The heavy fragrance of the herb-garden lay over all the surrounding land, after so many hours of sunshine and heat, like a particular benediction meant for the senses, not the soul. Under the eaves of the workshop the dangling bunches of dried leafage rustled and chirped like nests of singing birds in waves of warmed air, where there was hardly any wind. The very timbers of the hut, dressed with oil against cracking, breathed out scented warmth.
“I finished making the balm for ulcers,” said Brother Mark, making dutiful report, and happily aware of work well done. “And I have harvested all the poppy-heads that were ripe, but I have not yet broken out the seed, I thought they should dry in the sun a day or two yet.”
Cadfael pressed one of the great heads between his fingers, and praised the judgment. “And the angelica water for the infirmary?”
“Brother Edmund sent for it half an hour ago. I had it ready. And I had a patient,” said Brother Mark, busy stacking away on a shelf the small clay dishes he used for sorting seeds, “earlier on, soon after dinner. A groom with a gashed arm. He said he did it on a nail in the stables, reaching down harness, though it looked like a knife-slash to me. It was none too clean, I cleansed it for him, and dressed it with some of your goose-grass unguent. They were gambling with dice up there in the loft last night, I daresay it came to a fight, and somebody drew on him. He’d hardly admit to that.” Brother Mark dusted his hands, and turned with a smile to report for the sum of his stewardship. “And that’s all. A quiet afternoon, you need not have worried.” At sight of Cadfael’s face his brows went up comically, and he asked in surprise: “Why are you staring like that? Nothing there, surely, to open your eyes so wide.”
My mouth, too, thought Cadfael, and shut it while he reflected on the strangeness of human effort, and the sudden rewards that fell undeserved. Not undeserved, perhaps, in this case, since this had fallen to Brother Mark, who modestly made no demands at all.
“Which arm was gashed?” he asked, further baffling Brother Mark, who naturally could not imagine why that should matter.
“The left. From here, the outer edge of the wrist, down the underside of the forearm. Almost to the elbow. Why?”
“Had he his coat on?”
“Not when I saw him,” said Mark, smiling at the absurdity of this catechism. “But he had it over his sound arm. Is that important?”
“More than you know! But you shall know, later, I am not playing with you. Of what colour was it? And did you see the sleeve that should cover that arm?”
“I did. I offered to stitch it for him—I had little to do just then. But he said he’d already cobbled it up, and so he had, very roughly, and with black thread. I could have done better for him, the original was unbleached linen thread. The colour? Reddish dun, much like most of the grooms and men-at-arms wear, but a good cloth.”
“Did you know the man? Not one of our own abbey servants?”
“No, a guest’s man,” said Brother Mark, patient in his bewilderment. “Not a word to his lord he said! It was one of Ivo Corbière’s grooms, the older one, the surly fellow with the beard.”
Gilbert Prestcote himself, unescorted and on foot, had taken an afternoon turn about the fairground to view the public peace with his own eyes, and was in the great court on his way back to the town, conferring with Hugh Beringar, when Cadfael came in haste from the garden with his news. When the blunt recital was ended, they looked at him and at each other with blank and wary faces.
“Corbière’s within at this moment,” said Hugh, “and I gather from Aline has been, more than an hour. Emma has him dazed, I doubt if he’s had any other thought, these last two days. His men have been running loose much as they pleased, provided the work was done. It could be the man.”
“His lord has the right to be told,” said Prestcote. “Households grow lax when they see the country torn, and their betters flouting law. There’s nothing been said or done to alarm this fellow, I take it? He has no reason to make any move? And surely he values the shelter of a name like Corbière.”
“No word has been said to any but you,” said Cadfael. “And the man may be telling the truth.”
“The tatter of cloth,” said Hugh, “I have here on me. It should be possible to match or discard.”
“Ask Corbière to come,” said the sheriff.
Hugh took the errand to himself, since Ivo was a guest in his rooms. While they waited in braced silence, two of the abbey’s men-at-arms came in at the gatehouse with unstrung longbows, and Turstan Fowler between them with his arbalest, the three of them hot, happy and on excellent terms. On the last day of the fair there were normally matches of many kinds, wrestling, shooting at the butts along the river meadows, long-bow against cross-bow, though the long-bow here was usually the short bow of Wales, drawn to the breast, not the ear. The six-foot weapon was known, but a rarity. There were races, too, and riding at the quintain on the castle tiltyard. Trade and play made good companions, and especially good profits for the ale-houses, where the winners very soon parted with all they had won, and the losers made up their losses.
These three were wreathed together in argumentative amity, passing jokes along the line; each seemed to be vaunting his own weapon. They had strolled no more than halfway across the court when Hugh emerged from the guest-hall with Ivo beside him. Ivo saw his archer crossing towards the stable-yard, and made him an imperious signal to stay.
There was no fault to be found with Turstan’s service since his disastrous fall from grace on the first evening; motioned to hold aloof but remain at call, he obeyed without question, and went on amusing himself with his rivals. He must have done well at the butts for they seemed to be discussing his arbalest, and he braced a foot in the metal stirrup and drew the string to the alert for them, demonstrating that he lost little in speed against their instant arms. No doubt the dispute between speed and range would go on as long as both arms survived. Cadfael had handled both in his time, as well as the eastern bow, the sword, and the lance of the mounted man. Even at this grave moment he spared a long glance for the amicable wrangle going on a score of paces away.
Then Ivo was there among them, and shaken out of his easy confidence and grace. His face was tense, his dark eyes large and wondering under the proudly raised auburn brows and golden cap of curls. “You wanted me, sir? Hugh has not been specific, but I took it this was urgent matter.”
“It is a matter of a man of yours,” said the sheriff.
“My men?” He shook a doubtful head, and gnawed his lip. “I know of nothing . . . Not since Turstan drank himself stiff and stupid, and he’s been a penitent and close to home ever since, and he did no harm then to any but himself, the dolt. But they all have leave to go forth, once their work’s done. The fair is every man’s treat. What’s amiss concerning my men?”
It was left to the sheriff to tell him. Ivo paled visibly as he listened, his ruddy sunburn sallowing. “Then my man is suspect of the killing I brushed arms with—Good God, this very morning! That you may know, his name is Ewald, he comes from a Cheshire manor, and his ancestry is northern, but he never showed ill traits before, though he is a morose man, and makes few friends. I take this hard. I brought him here.”
“You may resolve it,” said Prestcote.
“So I may.” His mouth tightened. “And will! About this hour I appointed to ride, my horse has had little exercise here, and he’ll be bearing me hence tomorrow. Ewald is the groom who takes care of him. He should be saddling him up in the stables about this time. Shall I send for him? He’ll be expecting my summons. No!” he interrupted his own offer, his brows contracting. “Not send for him, go for him myself. If I sent Turstan, there, you might suspect that a servant would stand by a servant, and give him due warning. Do you think he has not been watching us, this short while? And do you think this colloquy has the look of simple talk among us?”