Monk's Hood Page 4

  Brother Petrus was basting the plump little carcase lovingly with his rich wine sauce, tasting delicately, adding a pinch of rosemary and a mere hint of rue, when Prior Robert swept into the kitchen, imperially tall and papally austere, and stood over the pot, his alabaster nostrils twitching to the tantalising scent, and his cool eyes studying the appearance of the dish, which was as alluring as its savour. Brother Petrus stooped to hide his face, which was sour as gal, and basted industriously, hoping his best efforts might meet with an uninformed palate, and disgust where they should delight. Small hope, Robert had such pleasure in the aroma that he almost considered abandoning his generous plan to share the satisfaction. Almost, but not quite. Mallilie was indeed a desirable property.

  “I have heard,” said the prior, “that our guest at the house by the mill-pond is in poor health, and lacks appetite. Set aside a single portion of this dish, Brother Petrus, and send it to the invalid with my compliments, as an intermissum after the main dish for the day. Bone it, and serve it in one of my own bowls. It should tempt him, if he is out of taste with other foods, and he will appreciate the attention.” He condescended, all too genuinely, to add: “It smells excellent.”

  “I do my best,” grated Brother Petrus, almost wishing his best undone.

  “So do we all,” acknowledged Robert austerely, “and so we ought.” And he swept out as he had swept in, highly content with himself, his circumstances, and the state of his soul. And Brother Petrus gazed after him from under lowering brows, and snarled at his two lay scullions, who knew better than to meddle too close while he was cooking, but kept the corners of the kitchen, and jumped to obey orders.

  Even for Brother Petrus orders were orders. He did as he had been instructed, but after his own fashion, seeing to it that the portion he set aside for the unoffending guest was the choicest part of the flesh, and laced with the richest helping of the sauce.

  “Lost his appetite, has he?” he said, after a final tasting, and unable to suppress his satisfaction in his own skills. “That should tempt a man on his deathbed to finish it to the last drop.”

  *

  Brother Cadfael on his way to the refectory saw Aelfric crossing the great court from the abbot’s kitchen, heading quickly for the gatehouse, bearing before him a high-rimmed wooden tray laden with covered dishes. Guests enjoyed a more relaxed diet than the brothers, though it did not differ greatly except in the amount of meat, and at this time of year that would already be salt beef. To judge by the aroma that wafted from the tray as it passed, beef boiled with onions, and served with a dish of beans. The small covered bowl balanced on top had a much more appetising smell. Evidently the newcomer was to enjoy an intermissum today, before coming to the apples from the orchard. Aelfric carried his burden, which must be quite heavy, with a careful concentration, bent on getting it safely and quickly to the house by the pond. It was not a long journey, out at the gatehouse, a short step to the left, to the limits of the monastery wall, then past the mill-pond on the left, and the first house beyond was Aelfric’s destination. Beyond, again, came the bridge over the Severn, and the wall and gate of Shrewsbury. Not far, but far enough in December for food to get cold. No doubt the household, though relieved of the need to do much cooking, had its own fire and hob, and pans and dishes enough, and the fuel was a part of the price of Bonel’s manor.

  Cadfael went on to the refectory, and his own dinner, which turned out to be boiled beef and beans, as he had foreseen. No savory intermissum here. Brother Richard, the sub-prior, presided; Prior Robert ate privately in the lodging he already thought of as his own. The partridge was excellent.

  *

  They had reached the grace after meat, and were rising from table, when the door flew open almost in Brother Richard’s face, and a lay brother from the porter’s lodge burst in, babbling incoherently for Brother Edmund, but too short of breath from running to explain the need.

  “Master Bonel—his serving-maid has come running for help…” He gulped breath deep, and suppressed his panting long enough to get out clearly: “He’s taken terribly ill, she said he looks at death’s door… the mistress begs someone to come to him quickly!”

  Brother Edmund gripped him by the arm. “What ails him? Is it a stroke? A convulsion?”

  “No, from what the girl said, not that. He ate his dinner, and seemed well and well content, and not a quarter of an hour after he was taken with tingling of the mouth and throat, and then willed to vomit, but could not, and lips and neck are grown stiff and hard… So she said!”

  By the sound of it, she was a good witness, too, thought Cadfael, already making for the door and his workshop at a purposeful trot. “Go before, Edmund, I’ll join you as fast as I may. I’ll bring what may be needed.”

  He ran, and Edmund ran, and behind Brother Edmund the messenger scuttled breathlessly towards the gatehouse, and the agitated girl waiting there. Prickling of the lips, mouth and throat, Cadfael was reckoning as he ran, tingling and then rigidity, and urgent need, but little ability, to rid himself of whatever it was he had consumed. And a quarter of an hour since he got it down, more by now, if it was in the dinner he had eaten. It might be late to give him the mustard that would make him sick, but it must be tried. Though surely this was merely an attack of illness from some normal disagreement between an indisposed man and his perfectly wholesome food, nothing else was possible. But then, that prickling of the flesh of mouth and throat, and the stiffness following… that sounded all too like at least one violent illness he had witnessed, which had almost proved fatal; and the cause of that he knew. Hurriedly he snatched from the shelves the preparations he wanted, and ran for the gatehouse.

  For all the chill of the December day, the door of the first house beyond the mill-pond stood wide, and for all the awed quietness that hung about it, a quivering of agitation and confusion seemed to well out at the doorway to meet him, an almost silent panic of fluttering movements and hushed voices. A good house, with three rooms and the kitchen, and a small garden behind, running down to the pond; he knew it well enough, having visited a previous inmate upon less desperate business. The kitchen door faced away from the pond, towards the prospect of Shrewsbury beyond the river, and the north light at this time of day and year made the interior dim, although the window that looked out southwards stood unshuttered to let in light and air upon the brazier that did duty as all the cooking facilities such pensioners needed. He caught the grey gleam of a reflection from the water, as the wind ruffled it; the strip of garden was narrow here, though the house stood well above the water level.

  By the open inner door through which the murmur of frightened voices emerged, stood a woman, obviously watching for him, her hands gripped tightly together under her breast, and quivering with tension. She started eagerly towards him as he came in, and then he saw her more clearly; a woman of his own years and his own height, very neat and quiet in her dress, her dark hair laced with silver and braided high on her head, her oval face almost unlined except for the agreeable grooves of good-nature and humour that wrinkled the corners of her dark-brown eyes, and made her full mouth merry and attractive. The merriment was quenched now, she wrung her hands and fawned on him; but attractive she was, even beautiful. She had held her own against the years, all forty-two of them that had come between.

  *

  He knew her at once. He had not seen her since they were both seventeen, and affianced, though nobody knew it but themselves, and probably her family would have made short work of the agreement if they had known of it. But he had taken the Cross and sailed for the Holy Land, and for all his vows to return to claim her, with his honours thick upon him, he had forgotten everything in the fever and glamour and peril of a life divided impartially between soldier and sailor, and delayed his coming far too long; and she, for all her pledges to wait for him, had tired at last and succumbed to her parents’ urgings, and married a more stable character, and small blame to her. And he hoped she had been happy. But never, never had he e
xpected to see her here. It was no Bonel, no lord of a northern manor, she had married, but an honest craftsman of Shrewsbury. There was no accounting for her, and no time to wonder.

  Yet he knew her at once. Forty-two years between, and he knew her! He had not, it seemed, forgotten very much. The eager way she leaned to him now, the turn of her head, the very way she coiled her hair; and the eyes, above all, large, direct, clear as light for all their darkness.

  At this moment she did not, thank God, know him. Why should she? He must be far more changed than she; half a world, alien to her, had marked, manipulated, adapted him, changed his very shape of body and mind. All she saw was the monk who knew his herbs and remedies, and had run to fetch aids for her stricken man.

  “Through here, brother… he is in here. The infirmarer has got him to. bed. Oh, please help him!”

  “If I may, and God willing,” said Cadfael, and went by her into the next room. She pressed after him, urging and ushering. The main room was furnished with table and benches, and chaotically spread with the remains of a meal surely interrupted by something more than one man’s sudden illness. In any case, he was said to have eaten his meal and seemed well; yet there were broken dishes lying, shards on both table and floor. But she drew him anxiously on, into the bedchamber.

  Brother Edmund rose from beside the bed, wide and dismayed of eye. He had got the invalid as near rest as he could, wrapped up here on top of the covers, but there was little more he could do. Cadfael drew near, and looked down at Gervase Bonel. A big, fleshy man, thickly capped in greying brown hair, with a short beard now beaded with saliva that ran from both corners of a rigid, half-open mouth. His face was leaden blue, the pupils of his eyes dilated and staring. Fine, strong features were congealed now into a livid mask. The pulse for which Cadfael reached was faint, slow and uneven, the man’s breathing shallow, long and laboured. The lines of jaw and throat stood fixed as stone.

  “Bring a bowl,” said Cadfael, kneeling, “and beat a couple of egg-whites into some milk. We’ll try to get it out of him, but I doubt it’s late, it may do as much damage coming up as going down.” He did not turn his head to see who ran to do his bidding, though certainly someone did; he was hardly aware, as yet, that there were three other people present in the house, in addition to Brother Edmund and Mistress Bonel and the sick man. Aelfric and the maid, no doubt, but he recognised the third only when someone stopped to slide a wooden bowl close to the patient’s face, and tilt the livid head to lean over it. Cadfael glanced up briefly, the silent and swift movement pleasing him, and looked into the intent and horrified face of the young Welshman, Meurig, Brother Rhys’s great-nephew.

  “Good! Lift his head on your hand, Edmund, and hold his brow steady.” It was easy enough to trickle the emetic mixture of mustard into the half-open mouth, but the stiff throat laboured frightfully at swallowing, and much of the liquid ran out again into his beard and the bowl. Brother Edmund’s hands quivered, supporting the tormented head. Meurig held the bowl, himself shivering. The following sickness convulsed the big body, weakened the feeble pulse yet further, and produced only a painfully inadequate result. It was indeed late for Gervase Bonel. Cadfael gave up, and let the paroxysms subside, for fear of killing him out of hand.

  “Give me the milk and eggs.” This he fed very slowly into the open mouth, letting it slide of itself down the stiff throat, in such small quantities that it could not threaten the patient with choking. Too late to prevent whatever the poison had done to the flesh of Bonel’s gullet, it might still be possible to lay a soothing film over the damaged parts, and ease their condition. He spooned patient drop after drop, and dead silence hung all round him, the watchers hardly breathing.

  The big body seemed to have shrunk and subsided into the bed, the pulse fluttered ever more feebly, the stare of the eyes filmed over. He lay collapsed. The muscles of his throat no longer made any effort at swallowing, but stood corded and rigid. The end came abruptly, with no more turmoil than the cessation of breathing and pulse.

  Brother Cadfael laid the spoon in the little bowl of milk, and sat back on his heels, He looked up at the circle of shocked, bewildered faces, and for the first time saw them all clearly: Meurig, the bowl with its horrid contents shaking in his hands, Aelfric grim-eyed and pale, hovering at Brother Edmund’s shoulder and staring at the bed, the girl—Brother Mark had not exaggerated, she was very pretty, with her yellow hair and black eyes—standing frozen, too shocked for tears, both small fists pressed hard against her mouth; and the widow, Mistress Bonel, who had once been Richildis Vaughan, gazing with marble face and slowly gathering tears at what remained of her husband.

  “We can do no more for him,” said Brother Cadfael. “He’s gone.”

  They all stirred briefly, as though a sudden wind had shaken them. The widow’s tears spilled over and ran down her motionless face, as though she were still too bemused to understand what caused them. Brother Edmund touched her arm, and said gently: “You will need helpers. I am very sorry, so are we all. You shall be relieved of such duties as we can lift from you. He shall lie in our chapel until all can be arranged. I will order it…”

  “No,” said Cadfael, clambering stiffly to his feet, “that can’t be done yet, Edmund. This is no ordinary death. He is dead of poison, taken with the food he has recently eaten. It’s a matter for the sheriff, and we must disturb nothing here and remove nothing until his officers have examined all.”

  After a blank silence Aelfric spoke up hoarsely: “But how can that be? It can’t be so! We have all eaten the same, every one of us here. If there was anything amiss with the food, it would have struck at us all.”

  “That is truth!” said the widow shakily, and sobbed aloud.

  “All but the little dish,” the maid pointed out, in a small, frightened but determined voice, and flushed at having drawn attention to herself, but went on firmly: “The one the prior sent to him.”

  “But that was part of the prior’s own dinner,” said Aelfric, aghast. “Brother Petrus told me he had orders to take a portion from it and send it to my master with his compliments, to tempt his appetite.”

  Brother Edmund shot a terrified look at Brother Cadfael, and saw his own appalling thought reflected back to him. Hastily he said: “I’ll go to the prior. Pray heaven no harm has come to him! I’ll send also to the sheriff, or, please God! Prior Robert shall do as much on his own account. Brother, do you stay here until I return, and see that nothing is touched.”

  “That,” said Cadfael grimly, “I will certainly do.”

  *

  As soon as the agitated slapping of Brother Edmund’s sandals had dwindled along the road, Cadfael shooed his stunned companions into the outer room, away from the horrid air of the bedchamber, tainted with the foul odours of sickness, sweat and death. Yes, and of something else, faint but persistent even against that powerful combination of odours; something he felt he could place, if he could give it a moment’s undisturbed thought.

  “No help for this,” he said sympathetically. “We may do nothing now without authority, there’s a death to account for. But no need to stand here and add to the distress. Come away and sit down quietly. If there’s wine or ale in that pitcher, child, get your mistress a drink, and do as much for yourself, and sit down and take what comfort you can. The abbey has taken you in, and will stand by you now, to the best it may.”

  In dazed silence they did as he bade. Only Aelfric looked helplessly round at the debris of broken dishes and the littered table, and mindful of his usual menial role, perhaps, asked quaveringly: “Should I not clear this disorder away?”

  “No, touch nothing yet. Sit down and be as easy as you can, lad. The sheriffs officer must see what’s to be seen, before we remedy any part of it.”

  He left them for a moment, and went back into the bed-chamber, closing the door between. The curious, aromatic smell was almost imperceptible now, overborne by the enclosed stench of vomit, but he leaned down to the dead man’s drawn-back lips,
and caught the hint of it again, and more strongly. Cadfael’s nose might be blunt, battered and brown to view, but it was sharp and accurate in performance as a hart’s.

  There was nothing more in this death-chamber to tell him anything. He went back to his forlorn company in the next room. The widow was sitting with hands wrung tightly together in her lap, shaking her head still in disbelief, and murmuring to herself over and over. “But how could it happen? How could it happen?” The girl, tearless throughout, and now jealously protective, sat with an arm about her mistress’s shoulders; clearly there was more than a servant’s affection there. The two young men shifted glumly and uneasily from place to place, unable to keep still. Cadfael stood back from them in the shadows, and ran a shrewd eye over the laden table. Three places laid, three beakers, one of them, in the master’s place where a chair replaced the backless benches, overturned in a pool of ale, probably when Bonel suffered the first throes and blundered up from his seat. The large dish that had held the main meal was there in the centre, the congealing remains still in it. The food on one trencher was hardly touched, on the others it had been finished decently. Five people—no, apparently six—had eaten of that dish, and all but one were whole and unharmed. There was also the small bowl which he recognised as one of Abbot Heribert’s, the same he had seen on Aelfric’s tray as he passed through the court. Only the smallest traces of sauce remained in it; Prior Robert’s gift to the invalid had clearly been much appreciated.

  “None of you but Master Bonel took any of this dish?” asked Cadfael, bending to sniff at the rim carefully and long.

  “No,” said the widow tremulously. “It was sent as a special favour to my husband—a kind attention.”