They both grinned at that. Edwy said: “He still owes me for the buffeting I got on his account, and the night I spent in prison here. I mean to have a foot in the door of Mallilie as often as I please on the strength of that.”
“I had two nights of it,” objected Edwin smartly, “and in a much worse place.”
“You? Never a bruise on you, and in clover there with Hugh Beringar looking after you!”
And thereupon Edwin jabbed Edwy smartly in the middle with a stiff forefinger, and Edwy hooked a knee under Edwin’s, and spilled him to the floor, both laughing. Cadfael looked on tolerantly for a while, and then grasped two separate handfuls of thick, curling hair, and plucked them apart. They rolled clear and came obligingly to their feet, grinning broadly, and looking much less immaculate than before.
“You are a pestilential pair, and I wish Ifor ap Morgan joy of you,” said Cadfael, but very complacently. “You’re the lord of a manor now, young Edwin, or will be when you’re of age. Then you’d better be studying your responsibilities. Is that the kind of example uncle should set before nephew?”
Edwin stopped shaking and dusting himself into order with abrupt gravity, and stood erect, large-eyed. “I have been thinking of my duties, truly. There’s much I don’t yet know, and have to learn, but I told the lord abbot… I don’t like it, I never liked it, that my stepfather entered suit against Aelfric, and made him villein, when he thought himself born free, as his fathers had been before him. I asked him if I could free a man, or if I had to wait until I was of age, and got seisin myself. And he said certainly it could be done at will, and he would be sponsor for me. I am going to see Aelfric a free man. And I think… that is, he and Aldith…”
“I told him,” said Edwy, giving himself a brief shake, like a dog, and settling back at ease on the bench, “that Aldith likes Aelfric, and once he’s free they will certainly marry, and Aelfric is lettered, and knows Mallilie, and will make a splendid steward, when the abbey hands over the manor.”
“You told me! I knew very well she liked him, only he wouldn’t say how much he liked her. And what do you know about manors and stewards, you prentice carpenter?”
“More than you’ll ever know about wood, and carving, and craftsmanship, you prentice baron!”
They were at it again, locked in a bear’s hug, propped in the corner of the bench, Edwy with a grip on Edwin’s russet thatch, Edwin with fingers braced into Edwy’s ribs, tickling him into convulsions of laughter. Cadfael hoisted the pair of them in his arms, and heaved them towards the door.
“Out! Take your cantrips off these premises, where they hardly belong. There, go and find a bear-pit!” Even to himself he sounded foolishly proud and proprietary.
At the door they fell apart with bewildering ease and neatness, and both turned to beam at him. Edwin remembered to plead, in penitent haste: “Brother Cadfael, will you please come and see my mother before we leave? She begs you!”
“I will,” said Cadfael, helpless to say otherwise, “I will, surely!”
He watched them go, out towards the great court and the gatehouse, again wrangling amiably, arms round each other in ambiguous embrace and assault. Strange creatures at this age, capable of heroic loyalty and gallantry under pressure, earnest in pursuing serious ends, and reverting to the battle-play of pups from one litter when all was serene in their world.
Cadfael turned back into his workshop, and barred the door against all the rest of the world, even Brother Mark. It was very quiet in there, and very dim with the darkness of the timber walls and the faint blue smoke from the brazier. A home within a home to him now, and all he wanted. It was well over, as Hugh Beringar had said, with no more waste than was inevitable. Edwin would have his manor, Aelfric would have his freedom, a secure future, good ground for loosening his tongue and declaring himself to Aldith; and no doubt, if he proved obstinate about it, she would find the means of prompting him. Brother Rhys would have a long gossip about his kin, and his little flask of the right spirit, and hazy memory would film over the gap left by a lost great-nephew. Ifor ap Morgan would have a grief of his own, never mentioned, but a hope of his own, too, and a substitute grandchild only a short ride away. And Meurig, somewhere at large in the world, had the long penance before him, and good need of other men’s prayers. He would not want for Cadfael’s.
He settled himself at ease on the bench where the boys had wrestled and laughed, and put up his feet comfortably. He wondered if he could legitimately plead that he was still confined within the enclave until Richildis left for Mallilie, and decided that that would be cowardly only after he had decided that in any case he had no intention of doing it.
She was, after all, a very attractive woman, even now, and her gratitude would be a very pleasant indulgence; there was even a decided lure in the thought of a conversation that must inevitably begin to have: “Do you remember… ?” as its constant refrain. Yes, he would go. It was not often he was able to enjoy an orgy of shared remembrances.
In a week or two, after all, the entire household would be removing to Mallilie, all those safe miles away. He was not likely to see much of Richildis after that. Brother Cadfael heaved a deep sigh that might have been of regret, but might equally well have been of relief.
Ah, well! Perhaps it was all for the best!
* * *
MONK’S HOOD
Gervase Bonel, with his wife and servants, is a guest at the Shrewsbury Abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul when he is suddenly taken ill. Lucklily, the abbey boasts the services of the shrewd and kindly Brother Cadfael, a skilled herbalist. Cadfael hurries to the man’s bedside, only to be confronted by two very different surprises
In Master Bonel’s wife, the good monk recognizes Richildis, whom he loved many years ago, before he took his vows. And Master Bonel himself has been fatally poisoned by a dose of deadly monk’s hood oil from Cadfael’s own workshop.
The sherrif is convinced that the murderer is Richildis’ son, Edwin, who had reasons aplenty to hate his stepfather. But Cadfael, guided in part by his tender concern for a woman to whom he was once bethrothed, is certain of her son’s innocence. Using his knowledge of both herbs and the human heart, Cadfael deciphers a deadly recipe for murder.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ELLIS PETERS is the nom-de-crime of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of books under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award, conferred by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted Edgar, awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well known as a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded the Gold Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for her services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at home in her beloved Shropshire.