“With me?” said the young man, looking up in surprise.
“You came visiting Father Boniface, did you not, for Saint Winifred’s translation? And stayed with him from past noon on the eve until after Compline on the feast day?”
“I did. We were deacons together,” said young Eadmer, stretching up to refill their beakers without stirring from his grassy seat. “Why? Did I mislay something for him when I disrobed? I’ll walk back and see him again before I leave here.”
“And he had to leave you in his place most of that day, from after the morning Mass until past Compline. Did any man come to you, during all that time, asking advice or wanting you to hear his confession?”
The straight-gazing brown eyes looked up at him thoughtfully, very grave now. Cadfael could read the answer and marvel at it even before Eadmer said: “Yes. One man did.”
It was too early yet to be sure of achievement. Cadfael asked cautiously: “What manner of man? Of what age?”
“Oh, fifty years old, I should guess, going grey, and balding. A little stooped, and lined in the face, but he was uneasy and troubled when I saw him. Not a craftsman, by his hands, perhaps a small tradesman or someone’s house servant.”
More and more hopeful, Cadfael thought, and went on, encouraged: “You did see him clearly?”
“It was not in the church. He came to the little room over the porch, where Cynric sleeps. Looking for Father Boniface, but he found me instead. So we were face-to-face.”
“You did not know him, though?”
“No, I know very few in Shrewsbury. I never was there before.”
No need to ask if he had been at chapter, or at the session that followed, to know Aldwin again from that encounter. Cadfael knew he had not. He had too sure a sense of the limitations of his fledgling rights to overstep them.
“And you confessed this man? And gave him penance and absolution?”
“I did. And helped him through the penance. You will understand,” said young Eadmer firmly, “that I can tell you nothing about his confession.”
“I would not ask you. If this was the man I believe it was, what matters is that you did absolve him, that his soul’s peace was made. For, you see,” said Cadfael, considerately mirroring the young man’s severe gravity, “if I am right, the man is now dead. And since his parish priest had reason to wonder about the state of his strayed sheep, he is enquiring as to his spiritual standing before he will bury him with all the rites of the Church. It’s why every priest in the town has been questioned, and I come at last to you.”
“Dead?” echoed Eadmer, dismayed. “He was in sound health for a man of his years. How is that possible? And he was happier when he left me, he would not
No! So how comes it he is dead so soon?”
“You will surely have heard by now,” said Cadfael, “that the morning.after the feast day a man was taken out of the river? Not drowned, but stabbed. The sheriff is hunting for his murderer.”
“And this is the man?” asked the young priest, aghast.
“This is the man who so sorely needs a guarantor. Whether he is the man you confessed I cannot yet be certain.”
“I never knew his name,” said the boy, hesitant.
“You would know his face,” said his uncle, and spared to comment or prompt him further. There was no need. Young Eadmer set a hand to the ground and bounded to his feet, brushing down the skirt of his cassock briskly. “I will come back with you,” he said, “and hope with all my heart that I can speak for your murdered man.”
There were four of them about the trestle table on which Aldwin’s body had been laid out decently for burial: Girard, Father Elias, Cadfael, and young Eadmer. In this narrow store shed in the yard, swept out and sweetened with green branches, there was no room for more. And these witnesses were enough.
There had been very little said on the walk back to Shrewsbury. Eadmer, bent on preserving the sacredness of what had passed between them, had banished even the mention of their meeting until he should know that this dead man was indeed his penitent. Possibly his first penitent, and approached with awe, humility, and reverence in consequence.
They had gone first to Father Elias, to ask him to accompany them to Girard’s house, for if this promise came to fruit it would be both ease for his mind and due license to hasten the arrangements for burial. The little priest came with them eagerly. He stood at the head of the bier, the place granted to him as of right, and his aging hands, thin and curled like a small bird’s claws, trembled for a moment as he turned back the covering from the dead man’s face. At the foot Eadmer stood, the fledgling priest fronting the old man worn but durable, after years of gain and loss in his strivings to medicine the human condition.
Eadmer did not move or utter a sound as the sheet was drawn down to uncover a face now somewhat eased, Cadfael thought, of its living discouragement and suspicion. The sinews of the cheeks and jaw had relaxed their sour tightness, and with it some years had slipped from him, leaving him almost serene. Eadmer gazed at him with prolonged wonder and compassion, and said simply: “Yes, that is my penitent.”
“You are quite sure?” said Cadfael.
“Quite sure.”
“And he made confession and received absolution? Praise be to God!” said Father Elias, drawing up the sheet again. “I need not hesitate further. On the very day of his death he cleansed his soul. He did perform his penance?”
“We said what was due together,” said Eadmer. “He was distressed, and I wanted to see him depart in better comfort, and so he did. I saw no cause to be hard on him. It seemed to me he might have done enough penance in his lifetime to be somewhat in credit. There are those who make their own way stony. There’s no merit in it, but I doubt if they can help it, and I felt it should count in extenuation of some small sins.”
