It was fully dark when Conan came home again, and he came alone.
‘I went as far as Forton, but he’d gone on to Nesse early in the day, likely he’d have finished there and moved on before night. I thought it best to come back. He’ll not be home tomorrow, not until too late to see old William to his grave, not knowing the need.’
‘He’ll be sorry to let the old man go without him,’ said Margaret, shaking her head, ‘but there’s nothing to be done about it now. Well, we’ll have to manage everything properly on his behalf. I suppose it would have been a pity to fetch him back so far and lose two days or more in the middle of the shearing time. Perhaps it’s just as well he was out of reach.’
‘Uncle William will sleep just as well,’ said Jevan, unperturbed. ‘He had an eye to business in his day, he wouldn’t favour waste of time, or risk of another dealer picking up one of his customers while his back was turned. Never fret, we’ll make a good family showing tomorrow. And if you want to be up early to prepare your table, Meg, you’d best be off to bed and get your rest.’
‘Yes,’ she said, sighing, and braced her hands on the table to rise. ‘Never mind, Conan, you did what you could. There’s meat and bread and ale in the kitchen for you, as soon as you’ve stabled the pony. Goodnight to you both! Jevan, you’ll put out the lamp and see the door bolted?’
‘I will. When did you know me to forget? Goodnight, Meg!’
The master bedchamber was the only one on this main floor. Fortunata had a small room above, closed off from the larger part of the loft where the menservants had their beds, and Jevan slept in a small chamber over the entry from the street into the yard, where he kept his choicest wares and his chest of books.
Margaret’s door closed behind her. Conan had turned to go out to the kitchen, but in the doorway he looked back, and asked: ‘Did he stay long? The young fellow? He was for going, the same time I left, but we met with Fortunata in the yard, and he turned back with her.’
Jevan looked up in tolerant surprise. ‘He stayed and ate with us. He’s bidden back with us tomorrow, too. Our girl seemed pleased to see him.’ His grave, long face, very solemn in repose, was nevertheless lit by a pair of glittering black eyes that missed very little, and seemed to be seeing too far into Conan at this moment for Conan’s comfort, and finding what they saw mildly amusing. ‘Nothing to fret you,’ said Jevan. ‘He’s no shepherd, to put a spoke in your wheel. Go and get your supper, and let Aldwin do the fretting, if there’s any to be done.’
It was a thought which had not been in Conan’s mind until that moment, but it had its validity, just as surely as the other possibility which had really been preoccupying him. He went off to the kitchen with the two considerations churning in his brain, to find the meal left for him, and Aldwin sitting morosely at the trestle table with a half empty mug of ale.
‘I never thought,’ said Conan, spreading his elbows on the other side of the table, ‘we should ever see that young spark again. All those perils by land and sea that we hear about, cutthroats and robbers by land, storm and shipwreck and pirates on the sea, and he has to wriggle his way between the lot of them and come safe home. More than his master did!’
‘Did you find Girard?’ asked Aldwin.
‘No, he’s too far west. There was no time to go farther after him, they’ll have to bury the old man without him. Small grief to me,’ said Conan candidly, ‘if it was Elave we were burying.’
‘He’ll be off again,’ Aldwin said, strenuously hoping so. ‘He’ll be too big for us now, he won’t stay.’
Conan gave vent to a laugh that held no amusement. ‘Go, will he? He was for going this afternoon until he set eyes on Fortunata. He came back fast enough when she took him by the hand and bade him in again. And by what I saw of the looks between them, she’ll have no eyes for another man while he’s around.’
Aldwin gave him a wary and disbelieving look. ‘Are you taking a fancy to get the girl for yourself? I never saw sign of it before.’
‘I like her well enough, always have. But for all they treat her like a daughter, she’s none of their kind, just a foundling taken in for pity. And when it’s money, it sticks close in the blood, and mostly to the men, and Dame Margaret has nephews if Girard has none on his side. Like or not like, a man has to think of his prospects.’
‘And now you think better of the girl because she has a dowry from old William,’ Aldwin guessed shrewdly, ‘and want the other fellow out of sight and mind. For all he brought her the dowry! And how do you know but what’s in it may be worth nothing to boast of?’
‘In a fine carved casket like that? You saw how it was ornamented, all tendrils and ivory.’
‘A box is a box. It’s what it holds that counts.’
‘No man would put rubbish in a box like that. But little value or great, it’s worth the wager. For I do like the girl, and I think it only good sense and no shame,’ vowed Conan roundly, ‘to like her the better for having possessions. And you’d do well,’ he added seriously, ‘to think on your own case if that youngster comes to Fortunata’s lure and stays here, where he was taught his clerking.’
He was giving words to what had been eating away at Aldwίn’s always tenuous peace of mind ever since Elave had showed his face. But he made one feeble effort to stand it off. ‘I’ve seen no sign he’d be wanted back here.’
‘For one not wanted he was made strangely welcome, then,’ retorted Conan. ‘And didn’t I just say something to Jevan, that made him answer how I had nothing to fret about, seeing Elave was no shepherd, to threaten me. Let Aldwin do the fretting, says he, if there’s any to be done.’
Aldwin had been doing the fretting all the evening, and it was made manifest by the tight clenching of his hands, white at the knuckle, and the sour set of his mouth, as though it were full of gall. He sat mute, seething in his fears and suspicions, and this light pronouncement of Jevan’s, all the confirmation they needed.
‘Why did he have to come safe out of a mad journey that’s killed its thousands before now?’ wondered Conan, brooding. ‘I wish the man no great harm, God knows, but I wish him elsewhere. I’d wish him well, if only he’d make off somewhere else to enjoy it. But he’d be a fool not to see that he can do very well for himself here. I can’t see him taking to his heels.’
‘Not,’ agreed Aldwin malevolently, ‘unless the hounds were snapping at them.’
*
Aldwin sat for some while after Conan had gone off to his bed. By the time he rose from the table the hall would certainly be in darkness, the outer door barred, and Jevan already in his own chamber. Aldwin lit an end of candle from the last flicker of the saucer lamp, to light him through the hall to the wooden stairway to the loft, before he blew out the dwindling flame.
In the hall it was silent and still, no movement but the very slight creak of a shutter in the night breeze. Aldwin’s candle made a minute point of light in the darkness, enough to show him his way the width of a familiar room. He was halfway to the foot of the stair when he halted, stood hesitating for a moment, listening to the reassuring silence, and then turned and made straight for the corner press.
The key was always in the lock, but seldom turned. Such valuables as the house contained were kept in the coffer in Girard’s bedchamber. Aldwin carefully opened the long door, set his candle to stand steady on a shelf at breast-level, and reached up to the higher shelf where Margaret had placed Fortunata’s box. Even when he had it set down beside his light he wavered. How if the key turned creakingly instead of silently, or would not yield at all? He could not have said what impelled him to meddle, but curiosity was strong and constant in him, as if he had to know the ins and outs of everything in the household, in case some overlooked detail might be held in store to be used against him. He turned the little key, and it revolved sweetly and silently, well made like the lock it operated and the box it adorned and guarded. With his left hand he raised the lid, and with his right lifted the candle to cast its light directly within.
‘What are you doing there?’ demanded Jevan’s voice, sharp and irritable from the top of the stairway.
Aldwin started violently, shaking drops of hot wax on to his hand. He had the lid closed and the key turned in an instant, and thrust the box back on to its upper shelf in panic haste. The open door of the press screened what he was about. From where Jevan came surging down the first few treads of the stairs, a moving shadow among shadows, he would see the light, though not its source, a segment of the open cupboard, and Aldwin’s body in sharp silhouette, but could not have seen what his hands were up to, apart, perhaps, from that movement of reaching up to replace the violated treasure. Aldwin clawed along the shelf and turned with the candle in one hand, and the small knife he had just palmed from his own belt in the other.
‘I left my penknife here yesterday, when I cut a new peg to fasten the handle of the small bucket. I shall need it in the morning.’
Jevan had come the rest of the way down the staircase, and advanced upon him in resigned irritation, brushing him aside to close the door of the press.
‘Take it, then, and get to bed, and give over disturbing the household at this hour.’
Aldwin departed with what was for him unusual alacrity and docility, only too pleased to have come so well out of what might have been an awkward encounter. He did not so much as look round, but carried his guttering candle-end up the stairs and into the loft with a shaking hand. But behind him he heard the small, grating sound of a large key turning, and knew that Jevan had locked the press. His clerk’s furtive foragings might be tolerated and passed over as annoying but harmless, but they were not to be encouraged. Aldwin had best walk warily with Jevan for a while, until the incident was forgotten.
The vexing thing was that it had all been for nothing. He had never had time to examine what was in the box, but had had to close the lid hastily in the same moment as opening it, with no time to get a glimpse within. He was not going to try that again. The contents of Fortunata’s box would have to remain a secret until Girard came home.
*
On the twenty-first day of June, after mid-morning Mass, William of Lythwood was buried in a modest corner of the graveyard east of the abbey church, where good patrons of the house found a final resting-place. So he had what he wanted, and slept content.
Among those attending, Brother Cadfael could discern certain currents of discontent. He knew the clerk Aldwin much as he had known Elave in his day, as an occasional messenger on behalf of his master, and to tell truth, had never yet seen him looking content, but his bearing on this day seemed more abstracted and morose than usual, and he and the shepherd had their heads together in a conspiratorial manner, and their eyes narrowed and sharp upon the returned pilgrim in a manner which suggested that he was by no means welcome to them, however amiably the rest of the household behaved to him. And the young man himself seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, and for all his concentration upon the office, his eyes strayed several times towards the young woman who stood modestly a pace behind Dame Margaret, earnestly attentive and very solemn beside the grave of the man who had given her a home and a name. And a dowry!
She was well worth looking at. Possibly Elave was debating reconsidering his determination to look about him for something more and better than could be found in his old employment. The skinny little thing all teeth and elbows had grown into a very attractive woman. One, however, who showed no sign at this moment of finding the young man as disturbing as he obviously found her. She had devoted herself wholly to her benefactor’s funeral rites, and had no attention to spare for anything else.
Before the company dispersed there were civilities to be exchanged, condolences to be dispensed by the clerics and gracefully received by the family. In the sunlit court the company sorted itself, for the decent while required, into little groups, kind with kind, Abbot Radulfus and Prior Robert paying due attentions to Margaret and Jevan of Lythwood before withdrawing, Brother Jerome, as the prior’s chaplain, making it his business to spend some minutes with the lesser members of the bereaved household. A few words had to be said to the girl, before he moved on to the menservants. The pious platitudes he first offered to Conan and Aldwin showed signs of developing into something much more voluble and interesting, and at the same time more confidential, for now there were three heads together instead of two, and still the occasional narrowed glance darted in Elave’s direction.
Well, the young man had behaved impeccably throughout, and since the confrontation with Canon Gerbert had kept a guard on his tongue. Small bait for Brother Jerome there, though the very hint of unorthodoxy, especially when frowned upon by so eminent a prelate, was enough to cause Jerome’s little nose to sniff the air like a meagre hound on a scent. The canon himself had not chosen to grace William’s obsequies with his presence, but he would probably receive a full account from Prior Robert, who also knew how to value the opportunity to cultivate a close confidant and agent of the archbishop.
Howbeit, this minor matter, which had briefly threatened to blaze up into a dangerous heat, must surely be over now. William had his wish, Elave had done his loyal duty in securing it for him, and Radulfus had maintained the petitioner’s right. And once tomorrow’s festivities were over, Gerbert would soon be on his way, and without his exalted rigidity, almost certainly sincere, and probably excited by recent embassages to France and Rome, there would be an end here in Shrewsbury of these arid measurings and probings of every word a man spoke.
Cadfael watched the household of William of Lythwood muster its funeral guests and sally forth from the gatehouse towards the town, and went off to dinner in the refectory with the easy mind of a man who believes himself to have seen an important matter satisfactorily settled.
*
William’s wake was well supplied with ale, wine and mead, and went the way of most wakes, from dignified solemnity and pious remembrance to sentimental and increasingly elaborated reminiscence, while discreet voices grew louder and anecdotes borrowed as much from imagination as from memory. And since Elave had been his companion for seven years while he had been out of sight and often out of mind of these old neighbours of his, the young man found himself being plied with the best ale in the house, in exchange for the stories he had to tell of the long journey and the wonders seen along the way, and of William’s dignified farewell to the world.
If he had not drunk considerably more than he was accustomed to, he might not have given direct and open answers to oblique and insinuating questions. On the other hand, in view of his habitual and belligerent honesty, and the fact that he had no reason to suppose he had need of caution in this company, it is at least equally probable that he would.
It did not begin until all the visitors were leaving, or already gone, and Jevan was out in the street taking slow and pleasurable leave of the last of them, and being a comfortable, neighbourly time about it. Margaret was in the kitchen with Fortunata, clearing away the remains of the feast and supervising the washing of the pots that had provided it. Elave was left sitting at the table in the hall with Conan and Aldwin, and when most of the work in the kitchen was done, Fortunata came in quietly and sat down with them.
They were talking of the next day’s festival. It was only seemly that a funeral should be fittingly observed and tidied away before the day of Saint Winifred’s translation, so that everything on the morrow could be festive and auspicious, like the unclouded weather they hoped for. From the efficacy of the relics of saints and the validity of their miracles it was no long way to the matter of William. It was, after all, William’s day, and fitting that they should be remembering him well into the dusk.
‘According to one of the brothers down there,’ said Aldwin earnestly, ‘the little anxious grey fellow that runs so busy about the prior, it was a question whether the old man would be let in at all. Somebody there was for digging up that old scuffle he had with the missioner, to deny him a place.’
‘It’s a grave matter to disagree with the Church,’ agreed Conan, shaking his head. ‘It’s not for us to know better than the priests, not where faith’s concerned. Listen and say Amen, that’s my advice. Did ever William talk to you about such things, Elave? You travelled a long way and a good many years with him, did he try to take you along with him down that road, too?’
‘He never made any secret of what he thought,’ said Elave. ‘He’d argue his point, and with good sense, too, even to priests, but there was none of them found any great fault with him for thinking about such things. What are wits for unless a man uses them?’
‘That’s presumption,’ said Aldwin, ‘in simple folk like us, who haven’t the learning or the calling of the churchmen. As the king and the sheriff have power over us in their field, so has the priest in his. It’s not for us to meddle with matters beyond us. Conan’s right, listen and say Amen!’
‘How can you say Amen to damning a newborn child to hell because the little thing died before it could be baptised?’ Elave asked reasonably. ‘It was one of the things that bothered him. He used to argue not even the worst of men could throw a child into the fire, so how could the good God? It’s against his nature.’
‘And you,’ said Aldwin, staring curiosity and concern, ‘did you agree with him? Do you say so, too?’
‘Yes, I do say so. I can’t believe the reason they give us, that babes are born into the world already rotten with sin. How can that be true? A creature new and helpless, barely into this world, how can it ever have done wrong?’
‘They say,’ ventured Conan cautiously, ‘even babes unborn are rotten with the sin of Adam, and fallen with him.’
‘And I say that it’s only his own deeds, bad and good, that a man will have to answer for in the judgement, and that’s what will save or damn him. Though it’s not often I’ve known a man so bad as to make me believe in damnation,’ said Elave, still absorbed into his own reasoning, and intent only on expressing himself clearly and simply, without suspicion of hostility or danger. ‘There was a father of the Church, once, as I heard tell, in Alexandria, who held that in the end everyone would find salvation. Even the fallen angels would return to their fealty, even the devil would repent and make his way back to God.’
He felt the chill and the shiver that went through his audience, but thought no more of it than that his travelled wisdom, small as it still was, had carried him out of the reach of their parochial innocence. Even Fortunata, listening silently to the talk of the menfolk, had stiffened and opened her eyes wide and round at such an utterance, startled and perhaps shocked. She said nothing in this company, but she followed every word that was spoken, and the colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks as she glanced attentively from face to face.
‘That’s blasphemous!’ said Aldwin in an awed whisper. ‘The Church tells us there’s no salvation but by grace, not by works. A man can do nothing to save himself, being born sinful.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Elave stubbornly. ‘Would the good God have made a creature so imperfect that he can have no free will of his own to choose between right and wrong? We can make our own way towards salvation, or down into the muck, and at the last we must every one stand by his own acts in the judgement. If we are men we ought to make our own way towards grace, not sit on our hams and wait for it to lift us up.’
‘No, no, we’re taught differently,’ insisted Conan doggedly. ‘Men are fallen by the first fall, and incline towards evil. They can never do good but by the grace of God.’
‘And I say they can and do! A man can choose to avoid sin and do justly, of his own will, and his own will is the gift of God, and meant to be used. Why should a man get credit for leaving it all to God?’ said Elave, roused but reasonable. ‘We think about what we’re doing daily with our hands, to earn a living. What fools we should be not to give a thought to what we’re doing with our souls, to earn an eternal life. Earn it,’ said Elave with emphasis, ‘not wait to be given it unearned.’
‘It’s against the Church fathers,’ objected Aldwin just as strongly. ‘Our priest here preached a sermon once about Saint Augustine, how he wrote that the number of the elect is fixed and not to be changed, and all the rest are lost and damned, so how can their free will and their own acts help them? Only God’s grace can save, everything else is vain and sinful.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Elave loudly and firmly. ‘Or why should we even try to deal justly? These very priests urge us to do right, and demand of us confession and penance if we fall short. Why, if the roll is already made up? Where is the sense of it? No, I do not believe it!’
Aldwin was looking at him in awed solemnity. ‘You do not believe even Saint Augustine?’
‘If he wrote that, no, I do not believe him.’
There was a sudden heavy silence, as though this blunt statement had knocked both his interrogators out of words. Aldwin, looking sidewise with narrowed and solemn eyes, drew furtively along the bench, removing even his sleeve from compromising contact with so perilous a neighbour.
‘Well,’ said Conan at length, too cheerfully and too loudly, shifting briskly on his side of the table as though time had suddenly nudged him in the ribs, ‘I suppose we’d best be stirring, or we’ll none of us be up in time to get the work done tomorrow before Mass. Straight from a wake to a wedding, as the saying goes! Let’s hope the weather still holds.’ And he rose, thrusting back his end of the bench, and stood stretching his thick, long limbs.
‘It will,’ said Aldwin confidently, recovering from his wary stillness with a great intake of breath. ‘The saint had the sun shine on her procession when they brought her here from Saint Giles, while it rained all around. She won’t fail us tomorrow.’ And he, too, rose, with every appearance of relief. Plainly the convivial evening was over, and two, at least, were glad of it.
Elave sat still until they were gone, with loud and over-amiable goodnights, about their last tasks before bed. The house had fallen silent. Margaret was sitting in the kitchen, going over the day’s events for flaws and compensations with the neighbour who came in to help her on such special occasions. Fortunata had not moved or spoken. Elave turned to face her, doubtfully eyeing her stillness, and the intent gravity of her face. Silence and solemnity seemed alien in her, and perhaps really were, but when they took possession of her they were entire and impressive.
‘You are so quiet,’ said Elave doubtfully. ‘Have I offended you in anything I’ve said? I know I’ve talked too much, and too presumptuously.’
‘No,’ she said, her voice measured and low, ‘nothing has offended me. I never thought about such things before, that’s all. I was too young, when you went away, for William ever to talk so to me. He was very good to me, and I’m glad you spoke up boldly for him. So would I have done.’
But she had no more to say, not then. Whatever she was thinking now about such things she was not yet ready to say, and perhaps by tomorrow she would have abandoned the consideration of what was difficult even for the world’s philosophers and theologians, and would come down with Margaret and Jevan to Saint Winifred’s festival content to enjoy the music and excitement and worship without questioning, to listen and say Amen.
She went out with him across the yard and through the entry into the street when he left, and gave him her hand at parting, still in a silence that was composed and withdrawn.
‘I shall see you at church tomorrow?’ said Elave, belatedly afraid that he had indeed alienated her, for she confronted him with so wide and thoughtful a stare of her unwavering hazel eyes that he could not even guess at what went on in the mind behind them.
‘Yes,’ said Fortunata simply, ‘I shall be there.’ And she smiled, briefly and abstractedly, withdrew her hand gently from his, and turned back to return to the house, leaving him to walk back through the town to the bridge still unhappily in doubt whether he had not talked a great deal too much and too rashly, and injured himself in her eyes.
*
The sun duly shone for Saint Winifred on her festival day, as it had on the day of her first coming to the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. The gardens overflowed with blossom, the eager pilgrims housed by Brother Denis put on their best and came forth like so many more gaily coloured flowers, the burgesses of Shrewsbury flocked down from the town, and the parishioners of Holy Cross in from the Foregate and the scattered villages of Father Boniface’s extensive parish. The new priest had only recently been inducted after a lengthy interregnum, and his flock were still carefully taking his measure, after their unhappy experience with the late Father Ailnoth. But first reactions were entirely favourable. Cynric the verger acted as a kind of touchstone for Foregate opinion. His views, so seldom expressed in words, but so easy for the simple and direct to interpret by intuition, would be accepted without question by most of those who worshipped at Holy Cross, and it was already clear to the children, Cynric’s closest cronies in spite of his taciturnity, that their long, bony, silent friend liked and approved of Father Boniface. That was enough for them. They approached their new priest with candour and confidence, secure in Cynric’s recommendation.
Boniface was young, not much past thirty, of unassuming appearance and modest bearing, no scholar like his predecessor, but earnestly cheerful about his duties. The deference he showed to his monastic neighbours disposed even Prior Robert to approve of him, though with some condescension in view of the young man’s humble birth and scanty Latin. Abbot Radulfus, conscious of one disastrous mistake in the previous appointment, had taken his time over this one, and studied the candidates with care. Did the Foregate really need a learned theologian? Craftsmen, small merchants, husbandmen, cottars and hardworking villeins from the villages and manors, they were better off with one of their own kind, aware of their needs and troubles, not stooping to them but climbing laboriously with them, elbow to elbow. It seemed that Father Boniface had energy and determination for the climb, force enough to urge a few others upward with him, and the stubborn loyalty not to leave them behind if they tired. In Latin or in the vernacular, that was language the people could understand.
This was a day on which secular and monastic clergy united to do honour to their saint, and chapter was postponed until after High Mass, when the church was open to all the pilgrims who wished to bring their private petitions to her altar, to touch her silver reliquary and offer prayers and gifts in the hope of engaging her gentle attention and benevolence for their illnesses, burdens and anxieties. All day long they would be coming and going, kneeling and rising in the pale, resplendent light of the scented candles Brother Rhun made in her honour. Ever since she had visited Rhun, himself a pilgrim, with her secret counsel, and lifted him out of lameness in her arms, to the bodily perfection of his present radiance, Rhun had made himself her page and squire, and his beauty reflected and testified to hers. For everyone knew that Winifred had been, as her legend said, the fairest maiden in the world in her day.
Everything, in fact, seemed to Brother Cadfael to be working together in perfect accord to make this what it should be, a day of supreme content, without blemish. He went to his stall in the chapter-house well satisfied with the world in general, and composed himself to sit through the day’s business, even the most uninteresting details, with commendable attention. Some of the obedientiaries could be tedious enough on their own subjects to send a tired man to sleep, but today he was determined to extend virtuous tolerance even to the dullest of them.
Even to Canon Gerbert, he resolved, watching that superb cleric sail into the chapter-house and appropriate the stall beside the abbot, he would attribute only the most sanctified of motives, whatever fault the visitor might find with the discipline here, and however supercilious his behaviour towards Abbot Radulfus. Today nothing must ruffle the summer tranquillity.
Into this admirable mood a sudden disagreeable wind blew, driven before the billowing skirts of Prior Robert’s habit as he strode in with aristocratic nose aloft and nostrils distended, as though someone had thrust an evil-smelling obscenity under them. Such sweeping speed in one so dedicated to preserving his own dignity sent an ominous shiver along the ranks of the brothers, all the more as Brother Jerome was disclosed scuttling in the prior’s shadow. His narrow, pallid face proclaimed an excitement half horrified, half gratified.
‘Father Abbot,’ declaimed Robert, trumpeting outrage loud and clear, ‘I have a most grave matter to bring before you. Brother Jerome here brought it to my notice, as I must in conscience bring it to yours. There is one waiting outside who has brought a terrible charge against William of Lythwood’s apprentice, Elave. You recall how suspect the master’s faith was once shown to be; now it seems the servant may outdo the master. One of the same household bears witness that last night, before other witnesses also, this man gave voice to views utterly opposed to the Church’s teaching. Girard of Lythwood’s clerk, Aldwin, denounces Elave for abominable heresies, and stands ready to maintain the charge against him before this assembly, as is his bounden duty.’