He thought about it and was dismayed, for no question but she was right. What, indeed, did it prove if another man had wished to burden him with the guilt? Certainly not that the guilt was not his. Brother Cadfael confronted his own voluntarily assumed responsibility, and braced himself to cope with it.
“There is also Brother John to be considered,” said Sioned. It may well be that Annest, walking behind, had prodded her.
“I have not forgotten Brother John,” agreed Cadfael.
“But I think the bailiff well may have done. He would shut his eyes or look the other way, if Brother John left for Shrewsbury with the rest of you. He has troubles enough here, what does he want with alien trouble?”
“And if Brother John should seem to him to have left for Shrewsbury, he would be satisfied? And ask no questions about one more outlander taken up by a patron here?”
“I always knew you were quick,” said Sioned, brown and bright and animated, almost herself again. “But would Prior Robert pursue him still, when he hears he’s gone from custody? I don’t see him as a forgiving man.”
“No, nor he is, but how would he set about it? The Benedictine order has no real hold in Wales. No, I think he’d let it ride, now he has what he came for. I’m more concerned for Engelard. Give me this one more night, child, and do this for me! Send your people home, and stay the night over with Annest at Bened’s croft, and if God aids me with some new thought—for never forget God is far more deeply offended even than you or I by this great wrong!—I’ll come to you there.”
“We’ll do that,” said Sioned. “And you’ll surely come.”
They had slowed to let the cortege move well ahead of them, so that they could talk freely. They were approaching the gatehouse of Cadwallon’s holding, and Prior Robert and his companions were far in front and had passed by the gate, bent upon singing Vespers in good time. Father Huw, issuing forth in haste and agitation in search of help, seemed relieved rather than dismayed to find only Cadfael within call. The presence of Sioned checked him to a decent walk and a measured tone, but did nothing to subdue the effect of his erected hair and frantic mien.
“Brother Cadfael, will you spare some minutes for this afflicted household? You have some skills with medicines, you may be able to advise…”
“His mother!” whispered Sioned in immediate reassurance. “She weeps herself into a frenzy at everything that crosses her. I knew this would set her off. Poor Peredur, he has his penance already! Shall I come?”
“Better not,” he said softly, and moved to meet Father Huw. Sioned was, after all, the innocent cause of Peredur’s fall from grace, she would probably be the last person calculated to calm his mother’s anguish. And Sioned understood him so, and went on, and left the matter to him, so calmly that it was clear she expected no tragic results from the present uproar. She had known Cadwallon’s wife all her life, no doubt she had learned to treat her ups and downs as philosophically as Cadfael did Brother Columbanus’ ecstasies and excesses. He never really hurt himself in his throes, either!
“Dame Branwen is in such a taking,” fluttered Father Huw distractedly, steering Cadfael in haste towards the open door of the hall. “I fear for her wits. I’ve seen her upset before, and hard enough to pacify, but now, her only child, and such a shock… Really, she may do herself an injury if we cannot quiet her.”
Dame Branwen was indeed audible before they even entered the small room where husband and son were trying to soothe her, against a tide of vociferous weeping and lamentation that all but deafened them. The lady, fat and fair and outwardly fashioned only for comfortable, shallow placidity, half-sat, half-lay on a couch, throwing her substantial person about in extravagant distress, now covering her silly, fond face, now throwing her arms abroad in sweeping gestures of desolation and despair, but never for one moment ceasing to bellow her sorrow and shame. The tears that flowed freely down her round cheeks and the shattering sobs that racked her hardly seemed to impede the flow of words that poured out of her like heavy rain.
Cadwallon on one side and Peredur on the other stroked and patted and comforted in vain. As often as the father tried to assert himself she turned on him with wild reproaches, crying that he had no faith in his own son, or he could never have believed such a terrible thing of him, that the boy was bewitched, under some spell that forced false confession out of him, that he ought to have stood up for him before everybody and prevented the tale from being accepted so lightly, for somewhere there was witchcraft in it. As often as Peredur tried to convince her he had told the truth, that he was willing to make amends, and she must accept his word, she rounded on him with fresh outbursts of tears, screaming that her own son had brought dreadful disgrace upon himself and her, that she wondered he dare come near her, that she would never be able to lift up her head again, that he was a monster…
As for poor Father Huw, when he tried to assert his spiritual authority and order her to submit to the force of truth and accept her son’s act with humility, as Peredur himself had done in making full confession and offering full submission, she cried out that she had been a God-fearing and law-abiding woman all her life, and done everything to bring up her child in the same way, and she could not now accept his guilt as reflecting upon her.
“Mother,” said Peredur, haggard and sweating worse than when he faced Rhisiart’s body, “nobody blames you, and nobody will. What I did I did, and it’s I who must abide the consequence, not you. There isn’t a woman in Gwytherin won’t feel for you.”
At that she let out a great wail of grief, and flung her arms about him, and swore that he should not suffer any grim penalties, that he was her own boy, and she would protect him. And when he extricated himself with fading patience, she screamed that he meant to kill her, the unfeeling wretch, and went off into peals of ear-piercing, sobbing laughter.
Brother Cadfael took Peredur firmly by the sleeve, and hauled him away to the back of the room. “Show a little sense, lad, and take yourself out of her sight, you’re fuel to her fire. If nobody marked her at all she’d have stopped long ago, but now she’s got herself into this state she’s past doing that of her own accord. Did our two brothers stop in here, do you know, or go on with the prior?”
Peredur was shaking and tired out, but responded hopefully to this matter-of-fact treatment. “They’ve not been here, or I should have seen them. They must have gone on to the church.”
Naturally, neither Columbanus nor Jerome would dream of absenting himself from Vespers on such a momentous day.
“Never mind, you can show me where they lodge. Columbanus brought some of my poppy syrup with him, in case of need, the phial should be there with his scrip, he’d hardly have it on him. And as far as I know, he’s had no occasion to use it, his cantrips here in Wales have been of a quieter kind. We can find a use for it now.”
“What does it do?” asked Peredur, wide-eyed.
“It soothes the passions and kills pain—either of the body or the spirit.”
“I could use some of that myself,” said Peredur with a wry smile, and led the way out to one of the small huts that lined the stockade. The guests from Shrewsbury had been given the best lodging the house afforded, with two low brychans, and a small chest, with a rush lamp for light. Their few necessaries occupied almost no space, but each had a leather scrip to hold them, and both of these dangled from a nail in the timber wall. Brother Cadfael opened first one, and then the other, and in the second found what he was seeking.
He drew it out and held it up to the light, a small phial of greenish glass. Even before he saw the line of liquid in it, its light weight had caused him to check and wonder. Instead of being full to the stopper with the thick, sweet syrup, the bottle was three-quarters empty.
Brother Cadfael stood stock-still for a moment with the phial in his hand, staring at it in silence. Certainly Columbanus might at some time have felt the need to forestall some threatening spiritual disturbance but Cadfael could recall no occasion when he had said any word to that effect, or shown any sign of the rosy, reassuring calm the poppies could bring. There was enough gone from the bottle to restore serenity three times over, enough to put a man to sleep for hours. And now that he came to think back, there had been at least one occasion when a man had slept away hours of the day, instead of keeping the watch he was set to keep. The day of Rhisiart’s death Columbanus had failed of his duty, and confessed as much with heartfelt penitence. Columbanus, who had the syrup in his possession, and knew its use…