St. Peter's Fair (10 page)

“It
leaves but one,” said Prestcote, and looked up sharply into Beringar’s face.

“It
does,” said Hugh, and committed himself to nothing further.

“Very
well! Have in all the rest, but keep him aside. Let us hold these two matters
apart, and deal with the lesser first.”

Into
the space roped off along one side the hall, the sheriff’s officers herded
their prisoners, a long file of sullenly sheepish young men, bruised,
dishevelled and sorry for themselves now, but still nursing the embers of a
genuine resentment. There were some torn coats among them, and a purple eye or
two, and the lingering signs of bloody noses and battered crowns, and a night
on the stones of indifferently swept cells had done their best clothes, donned
for dignified battle as knights case themselves in ceremonial armour, no good
at all. There would be indignant mothers scolding bitterly as
they
scrubbed and mended, or here and there a young wife doing the nagging on behalf
of all women. The offenders stood in line doggedly, set their jaws, and braced
themselves to endure whatever might follow.

Prestcote
was thorough. Plainly he was preoccupied with the more serious evil, and little
disposed to fulminate overmuch about this civic discord, which in the end had
done comparatively little harm. So though he called every culprit separately,
and had him answer for his own part in the affray, he got through them rapidly
and reasonably. Most of them freely owned that they had taken part, maintained
that the intention had been entirely lawful and peaceable, and the
disintegration later had been unintentional and none of their making. Several
bore witness that they had been with Philip Corviser on the jetty, and told how
he had been assaulted, thus letting loose the riot that followed. Only one here
and there sought to prove that he had never so much as overset one trestle
under a stall, nor even been on the abbey side of Severn that evening. And
those few were already committed deep on the evidence of law-abiding citizens.

Agitated
fathers, vengeful rather than doting, came forward to claim each dejected hero,
pledged attendance at the assize, and offered surety for the pledge. The lame
lad was lectured perfunctorily, and dismissed without penalty. Two who had been
particularly voluble in asserting that they were elsewhere at the time, and
unjustly accused, were returned to their prison for a day or two, to reconsider
the nature of truth.

“Very
well!” said Prestcote, dusting his hands irritably. “Clear the hall, but for
those who have evidence to give concerning Master Thomas of Bristol. And bring
in Philip Corviser.”

The
line of young men had vanished, hustled out and shepherded away by loyal but
exasperated families. At home they would have to sit and nurse sore heads and
sore hearts while fathers hectored and dames wept, pouring out on them all the
fear and worry they had suffered on their behalf. Emma looked after the last of
them with round, sympathetic eyes, as he was haled away by the ear by a
diminutive mother half his size, and shrill as a jay. Poor lad, he needed no
other punishment, he was drowning in mortification already.

She
turned about, and there where his fellows had been,
but
monstrously alone in the middle of that stony wall, was Philip Corviser.

He
gripped the rope with both hands, and stood rigidly erect, neck as stiff as a
lance, though for the rest he looked as if his flesh might melt and drop off
the bone, he was so haggard. His extreme pallor, which Cadfael knew for what
raw wine can do to the beginner, the day after his indulgence, Emma almost
certainly took for the fruit of dire injury and great anguish of mind. She
paled in reflection, staring piteously, though he was nothing to her, except
that she had seen him struck down, and been afraid he might not rise again.

For
all his efforts, he was a sorry figure. His best cotte was torn and soiled, and
worse, speckled with drops of blood under his left ear, and vomit about the
skirts. He mustered his gangling limbs gallantly but somewhat uncertainly, and
his harmless, sunburned face, unshaven now and ashen under its tan, blushed to
an unbecoming and unexpected purple when he caught sight of his father, waiting
with laboured patience among the onlookers. He did not look that way again, but
kept his bruised brown eyes fixed upon the sheriff.

He
answered to his name in a voice too loud, from nervous defiance, and agreed to the
time and place of his arrest. Yes, he had been very drunk, and hazy about his
movements, and even about the circumstances of his arrest, but yes, he would
try to answer truthfully to what was charged against him.

There
were several witnesses to testify that Philip had been the originator and
leader of the whole enterprise which had ended so ignominiously. He had been in
the forefront when the angry young men crossed the bridge, he had given the
signal that sent some of the party ahead along the Foregate, while he led a
handful down to the riverside, and entered into loud argument with the
merchants unloading goods there. Thus far all accounts tallied, but from then
on they varied widely. Some had the youths beginning at once to toss
merchandise into the river, and were certain that Philip had been in the thick
of the battle. One or two of the aggrieved merchants alleged with righteous
indignation that he had assaulted Master Thomas, and so began the whole
turmoil. Since they would all have their say, Hugh Beringar had held back his
preferred witnesses until last.

“My
lord, as to the scene by the river, we have here the
niece of
Master Thomas, and two men who intervened, and afterwards helped to rescue much
of what had been cast into the river: Ivo Corbière of Stanton Cobbold, and
Brother Cadfael of the abbey, who was assisting a Welsh-speaking trader. There
were no others so close to the affair. Will you hear Mistress Vernold?”

Philip
had not realised until that moment that she was present. The mention of her
caused him to look round wildly, and the sight of her stepping shyly forward to
stand before the sheriff’s table brought out a deep and painful blush, that
welled out of the young man’s torn collar and mounted in a great wave to his
red-brown hair. He averted his eyes from her, wishing, thought Cadfael, for the
floor to open and swallow him up. It would not have mattered so much looking a
piteous object to others, but before her he was furious and ashamed. Not even
the thought of his father’s mortification could have sunk his spirits so low.
Emma, after one rapid glance, sympathetic enough, had also turned her eyes
away. She looked only at the sheriff, who returned her straight gaze with
concern and compunction.

“Was
it needful to put Mistress Vernold to this distress, at such a time? Madam, you
could well have been spared an appearance here, the lord Corbière and the good
brother would have been witness enough.”

“I
wished to come,” said Emma, her voice small but steady. “Indeed I was not
pressed, it was my own decision.”

“Very
well, if that is your wish. You have heard these varying versions of what
happened. There seems little dispute until these disturbers of the peace came
down to the jetty. Let me hear from you what followed.”

“It
is true that young man was the leader. I think he addressed himself to my uncle
because he seemed the most important merchant then present, but he spoke high
to be heard by all the rest. I cannot say that he uttered any threats, he only
stated that the town had a grievance, and the abbey was not paying enough for
the privilege of the fair, and asked that we, who come to do business here,
should acknowledge the rights of the town, and pay a tithe of our rents and
tolls to the town instead of all to the abbey. Naturally my uncle would not
listen, but stood firm on the letter of the charter, and ordered the young men
out of his way. And when he—
the prisoner here—would still be
arguing, my uncle turned his back and shrugged him off. Then the young man laid
a hand on his arm, wanting to detain him still, and my uncle, who had his staff
in his hand, turned and struck out at him. Thinking, I suppose, that he
intended him offence or injury.”

“And
did he not?” The sheriff’s voice indicated mild surprise.

She
cast one brief glance at the prisoner, and one in quest of reassurance at
Brother Cadfael, and thought for a moment. “No, I think not. He was beginning
to be angry, but he had not said any ill word, or made any threatening movement.
And my uncle, of course in alarm, hit hard. It felled him, and he lay in a
daze.” This time she did turn and look earnestly at Philip, and found him
staring at her wide-eyed. “You see he is marked. His left temple.” Dried blood
had matted the thick brown hair.

“And
did he then attempt retaliation?” asked Prestcote.

“How
could he?” she said simply. “He was more than half stunned, he could not rise
without help. And then all the others began to fight, and to throw things into
the river. And Brother Cadfael came and helped him to his feet and delivered
him to his friends, and they took him away. I am sure he could not have walked
unaided. I think he did not know what he was doing, or how he came to such a
state.”

“Not
then, perhaps,” said Prescote reasonably. “But later in the evening, somewhat
recovered, and as he has himself admitted, very drunk, he may well have brooded
on a revenge.”

“I
can say nothing as to that. My uncle would have struck him again, and might
have done him desperate hurt if I had not stopped him. That is not his nature,”
she said firmly, “it was most unlike him, but he was in a rage, and confused.
Brother Cadfael will confirm what I say.”

“At
all points,” said Brother Cadfael. “It is a perfectly balanced and just
account.”

“My
lord Corbière?”

“I
have nothing to add,” said Ivo, “to what Mistress Vernold has so admirably told
you. I saw the prisoner helped away by his fellows, and what became of him
after that I have no knowledge. But here is a man of mine, Turstan Fowler, who
says he did see him later in the evening, drinking
in an
ale-house at the corner of the horse-fair. I must say,” added Ivo with resigned
disgust, “that his own recollection of the night’s events ought to be as hazy
as the prisoner’s, for we took him up dead drunk past eleven, and by the look
of him he had been in the same state some time then. I had him put into a cell
in the abbey overnight. But he claims his head is clear now, and he knows what
he saw and heard. I thought it best he should speak here for himself.”

The
archer edged forward sullenly, peering up under thick frowning brows, as though
his head still rang.

“Well,
what is it you claim to know, fellow?” asked Prestcote, eyeing him narrowly.

“My
lord, I had no call to be out of the precinct at all, last night, my lord
Corbière had given me orders to stay within. But I knew he would spend the
evening looking the ground over, so I ventured. I got my skinful at Wat’s
tavern, by the north corner of the horse-fair. And this fellow was there,
drinking fit to beat me, and I’m an old toper, and can carry it most times. The
place was full, there must be others can tell you the same. He was nursing his
sore head, and breathing fire against the man that gave it him. He swore he’d
be up with him before the night was out. And that’s all the meat of it, my
lord.”

“At
what hour was this?” asked Prestcote.

“Well,
my lord, I was still firm on my feet then, and clear in my mind, and that I
certainly was not later in the evening. It must have been somewhere halfway
between eight and nine. I should have borne my drink well enough if I had not
gone from ale to wine, and then to a fierce spirit, and that last was what laid
me low, or I’d have been back within the wall before my lord came home, and
escaped a night on the stones.”

“It
was well earned,” said Prestcote dryly. “So you took yourself off to sleep off
your load—when?”

“Why,
about nine, I suppose, my lord, and was fathoms deep soon after. Troth, I can’t
recall where, though I remember the inn. They can tell you where I was found
who found me.”

At
this point it dawned abruptly upon Brother Cadfael that by pure chance this
whole interrogation, since Philip had been brought in, had been conducted
without once mentioning the
fact that Master Thomas at this
moment lay dead in the castle chapel. Certainly the sheriff had addressed Emma
in tones of sympathy and consideration appropriate to her newly-orphaned state,
and her uncle’s absence might in itself be suggestive, though in view of the
importance of his business at the fair, and the fact that Emma had once, at
least, referred to him in the present tense, a person completely ignorant of
his death would hardly have drawn any conclusion from these hints, unless he
had all his wits about him. And Philip had been all night in a prison cell, and
haled out only to face this hearing, and moreover, was still sick and dulled
with his drinking, his broken head and his sore heart, and in no case to pick
up every inference of what he heard. No one had deliberately laid a trap for him,
but for all that, the trap was there, and it might be illuminating to spring
it.

“So
these threats you heard against Master Thomas,” said Prescote, “can have been
uttered only within an hour, probably less, of the time when the merchant left
his booth to return alone to his barge. The last report we have of him.”