and to judge by his wife’s sidelong looks and wary answers he may well have been sleeping abroad that night. But we shall never get her to say so. She’s both afraid of him and loyal to him.”
“The rest of his women may be less so,” said Cadfael. “But I hardly see Jordan as a man of violence.”
“Perhaps not. But I do see Father Ailnoth as a man of violence, whether bodily or spiritual. And consider, Cadfael, how he might behave if he happened on one of his flock sneaking into the wrong bed. If not a violent man, Jordan is a big and strong one, and by no means meek enough to suffer assault tamely. He might end the fight another man began, without ever meaning to. But Jordan is one among many, and not the most likely.”
“Your men have been diligent,” said Cadfael with a sigh.
“They have. Alan was on his mettle, and determined to deserve his place. There’s a decent poor soul called Centwin, who lives along the Foregate towards the horse-fair ground. You’ll have heard his story. It was new to me until I heard it from Alan. The babe that died unchristened because Ailnoth could not interrupt his prayers. That sticks in the craw of every man in the parish, worse than all.”
“You cannot have found out anything black against Centwin?” protested Cadfael. “As quiet a creature as breathes, never a trouble to any.”
“Never with occasion until now. But this goes deep. And Centwin, quiet as he may be, is also deep. He keeps his own counsel, and broods over his own grievances. I’ve spoken with him. We questioned the watch on the town gate, Christmas Eve,” said Hugh. “They saw you go out, and you best know the time that was, and where you met the priest. They also saw Centwin go out not many minutes after you, on his way home, he said, from visiting a friend in the town to whom he owed a small debt. True enough, for the tanner he paid has confirmed it. He wanted, he said, to have all his affairs clear and all dues paid before he went to Matins, as indeed he did go, and left before Lauds for home. But you see how the time fits. One coming a few minutes behind you may also have met with Ailnoth, may have seen him turn from the Foregate along the path to the mill. There in darkness and loneliness, think, might not even a mild, submissive man with that wound burning in his belly have seen suddenly an opportunity to pay off yet another and a more bitter debt? And there was the time between then and Matins for two men to clash in the darkness, and one to die.”
“No,” said Cadfael, “I do not believe it!”
“Because it would be one cruelty piled upon another? But such things happen. No, take heart, Cadfael, neither do I quite believe it, but it is possible. There are too many by far who are not vouched for, or whose guarantors cannot be trusted, too many who hated him. And there is still Ninian Bachiler. Whatever the truth of him, you do understand that I must do my best to find him?”
He looked down at his friend with a dark, private smile that was more eloquent than the words. It was not the first time they had agreed, with considerate courtesy and no need of many words, to pursue each what he held to be his own duty, and bear no malice if the two crossed like swords.
“Oh, yes!” said Cadfael. “Yes, that I fully understand.”
Chapter Eight
Cadfael had returned to the church after prime to replenish the perfumed oil in the lamp on Saint Winifred’s altar. The inquisitive skills which might have been frowned upon if they had been employed to make scents for women’s vanity became permissible and even praiseworthy when used as an act of worship, and he took pleasure in trying out all manner of fragrant herbs and flowers in many different combinations, plying the sweets of rose and lily, violet and clover against the searching aromatic riches of rue and sage and wormwood. It pleased him to think that the lady must take delight in being so served, for virgin saint though she might be, she was a woman, and in her youth had been a beautiful and desirable one.
Cynric the verger came in from the north porch with the twig broom in his hand, from brushing away the night’s sprinkling of fine snow from porch and steps, and went to open the great service-book on the reading desk, and trim the candles on the parish altar ready for the communal Mass, and set two new ones on the prickets of the wall brackets on either side. Cadfael gave him good day as he came back into the nave, and got the usual tranquil but brief acknowledgement.
“Freezing as hard as ever,” said Cadfael. “There’ll be no breaking the ground for Ailnoth today.” For it would be Cynric who had to dig the grave, in the green enclosure east of the church, where priests and abbots and brothers were laid to rest.
Cynric sniffed the air and considered, his deep eyes veiled. “A change by tomorrow, maybe. I smell a thaw coming.”
It could be true. He lived on close, if neutral, terms with the elements, tolerating them as they seemed to refrain from harming him, for it must be deathly cold in that small, stony room over the porch.
“The ground’s chosen for him?” asked Cadfael, catching the taciturn habit.
“Close under the wall.”
“Not next to Father Adam, then? I thought Prior Robert would have wanted to put him there.”
“He did,” said Cynric shortly. “I said the earth there was not yet settled, and must have time to bed down.”
“A pity the hard frost came now. A dead man still lying among us unburied makes the young ones uneasy.”
“Ay,” said Cynric. “The sooner he’s in the ground the better for all. Now that he’s gone.” He straightened the second thick candle on its spike, stepped back to make sure it stood erect and would not gutter, and brushed the clinging feel of tallow from his hands, for the first time turning his eyes in their hollow caverns upon Cadfael, and lighting up his lantern countenance with the smile of singular if rueful sweetness that brought the children to him with such serene confidence. “Do you go into the Foregate this morning? I heard there’s a few folk having trouble with the cold.”
“No wonder they should!” said Cadfael. “I’m away to have a look at one or two of the children, but there’s no great harm yet. Why, do you know of someone who needs me? I have leave, I can as well make one more visit. Who is sick?”
“It’s the little wooden hovel on the left, along the back lane from the horse-fair, the widow Nest. She’s caring for her grandchild, the poor worm, Eluned’s baby, and she’s fretted for it.” Cynric, perforce, was unusually loquacious in explaining. “Won’t take its milk, and cries with the wind in its belly.”
“It was born a healthy child?” asked Cadfael. For it could not be many weeks old, and motherless, deprived of
