For that Father Elias gave him a sharp and somewhat disapproving glance, but forbore from reproving what an austere old man might well consider the presumption, even levity, of youth. Eadmer was certainly innocent of having set out to arouse any such reservations. He opened his honest brown eyes wide on Father Elias, and said simply: “I’m glad out of measure, Father, that Brother Cadfael thought to come looking for me in time. And even more glad that I was there when this man was in need. God knows I have failings of my own to confess, for I was vexed at first when he came stumbling up the stairs. I came near to telling him to go away and come back at a better time, until I saw his face clearly. And all because he was making me late for Vespers.”
It was said so naturally and simply that it passed Brother Cadfael by for a long moment. He had turned towards the open doorway, where Girard was already leading the way out, and the early evening hung textured like a pearl, the westering sun veiled. He had heard the words without regarding them, and enlightenment fell on him so dazzlingly that he stumbled on the threshold. He swung about to stare at the young man following him.
“What was that you said? For Vespers? He made you late for Vespers!”
“So he did,” said Eadmer blankly. “I was just opening the door to go down and into the church when he came. The office was half over by the time I sent him away consoled.”
“Dear God!” said Cadfael reverently. “And I never even thought to ask about the time! And this was on the festival day? Not the Vespers of the day you arrived? Not the eve?”
“It was the festival day, when Boniface was away. Why, what’s in that to shake you? What is it I’ve said?”
“The moment I clapped eyes on you, lad,” said Cadfael joyfully, “I knew you had a happy touch about you. You’ve delivered not one man, but two, God bless you for it. Now come, come with me round the corner to Saint Mary’s close, and tell the sheriff what you’ve just told me.”
Hugh had come back to his house and family after a long and exasperating day of pursuing fruitless enquiries among an apparently unobservant populace, and trying to extract truth from a scared and perspiring Conan, who was willing to admit that he had spent an hour or so trying to persuade Aldwin to let sleeping dogs lie, since it was known already, but insisted that after that he had wasted no more time, but gone straight to his work in the pastures west of the town. And that might well be true, even if he could cite no acquaintance who had met and spoken to him on the way. But there remained the possibility that he was still lying, and had followed and made one more disastrous attempt to sway a mind normally only too easily deflected from any purpose.
Enough and more than enough for one day. Hugh had taken himself off home to his own house, to his wife and his son and his supper, and he was sitting in the clean rushes of the hall floor, stripped down to shirt and hose in the mild evening, helping three-year-old Giles to build a castle, when Cadfael came rapping briskly at the open door, and marched in upon him shining with portentous news, and towing by the sleeve an unknown and plainly nonplussed young man.
Hugh abandoned his tower of wooden blocks unfinished, and came alertly to his feet. “Truant again, are you? I looked for you in the herbarium an hour ago. Where have you been off to this time? And who is this you’ve brought me?”
“I’ve been no farther than Attingham,” said Cadfael, “to visit Father Eadmer. And here I’ve brought you his nephew, who is also Father Eadmer, ordained last month. This young man came to join his friend Father Boniface at Holy Cross for Saint Winifred’s celebrations. You know Father Elias has been fretting as to whether Aldwin died in a fit state to deserve all the rites of the Church, seeing he seldom showed his face at Mass in his own parish church. Elias had tried every priest he knew of, in and out of the town, to see if any could stand sponsor for the poor fellow. Boniface told me of one more who was here for a day and half a day, however unlikely it might be that a local man should find his way to him in so short a time. Howbeit, here he is, and he has a tale to tell you.”
Young Eadmer told it accommodatingly, though hardly comprehending what significance it could have here, beyond what he already knew. “And I walked back here with Brother Cadfael to see the man himself, whether he was indeed the one who came to me. And he is,” he ended simply. “But what Brother Cadfael sees in it more, of such moment that it must come at once to you, my lord, that he must tell you himself, for I can’t guess at it.”
“But you have not mentioned,” said Cadfael, “at what time this man came to you with his confession.”
“It was just when the bell had rung for Vespers,” Eadmer repeated obligingly, still mystified. “Because of him I came very late to the office.”
“Vespers?” Hugh had stiffened, turning upon them a face ablaze with enlightenment. “You are sure? That very day?”
“That very day!” Cadfael confirmed triumphantly. “And just at the ringing of the Vesper bell, as I have good reason to know, Elave walked into the great court and was set upon by Gerbert’s henchmen and battered to the ground, and has been prisoner in the abbey ever since. Aldwin was alive and well and seeking confession at that very moment. Whoever killed him, it was not Elave!”
Chapter Ten
Chapter was nearly over, next morning, when Girard of Lythwood presented himself at the gatehouse, requesting a hearing before the lord abbot. As a man of consequence in the town, and like his late uncle a good patron of the abbey, he came confidently, aware of his own merit and status. He had brought his foster daughter Fortunata with him, and they both came roused and girded, if not for battle, at least for possible contention, to be encountered courteously but with determination.
“Certainly admit them,” said Radulfus. “I am glad Master Girard is home again. His household has been greatly troubled and needs its head.”
Cadfael watched their entry into the chapter house with fixed attention. They were both in their best, adorned to cut the most impressive figure possible, the ideal respected citizen and his modest daughter. The girl took her stance a pace behind her father, and kept her eyes devoutly lowered in this monastic assembly, but when they opened wide for an instant, to flash a glance round the room and take a rapid estimate of possible friends and enemies, they were very shrewd, fierce, and bright. The first calculating glance had noted the continuing presence of Canon Gerbert, and recorded it with regret. In his presence she would contain her grief, anger, and anxiety on Elave’s behalf, and let Girard speak for her. Gerbert would deplore a froward woman, and Fortunata had certainly primed her father by this time in every detail. They must have spent the remainder of the past evening, after Cadfael’s departure, preparing what they were now about to propound.
The significance of one detail was not yet apparent, though it did suggest interesting possibilities. Girard carried under his arm, polished to that lovely dark patina by age and handling, and with the light caressing the gilded curves of its carving, the box that contained Fortunata’s dowry.
“My lord,” said Girard, “I thank you for this courtesy. I ?> come in the matter of the young man you have detained here as a prisoner. Everyone here knows that his accuser was done to death, and though no charge has
