its corner in the box, Girard was halfway through the next.

  Father Elias had drawn back a little from the table, averting his eyes from this sudden dazzling display of comparative wealth with a curious mixture of desire and detestation. A poor parish priest seldom saw even ten silver pennies together, let alone a hundred. He said hollowly: “I will go and enquire about Aldwin at
Saint Julian’s,” and walked quietly out of the room and out of the house, and only Margaret noticed his going, and ran after him to see him courteously out to the street.

  There were five hundred and seventy pennies in the six bags. Fortunata fitted them all snugly back into their places in the box, and closed the lid upon them.

  “Lock it again, and put it away safely for me,” she said. “It is mine, isn’t it? To use as I like?” They were all looking at her with steady, benevolent interest, and the indulgent respect they had always shown towards her, even from her intense and serious childhood.

  “I wanted you to know. Since Elave came back, even more since this shadow fell, I have come close to him afresh, closer than ever I was. I think I love him. So I did long ago, but this is love in a different kind. He brought me this money to help me to a good marriage, but now I know that the marriage I want is with him, and even if I cannot have it, I want to use this gift to help him out of the shadow, even if it means he must go away from here, where they can’t lay hands on him again. And where I may never see him again. Money can buy a lot of things, even ways out of prison, even men to open the doors. At least I can try.”

  “Girl dear,” said Girard, gently but firmly, “it was you told me, just a while since, how you urged him to run for his life when he had the chance. And he was the one who refused. A man who won’t run can’t be made to run. And to my way of thinking he’s right. And not only because he gave his word, but because of why he gave his word. He said he’d done no wrong, and wouldn’t afford any man proof that he went in fear of justice.”

  “I know it,” said Fortunata. “But he has absolute faith in the justice of Church and state. And I am not sure that I have. I would rather buy him his life against his will than see him throw it away.”

  “You would not get him to take it,” warned Jevan. “He has refused you once.”

  “That was before Aldwin was murdered,” she said starkly. “Then he was accused only of heresy. Now, if he is not yet charged, it’s a matter of murder. He never did it, I won’t believe it, murder is not in his nature. But there he is helpless under lock and key, already in their hands. It is his life now.”

  “He still has his life,” said Girard robustly, and flung an arm about her to draw her warmly to his solid side. “Hugh Beringar is not the man to take the easy answer and never look beyond. If the lad is blameless he’ll come out of it whole and free. Wait! Wait a little and see what the law can discover. I won’t meddle with murder. Do I know for sure that any man is innocent, whether it’s Elave or Conan? But if it comes down to the simple matter of heresy, then I’ll throw all the weight I have into the balance to bring him off safely. You shall have him, he shall have the place poor Aldwin grudged to him, and I’ll be guarantor for his good behavior. But murder—no! Am I God, to see guilt or innocence in a man’s face?”

  Chapter Nine

  Father Elias, having visited all his fellow-priests within the town, came down to the abbey next morning, and appealed at chapter as to whether any of the brothers who were also priests had by any chance taken confession from the clerk Aldwin before the services of Saint Winifred’s translation. The eve of a festival day must have found plenty of work for the confessors, since it was natural for any worshippers who had neglected their spiritual condition for some time to find their consciences pricking them into the confessional, to come purged and refreshed to the celebrations of the day, and rest content in their renewed virtue and peace of mind. If any cleric here had been approached by Aldwin, he would be able to declare it. But no one had. It ended with Father Elias scurrying out of the chapter house disappointed and distrait, shaking his shaggy grey head and trailing the wide, frayed sleeves of his gown like a small, disheveled bird.

  Brother Cadfael went out from chapter to his work in the garden with the rear view of that shabby little figure still before his mind’s eye. A stickler was Father Elias; he would not easily give up. Somewhere, somehow, he must find a reason to convince himself that Aldwin had died in a state of grace, and see to it that his soul had all the consolation and assistance the rites of the Church could provide. But it seemed he had already tried every cleric in the town and the Foregate, and so far fruitlessly. And he was not a man who could simply shut his eyes and pretend that all was well. His conscience had a flinty streak, and would pay him out with a vengeance if he lowered his standards without due grounds for clemency. Cadfael felt a dual sympathy for perfectionist priest and backsliding parishioner. At this moment their case seemed to him to take precedence even over Elave’s plight. Elave was safe enough now until Bishop Roger de Clinton declared his will towards him. If he could not get out, neither could any zealot get in, to break his head again. His wounds were healing and his bruises fading, and Brother Anselm, precentor and librarian, had given him the first volume of Saint Augustine’s Confessions to pass the time away. So that he might discover, said Anselm, that Augustine did write on other themes besides predestination, reprobation, and sin.

  Anselm was ten years younger than Cadfael, a lean, active, gifted soul with a grain of irrepressible mischief still alive if usually dormant within him. Cadfael had suggested that he should rather give Elave Augustine’s Against Fortunatus to read. There he might find, written some years before the saint’s more orthodox outpourings, in one of his periods of sharply changing belief: “There is no sin unless through a man’s own will, and hence the reward when we do right things also of our own will.” Let Elave commit that to memory, and he could quote it in his own defense. More than likely Anselm would take him at his word, and feed the suspect all manner of quotations supportive to his cause. It was a game any well-read student of the early fathers could play, and Anselm better than most.

  So for some days at least, until Serlo could reach his bishop in Coventry and return with his response, Elave was safe enough, and could do with the time to get over his rough handling. But Aldwin, dead and in need of burial, could not wait.

  Cadfael could not but wonder how things were going with Hugh’s enquiries within the town. He had seen nothing of him since the morning of the previous day, and the revelation of murder had removed the center of the action from the abbey into the wide and populated field of the secular world. Even if the original root of the case was within these walls, in the cloudy issue of heresy, and the obvious suspect here in close keeping, there outside the walls the last hours of Aldwin’s life remained to be filled in, and there were hundreds of men in town and Foregate who had known him, who might have old grudges or new complaints against him, nothing whatever to do with the charges against Elave. And there were frailties in the case against Elave which Hugh had seen for himself, and would not lightly discard in favor of the easy answer. No, Aldwin was the more urgent priority.

  After dinner, in the half hour or so allowed for rest, Cadfael went into the church, into the grateful stony coolness, and stood for some minutes silent before Saint Winifred’s altar. Of late, if he felt the need to speak to her in actual words at all, he found himself addressing her in Welsh, but usually he relied on her to know all the preoccupations of his mind without words. Doubtful, in any case, if the young and beautiful Welsh girl of her first brief life had known any English or Latin, or even been able to read and write her own language, though the stately prioress of her second life, pilgrim to Rome and head of a community of holy women, must have had time to learn and study to her heart’s content. But it was as the girl that Cadfael always imagined her. A girl whose beauty was legendary, and caused her to be coveted by princes.

  Before he left her, though he was not conscious of having expressed any need or request, he felt the quietude and certainty the thought of her always gave him. He circled the parish altar into the nave, and there was Father Boniface just filling the little altar lamp and straightening the candles in their holders. Cadfael stopped to pass the time of day.

  “You’ll have had Father Elias from Saint Alkmund’s after you this morning, I daresay? He came to us at chapte
r on the same errand. A sad business, this of Aldwin’s death.”

  Father Boniface nodded his solemn dark head, and wiped oily fingers, boylike, in the skirt of his gown. He was thin but wiry, and almost as taciturn as his verger, but that deferent shyness was gradually easing as he worked his way into the confidence of his flock.

  “Yes, he came to me after Prime. I never knew this Aldwin, living. I wish I could have helped him, dead, but to my knowledge I never saw him until the wool merchant’s funeral, the day before the festival. Certainly he never came to me for confession.”

  “Nor to any of those within here,” said Cadfael. “Nor in the town, for Elias asked there first. And your parish is a wide one. Poor Father Elias would have to walk a few miles to find the next priest. And if Aldwin never knocked on the door of any of his own neighbors, I doubt if he made a long journey to seek his penance elsewhere.”

  “True, I have occasion to walk a few miles myself in the way of duty,” agreed Boniface, with pride rather than regret in the breadth of his cure. “Not that I grudge it, God knows! Night or day, it’s a joy to know that from the farthest hamlet they can call me when they need me, and know that I’ll come. Sometimes I question my fortune, knowing it so little deserved. Only two days ago I was called away to Betton, and missed all but the morning Mass. I was sorry it should be that day, but no choice, there was a man dying, or he and all his kin thought he was dying. It was worth the journey, for he took the turn for life, and I stayed until we were sure. It was getting dusk when I got back—” He broke off suddenly, open-mouthed and round-eyed. “So it was!” he said slowly. “And I never thought to say!”

  “What is it?” asked Cadfael curiously. It had been a long and confiding speech for this quiet, reticent young man, and this sudden halt was almost startling. “What have you thought of now?”