The Devils Novice (26 page)

In
compliment to a generous patron of the abbey, Abbot Radulfus himself had
elected to conduct the marriage service, and that ensured that his guest Canon
Eluard should also attend. Moreover, the sacrament would be at the high altar,
not the parish altar, since the abbot was officiating, and the choir monks
would all be in their places. That severed Hugh from any possibility of a word
in advance with Cadfael. A pity, but they knew each other well enough by now to
act in alliance even without prearrangement.

The
leisurely business of assembly had begun already, guests crossed from hall to
church by twos and threes, in their best. A country gathering, not a court one,
but equally proud and of lineage as old or older. Compassed about with a great
cloud of witnesses, equally Saxon and Norman, Roswitha Linde would go to her
bridal. Shrewsbury had been given to the great Earl Roger almost as soon as
Duke William became king, but many a manor in the outlying countryside had remained
with its old lord, and many a come-lately Norman lordling had had the sense to
take a Saxon wife, and secure his gains through blood older than his own, and a
loyalty not due to himself.

The
interested crowd shifted and murmured, craning to get the best view of the
passing guests. There went Leoric Aspley, and there his son Nigel, that
splendid young man, decked out to show him at his best, and Janyn Linde in airy
attendance, his amused and indulgent smile appropriate enough in a good-natured
bachelor assisting at another young man’s loss of liberty. That meant that all
the guests should now be in their places. The two young men halted at the door
of the church and took their stand there.

Roswitha
came from the guest-hall swathed in her fine blue cloak, for her gown was light
for a winter morning. No question but she was beautiful, Hugh thought, watching
her sail down the stone steps on Wulfric’s plump, complacent arm. Cadfael had
reported her as quite unable to resist drawing all men after her, even elderly
monks of no attraction or presence. She had the audience of her life now, lined
up on either side of her unhurried passage to the church, gaping in admiration.
And in her it seemed as innocent and foolish as an over-fondness for honey. To
be jealous of her would be absurd.

Isouda
Foriet, demure in eclipse behind such radiance, walked after the bride, bearing
her gilded prayer-book and ready to attend on her at the church door, where
Wulfric lifted his daughter’s hand from his own arm, and laid it in the eager
hand Nigel extended to receive it. Bride and groom entered the church porch
together, and there Isouda lifted the warm mantle from Roswitha’s shoulders and
folded it over her own arm, and so followed the bridal pair into the dim nave
of the church.

Not
at the parish altar of Holy Cross, but at the high altar of Saint Peter and
Saint Paul, Nigel Aspley and Roswitha Linde were made man and wife.

Nigel
made his triumphal way from the church by the great west door which lay just
outside the enclave of the abbey, close beside the gatehouse. He had Roswitha
ceremoniously by the hand, and was so blind and drunk with his own pride of
possession that it was doubtful if he was aware even of Isouda herself standing
in the porch, let alone of the cloak she spread in her hands and draped over
Roswitha’s shoulders, as bride and groom reached the chill brightness of the
frosty noon outside. After them streamed the proud fathers and gratified
guests; and if Leone’s face was unwontedly grey and sombre for such an occasion,
no one seemed to remark it; he was at all times an austere man.

Nor
did Roswitha notice the slight extra weight on her left shoulder of an ornament
intended for a man’s wear. Her eyes were fixed only on the admiring crowd that
heaved and sighed with approbation at sight of her. Here outside the wall the
throng had grown, since everyone who had business or a dwelling along the
Foregate had come to stare. Not here, thought Isouda, following watchfully, not
here will there be any response, here all those who might recognise the brooch
are walking behind her, and Nigel is as oblivious as she. Only when they turn
in again at the gatehouse, having shown themselves from the parish door, will
there be anyone to take heed. And if Canon Eluard fails me, she thought
resolutely, then
I
shall speak out, my word against hers or any man’s.

Roswitha
was in no hurry; her progress down the steps, across the cobbles of the
forecourt to the gateway and so within to the great court, was slow and
stately, so that every man might stare his fill. That was a blessed chance, for
in the meantime Abbot Radulfus and Canon Eluard had left the church by transept
and cloister, and stood to watch benevolently by the stair to the guesthall,
and the choir monks had followed them out to disperse and mingle with the
fringes of the crowd, aloof but interested.

Brother
Cadfael made his way unobtrusively to a post close to where the abbot and his
guest stood, so that he could view the advancing pair as they did. Against the
heavy blue cloth of Roswitha’s cloak the great brooch, aggressively male, stood
out brilliantly. Canon Eluard had broken off short in the middle of some quiet
remark in the abbot’s ear, and his beneficent smile faded, and gave place to a
considering and intent frown, as though at this slight distance his vision
failed to convince him he was seeing what indeed he saw.

“But
that…” he murmured, to himself rather than to any other. “But no, how can it
be?”

Bride
and groom drew close, and made dutiful reverence to the dignitaries of the
church. Behind them came Isouda, Leoric, Wulfric, and all the assembly of their
guests. Under the arch of the gatehouse Cadfael saw Janyn’s fair head and
flashing blue eyes, as he loitered to exchange a word with someone in the
Foregate crowd known to him, and then came on with his light, springing step,
smiling.

Nigel
was handing his wife to the first step of the stone stairway when Canon Eluard
stepped forward and stood between, with an arresting motion of his hand. Only
then, following his fixed gaze, did Roswitha look down at the collar of her
cloak, which swung loose on her shoulders, and see the glitter of enamelled
colours and the thin gold outlines of fabulous beasts, entwined with sinuous
leaves.

“Child,”
said Eluard, “may I look more closely?” He touched the raised threads of gold,
and the silver head of the pin. She watched in wary silence, startled and
uneasy, but not yet defensive or afraid. “That is a beautiful and rare thing
you have there,” said the canon, eyeing her with a slight, uncertain frown.
“Where did you get it?”

Hugh
had come forth from the gatehouse and was watching and listening from the rear
of the crowd. At the corner of the cloister two habited brothers watched from a
distance. Pinned here between the watchers round the west door and the
gathering now halted inexplicably here in the great court, and unwilling to be
noticed by either, Meriet stood stiff and motionless in shadow, with Brother
Mark beside him, and waited to return unseen to his prison and refuge.

Roswitha
moistened her lips, and said with a pale smile: “It was a gift to me from a
kinsman.”

“Strange!”
said Eluard, and turned to the abbot with a grave face. “My lord abbot, I know
this brooch well, too well ever to mistake it. It belonged to the bishop of
Winchester, and he gave it to Peter Clemence—to that favoured clerk of his
household whose remains now lie in your chapel.”

Brother
Cadfael had already noted one remarkable circumstance. He had been watching
Nigel’s face ever since that young man had first looked down at the adornment
that was causing so much interest, and until this moment there had been no sign
whatever that the brooch meant anything to him. He was glancing from Canon
Eluard to Roswitha, and back again, a puzzled frown furrowing his broad forehead
and a faint, questioning smile on his lips, waiting for someone to enlighten
him. But now that its owner had been named, it suddenly had meaning for him,
and a grim and frightening meaning at that. He paled and stiffened, staring at
the canon, but though his throat and lips worked, either he found no words or
thought better of those that he had found, for he remained mute. Abbot Radulfus
had drawn close on one side, and Hugh Beringar on the other.

“What
is this? You recognise this gem as belonging to Master Clemence? You are
certain?”

“As
certain as I was of those possessions of his which you have already shown me,
cross and ring and dagger, which had gone through the fire with him. This he
valued in particular as the bishop’s gift. Whether he was wearing it on his
last journey I cannot say, but it was his habit, for he prized it.”

“If
I may speak, my lord,” said Isouda clearly from behind Roswitha’s shoulder, “I
do
know that he was wearing it when he came to Aspley. The brooch was in his cloak
when I took it from him at the door and carried it to the chamber prepared for
him, and it was in his cloak also when I brought it out to him the next morning
when he left us. He did not need the cloak for riding, the morning was warm and
fine. He had it slung over his saddle-bow when he rode away.”

“In
full view, then,” said Hugh sharply. For cross and ring had been left with the
dead man and gone to the fire with him. Either time had been short and flight imperative,
or else some superstitious awe had deterred the murderer from stripping a
priest’s gems of office from his very body, though he had not scrupled to
remove this one fine thing which lay open to his hand. “You observe, my lords,”
said Hugh, “that this jewel seems to show no marks of damage. If you will allow
us to handle and examine it…?”

Good,
thought Cadfael, reassured, I should have known Hugh would need no nudging from
me. I can leave all to him now.

Roswitha
made no move either to allow or prevent, as Hugh unpinned the great brooch from
its place. She looked on with a blanched and apprehensive face, but said never
a word. No, Roswitha was not entirely innocent in the matter; whether she had
known what this gift was and how come by or not, she had certainly understood
that it was perilous and not to be shown—not yet! Perhaps not here? And after
their marriage they were bound for Nigel’s northern manor. Who was likely to
know it there?

This
has never seen the fire,” said Hugh, and handed it to Canon Eluard for
confirmation. “Everything else the man had was burned with him. Only this one
thing was taken from him before ever those reached him who built him into his
pyre. And only one person, last to see him alive, first to see him dead, can
have taken this from his cloak as he lay, and that was his murderer.” He turned
to Roswitha, who stood pale to translucency, like a woman of ice, staring at
him with wide and horrified eyes.

“Who
gave it to you?”

She
cast one rapid glance around her, and then as suddenly took heart, and drawing
breath deep, she answered loudly and clearly: “Meriet!”

Cadfael
awoke abruptly to the realisation that he possessed knowledge which he had not
yet confided to Hugh, and if he waited for the right challenge to this bold
declaration from other lips he might wait in vain, and lose what had already
been gained. For most of those here assembled, there was nothing incredible in
this great lie she had just told, nothing even surprising, considering the
circumstances of Meriet’s entry into the cloister, and the history of the
devil’s novice within these walls. And she had clutched at the brief general
hush as encouragement, and was enlarging boldly: “He was always following me with
his dog’s eyes. I didn’t want his gifts, but I took it to be kind to him. How
could I know where he got it?”

“
When
?”
demanded Cadfael loudly, as one having authority. “
When
did he give you
this gift?”

“When?”
She looked round, hardly knowing where the question had come from, but hasty
and positive in answering it, to hammer home conviction. “It was the day after
Master Clemence left Aspley—the day after he was killed—in the afternoon. He
came to me in our paddock at Linde. He pressed me so to take it… I did not want
to hurt him…” From the tail of his eye Cadfael saw that Meriet had come forth
from his shadowy place and drawn a little nearer, and Mark had followed him
anxiously though without attempting to restrain him. But the next moment all
eyes were drawn to the tall figure of Leoric Aspley, as he came striding and
shouldering forward to tower over his son and his son’s new wife.

“Girl,”
cried Leoric, “think what you say! Is it well to lie? I
know
this cannot
be true.” He swung about vehemently, encountering in turn with his grieved,
grim eyes abbot and canon and deputy-sheriff. “My lords all, what she says is
false. My part in this I will confess, and accept gladly whatever penalty is
due from me. For this I know, I brought home my son Meriet, that same day that
I brought home the dead body of my guest and kinsman, and having cause, or so I
thought, to believe my son the slayer, I laid him under lock and key from that
hour, until I had considered, and he had accepted, the fate I decreed for him.
From late afternoon of the day Peter Clemence died, all the next day, and until
noon of the third, my son Meriet was close prisoner in my house. He never
visited this girl. He never gave her this gift, for he never had it in his
possession. Nor did he ever lift hand against my guest and his kinsman, now it
is shown! God forgive me that ever I credited it!”