where did that leave Cristina? Forgotten, eclipsed, but still in tenuous possession of a bridegroom who did not want her, and could not have the bride he did want! Such a tangled coil enmeshing all these four hapless children!
‘Fingers have been pointed, more than one way,’ said Cadfael, ‘but there is no proof against one man more than another. No one is yet in danger of his life, and all are in health and well enough treated, even if they must be confined. There is no help for it but to wait and believe in justice.’ ‘Believing in justice is not always so easy,’ she said tartly.
‘You say they are well? And they are together, Elis and Eliud?’ ‘They are. They have that comfort. And within the castle wards they have their liberty. They have given their word not to try to escape, and it has been accepted. They are well enough, you may believe that.’ ‘But you can give me no hope, set me no period, when he will come home?’ She sat confronting Cadfael with great, steady eyes, and in her lap her fingers were knotted so tightly that the knuckles shone white as naked bone. ‘Even if he does come home, living and justified,’ she said.
‘That I can tell no more than you,’ Cadfael owned wryly. ‘But I will do what I can to shorten the time. This waiting is hard upon you, I know it.’ But how much harder would the return be, if ever Elis came back vindicated, only to pursue his suit for Melicent Prestcote, and worm his way out of his Welsh betrothal. It might even be better if she had warning now, before the blow fell. Cadfael was pondering what he could best do for her, and with only half an ear tuned to what she was saying.
‘At least I have purged my own soul,’ she said, as much to herself as to him. ‘I have always known how well he loves me, if only he did not love his cousin as well or better. Fosterlings are like that, you are Welsh, you know it. But if he could not bring himself to undo what was done so ill, I have done it for him now. I tired of silence. Why should we bleed without a cry? I have done what had to be done, I’ve spoken with my father and with his. In the end I shall have my way.’ She rose, giving him a pale but resolute smile. ‘We shall be able to speak again, brother, before you leave us. I must go and see how things fare in the kitchen, they’ll be home with the evening.’ He gave her an abstracted farewell, and watched her cross the hall with her free, boy’s stride and straight, proud carriage. Not until she had reached the door did he realise the meaning of what she had said. ‘Cristina!’ he called in startled enlightenment; but the door had closed and she was gone.
There was no error, he had heard aright. She knew how well he loved her, if only he did not love his cousin as well or better, in the way of fosterlings! Yes, all that he had known before, he had seen it manifested in their warring exchanges, and misread it utterly. How a man can be deceived, where every word, every aspect, confirms him in his blindness! Not a single lie spoken or intended, yet the sum total a lie.
She had spoken with her father, and with his!
Cadfael heard in his mind’s ear Elis ap Cynan’s blithe voice accounting for himself when first he came to Shrewsbury. Owain Gwynedd was his overlord, and had overseen him in the fosterage where he had placed him when his father died…
‘… with my uncle Griffith ap Meilyr, where I grew up with my cousin Eliud as brothers…’ Two young men, close as twins, far too close to make room for the bride destined for one of them. Yes, and she fighting hard for what she claimed as her rights, and knowing there was love deep enough and wild enough to match her love, if only … If only a mistaken bond made in infancy could be honourably dissolved. If only those two could be severed, that dual creature staring into a mirror, the left, handed image and the right, handed, and which of them the reality? How is a stranger to tell?
But now he knew. She had not used the word loosely, of the kinsman who had reared them both. No, she meant just what she had said. An uncle may also be a foster, father, but only a natural father is a father.
They came, as before, with the dusk. Cadfael was still in a daze when he heard them come, and stirred himself to go out and witness the torchlit bustle in the court, the glimmer on the coats of the horses, the jingle of harness, bit and spur, the cheerful and purposeful hum of entwining voices, the hissing and crooning of the grooms, the trampling of hooves and the very faint mist of warm breath in the chilling but frostless air. A grand, vigorous pattern of lights and shadows, and the open door of the hall glowing warmly for welcome.
Tudur ap Rhys was the first down from the saddle, and himself strode to hold his prince’s stirrup. Owain Gwynedd’s fair hair gleamed uncovered in the ruddy light of the torches as he sprang down, a head taller than his host. Man after man they came, chieftain after chieftain, the princelings of Gwynedd’s nearer commoes, the neighbours of England. Cadfael stood to survey each one as he dismounted, and lingered until all were on foot, and their followers dispersed into the camps beyond the maenol. But he did not find among them Einon ab Ithel, whom he sought.
‘Einon?’ said Tudur, questioned. ‘He’s following, though he may come late to table. He had a visit to pay in Llansantffraid, he has a daughter married there, and his first grandson is come new into the world. Before the evening’s out he’ll be with us. You’re heartily welcome to my roof again, brother, all the more if you bring news to please the prince’s ear. It was an ill thing that happened there with you, he feels it as a sad stain on a clean acquaintance.’ ‘I’m rather seeking than bringing enlightenment,’ Cadfael confessed. ‘But I trust one man’s ill deed cannot mar these meetings between your prince and our sheriff. Owain Gwynedd’s goodwill is gold to us in Shropshire, all the more since Madog ap Meredith is showing his teeth again.’ ‘Do you tell me so? Owain will want to hear of it, but after supper will be the fitting time. I’ll make you a place at the high table.’ Since he had in any case to wait for the arrival of Einon, Cadfael sat back to study and enjoy the gathering in Tudur’s hall over supper, the warmth of the central fire, the torches, the wine, and the harping. A man of Tudur’s status was privileged to possess a harp and maintain his own harper, in addition to his duty to be a generous patron to travelling minstrels. And with the prince here to praise and be praised, they had a rivalry of singers that lasted throughout the meal. There was still a deal of coming and going in the courtyard, late, comers riding in, officers from the camps patrolling their bounds and changing pickets, and the womenfolk fetching and carrying, and loitering to talk to the archers and men, at, arms. For the time being this was the court of Gwynedd, where petitioners, bringers of gifts, young men seeking office and favour, all must come.
The dishes had been removed, and the mead and wine were circulating freely, when Tudur’s steward came into the hall and made for the high table.
‘My lord, there’s one here asks leave to present to you his natural son, whom he has acknowledged and admitted to his kinship only two days ago. Griffri ap Llywarch, from close by Meifod. Will you hear him?’ ‘Willingly,’ said Owain, pricking up his fair head to stare down through the smoke and shadows of the hall with some curiosity. ‘Let Griffri ap Llywarch come in and be welcome.’ Cadfael had not paid due attention to the name, and might not even have recognised it if he had, nor was he likely to recognise a man he had never seen before. The newcomer followed the steward into the hall, and up between the tables to the high place. A lean, sinewy man, perhaps fifty years old, balding and bearded, with a hillman’s gait, and the weathered face and wrinkled, far, seeing eyes of the shepherd. His clothing was plain and brown, but good homespun. He came straight to the dais, and made the Welshman’s brisk, unservile reverence to the prince.
‘My lord Owain, I have brought you my son, that you may know and approve him. For the only son I had by my wife is two years and more dead, and I was without children, until this my son by another woman came to me declaring his birth and proving it. And I have acknowledged him mine and brought him into my kinship, and as mine he is accepted. Now I ask your countenance also.’ He stood proudly, glad of what he had to say and of the young man he had to present; and Cadfael would have had neither eyes nor ears for any other man present, if it had not
