That was reassuring, since he was clearly looking forward to the presentation of his prize, and pleased with his own success, therefore the less likely to find satisfaction in rough-handling the boy.
“Edwin,” said Cadfael, “will you be guided now by me?”
“I will,” said Edwin steadily.
“Then go with them peaceably, and make no trouble. You know you have done no wrong, therefore you cannot be proven guilty, and on that you must take your stand. When you are delivered into the hand of Hugh Beringar, answer freely whatever he may ask of you, and tell him all the truth. I promise you, you will not be long in prison.” And God stand by me, he thought, and help me make that good! “If the boy gives you his pledge to go with you of his own will, sergeant, and attempt no escape, you surely need not bind him. It’s a long ride, and you’ll be pressing before the dark comes.”
“He may have the use of his hands, and welcome,” said Warden indifferently, “seeing the two men I have outside are archers, and masters of their craft. If he tried to evade us he would not get many yards.”
“I shall not try,” said Edwin firmly. “I give you my word. I’m ready!” He went to Ifor ap Morgan, and bent the knee to him reverently. “Grandfather, thank you for all your goodness. I know I’m not truly of your kinship—I wish I were!—but will you give me your kiss?”
The old man took him by the shoulders, and stooped to kiss his cheek. “Go with God! And come again free!”
Edwin took up his saddle and bridle from the corner where they were stowed, and marched out with his head up and his chin jutting, his attendants closing in on either side. In a few minutes the two left behind, gazing through the open door, saw the little cort?ge form and move off, the sergeant ahead, the boy between two men-at-arms riding close, the archers behind. The day was already chilling, though the light had not yet dimmed. They would not reach Shrewsbury until after dark; a drear journey, and a stony cell in Shrewsbury castle at the end of it. But please God, not for long. Two or three days, if all went well. But well for whom?
“What am I to tell my grandson Meurig,” said the old man sadly, “when he returns, and finds I have let his guest be taken?”
Cadfael closed the door upon the last glimpse of Edwin’s brown head and slight figure; well grown as he was, he looked very small and young between his brawny guards.
“Tell Meurig,” he said after heavy thought, “that he need have no fears for Edwin, for in the end truth will out, and the truth will deliver him.”
He had one day of inactivity left to live through now, and since there was nothing he could do of use to Edwin’s cause in that time, it behoved him at least to try to turn the waiting time into a day of grace by some other means. Brother Barnabas, heartily convalescent, could at least be persuaded to forbear from the heavier work and keep the warmth of the house for a little longer. Brother Simon could take his own day of rest, all the more since on the morrow Cadfael would again be absent. Moreover, they could observe together all the main offices of the day, as if they had been home in the abbey of St. Peter. The patient recital of the proper forms must surely in itself be regarded as prayer.
There was time for thought all that day, while he scattered grain for the hens, milked the cow, groomed the old bay horse, and moved the sheep to a fresh hill-pasture. Edwin was lodged in his prison by now, though only, Cadfael hoped, after a long and calming interview with Hugh Beringar. Had Martin Bellecote yet heard that he was taken? Did Edwy know that his decoy ride had been all for nothing? And Richildis… Had Beringar seen it as his duty to visit her and tell her of her son’s capture? It would be done as courteously and kindly as possible, but there was no way of allaying the pain and dread she would feel.
But Cadfael was even more exercised in mind for the old man Ifor ap Morgan, left alone now after his brief experience of being trusted and revered by a creature fresh and young, like a vision of his own youth returning. The unruly vigour which had made Edwin rebel and wage war against Gervase Bonel had all been charmed and tamed into willing duty and service by Ifor ap Morgan. We are all both the victims and the heirs of our fellow-men.
“Tomorrow,” said Cadfael at supper, round the brazier hissing with resiny logs and giving forth a blue, weaving smoke as aromatic as his workshop at Shrewsbury, “I must set out very early.” The commote court would sit as soon as there was daylight, and hope to adjourn in time for all present to reach their homes before night. “I’ll try to be back to fold the sheep in the evening. You have not asked me where I go this time.”
“No, brother,” agreed Simon mildly. “We’ve seen that you have much on your mind, and would not trouble you yet with questions. When you wish it, you will tell us what we need to know.”
But it was a long story, of which they, here in this solitude and with their own tranquil world undisturbed, knew not even the beginnings. Better say nothing.
He rose before dawn and saddled his horse, taking the same track he had ridden two days previously as far as the ford, where he had turned aside to cross the tributary and make his way to Ifor’s house. This time he did not turn aside, but rode on into the valley of the Cynllaith, and crossed by a wooden bridge. From there it was little more than a mile into Llansilin, and the sun was up, veiled but bright. The village was wide awake, and full of people, converging on the timber church. Every house in the neighbourhood must have given shelter overnight to friends and kin from other parts of the commote, for the normal population of this hamlet could be no more than a tenth part of those met here on this day. Cadfael turned his horse into the paddock by the churchyard, where there was a stone water-trough and peaceful grazing, and joined the leisurely procession of men entering the church. Out in the roadway he was conspicuous in his black Benedictine habit, the species being so rare here, but within, he could be well hidden in a retired corner. He had no wish to be noticed too soon.
He was glad that Ifor ap Morgan did not appear among the elders who came to see justice done, the duty of neighbours who knew the land and the people involved. Better by far the testimony of these familiar and respected men than the legal arguments of professional lawmen, though these, too, would be here in plenty. Nor did he see Cynfrith ap Rhys until after the bench of three judges had taken their places, and the first adjourned case was called. Then, when the plaintiff was asked to stand forth with his guarantors on one side, Cadfael recognised Cynfrith among his brother’s backers. Owain was the younger of the two, but very like his brother. Hywel Fychan, the defendant, was a wiry, dark man of belligerent aspect, with his own little cluster of witnesses at his back.
The presiding judge gave the verdict of the bench. They had viewed the two disputed holdings on the spot, and taken measurements to match with old charters. Their judgment was that Hywel Fychan had indeed moved the corner boundary stone in such a way as to filch some yards of his neighbour’s land, but they had also found that Owain ap Rhys, more discreetly, and admittedly after he had discovered the defendant’s fraud, had countered by shifting a whole length of fencing between them by a cautious yard, adequately repaying himself for his loss. They therefore decreed that both marks should be restored to their former positions, and amerced both parties by a negligible fine. Predictably, Owain and Hywel clasped hands amicably enough—in acceptance of the verdict; and probably they would be drinking away together, later in the day, the excess of their expected fines over those imposed. The game would be resumed next year. Cadfael was familiar with the national sport.
There were two more boundary disputes which had been awaiting a judgment arrived at on the disputed land, the one settled amicably, the other accepted with some bitterness by the losing party, but none the less accepted. There was a widow who claimed a patch of land against her husband’s kin, and won her claim by the testimony of no less than seven neighbours. The morning wore away, and Cadfael, constantly looking over his shoulder towards the door, began to wonder if he had been utterly mistaken in his reading of the probabilities. How if he had interpreted all the signs wrongly? Then he had all to do again, and Edwin was in genuine peril, and his only resort was Hugh Beringar, whose rule would end when Gilbert Prestcote returned from the king’s Christmas.