St. Peter's Fair (11 page)

That
was drawing nearer to the spring, but not near enough. Philip’s face was still
drawn, resigned and bewildered, as though they had been talking Welsh over his
head. Brother Cadfael struck the prop clean away; it was high time.

“The
last report we have of him alive,” he said clearly.

The
word might have been a knife going in, the slender kind that is hardly felt for
a moment, and then hales after it the pain and the injury. Philip’s head came
up with a jerk, his mouth fell open, his bruised eyes rounded in horrified
comprehension.

“But
it must be remembered,” continued Cadfael quickly, “that we do not know the
hour at which he died. A body taken from the water may have entered it at any time
during the night, after all the prisoners were in hold, and all honest men in
bed.”

It
was done. He had hoped it would settle the issue of guilt and innocence, at
least to his satisfaction, but now he still could not be quite sure the boy had
not known the truth already. How if he had only held his peace and listened to
the ambiguous voices, and been in doubt whether Master Thomas’s corpse had yet
been found? On the face of it, if he had had any hand in that death, he was a
better player than
any of the travelling entertainers who would
be plying their trade among the crowds this evening. His pallor, from underdone
dough, had frozen into marble, he tried to speak and swallowed half-formed
words, he drew huge breaths into him, and straightened his back, and turned
great, shocked eyes upon the sheriff. On the face of it—but every face can
dissemble if the need is great enough.

“My
lord,” pleaded Philip urgently, when he had his voice again, “is this truth?
Master Thomas of Bristol is dead?”

“Known
or unknown to you,” said Prestcote dryly, “—and I hazard no judgment—it is
truth. The merchant is dead. Our main purpose here now is to examine how he
died.”

“Taken
from the water, the monk said. Did he drown?”

“That,
if you know, you may tell us.”

Abruptly
the prisoner turned his back upon the sheriff, took another deep breath into
him, and looked directly at Emma, and from then on barely took his eyes from
her, even when Prestcote addressed him. The only judgment he cared about was
hers.

“Lady,
I swear to you I never did your uncle harm, never saw him again after they
hauled me away from the jetty. What befell him I do not know, and God knows I’m
sorry for your loss. I would not for the world have touched him, even if we had
met and quarrelled afresh, knowing he was your kinsman.”

“Yet
you were heard threatening harm to him,” said the sheriff.

“It
may be so. I cannot drink, I was a fool ever to try that cure. I recall nothing
of what I said, I make no doubt it was folly, and unworthy. I was sore and
bitter. What I set out to do was honest enough, and yet it fell apart. All went
to waste. But if I talked violence, I did none. I never saw the man again. When
I turned sick from the wine I left the tavern and went down to the riverside,
away from the boats, and lay down there until I made shift to drag myself back
to the town. I admit to the trouble that arose out of my acts, and all that has
been said against me, all but this. As God sees me, I never did your uncle any
injury. Speak, and say you believe me!”

Emma
gazed at him with parted lips and dismayed eyes,
unable to say
yes or no to him. How could she know what was true and what was lies?

“Let
her be,” said the sheriff sharply. “It is with us you have to deal. This matter
must be probed deeper than has been possible yet. Nothing is proven, but you
stand in very grave suspicion, and it is for me to determine what is to be done
with you.”

“My
lord,” ventured the provost, who had kept his mouth tightly shut until now,
against great temptation, “I am prepared to stand surety for my son to whatever
price you may set, and I guarantee he shall be at your disposal at the assize,
and at whatever time between when you may need to question him. My honour has
never been in doubt, and my son, whatever else, has been known as a man of his
word, and if he gives his bond here he will keep it, even without my
enforcement. I beg your lordship will release him home to my bail.”

“On
no terms,” said Prestcote decidedly. “The matter is too grave. He stays under
lock and key.”

“My
lord, if you so order, under lock and key he shall be, but let it be in my
house. His mother—“

“No!
Say no more, you must know it is impossible. He stays here in custody.”

“There
is nothing against him in the matter of this death,” offered Corbière
generously, “as yet, that is, except my rogue’s witness of his threats. And
thieves do haunt such gatherings as the great fairs, and if they can cut a man
out from his fellows, will kill him for the clothes on his back. And surely the
fact that the body was stripped accords better with just such a foul chance
crime for gain? Vengeance has nothing to feed on in a bundle of clothing. The
act is all.”

“True,”
agreed Prestcote. “But supposing a man had killed in anger, perhaps simply gone
too far in an assault meant only to injure, he might be wise enough to strip
his victim, to make it appear the work of common robbers, and turn attention
away from himself. There is much work to be done yet in this case, but meantime
Corviser must remain in hold. I should be failing in my duty if I turned him
loose, even to your care, master provost.” And the sheriff ordered, with a
motion of his hand: “Take him away!”

Philip was slow to move, until the butt of a lance
prodded him none too gently in the side. Even then he kept his chin on his
shoulder for some paces, and his eyes desperately fixed upon Emma’s distressed
and doubting face. “I did not touch him,” he said, plucked forcibly away
towards the door through which his guards had brought him. “I pray you, believe
me!” Then he was gone, and the hearing was over.

Out
in the great court they paused to draw grateful breath, released from the
shadowy oppression of the hall. Roger Dod hovered, with hungry eyes upon Emma.

“Mistress,
shall I attend you back to the barge? Or will you have me go straight back to
the booth? I had Gregory go there to help Warin, while I had to be absent, but
trade was brisking up nicely, they’ll be hard pushed by now. If that’s what you
want? To work the fair as he’d have worked it?”

“That
is what I want,” she said firmly. “To do all as he would have done. You go
straight back to the horse-fair, Roger. I shall be staying with Lady Beringar
at the abbey for this while, and Brother Cadfael will escort me.”

The
journeyman louted, and left them, without a backward glance. But the very rear
view of him, sturdy, stiff and aware, brought back to mind the intensity of his
dark face and burning, embittered eyes. Emma watched him go, and heaved a
helpless sigh.

“I
am sure he is a good man, I know he is a good servant, and has stood loyally by
my uncle many years. So he would by me, after his fashion. And I do respect
him, I must! I think I could like him, if only he would not want me to love
him!”

“It’s
no new problem,” said Cadfael sympathetically. “The lightning strikes where it
will. One flames, and the other remains cold. Distance is the only cure.”

“So
I think,” said Emma fervently. “Brother Cadfael, I must go to the barge, to
bring away some more clothes and things I need. Will you go with me?”

He
understood at once that this was an opportune time. Both Warin and Gregory were
coping with customers at the booth, and Roger was on his way to join them. The
barge would be riding innocently beside the jetty, and no man aboard to trouble
her peace. Only a monk of the abbey, who
did not trouble it at
all. “Whatever you wish,” he said. “I have leave to assist you in all your
needs.”

He
had rather expected that Ivo Corbière would come to join her once they were out
of the hall, but he did not. It was in Cadfael’s mind that she had expected it,
too. But perhaps the young man had decided that it was hardly worthwhile making
a threesome with the desired lady and a monastic attendant, who clearly had his
mandate, and would not consent to be dislodged. Cadfael could sympathise with
that view, and admire his discretion and patience. There were two days of the
fair left yet, and the great court of the abbey was not so great but guests
could meet a dozen times a day. By chance or by rendezvous!

Emma
was very silent on the way back through the town. She had nothing to say until
they emerged from the shadow of the gate into full sunlight again, above the
glittering bow of the river. Then she said suddenly: “It was good of Ivo to
speak so reasonably for the young man.” And on the instant, as Cadfael flashed
a glance to glimpse whatever lay behind the words, she flushed almost as deeply
as the unlucky lad Philip had blushed on beholding her a witness to his shame.

“It
was very sound sense,” said Cadfael, amiably blind. “Suspicion there may be,
but proof there’s none, not yet. And you set him a pace in generosity he could
not but admire.”

The
flush did not deepen, but it was already bright as a rose. On her ivory, silken
face, so young and unused, it was touching and becoming.

“Oh,
no,” she said, “I only told simple truth. I could do no other.” Which again was
simple truth, for nothing in her life thus far had corrupted her valiant
purity. Cadfael had begun to feel a strong fondness for this orphan girl who
shouldered her load without timidity or complaint, and still had an open heart
for the burdens of others. “I was sorry for his father,” she said. “So decent
and respected a man, to be denied so. And he spoke of his wife… she will be out
of her wits with worry.”

They
were over the bridge, they turned down the green path, trodden almost bare at
this busy, hot time, that led to the riverside and the long gardens and
orchards of the Gaye. Master Thomas’s deserted barge nestled into the green
bank
at the far end of the jetty, close-moored. One or two
porters laboured along the boards with fresh stocks from the boats, shouldered
them, and tramped away up the path to replenish busy stalls. The riverside lay
sunlit, radiantly green and blue, and almost silent, but for the summer sounds
of bees drunkenly busy among the late summer flowers in the grass. Almost
deserted, but for a solitary fisherman in a small boat close under the shadow
of the bridge; a comfortable, squarely-built fisherman stripped to shirt and
hose, and bristling thornily with black curls and black bush of beard. Rhodri
ap Huw clearly trusted his servant to deal profitably with his English
customers, or else he had already sold out all the stock he had brought with
him. He looked somnolent, happy, almost eternal, trailing his bait along the
current under the archway, with an occasional flick of a wrist to correct the
drift. Though most likely the sharp eyes under the sleepy eyelids were missing
nothing that went on about him. He had the gift, it seemed, of being
everywhere, but everywhere disinterested and benevolent.

“I
will be quick,” said Emma, with a foot on the side of the barge. “Last night
Constance lent me all that I needed, but I must not continue a beggar. Will you
step aboard, brother? You are welcome! I’m sorry to be so poor a hostess.” Her
lips quivered. He knew the instant when her mind returned to her uncle, lying
naked and dead in the castle, a man she had revered and relied on, and perhaps
felt to be eternal in his solidity and self-confidence. “He would have wished
me to offer you wine, the wine you refused last night.”

“For
want of time only,” said Cadfael placidly, and hopped nimbly over on to the
barge’s low deck. “You go get what you need, child, I’ll wait for you.”

The
space aboard was well organised, the cabin aft rode low, but the full width of
the hull, and though Emma had to stoop her neat head to enter, stepping down to
the lower level within, she and her uncle would have had room within for
sleeping. Little to spare, yet enough, where no alien or suspect thing might
come. But taut, indeed, when she was short of her natural protector, with three
other men closely present on deck outside. And one of them deeply, hopelessly,
in love. Uncles may not notice such glances as his, where their own underlings
are concerned.

She was back, springing suddenly to view in the low
doorway. Her eyes had again that look of shock and alarm, but now contained and
schooled. Her voice was level and low as she said: “Someone has been here!
Someone strange! Someone has handled everything we left here on board, pawed
through my linen and my uncle’s, too, turned every board or cover. I do not
dream, Brother Cadfael! It is title! Our boat has been ransacked while it was
left empty. Come and see!”

It
was without guile that he asked her instantly: “Has anything been taken?”

Still possessed
by her discovery, and unguardedly honest, Emma said: “No!”

Chapter Three

EVERYTHING
IN THE BOAT, and certainly in the small cabin, seemed to Cadfael to be in immaculate
order, but he did not therefore doubt her judgment. A girl making her third
journey in this fashion, and growing accustomed to making the best use of the
cramped space, would know exactly how she had everything folded and stowed, and
the mere disturbance of a fold, the crumpling of a corner in the neat low chest
under her bench-bed would be enough to alert her, and betray the intervention
of another hand. But the very attempt at perfect restoration was surprising. It
argued that the interloper had had ample time at his disposal, while all the
crew were absent. Yet she had said confidently that nothing had been stolen.