under my bed before you sleep. It may not be needed, but …”
“Enough!” Brother Mark was cheerful and unquestioning, though that did not prove he was not doing some hard and accurate thinking. “Will you be needing a scissor for the tonsure, too?”
“You are growing remarkably saucy,” observed Cadfael, but with approval rather than disapproval. “No, I doubt that would be welcomed, we’ll rely on the cowl, and a chilly morning. Go away, boy, go and get your half-hour of warmth, and go to bed.”
The concoction of a syrup, boiled up lengthily and steadily with dried herbs and honey, made the use of the brazier necessary; should a guest have to spend the night in the workshop, he would be snug enough until morning. In no haste, Cadfael ground his herbs to a finer powder, and began to stir the honeyed brew on the hob over his brazier. There was no certainty that the bait he had laid would be taken, but beyond doubt young Edwin Gurney was in urgent need of a friend and protector to help him out of the morass into which he had fallen. There was no certainty, even, that the Bellecote household knew where to find him, but Cadfael had a shrewd inkling that the eleven-year-old Alys of the matronly dignity and the maidenly silence, even if she were not in her own brother’s confidence, would be very well acquainted with what he probably considered his secrets. Where Edwy was, there would Edwin be, if Richildis had reported them truly. When trouble threatened the one, the other would be by his side. It was a virtue Cadfael strongly approved.
The night was very still, there would be sharp frost by dawn. Only the gently bubbling of his brew and the occasional rustling of his own sleeve as he stirred punctured the silence. He had begun to think that the fish had refused the bait, when he caught, past ten o’clock, and in the blackest of the darkness, the faint, slow sound of the door-latch being carefully raised. A breath of cold air came in as the door opened a hair’s-breadth. He sat still and gave no sign; the frightened wild thing might be easily alarmed. After a moment a very light, young, wary voice outside uttered just above a whisper: “Brother Cadfael … ?”
“I’m here,” said Cadfael quietly. “Come in and welcome.”
“You’re alone?” breathed the voice.
“I am. Come in and close the door.”
The boy stole in fearfully, and pushed the door to at his back, but Cadfael noticed that he did not latch it. “I got word …” He was not going to say through whom. “They told me you spoke with my sister and brother this evening, and said you would be here. I do need a friend … You said you knew my gr—my mother, years ago, you are the Cadfael she used to speak about so often, the one who went to the Crusade … I swear I had no part in my stepfather’s death! I never knew any harm had come to him, till I was told the sheriff’s men were hunting for me as a murderer. You said my mother knows you for a good friend, and can rely on your help, so I’ve come to you. There’s no one else I can turn to. Help me! Please help me!”
“Come to the fire,” said Cadfael mildly, “and sit down here. Draw breath and answer me one thing truly and solemnly, and then we can talk. On your soul, mind! Did you strike the blow that laid Gervase Bonel dead in his blood!”
The boy had perched himself gingerly on the edge of the bench, almost but not quite within touch. The light from the brazier, cast upwards over his face and form, showed a rangy, agile youngster, lightly built but tall for his years, in the long hose and short cotte of the country lads, with capuchon dangling at his back, and a tangled mop of curling hair uncovered. By this reddish light it looked chestnut-brown, by daylight it might well be the softer mid- brown of seasoned oak. His face was still childishly rounded of cheek and chin, but fine bones were beginning to give it a man’s potential. At this moment half the face was two huge, wary eyes staring unwaveringly at Brother Cadfael.
Most earnestly and vehemently the boy said: “I never raised hand against him. He insulted me in front of my mother, and I hated him then, but I did not strike him. I swear it on my soul!”
Even the young, when bright in the wits and very much afraid, may exercise all manner of guile to protect themselves, but Cadfael was prepared to swear there was no deceit here. The boy really did not know how Bonel had been killed; that could not have been reported to his family or cried in the streets, and murder, most often, means the quick blow with steel in anger. He had accepted that probability without question.
“Very well! Now tell me your own story of what happened there today, and be sure I’m listening.”
The boy licked his lips and began. What he had to tell agreed with the account Richildis had given; he had gone with Meurig, at his well-intentioned urging, to make his peace with Bonel for his mother’s sake. Yes, he had felt very bitter and angry about being cheated out of his promised heritage, for he loved Mallilie and had good friends there, and would have done his best to run it well and fairly when it came to him; but also he was doing well enough at learning his craft, and pride would not let him covet what he could not have, or give satisfaction to the man who had taken back what he had pledged. But he did care about his mother. So he went with Meurig.
“And went with him first to the infirmary,” Cadfael mentioned helpfully, “to see his old kinsman Rhys.”
The boy was brought up short in surprise and uncertainty. It was then that Cadfael got up, very gently and casually, from his seat by the brazier, and began to prowl the workshop. The door, just ajar, did not noticeably draw him, but he was well aware of the sliver of darkness and cold lancing in there.
“Yes … I …”
“And you had been there with him, had you not, once before, when you helped Meurig bring down the lectern for our Lady Chapel.”
He brightened, but his brow remained anxiously knotted. “Yes, the—yes, we did bring that down together. But what has that …”
Cadfael in his prowling had reached the door, and laid a hand to the latch, hunching his shoulders, as though to close and fasten it, but as sharply plucked it wide open on the night, and reached his free hand through, to fasten on a fistful of thick, springy hair. A muted squeal of indignant outrage rewarded him, and the creature without, abruptly scorning the flight shock had suggested to him, reared upright and followed the fist into the workshop. It was, in its way, a magnificent entrance, erect, with jutted jaw and blazing eyes, superbly ignoring Cadfael’s clenched hold on his curls, which must have been painful.
A slender, athletic, affronted young person the image of the first, only, perhaps, somewhat darker and fiercer, because more frightened, and more outraged by his fear.
“Master Edwin Gurney?” enquired Cadfael gently, and released the topknot of rich brown hair with a gesture almost caressing. “I’ve been expecting you.” He closed the door, thoroughly this time; there was no one now left outside there to listen, and take warning by what he heard, like a small, hunted animal crouching in the night where the hunters stirred. “Well, now that you’re here, sit down with your twin—is it uncle or nephew? I shall never get used to sorting you!—and put yourself at ease. It’s warmer here than outside, and you are two, and I have just
