The Devils Novice (25 page)

“Would
you wear the yellow mountain stones?” asked Roswitha, “to match with this gold
thread in the girdle?”

Isouda
held the amber pebbles to the light and let them run smoothly through her
fingers. “They would suit well. But let me see what else you have here. You’ve
never shown me the half of these.” She was fingering them curiously when she
caught the buried gleam of coloured enamels, and unearthed from the very bottom
of the box a large brooch of the ancient ring-and-pin kind, the ring with its
broad, flattened terminals intricately ornamented with filigree shapes of gold
framing the enamels, sinuous animals that became twining leaves if viewed a
second time, and twisted back into serpents as she gazed. The pin was of
silver, with a diamond-shaped head engraved with a formal flower in enamels,
and the point projected the length of her little finger beyond the ring, which
filled her palm. A princely thing, made to fasten the thick folds of a man’s
cloak. She had begun to say: “I’ve never seen this…” before she had it out and
saw it clearly. She broke off then, and the sudden silence caused Roswitha to
look up. She rose quickly, and came to plunge her own hand into the box and
thrust the brooch to the bottom again, out of sight.

“Oh,
not that!” she said with a grimace. “It’s too heavy, and so old-fashioned. Put
them all back, I shall need only the yellow necklace, and the silver
hair-combs.” She closed the lid firmly, and drew Isouda back to the bed, where
the gown lay carefully outspread. “See here, there are a few frayed stitches in
the embroidery, could you catch them up for me? You are a better needlewoman
than I.”

With
a placid face and steady hand Isouda sat down and did as she was asked, and refrained
from casting another glance at the box that held the brooch. But when the hour
of Compline came, she snapped off her thread at the final stitch, laid her work
aside, and announced that she was going to attend the office. Roswitha, already
languidly undressing for bed, made no move to dissuade, and certainly none to
join her.

Brother
Cadfael left the church after Compline by the south porch, intending only to
pay a brief visit to his workshop to see that the brazier, which Brother Oswin
had been using earlier, was safely out, everything securely stoppered, and the
door properly closed to conserve what warmth remained. The night was starry and
sharp with frost, and he needed no other light to see his way by such familiar
paths. But he had got no further than the archway into the court when he was
plucked urgently by the sleeve, and a breathless voice whispered in his ear:
“Brother Cadfael, I must talk to you!”

“Isouda!
What is it? Something has happened?” He drew her back into one of the carrels
of the scriptorium; no one else would be stirring there now, and in the
darkness the two of them were invisible, drawn back into the most sheltered
corner. Her face at his shoulder was intent, a pale oval afloat above the
darkness of her cloak.

“Happened,
indeed! You
said
I might pull down the thunderbolt. I have found
something,” she said, rapid and low in his ear, “in Roswitha’s jewel box.
Hidden at the bottom. A great ring-brooch, very old and fine, in gold and
silver and enamels, the kind men made long before ever the Normans came. As big
as the palm of my hand, with a long pin. When she saw what I had, she came and
thrust it back into the box and closed the lid, saying that was too heavy and
old-fashioned to wear. So I let it pass, and never said word of what I knew. I
doubt if she understands what it is, or how whoever gave it to her came by it,
though I think he must have warned her not to wear or show it, not yet… Why
else should she be so quick to put it out of my sight? Or else simply she
doesn’t like it—I suppose it might be no more than that. But
I
know what
it is and where it came from, and so will you when I tell you…” She had run out
of breath in her haste, and panted soft warmth against his cheek, leaning
close. “I have seen it before, as she may not have done. It was I who took the
cloak from him and carried it within, to the chamber we made ready for him.
Fremund brought in his saddle-bags, the cloak I carried… and this brooch was
pinned in the collar.”

Cadfael
laid a hand over the small hand that gripped his sleeve, and asked,
half-doubting, half-convinced already: “Whose cloak? Are you saying this thing
belonged to Peter Clemence?”

“I
am
saying it. I will swear it.”

“You
are sure it must be the same?”

“I
am sure. I tell you I carried it in, I touched, I admired it.”

“No,
there could not well be two such,” he said, and drew breath deep. “Of such rare
things I doubt there were ever made two alike.”

“Even
if there were, why should both wander into this shire? But no, surely every one
was made for a prince or a chief and never repeated. My grandsire had such a
brooch, but not near so fine and large, he said it came from Ireland, long ago.
Besides, I remember the very colours and the strange beasts. It is the same.
And she has it!” She had a new thought, and voiced it eagerly. “Canon Eluard is
still here, he knew the cross and ring, he will surely know this, and he can
swear to it. But if that fails, so can I, and I will. Tomorrow—how must we deal
tomorrow? For Hugh Beringar is not here to be told, and the time so short. It
rests with us. Tell me what I can best do?”

“So
I will,” said Cadfael slowly, his hand firm over hers, “when you have told me
one more most vital thing. This brooch—it is whole and clean? No stain, no
discolouration anywhere upon it, on metals or enamels? Not even thin edges
where such discolourings may have been cleaned away?”

“No!”
said Isouda after a sudden brief silence, and drew in understanding breath. “I
had not thought of that! No, it is as it was made, bright and perfect. Not like
the others…No,
this
has
not
been through the fire.”

Chapter Twelve

THE
WEDDING DAY DAWNED CLEAR, bright and very cold. A flake or two of frozen snow,
almost too fine to be seen but stinging on the cheek, greeted Isouda as she
crossed the court for Prime, but the sky was so pure and lofty that it seemed
there would be no fall. Isouda prayed earnestly and bluntly, rather demanding
help from heaven than entreating it. From the church she went to the
stableyard, to give orders that her groom should go with her horse and bring
Meriet at the right time, with Mark in attendance, to see his brother married.
Then she went to dress Roswitha, braid her hair and dress it high with the
silver combs and gilt net, fasten the yellow necklace about her throat, walk
round her and twitch every fold into place. Uncle Leoric, whether avoiding this
cloistered abode of women or grimly preoccupied with the divergent fortunes of
his two sons, made no appearance until it was time for him to proceed to his
place in the church, but Wulfric Linde hovered in satisfied admiration of his
daughter’s beauty, and did not seem to find this over-womaned air hard to
breathe. Isouda had a mild, tolerant regard for him; a silly kind man,
competent at getting good value out of a manor, and reasonable with his tenants
and villeins, but seldom looking beyond, and always the last to know what his
children or neighbours were about.

Somewhere,
at this same time, Janyn and Nigel were certainly engaged in the same archaic
dance, making the bridegroom ready for what was at the same time triumph and
sacrifice.

Wulfric
studied the set of Roswitha’s bliaut, and turned her about fondly to admire her
from every angle. Isouda withdrew to the press, and let them confer
contentedly, totally absorbed, while she fished up by touch, from the bottom of
the casket, the ancient ring-brooch that had belonged to Peter Clemence, and
secured it by the pin in her wide over-sleeve.

The
young groom Edred arrived at Saint Giles with two horses, in good time to bring
Meriet and Brother Mark to the dim privacy within the church before the invited
company assembled. In spite of his natural longing to see his brother wed,
Meriet had shrunk from being seen to be present, an accused felon as he was,
and a shame to his father’s house. So he had said when Isouda promised him
access, and assured him that Hugh Beringar would allow the indulgence and
accept his prisoner’s sworn word not to take advantage of such clemency; the
scruple had suited Isouda’s purpose then and was even more urgently welcome
now. He need not make himself known to anyone, and no one should recognise or
even notice him. Edred would bring him early, and he could be safely installed
in a dim corner of the choir before ever the guests came in, some withdrawn
place where he could see and not be seen. And when the married pair left, and
the guests after them, then he could follow unnoticed and return to his prison
with his gentle gaoler, who was necessary as friend, prop in case of need, and
witness, though Meriet knew nothing of the need there might well be of informed
witnesses.

“And
the lady of Foriet orders me,” said Edred cheerfully, “to tether the horses
outside the precinct, ready for when you want to return. Outside the gatehouse
I’ll hitch them, there are staples there, and you may take your time until the
rest have gone in, if you so please. You won’t mind, brothers, if I take an
hour or so free while you’re within? There’s a sister of mine has a house along
the Foregate, a small cot for her and her man.” There was also a girl he
fancied, in the hovel next door, but that he did not feel it necessary to say.

Meriet
came forth from the barn strung taut like an overtuned lute, his cowl drawn
forward to hide his face. He had discarded his stick, except when overtired at
the end of the day, but he still went a little lame on his sprained foot. Mark
kept close at his elbow, watching the sharp, lean profile that was honed even
finer by the dark backcloth of the cowl, a face lofty-browed, high-nosed,
fastidious.

“Should
I so intrude upon him?” wondered Meriet, his voice thin with pain. “He has not
asked after me,” he said, aching, and turned his face away, ashamed of so
complaining.

“You
should and you must,” said Mark firmly. “You promised the lady, and she has put
herself out to make your visit easy. Now let her groom mount you, you have not
yet the full use of that foot, you cannot spring.”

Meriet
gave way, consenting to borrow a hand to get into the saddle. “And that’s her
own riding horse you have there,” said Edred, looking up proudly at the tall
young gelding. “And a stout little horsewoman she is, and thinks the world of
him. There’s not many she’d let into a saddle on
that
back, I can tell
you.”

It
occurred to Meriet, somewhat late, to wonder if he was not trying Brother Mark
too far, in enforcing him to clamber aboard a beast strange and possibly
fearsome to him. He knew so little of this small, tireless brother, only what
he was, not at all what he had been aforetime, nor how long he had worn the
habit; there were those children of the cloister who had been habited from
infancy. But Brother Mark set foot briskly enough in the stirrup, and hoisted
his light weight into the saddle without either grace or difficulty.

“I
grew up on a well-farmed yardland,” he said, noting Meriet’s wide eye. “I have
had to do with horses from an infant, not your high-bred stock, but
farm-drudges. I plod like them, but I can stay up, and I can get my beast where
he must go. I began very early,” he said, remembering long hours half-asleep
and sagging in the fields, a small hand clutching the stones in his bag, to sling
at the crows along the furrow.

They
went out along the Foregate thus, two mounted brothers of the Benedictines with
a young groom trotting alongside. The winter morning was young, but the human traffic
was already brisk, husbandmen out to feed their winter stock, housewives
shopping, late packmen humping their packs, children running and playing,
everybody quick to make use of a fine morning, where daylight was in any case
short, and fine mornings might be few. As brothers of the abbey, they exchanged
greetings and reverences all along the way.

They
lighted down before the gatehouse, and left the horses with Edred to bestow as
he had said. Here in the precinct where he had sought entry, for whatever
reason of his own and counter-reason of his father’s, Meriet hung irresolute,
trembling, if Mark had not taken him by the arm and drawn him within. Through
the great court, busy enough but engrossed, they made their way into the
blessed dimness and chill of the church, and if any noticed them they never
wondered at two brothers going cowled and in a hurry on such a frosty morning.

Edred,
whistling, tethered the horses as he had said he would, and went off to visit
his sister and the girl next door.

Hugh
Beringar, not a wedding guest, was nevertheless as early on the scene as were
Meriet and Mark, nor did he come alone. Two of his officers loitered
unobtrusively among the shifting throng in the great court, where a number of
the curious inhabitants of the Foregate had added themselves to the lay
servants, boys and novices, and the various birds of passage lodged in the
common hall. Cold though it might be, they intended to see all there was to be
seen. Hugh kept out of sight in the anteroom of the gatehouse, where he could
observe without himself being observed. Here he had within his hand all those
who had been closest to the death of Peter Clemence. If this day’s ferment did
not cast up anything fresh, then both Leoric and Nigel must be held to account,
and made to speak out whatever they knew.