A Rare Benedictine (10 page)

He
had the salvaged man out on the bank by the time they reached him, and had
turned him face-down into the grass and hoisted him firmly by the middle to
shake the water out of him, squeezing energetically with big, gnarled hands.

“He’s
been in the river no more than a breath or two, I heard him souse into the
water. Did you see ought over there by the water-gate?” But they shook their
heads, concerned and anxious, and stooped to the drenched body, which at that
instant heaved in breath, choked, and vomited the water it had swallowed. “He’s
breathing. He’ll do. But he was meant to drown, sure enough. See here!”

On
the back of the head of thick, greying hair blood slowly seeped, along a broken
and indented wound.

One
of the lay brothers exclaimed aloud, and kneeled to turn up to the light the
streaked and pallid face. “Master William! This is our steward! He was
collecting rents in the town... See, the pouch is gone from his belt! Two
rubbed and indented spots showed where the heavy satchel had bruised the
leather beneath, and the lower edge of the stout belt itself showed a nick from
a sharp knife, where the thongs had been sliced through in haste. “Robbery and
murder!”

“The
one, surely, but not the other, not yet,” said Madog practically. “He’s
breathing, you’ve not lost him yet. But we’d best get him to the nearest and
best-tended bed, and that’ll be in your infirmary, I take it. Make use of those
hoes and spades of yours, lads, and here’s a coat of mine to spare, if some of
you will give up yours...”

They
made a litter to carry Master William back to the abbey, as quickly and
steadily as they could. Their entry at the gatehouse brought out porters,
guests and brothers in alarm and concern. Brother Edmund the infirmarer came
running and led the way to a bed beside the fire in the sick quarters. Jacob of
Bouldon, rushing to confirm his fears, set up a distressed cry, but recovered
himself gallantly, and ran for Brother Cadfael. The sub-prior, once informed of
the circumstances by Madog, who was too accustomed to drowned and near-drowned
men to get excited, sensibly sent a messenger hot-foot into the town to tell
provost and sheriff what had happened, and the hunt was up almost before the
victim was stripped of his soaked clothes, rolled in blankets and put to bed.

The
sheriff’s sergeant came, and listened to Madog’s tale, with only a momentary
narrowing of eyes at the fleeting suspicion that the tough old Welsh waterman
might be adept at putting men into the water, as well as pulling them out. But
in that case he would have been more likely to make sure that his victim went
under, unless he was certain he could not name or identify his attacker. Madog
saw the moment of doubt, and grinned scornfully.

“I
get my living better ways. But if you need to question, there must be some
among those gardeners from the Gaye who saw me come downriver and drop my line
in under the trees there, and can tell you I never set foot ashore until I
brought this one over, and shouted them to come and help with him. Maybe you
don’t know me, but these brothers here do.”

The
sergeant, surely one of the few new enough to service in Shrewsbury castle to
be ignorant of Madog’s special position along the river, accepted Brother
Edmund’s warm assurances, and shrugged off his doubts.

“But
sorry I am,” allowed Madog, mollified, “that I neither saw nor heard anything
until he plumped into the water, for I was drowsing. All I can say is that he
went in upstream of me, but not far I’d say someone slid him in from the cover
of the water-gate.”

“A
narrow, dark place, that,” said the sergeant.

“And
a warren of passages above. And the light fading, though not far gone... Well,
maybe when he comes round he’ll be able to tell you. something he may have seen
the man that did it.”

The
sergeant settled down resignedly to wait for Master William to stir, which so
far he showed no sign of doing. Cadfael had cleaned and bandaged the wound,
dressing it with a herbal salve, and the steward lay with eyes closed and
sunken, mouth painfully open upon snoring breath. Madog reclaimed his coat,
which had been drying before the fire, and shrugged into it placidly. “Let’s hope
nobody’s thought the time right to help himself to my fish while my back was
turned.” He had wrapped his salmon in an armful of wet grass and covered it
with his upturned boat. “I’ll bid you goodnight, brothers, and wish your sick
man hale again and his pouch recovered, too, though that I doubt.”

From
the infirmary doorway he turned back to say: “You have a patient lad here
sitting shivering on the doorstep, waiting for word. Can he not come in and see
his master, he says. I’ve told him the man’s likely to live his old age out
with no worse than a dunt on the head to show for it, and he’d best be off to
his bed, for he’ll get nothing here as yet. Would you want him in?”

Cadfael
went out with him to shoo away any such premature visits. Jacob of Bouldon, pale
and anxious, was sitting with arms folded closely round his drawn-up knees,
hunched against the chill of the night. He looked up hopefully as they came out
to him, and opened his mouth eagerly to plead. Madog clouted him amiably on the
shoulder as he passed, and made off towards the gatehouse, a squat, square
figure, brown and crusty as the bole of an oak.

“You’d
best be off, too, into the warm,” said Brother Cadfael, not unkindly. “Master
William will recover well enough, but he’s likely to be without his wits some
time yet, no call for you to catch your death here on the stone.”

“I
couldn’t rest,” said Jacob earnestly. “I told him, I begged him, take me with
you, you should have someone. But he said, folly, he had collected rents for
the abbey many years, and never felt any need for a guard. And now, see...
Could I not come in and sit by him? I’d make no sound, never trouble him... He
has not spoken?”

“Nor
will for some hours yet, and even then I doubt he can tell us much. I’m here
with him in case of need, and Brother Edmund is on call. The fewer about him,
the better.”

“I’ll
wait a little while yet,” said Jacob, fretting, and hugged his knees the
tighter.

Well,
if he would, he would, but cramp and cold would teach him better sense and more
patience. Cadfael went back to his vigil, and closed the door. Still, it was no
bad thing to encounter one lad whose devotion gave the lie to Master William’s
forebodings concerning the younger generation.

Before
midnight there was another visitor enquiring. The porter opened the door softly
and came in to whisper that Master William’s son was here, asking after his
father and wanting to come in and see him. Since the sergeant, departing when
it seemed certain his vigil was fruitless until morning, had pledged himself to
go and reassure Mistress Rede that her man was alive, well cared for, and
certain to make a good recovery, Cadfael might well have gone out to bid the
young man go home and take care of his mother rather than waste his time here,
if the young man had not forestalled him by making a silent and determined
entry on his herald’s heels. A tall, shock-headed, dark-eyed youth, hunched of
shoulder just now, and grim of face, but admittedly very quiet in movement, and
low-voiced. His look was by no means tender or solicitous. His eyes went at
once to the figure in the bed, sweaty-browed now, and breathing somewhat more
easily and naturally. He brooded, glaring, and wasting no time on question or
explanation, said in a level whisper: “I will stay.” And with aggressive
composure stayed, settling himself on the bench beside his father’s bed, his
two long, muscular hands gripped tightly between his knees.

The
porter met Cadfael’s eye, hoisted his shoulders, and went quietly away. Cadfael
sat down on the other side of the bed, and contemplated the pair, father and
son. Both faces looked equally aloof and critical, even hostile, yet there they
were, close and quiet together.

The
young man asked but two questions, each after a long silence. The first,
uttered almost grudgingly, was: “Will it be well with him?” Cadfael, watching
the easing flow of breath and the faint flush of colour, said simply: “Yes.
Only give him time.” The second was: “He has not spoken yet?”

“Not
yet,” said Cadfael.

Now
which of those, he wondered, was the more vital question? There was one man,
somewhere, who must at this moment be very anxious indeed about what William
Rede might have to say, when he did speak.

The
young man his name was Edward, Cadfael recalled, after the Confessor Eddi Rede
sat all night long almost motionless, brooding over his father’s bed. Most of
that time, and certainly every time he had been aware of being watched in his
turn, he had been scowling.

Well
before Prime the sergeant was back again to his watch, and Jacob was again hovering
unhappily about the doorway, peering in anxiously whenever it was opened, but
not quite venturing to come in until he was invited. The sergeant eyed Eddi
very hard and steadily, but said no word to disturb the injured man’s
increasingly restful sleep. It was past seven when at last Master William
stirred, opened vague eyes, made a few small sounds which were not yet words,
and tried feebly to put up a hand to his painful head, startled by the sudden
twinge when he moved. The sergeant stooped close, but Cadfael laid a
restraining hand on his arm.

“Give
him time! A knock on the head like that will have addled his wits. We’ll need
to tell him things before he tells us any.” And to the wondering patient he
said tranquilly: “You know me “Cadfael, Edmund will be here to relieve me as
soon as Prime is over. You’re in his care, in the infirmary, and past the
worst. Fret for nothing, lie still and let others do that. You’ve had a mighty
dunt on the crown, and a dowsing in the river, but both are past, and thanks
be, you’re safe enough now.”

The
wandering hand reached its goal this time. Master William groaned and stared
indignant surprise, and his eyes cleared and sharpened, though his voice was
weak as he complained, with quickening memory: “He came behind me someone out
of an open yard door... That’s the last I know...” Sudden realisation shook
him; he gave a stricken howl, and tried to rise from his pillow, but gave up at
the pang it cost him. The rents the abbey rents!”

“Your
life’s better worth than the abbey rents,” said Cadfael heartily, “and even
they may be regained.”

“The
man who felled you,” said the sergeant, leaning dose, “cut your satchel loose
with a knife, and made off with it. But if you can help us we’ll lay him by the
heels yet. Where was this that he struck you down?”

“Not
a hundred paces from my own house,” lamented William bitterly. “I went there
when I had finished, to check my rolls and make all fast, and...” He shut his
mouth grimly on the overriding reason. Hazily he had been aware all this time
of the silent and sullen young man sitting beside him, now he fixed his eyes on
him until his vision cleared. The mutual glare was spirited, and came of long
practice. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Waiting
to have better news of you to take to my mother,” said Eddi shortly. He looked
up defiantly into the sergeant’s face. “He came home to read me all my sins
over, and warn me that the fine that’s due from me in two days more is my
burden now, not his, and if I can’t make shift for it on my own I may go to
gaol, and pay in another coin. Or it may be,” he added with grudging fairness,
“that he came rather to flay me and then pay my dues, as he’s done more than
once. But I was in no mind to listen, and he was in no mind to be flouted, so I
flung out and went down to the butts. And won the good half of what I owe, for
what that’s worth,”

“So
this was a bitter quarrel you had between you,” said the sergeant, narrowing
suspicious eyes. “And not long after it you, master, went out to bring your rents
home, and were set upon, robbed, and left for dead. And now you, boy, have the
half of what you need to stay out of prison.”

Cadfael,
watching father and son, felt that it had not even occurred to Eddi, until
then, that he might fall under suspicion of this all too opportune attack; and
further, that even now it had not dawned on Master William that such a thought
could occur to any sane man. He was scowling at his son for no worse reason
than old custom and an aching head.

“Why
are you not looking after your mother at home?” he demanded querulously.

“So
I will, now I’ve seen and heard you more like yourself. Mother’s well enough
cared for; Cousin Alice is with her. But she’ll be the better for knowing that
you’re still the same cantankerous worrit, and likely to be a plague to us
twenty years yet. I’ll go,” said Eddi grimly, “when I’m let. But he wants your
witness before he can leave you to your rest. Better get it said.”

Master
William submitted wearily, knitting his brows in the effort to remember. “I
came from the house, along the passage towards Saint Mary’s, above the
water-gate. The door of the tanner’s yard was standing open, I know I’d passed
it... But I never heard a step behind me. As if the wall had fallen on me! I
recall nothing after, except sudden cold, deadly cold... Who brought me back,
then, that I’m snug here?”

They
told him, and he shook his head helplessly over the great blank between.

“You
think the fellow must have been hiding behind that yard-door, lying in wait?”