too much of what the boy had done. Emma would take care of that, later; his mother would value it most of all from her.
Emma herself said almost nothing, islanded in her exhaustion and bliss, but her eyes seldom left Philip, and when they did, it was to take in with deep content the solid, dark furnishings and warm panelling of this burgess house, so familiar to her that being accepted here was like coming home. Her rapt, secret smile was eloquent; mothers are quick to notice such looks. Emma had already conquered, even before she was led gently away to the bed prepared for her, and settled there by Mistress Corviser with all the clucking solicitude of a hen with one chick, with a posset laced with Brother Cadfael’s poppy syrup to make sure that she slept, and forgot her pain.
“As pretty a thing as ever I saw,” said Mistress Corviser, coming back softly into the room, and closing the door between. She cast a fond look at her son, and found him asleep in his chair. “And to think that’s what he was about, while I was thinking all manner of bad things about him, who should have known him better!”
“He knows himself a deal better than he did a few days ago,” said Cadfael, repacking his scrip. “I’ll leave you these pastes and ointments, you know how to use them. But I’ll come and take a look at her later tomorrow. Now I’ll take my leave, I confess I’m more than ready for my own bed. I doubt if I shall hear the bell for Prime tomorrow.”
In the yard Geoffrey Corviser was himself stabling the horse from Stanton Cobbold with his own. Cadfael gave him the abbot’s message. The provost raised sceptical eyebrows. “Now what can the lord abbot want with me? The last time I came cap in hand to chapter, I got a dusty answer.”
“All the same,” advised Cadfael, scrubbing thoughtfully at his blunt brown nose, “in your shoes I think I’d be curious enough to come and see. Who knows but the dust may have settled elsewhere by this time!”
It was no wonder if Brother Cadfael, though he did manage to rise for Prime, took advantage of his carefully chosen place behind a pillar to doze his way through chapter. He was so sound asleep, indeed, that for once he was in danger of snoring, and at the first melodious horn-call Brother Mark took fright, and nudged him awake.
The provost had obeyed the abbot’s invitation to the latter, and arrived only at the very end of chapter. The steward of the grange court had just announced that he was in attendance when Cadfael opened his eyes.
“What can the provost be here for?” whispered Mark. “He was asked to come. Do I know why? Hush!” Geoffrey Corviser came in in his best, and made his reverence respectfully but coolly. He had no solid cohort at his back this time, and to tell the truth, though he may have felt some curiosity, he was attaching very little importance to this encounter. His mind was on other things. True, the problems of the town remained, and at any other time would have taken foremost place in his concern, but today he was proof against public cares by reason of private elation in a son vindicated and praised, a son to be proud of.
“You sent for me, Father Abbot. I am here.” “I thank you for your courtesy in attending,” said the abbot mildly. “Some days ago, Master Provost, before the fair, you came with a request to me which I could not meet.”
The provost said not a word; there was none due, and he felt no need to speak at a loss.
“The fair is now over,” said the abbot equably. “All the rents, tolls and taxes have been collected, and all have been delivered into the abbey treasury, as is due by charter. Do you endorse that?”
“It is the law,” said Corviser, “to the letter.”
“Good! We are agreed. Right has therefore been done, and the privilege of this house is maintained. That I could not infringe by any prior concession. Abbots who follow me would have blamed me, and with good reason. Their rights are sacrosanct. But now they have been met in full. And as abbot of this house, it is for me to determine what use shall be made of the monies in our hold. What I could not grant away in imperilment of charter,” said Radulfus with deliberation, “I can give freely as a gift from this house. Of the fruits of this year’s fair, I give a tenth to the town of Shrewsbury, for the repair of me walls and repaving of the streets.”
The provost, enlarged in his family content, flushed into startled and delighted acknowledgement, a generous man accepting generosity. “My lord, I take your tenth with pleasure and gratitude, and I will see that it is used worthily. And I make public here and now that no part of the abbey’s right is thereby changed.
Saint Peter’s Fair is your fair. Whether and when your neighbour town should also benefit, when it is in dire need, that rests with your judgment.”
“Our steward will convey you the money,” said Radulfus, and rose to conclude a satisfactory encounter. “This chapter is concluded,” he said.
CHAPTER 6
August continued blessedly fine, and all hands turned gladly to making sure of the harvest. Hugh Beringar and Aline set off with their hopes and purchases for Maesbury, as did the merchant of Worcester for his home town, a day late, but well compensated with a fee for the hire of his horse in an emergency, on the sheriff’s business, and a fine story which he would retail on suitable occasions for the rest of his life. The provost and council of Shrewsbury drafted a dignified acknowledgement to the abbey for its gift, warm enough to give proper expression to their appreciation of the gesture, canny enough not to compromise any of their own just claims for the future. The sheriff put on record the closure of a criminal affair, as related to him by the young woman who had been lured away on false pretences, with the apparent design of stealing from her a letter left in her possession, but of the contents of which she was ignorant.
There was some suspicion of a conspiracy involved, but as Mistress Vernold had never seen nor been told the significance of what she held, and as in any case it was now irrevocably lost by fire, no further action was necessary or possible. The malefactor was dead, his servant, self-confessed a murderer at his master’s orders, awaited trial, and would plead that he had been forced to obey, being villein-born and at his lord’s mercy. The dead man’s overlord had been informed. Someone else, at the discretion of the earl of Chester, would take seisin of the manor of Stanton Cobbold.
Everyone drew breath, dusted his hands, and went back to work.
Brother Cadfael went up into the town on the second day, to tend Emma’s hand.
The provost and his son were at work together, in strong content with each other and the world. Mistress Corviser returned to her kitchen, and left leech and patient together.
“I have wanted to talk to you,” said Emma, looking up earnestly into his face as he renewed the dressing. “There must be one person who hears the truth from me, and I would rather it should be you.”
“I don’t believe,” said Cadfael equably, “that you told the sheriff a single thing that was false.”
“No, but I did not tell him all the truth. I said that I had no knowledge of what was in the letter, or even for
