St. Peter's Fair (19 page)

He
rose, and turned to beckon his nearest man from the open hatch. “Well, we’ll
have him away from here, and do what we can. A word with your Rhodri ap Huw
wouldn’t come amiss, and I fancy you might get more out of him in his own tongue
than ever I should at second hand. If he knows this man so well, prick him on
to talk, and bring me what you learn.”

“That I’ll do,” said Cadfael, clambering stiffly
from his knees.

“I
must go first to the castle, and report what we’ve found. One thing I’ll make
certain of this time,” said Hugh. “The sheriff was in no mood to listen too
carefully last night, but after this he’ll have to turn young Corviser loose on
his father’s warranty, like the rest of them. It would take a more pig-headed
man than Prestcote to believe the lad had any part in the first death, seeing
the trail of offences that have followed while he was in prison. He shall eat
his dinner at home today.”

Rhodri
was not merely willing to spend an hour pouring the fruits of his wisdom and
experience into Brother Cadfael’s ear, he was hovering with that very thing in
mind as soon as the corpse of Euan of Shotwick had been carried away, and the
booth closed, with one of the sheriff’s men on guard. Though ever-present, he
had the gift of being unobtrusive until he chose to obtrude, and then could
appear from an unexpected direction, and as casually as if only chance had
brought him there.

“No
doubt you’ll have sold all you brought with you,” said Cadfael, encountering
him thus between the stalls, clearly untroubled by business.

“Goods
of quality are recognized everywhere,” said Rhodri, sharp eyes twinkling
merrily. “My lads are clearing the last few jars of honey, and the wool’s long
gone. But I’ve a half-full bottle there, if you care to share a cup at this
hour? Mead, not wine, but you’ll be happy with that, being a Welshman
yourself.”

They
sat on heaped trestles already freed from their annual use by the removal of
small tradesmen who had sold out their stock, and set the bottle between them.

“And
what,” asked Cadfael, with a jerk of his head towards the guarded booth, “do
you make of that affair this morning? After all that’s gone before? Have we
more birds of prey this way than usual, do you think? It may be they’ve taken
fright and left the shires where there’s still fighting, and we get the burden
of it.”

Rhodri
shook his shaggy head, and flashed his large white
teeth out of
the thicket in a grin. “I would say you’ve had a more than commonly peaceful
and well-mannered fair, myself—apart from the misfortunes of two merchants
only. Oh, tonight’s the last night, and there’ll be a few drunken squabbles and
a brawl or two, I daresay, but what is there in that? But chance has played no
part in what has happened to Thomas of Bristol. Chance never goes hounding one
man for three days through hundreds of his fellows, yet never grazes one of the
others.”

“It
has more than grazed Euan of Shotwick,” remarked Cadfael dryly.

“Not
chance! Consider, brother! Earl Ranulf of Chester’s eyes and ears comes to a
Shropshire fair and is killed. Thomas of Bristol, from a city that holds by
Earl Robert of Gloucester, comes to the same fair, and is killed the very night
of his coming. And after his death, everything he brought with him is turned
hither and yon, but precious little stolen, from all I hear.” And certainly he
had a way of hearing most of what was said within a mile of him, but at least
he had made no mention of the violation of Master Thomas’s coffin. Either that
had not reached his ears, and never would, or else he had been the first to
know of it, and would be the last ever to admit it. The parish door was always
open, no need to set foot in the great court or pass the gatehouse. “Something
Thomas brought to Shrewsbury is of burning interest to somebody, it seems to
me, and the somebody failed to get hold of it from man, barge or stall. And the
next thing that happens is that Euan of Shotwick is also killed in the night,
and all his belongings ransacked. I would not say but things were stolen there.
They may have learned enough for that, and his goods are small and portable,
and why despise a little gain on the side? But for all that— No, two men from
opposite ends of a divided country, meeting midway, on important private
business? It could be so! Gloucester’s man and Chester’s man.”

“And
whose,” wondered Cadfael aloud, “was the third man?”

“The
third?”

“Who
took such an interest in the other two that they died of it. Whose man would he
be?”

“Why,
there are other factions, and every one of them
needs its
intelligencers. There’s the king’s party—they might well feel a strong interest
if they noted Gloucester’s man and Chester’s man attending the same fair midway
between. And not only the king—there are others who count themselves kings on
their own ground, besides Chester, and they also need to know what such a one
as Chester is up to, and will go far to block it if it threatens their own
profit. And then there’s the church, brother, if you’ll take it no offence is
meant to the Benedictines. For you’ll have heard by now that the king has dealt
very hardly with some of his bishops this last few weeks, put up all manner of
clerical backs, and turned his own brother and best ally, Bishop Henry of
Winchester, who’s papal legate into the bargain, into a bitter enemy. Bishop
Henry himself might well have a finger in this pie, though I doubt if he can
have had word of things afoot here in time, being never out of the south. But
Lincoln, or Worcester—all such lords need to know what’s going on, and for men
of influence there are always plenty of bully-boys for hire, who’ll do the
labouring work while their masters sit inviolable at home.”

And
so, thought Cadfael, could wealthy men sit inviolable here in their stalls, in
full view of hundreds, while their hired bully-boys do the dirty work. And this
black Welshman is laying it all out for me plain to be seen, and taking delight
in it, too! Cadfael knew when he was being deliberately teased! What he could
not be quite sure of was whether this was the caprice of a blameless but
mischievous man, or the sport of a guilty one taking pleasure in his own
immunity and cleverness. The black eyes sparkled and the white teeth shone. And
why grudge him his enjoyment, if something useful could yet be gleaned from it?
Besides, his mead was excellent.

“There
must,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, “be others here from Cheshire, even some from
close to Ranulfs court. You yourself, for instance, come from not so far away,
and are knowledgeable about those parts, and the men and the mood there. If you
are right, whoever has committed these acts knew where to look for the thing
they wanted, once they gave up believing that it was still among the effects of
Thomas of Bristol. Now how would they be able to choose, say, between Euan of Shotwick
and you? As an instance, of course! No offence!”

“None in the world!” said Rhodri heartily. “Why,
bless you! The only reason I know myself is because I am myself, and know I’m
not in Ranulf of Chester’s employ. But you can’t know that, not certainly, and
neither can any other. There’s a small point, of course—Thomas of Bristol, I
doubt, spoke no Welsh.”

“And
you no English,” sighed Cadfael. “I had forgotten!”

“There
was a traveller from down towards Gloucester stayed overnight at Ranulf s court
not a month ago,” mused Rhodri, twinkling happily at his own omniscience, “a
jongleur who got unusual favour, for he was called in to play a stave or two to
Ranulf and his lady in private, after they left the hall at night. If Earl
Ranulf has an ear for music, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. It would
certainly need more than a French virelai to fetch him in for his
father-in-law’s cause. He would want to know what were the prospects of
success, and what his reward might be.” He slanted a radiant smile along his
shoulder at Cadfael, and poured out the last of the mead. “Your health,
brother! You, at least, are delivered from the greed for gain. I have often
wondered, is there a passion large enough to take its place? I am still in the
world myself, you understand.”

“I
think there might be,” said Cadfael mildly. “For truth, perhaps? Or justice?”

Chapter Two

THE
GAOLER UNLOCKED THE DOOR OF PHILIP’S CELL somewhat before noon, and stood back
to let the provost enter. Father and son eyed each other hard, and though
Geoffrey Corviser continued to look grimly severe, and Philip obdurate and
defiant, nevertheless the father was mollified and the son reassured. By and
large, they understood each other pretty well.

“You
are released to my warranty,” said the provost shortly. “The charge is not
withdrawn, not yet, but you’re trusted to appear when called, and until then, let’s
hope I may get some sensible work out of you.”

“I
may come home with you?” Philip sounded dazed; he knew nothing of what had been
going on outside, and was unprepared for this abrupt release. Hurriedly he
brushed himself down, all too aware that he presented no very savoury spectacle
to walk through the town at the provost’s side. “What made them change their
mind? There’s no one been taken for the murder?” That would clear him utterly
in Emma’s eyes, no doubts left.

“Which
murder?” said his father grimly. “Never mind now, you shall hear, once we have
you out of here.”

“Ay,
stir yourself, lad,” advised the goodhumoured warder, jingling his keys,
“before they change their minds again. The rate things are happening at this
year’s fair, you might find the door slammed again before you can get through
it.”

Philip
followed his father wonderingly out of the castle.
The noon
light in the outer ward fell warm and dazzling upon him, the sky was a
brilliant, deep blue, like Emma’s eyes when she widened them in anxiety or
alarm. It was impossible not to feel elated, whatever reproaches might still
await him at home; and hope and the resilience of youth blossomed in him as his
father recounted brusquely all that had happened while his son fretted in
prison without news.

“Then
there have been two attacks upon Mistress Vernold’s boat and booth, her goods
taken, her men assaulted?” He had quite forgotten his own bedraggled
appearance, he was striding towards home with his head up and his visage roused
and belligerent, looking, indeed, very much as he had looked when he led his
ill-fated expedition across the bridge on the eve of the fair. “And no one
seized for it? Nothing done? Why, she herself may be in danger!” Indignation
quickened his steps. “For God’s sake, what’s the sheriff about?”

“He
has enough to do breaking up unseemly riots by you and your like,” said his
father smartly, but could not raise so much as a blush from his incensed
offspring. “But since you want to know, Mistress Vernold is in the guest-hall of
the abbey, safe enough, in the care of Hugh Beringar and his lady. You’d do
better to be thinking about your own troubles, my lad, and mind your own step,
for you’re not out of the wood yet.”

“What
did I do that was so wrong? I went only one pace beyond what you did yourself
the day before.” He did not even sound aggrieved about being judged hard, he
made that brief defence only absently, his mind all on the girl. “Even in the
guest-hall she may not be out of reach, if this is all some determined plot against
her uncle and all his family.” In the death of one more tradesman at the fair
he showed less interest, shocking though it was, since it seemed to have little
or nothing to do with the vindictive catalogue of offences against Master
Thomas and all his possessions. “She spoke so fairly,” he said. “She would not
have me accused of worse than I did.”

“True
enough! She was a fine, honest witness, no denying it. But no business of yours
now, she’s well cared for. It’s your mother you need to be thinking of, she’s
been in a fine taking over you all this while, and now they’re looking in
other directions for the one who did the killing—with one eye
still on you, though, mind!—she’ll likely take some sweetening. One way or
another, you’ll get a warm welcome.”

Philip
was far beyond minding that, though as soon as he entered the house behind the
shoemaker’s shop he did indeed get a warm welcome, not one way or another, but
both ways at once. Mistress Corviser, who was large, handsome and voluble,
looked round from her fireside hob, uttered a muted shriek, dropped her ladle,
and came billowing like a ship in full sail to embrace him, shake him, wrinkle
her nose at the prison smell of him, abuse him for the damage to his best cotte
and hose, box his ears for laughing at her tirade, exclaim lamentably over the
dried scar at his temple, and demand that he sit down at once and let her crop
the hair that adhered to the matted blood, and clean up the wound. By far the
easiest thing to do was to submit to all, and let her talk herself out.

“The
trouble and shame you’ve put us to, the heartaches you’ve cost me, wretch, you
don’t deserve that I should feed you, or wash and mend for you. The provost’s
son in prison, think of our mortification! Are you not ashamed of yourself?”
She was sponging away the encrusted blood, and relieved to find so
insignificant a scar remaining; but when he said blithely: “No, mother!” she
pulled his hair smartly.

“Then
you should be, you good-for-nothing! There, that’s not so bad. Now I hope you’re
going to settle down to work, and make up for all the trouble you’ve made for
us, instead of traipsing about the town egging on other people’s sons to
mischief with your wild ideas…”