A Rare Benedictine (7 page)

Through
loss, disorder, consternation and suspicion, Prior Robert would still hold fast
to the order of the day. Let Hamo FitzHamon sleep in happy ignorance till
morning, still Matins and Lauds must be properly celebrated. Christmas was
larger than all the giving and losing of silverware. Grimly he saw the services
of the church observed, and despatched the brethren back to their beds until
Prime, to sleep or lie wakeful and fearful, as they might. Nor would he allow
any pestering of Brother Jerome by others, though possibly he did try in
private to extort something more satisfactory from the old man. Clearly the
theft, whether he knew anything about it or not, troubled Jordan not at all. To
everything he said only: “I am enjoined to silence until midnight of the third
day.” And when they asked by whom? he smiled seraphically, and was silent.

It
was Robert himself who broke the news to Hamo FitzHamon, in the morning, before
Mass. The uproar, though vicious, was somewhat tempered by the after-effects of
Cadfael’s poppy draught, which dulled the edges of energy, if not of malice.
His body-servant, the older groom Sweyn, was keeping well back out of reach,
even with Robert still present, and the lady sat somewhat apart, too, as though
still frail and possibly a little out of temper. She exclaimed dutifully, and
apparently sincerely, at the outrage done to her husband, and echoed his demand
that the thief should be hunted down, and the candlesticks recovered. Prior
Robert was just as zealous in the matter. No effort should be spared to regain
the princely gift, of that they could be sure. He had already made certain of
various circumstances which should limit the hunt. There had been a brief fall
of snow after Compline, just enough to lay down a clean film of white on the
ground. No single footprint had as yet marked this pure layer. He had only to
look for himself at the paths leading from both parish doors of the church to
see that no one had left by that way. The porter would swear that no one had
passed the gatehouse; and on the one side of the abbey grounds not walled, the
Meole brook was full and frozen, but the snow on both sides of it was virgin.
Within the enclave, of course, tracks and cross-tracks were trodden out
everywhere; but no one had left the enclave since Compline, when the
candlesticks were still in their place.

“So
the miscreant is still within the walls?” said Hamo, glinting vengefully. “So
much the better! Then his booty is still here within, too, and if we have to
turn all your abode doors out of dortoirs, we’ll find it! It, and him!”

“We
will search everywhere,” agreed Robert, “and question every man. We are as
deeply offended as your lordship at this blasphemous crime. You may yourself
oversee the search, if you will.”

So
all that Christmas Day, alongside the solemn rejoicings in the church, an angry
hunt raged about the precincts in full cry. It was not difficult for all the
monks to account for their time to the last minute, their routine being so
ordered that brother inevitably extricated brother from suspicion; and such as
had special duties that took them out of the general view, like Cadfael in his
visit to the herb garden, had all witnesses to vouch for them. The lay brothers
ranged more freely, but tended to work in pairs, at least. The servants and the
few guests protested their innocence, and if they had not, all of them, others
willing to prove it, neither could Hamo prove the contrary. When it came to his
own two grooms, there were several witnesses to testify that Sweyn had returned
to his bed in the lofts of the stables as soon as he had put his lord to bed,
and certainly empty-handed; and Sweyn, as Cadfael noted with interest, swore
unblinkingly that young Madoc, who had come in an hour after him, had none the
less returned with him, and spent that hour, at Sweyn’s order, tending one of
the pack-ponies, which showed signs of a cough, and that otherwise they had
been together throughout.

A
villein instinctively closing ranks with his kind against his lord? wondered
Cadfael. Or does Sweyn know very well where that young man was last night, or
at least what he was about, and is he intent on protecting him from a worse
vengeance? No wonder Madoc looked a shade less merry and ruddy than usual this
morning, though on the whole he kept his countenance very well, and refrained
from even looking at the lady, while her tone to him was cool, sharp and
distant.

Cadfael
left them hard at it again after the miserable meal they made of dinner, and
went into the church alone. While they were feverishly searching every corner
for the candlesticks he had forborne from taking part, but now they were
elsewhere he might find something of interest there. He would not be looking
for anything so obvious as two large silver candlesticks. He made obeisance at
the altar, and mounted the step to look closely at the burning candles. No one
had paid any attention to the modest containers that had been substituted for
Hamo’s gift, and just as well, in the circumstances, that Cadfael’s workshop
was very little visited, or these little clay pots might have been recognised
as coming from there. He moulded and baked them himself as he wanted them. He
had no intention of condoning theft, but neither did he relish the idea of any
creature, however sinful, falling into Hamo FitzHamon’s mercies.

Something
long and fine, a thread of silver-gold, was caught and coiled in the wax at the
base of one candle. Carefully he detached candle from holder, and unlaced from
it a long, pale hair; to make sure of retaining it, he broke off the
imprisoning disc of wax with it, and then hoisted and turned the candle to see
if anything else was to be found under it. One tiny oval dot showed; with a
fingernail he extracted a single seed of lavender. Left in the dish from
beforetime? He thought not. The stacked pots were all empty. No, this had been
brought here in the fold of a sleeve, most probably, and shaken out while the
candle was being transferred.

The
lady had plunged both hands with pleasure into the sack of lavender, and moved
freely about his workshop investigating everything. It would have been easy to
take two of these dishes unseen, and wrap them in a fold of her cloak. Even
more plausible, she might have delegated the task to young Madoc, when they
crept away from their assignation. Supposing, say, they had reached the
desperate point of planning flight together, and needed funds to set them on
their way to some safe refuge... yes, there were possibilities. In the
meantime, the grain of lavender had given Cadfael another idea. And there was,
of course, that long, fine hair, pale as flax, but brighter. The boy was fair.
But so fair?

He
went out through the frozen garden to his herbarium, shut himself securely into
his workshop, and opened the sack of lavender, plunging both arms to the elbow
and groping through the chill, smooth sweetness that parted and slid like
grain. They were there, well down, his fingers traced the shape first of one,
then a second. He sat down to consider what must be done.

Finding
the lost valuables did not identify the thief. He could produce and restore
them at once, but FitzHamon would certainly pursue the hunt vindictively until
he found the culprit; and Cadfael had seen enough of him to know that it might
cost life and all before this complainant was satisfied. He needed to know more
before he would hand over any man to be done to death. Better not leave the things
here, however. He doubted if they would ransack his hut, but they might. He
rolled the candlesticks in a piece of sacking, and thrust them into the centre
of the pleached hedge where it was thickest. The meagre, frozen snow had
dropped with the brief sun. His arm went in to the shoulder, and when he
withdrew it, the twigs sprang back and covered all, holding the package
securely. Whoever had first hidden it would surely come by night to reclaim it,
and show a human face at last.

It
was well that he had moved it, for the searchers, driven by an increasingly
angry Hamo, reached his hut before Vespers, examined everything within it,
while he stood by to prevent actual damage to his medicines, and went away
satisfied that what they were seeking was not there. They had not, in fact,
been very thorough about the sack of lavender, the candlesticks might well have
escaped notice even if he had left them there. It did not occur to anyone to
tear the hedges apart, luckily. When they were gone, to probe all the fodder
and grain in the barns, Cadfael restored the silver to its original place. Let
the bait lie safe in the trap until the quarry came to claim it, as he surely
would, once relieved of the fear that the hunters might find it first.

Cadfael
kept watch that night. He had no difficulty in absenting himself from the
dortoir, once everyone was in bed and asleep. His cell was by the night stairs,
and the prior slept at the far end of the long room, and slept deeply. And
bitter though the night air was, the sheltered hut was barely colder than his
cell, and he kept blankets there for swathing some of his jars and bottles
against frost. He took his little box with tinder and flint, and hid himself in
the corner behind the door. It might be a wasted vigil; the thief, having
survived one day, might think it politic to venture yet another before removing
his spoils.

But
it was not wasted. He reckoned it might be as late as ten o’clock when he heard
a light hand at the door. Two hours before the bell would sound for Matins,
almost two hours since the household had retired. Even the guest-hall should be
silent and asleep by now; the hour was carefully chosen. Cadfael held his
breath, and waited. The door swung open, a shadow stole past him, light steps
felt their way unerringly to where the sack of lavender was propped against the
wall. Equally silently Cadfael swung the door to again, and set his back
against it. Only then did he strike a spark, and hold the blown flame to the
wick of his little lamp.

She
did not start or cry out, or try to rush past him and escape into the night.
The attempt would not have succeeded, and she had had long practice in enduring
what could not be cured. She stood facing him as the small flame steadied and
burned taller, her face shadowed by the hood of her cloak, the candlesticks
clasped possessively to her breast.

“Elfgiva!’
said Brother Cadfael gently. And then: “Are you here for yourself, or for your
mistress?” But he thought he knew the answer already. That frivolous young wife
would never really leave her rich husband and easy life, however tedious and
unpleasant Hamo’s attentions might be, to risk everything with her penniless
villein lover. She would only keep him to enjoy in secret whenever she felt it
safe. Even when the old man died she would submit to marriage at an overlord’s
will to another equally distasteful. She was not the stuff of which heroines
and adventurers are made. This was another kind of woman.

Cadfael
went close, and lifted a hand gently to put back the hood from her head. She
was tall, a hand’s-breadth taller than he, and erect as one of the lilies she
clasped. The net that had covered her hair was drawn off with the hood, and a
great flood of silver-gold streamed about her in the dim light, framing the
pale face and startling blue eyes. Norse hair! The Danes had left their seed as
far south as Cheshire, and planted this tall flower among them. She was no
longer plain, tired and resigned. In this dim but loving light she shone in
austere beauty! Just so must Brother Jordan’s veiled eyes have seen her.

“Now
I see!” said Cadfael. “You came into the Lady Chapel, and shone upon our
half-blind brother’s darkness as you shine here. You are the visitation that
brought him awe and bliss, and enjoined silence upon him for three days.”

The
voice he had scarcely heard speak a word until then, a voice level, low and
beautiful, said: “I made no claim to be what I am not. It was he who mistook
me. I did not refuse the gift.”

“I
understand. You had not thought to find anyone there, he took you by surprise
as you took him. He took you for Our Lady herself, disposing as she saw fit of
what had been given her. And you made him promise you three days’ grace.” The
lady had plunged her hands into the sack, yes, but Elfgiva had carried the
pillow, and a grain or two had filtered through the muslin to betray her.

“Yes,”
she said, watching him with unwavering blue eyes.

“So
in the end you had nothing against him making known how the candlesticks were
stolen.” It was not an accusation, he was pursuing his way to understanding.

But
at once she said clearly: “I did not steal them. I took them. I will restore
them to their owner.”

“Then
you don’t claim they are yours?”

“No,”
she said, “they are not mine. But neither are they FitzHamon’s.”

“Do
you tell me,” said Cadfael mildly, “that there has been no theft at all?”

“Oh,
yes,” said Elfgiva, and her pallor burned into a fierce brightness, and her
voice vibrated like a harp-string. “Yes, there has been a theft, and a vile,
cruel theft, too, but not here, not now. The theft was a year ago, when
FitzHamon received these candlesticks from Alard who made them, his villein,
like me. Do you know what the promised price was for these? Manumission for
Alard, and marriage with me, what we had begged of him three years and more.
Even in villeinage we would have married and been thankful. But he promised
freedom! Free man makes free wife, and I was promised, too. But when he got the
fine works he wanted, then he refused the promised price. He laughed! I saw, I
heard him! He kicked Alard away from him like a dog. So what was his due, and
denied him, Alard took. He ran! On St Stephen’s Day he ran!”