Holy Thief (8 page)

“Who
last handled her?” suggested Brother Cadfael reasonably. “Someone... more than
one... carried her up to Cynric’s rooms. Any of you here?”

Brother
Rhun came through the press of curious and frightened brothers, the youngest
among them, the special protege of his saint, and her most devoted servitor, as
every man here knew.

“It
was I, with Brother Urien, who wrapped her safely. But to my grief, I was not
here when she was moved from her place.”

A
tall figure came looming over the heads of the nearest brothers, craning to see
what was causing the stir. “That was the load from the altar there?” asked
Bénezet, and thrust his way through to look more closely. “The reliquary, the
saint’s coffin? And now this ...? But I helped to carry it up to the verger’s
rooms. It was one of the last things we moved, late in the evening. I was here
helping, and one of the brothers, Brother Matthew I’ve heard him named, called
me to give him a hand. And so I did. We hefted her up the stairs and stowed her
safely enough.” He looked round in search of confirmation, but Brother Matthew
the cellarer was not there to speak for himself. “He’ll tell you,” said Bénezet
confidently. “And this, a log of wood? Is this what we took such care of?”

“Look
at the brychan,” said Cadfael, reaching in haste to open it before the man’s
eyes and spread it wide. The outer wrapping, look at it closely. Did you see it
clearly when you had the load in your hands? Is this the same?” By chance it
was Welsh woollen cloth, patterned in a regular array of crude four-petalled
flowers in a dim blue; many of its kind found their way into English homes
through the market of Shrewsbury. It was worn thin in places, but had been of a
solid, heavy weave, and bound at the edges with flax. Bénezet said without
hesitation: “The same.”

“You
are certain? It was late in the evening, you say. The altar was still lighted?”

“I’m
certain.” Bénezet’s long lips delivered his certainty like an arrow launched.
“I saw the weave plainly. This is what we lifted and carried, that night, and
who was to know what was inside the brychans?”

Brother
Rhun uttered a small, grievous sound, more a sob than a cry, and came forward
almost fearfully to touch and feel, afraid to trust his eyes, young and clear
and honest though they might be.

“But
it is not the same,” he said in a muted whisper, “in which Brother Urien and I
wrapped her, earlier that day, before noon. We left her ready on her altar,
with a plain blanket bound round her, and an old, frayed altarcloth stretched
over her. Brother Richard let us take it, as fitting her holiness. It was a
beautiful one, great love went into the embroidery. That was her coverlet. This
is no way the same. What this good man carried from here to the high place
meant for Saint Winifred, was not that sweet lady, but this block, this
mockery. Father Prior, where is our saint? What has become of Saint Winifred?”

Prior
Robert swept one commanding glance round him, at the derisory object uncovered
from its shroud, at the stricken brothers, and the boy bereaved and accusing,
burning white as a candleflame. Rhun went whole, beautiful and lissome by Saint
Winifred’s gift, he would have no rest nor allow any to his superiors, while
she was lost to him.

“Leave
all here as it lies,” said Prior Robert with authority, “and depart, all of
you. No word be said, nothing done, until we have taken this cause to Father
Abbot, within whose writ it lies.”

“There
is no possibility of mere error,” said Cadfael, in the abbot’s parlour, that
evening. “Brother Matthew is as certain as this lad Bénezet of what they
carried, or at least of the pattern of the brychan that was wound about it. And
Brother Rhun and Brother Urien are just as certain of what they took to wrap
and cover her. By all the signs, no one meddled with the wrappings. A new
burden was substituted for the first one on the altar, and borne away to safety
in good faith, no blame to those who aided.”

“None,”
said Radulfus. “The young man offered in all kindness. His merit is assured.
But how did this come about? Who could wish it? Who perform, if he did wish it?
Brother Cadfael, consider! There was flood, there was watchfulness but hope
during the day, there was urgent need at night. Men prepare for a sudden and
strange threat, but while it holds off they do not believe in it. And when it
strikes, can everything be handled with calm and faith, as it should? In
darkness, in confusion, mere feeble men do foolish things. Is there not still
the possibility that this is all some error, even a stupid and malicious jest?”

“Never
so stupid,” said Cadfael firmly, “as to dress up a stock of wood to match the
mass and weight of that reliquary. Here there was purpose. Purpose to humiliate
this house, yes, perhaps, though I fail to see why, or who should harbour so
vile a grudge. But purpose, surely.”

They
were alone together, since Cadfael had returned to confirm Bénezet’s testimony
by the witness of Brother Matthew, who had carried the head end of the
reliquary up the stairs, and tangled his fingers in the unravelling flaxen
thread of the edging. Prior Robert had told his story with immense passion, and
left the load, Cadfael suspected with considerable thankfulness, in his
superior’s hands.

“And
this log itself,” said Radulfus, focussing sharply on details, “was not from
the Longner load?”

“Longner
sent a proportion of seasoned wood, but not oak. The rest was coppice-wood. No,
this has been cut a number of years. It is dried out so far that it could be
used to balance, roughly at least, the weight of the reliquary. It is no
mystery. In the southern end of the undercroft beneath the refectory, there is
a small pile of timber that was left after the last building on the barns. I
have looked,” said Cadfael. There is a place where such a log has been removed.
The surfaces show the vacancy.”

“And
the removal is recent?” asked Radulfus alertly.

“Father
Abbot, it is.”

“So
this was deliberate,” Radulfus said slowly. “Planned and purposeful, as you
said. Hard to believe. And yet I cannot see how it can have come about by
chance, by whatever absurd combination of circumstances. You say that Urien and
Rhun prepared her before noon. Late in the evening what lay on her altar, ready
to be carried elsewhere, was this mere stock. During the time between, our
saint was removed, and the other substituted. For what end, with what mischief
in mind? Cadfael, consider! In these few days of flood scarcely anyone has gone
in and out of our enclave, certainly no one can have taken out so noticeable a
burden. Somewhere within our walls the reliquary must be hidden. At least,
before we look beyond, every corner of this house and all its outer buildings,
must be searched.”

The
hunt for Saint Winifred went on for two days, every moment between the Offices,
and as if the honour of all within the walls was impugned in her loss, even the
guests in the hall and the trusted regulars of the parish of Holy Cross trudged
through the lingering mud to join in the search. Even Rémy of Pertuis,
forgetting the tenderness of his throat, went with Bénezet to penetrate every
corner of the Horse Fair stable and the loft over it, from which sanctuary the
translated relics of Saint Elerius and certain minor treasures had already been
reclaimed. It was not seemly for the girl Daalny to mingle with the brothers
throughout the day, but she watched with tireless interest from the steps of
the guesthall, as the hunters emerged from one doorway after another, from
grange court to stable-yard, from the dortoir by the outer daystairs, into the
cloister garth, out again by the scriptorium, across to the infirmary, and
always empty-handed.

All
those who had helped on the evening of the flood, when the need grew urgent,
told what they knew, and the sum of what they knew covered the hurried
movements of most of the church’s treasury, and traced it back to its proper
places, but shed no light on what had happened to Saint Winifred’s swaddled
reliquary between noon and evening of the day in question. At the end of the
second day even Prior Robert, rigid with outrage, had to acknowledge defeat.

“She
is not here,” he said. “Not within these walls, not here in the Foregate. If
anything was known of her there, they would have told us.”

“No
blinking it,” agreed the abbot grimly, “she is gone further. There is no
possibility of mistake or confusion. An exchange was made, with intent to
deceive. And yet what has left our gates during these days? Except for our
brothers Herluin and Tutilo, and they certainly took nothing with them but what
they brought, the very least a man needs upon the road.”

“There
was the cart,” said Cadfael, “that set out for Ramsey.”

There
fell a silence, while they looked at one another with misgiving, calculating
uneasily the dangerous possibilities opening up before them.

“Is
it possible?” ventured Brother Richard the Sub-Prior, almost hopefully. “In the
darkness and confusion? Some order misunderstood? Can it have been put on to
the cart by mistake?”

“No,”
said Cadfael, bluntly cutting off that consideration. “If she was moved from
her altar, then she was put somewhere else with deliberate intent.
Nevertheless, yes, the cart departed next morning, and she may have gone with
it. But not by chance, not in error.”

“Then
this is sacrilegious theft!” declaimed Robert. “Offence against the laws of God
and of the realm, and must be pursued with all rigour.”

“We
must not say so,” reproved Radulfus, lifting a restraining hand, “until we have
questioned every man who was present on that day and may have testimony to add
to what we know. And that we have not yet done. Sub-Prior Herluin and Brother
Tutilo were with us then, and as I know, Tutilo was helping with the removal of
the altar furnishings until well into the evening. And were there not some
others who came in to help? We should speak to every one who may have seen
anything to the purpose, before we cry theft.”

“Eudo
Blount’s carters who came with the wood,” offered Richard, “left the load and
came in to help, until all was done, before they finished transferring the
timber from the Longner cart. Should we not ask them? Dark as it was by then,
they may have noticed something to the purpose.”

“We
will neglect nothing,” said the abbot. “Father Herluin and Brother Tutilo, I
know, will be coming back here to return our horses, but that may be some days,
and we should not delay. Robert, they will be in Worcester by now, will you
ride after them and hear what account they can give of that day?”

“With
very good will,” said Robert fervently. “But, Father, if this becomes in all
earnest a matter of theft, ought we not to confide it to the sheriff, and see
if he thinks fit to have a man of his garrison go with me? In the end it may be
as much for the king’s justice as for ours, and as you say, time is precious.”

“You
are right,” agreed Radulfus. “I will speak with Hugh Beringar. And for the
Longner men, we will send and hear what they have to say.”

“If
you give me leave,” said Cadfael, “I will undertake that.” He had no wish to
see someone of Prior Robert’s mind descending on Eudo Blount’s decent
household, probing in a manner suggestive of black suspicions of duplicity and
theft.

“Do
so, Cadfael, if you will. You know the people there better than any of us, they
will speak freely to you. Find her,” said Abbot Radulfus grimly, “we must and
will. Tomorrow Hugh Beringar shall know what has happened, and pursue it as he
sees fit.”

Hugh
came from conference with the abbot half an hour after the end of Prime.
“Well,” he said, plumping himself down on the bench against the timber wall of
Cadfael’s workshop, “I hear you’ve got yourself into a pretty awkward corner
this time. How did you come to lose your seeming saint? And what will you do,
my friend, if someone, somewhere, decides to take the lid off that very pretty
coffin?”

“Why
should they?” said Cadfael, but none too confidently.

“Given
human curiosity, of which you should know more than I,” said Hugh, grinning,
“why should they not? Say the thing finds its way where no one knows what it
is, or what it signifies, how better to find out what they have in their hands?
You would be the first to break the seals.”

“I
was the first,” said Cadfael, unguardedly since here a guard was useless, for
Hugh knew exactly what was in Saint Winifred’s reliquary. “And also, I hope,
the last. Hugh, I doubt if you are taking this with the gravity it deserves.”

“I
find it difficult,” Hugh owned, “not to be amused. But be sure I’ll preserve
your secrets if I can. I’m interested. All my local troublers of the peace seem
to be frozen in until spring, I can afford to ride to Worcester. Even in
Robert’s company it may be entertaining. And I’ll keep an eye open for your
interests as well as I may. What do you think of this loss? Has someone
conspired to rob you, or is it all a foolish tangle spawned out of the flood?”

“No,”
said Cadfael positively, and turned from the board on which he was fashioning
troches for queasy stomachs in the infirmary. “No tangle. A clear mind shifted
that reliquary from the altar, and swathed and planted a log of wood from the
undercroft in its place. So that both could be moved away well out of sight and
out of mind, possibly for several days, as indeed both were. The one to make a
clear field for the other to be removed beyond recovery. At least beyond
immediate recovery,” he amended firmly, “for recover her we shall.”