Monk's Hood (5 page)
Authors: Ellis Peters
It
sounded, Cadfael reflected ruefully, a troublous situation for the disinherited
boy’s mother, who must be torn two ways in this dissension. Certainly it
accounted for an act of spleen which the old man was probably already
regretting. He handed over the bunch of mint stems, their oval leaves still
well formed and whole, for they had dried in honest summer heat, and had even a
good shade of green left. “She’ll need to rub it herself, but it keeps its
flavour better so. If she wants more, and you let me know, I’ll crumble it fine
for her, but this time we’ll not keep her waiting. I hope it may go some way
towards sweetening him, for his own sake and hers. And yours, too,” said
Cadfael, and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
Aelfric’s
gaunt features were convulsed for a moment by what might almost have been a
smile, but of a bitter, resigned sort. “Villeins are there to be scapegoats,”
he said with soft, sudden violence, and left the hut hurriedly, with only a
hasty, belated murmur of thanks.
With
the approach of Christmas it was quite usual for many of the merchants of
Shrewsbury, and the lords of many small manors close by, to give a guilty
thought to the welfare of their souls, and their standing as devout and
ostentatious Christians, and to see small ways of acquiring merit, preferably
as economically as possible. The conventual fare of pulse, beans, fish, and
occasional and meagre meat benefited by sudden gifts of flesh and fowl to
provide treats for the monks of St. Peter’s. Honey-baked cakes appeared, and
dried fruits, and chickens, and even, sometimes, a haunch of venison, all
devoted to the pittances that turned a devotional sacrament into a rare
indulgence, a holy day into a holiday.
Brother
Petrus, who seethed with resentment against him for Abbot Heribert’s sake,
glowered at the beautiful bird, and seriously considered spoiling it in some
way, by burning it, or drying it with over-roasting, or serving it with a sauce
that would ruin its perfection. But he was a cook of pride and honour, and he
could not do it. The worst he could do was prepare it in an elaborate way which
he himself greatly loved, with red wine and a highly spiced, aromatic sauce,
cooked long and slow, and hope that Prior Robert would not be able to stomach
it.
The
prior was in high content with himself, with his present eminence, with the
assured prospect of elevation to the abbacy in the near future, and with the
manor of Mallilie, which he had been studying from the steward’s reports, and
found a surprisingly lavish gift. Gervase Bonel had surely let his spite run
away with his reason, to barter such a property for the simple necessities of
life, when he was already turned sixty years, and could hardly expect to enjoy
his retirement very long. A few extra attentions could be accorded him at
little cost. Brother Jerome, always primed with the news within and without the
pale, had reported that Master Bonel was slightly under the weather, with a
jaded appetite. He might appreciate the small personal compliment of a dish
from the abbot’s table. And there was enough, a partridge being a bird of ample
flesh.
Brother
Petrus was basting the plump little carcase lovingly with his rich wine sauce,
tasting delicately, adding a pinch
of rosemary and a mere hint
of rue, when Prior Robert swept into the kitchen, imperially tall and papally
austere, and stood over the pot, his alabaster nostrils twitching to the
tantalising scent, and his cool eyes studying the appearance of the dish, which
was as alluring as its savour. Brother Petrus stooped to hide his face, which
was sour as gal, and basted industriously, hoping his best efforts might meet
with an uninformed palate, and disgust where they should delight. Small hope,
Robert had such pleasure in the aroma that he almost considered abandoning his
generous plan to share the satisfaction. Almost, but not quite. Mallilie was
indeed a desirable property.
“I
have heard,” said the prior, “that our guest at the house by the mill-pond is
in poor health, and lacks appetite. Set aside a single portion of this dish,
Brother Petrus, and send it to the invalid with my compliments, as an
intermissum after the main dish for the day. Bone it, and serve it in one of my
own bowls. It should tempt him, if he is out of taste with other foods, and he
will appreciate the attention.” He condescended, all too genuinely, to add: “It
smells excellent.”
“I
do my best,” grated Brother Petrus, almost wishing his best undone.
“So
do we all,” acknowledged Robert austerely, “and so we ought.” And he swept out
as he had swept in, highly content with himself, his circumstances, and the
state of his soul. And Brother Petrus gazed after him from under lowering
brows, and snarled at his two lay scullions, who knew better than to meddle too
close while he was cooking, but kept the corners of the kitchen, and jumped to
obey orders.
Even
for Brother Petrus orders were orders. He did as he had been instructed, but
after his own fashion, seeing to it that the portion he set aside for the
unoffending guest was the choicest part of the flesh, and laced with the
richest helping of the sauce.
“Lost
his appetite, has he?” he said, after a final tasting, and unable to suppress
his satisfaction in his own skills. “That should tempt a man on his death-bed
to finish it to the last drop.”
Cadfael
went on to the refectory, and his own dinner, which turned out to be boiled
beef and beans, as he had foreseen. No savory intermissum here. Brother
Richard, the sub-prior, presided; Prior Robert ate privately in the lodging he
already thought of as his own. The partridge was excellent.
They
had reached the grace after meat, and were rising from table, when the door
flew open almost in Brother Richard’s face, and a lay brother from the porter’s
lodge burst in, babbling incoherently for Brother Edmund, but too short of
breath from running to explain the need.
“Master
Bonel—his serving-maid has come running for help…” He gulped breath deep, and
suppressed his panting long enough to get out clearly: “He’s taken terribly
ill, she
said he looks at death’s door… the mistress begs
someone to come to him quickly!”
Brother
Edmund gripped him by the arm. “What ails him? Is it a stroke? A convulsion?”
“No,
from what the girl said, not that. He ate his dinner, and seemed well and well
content, and not a quarter of an hour after he was taken with tingling of the
mouth and throat, and then willed to vomit, but could not, and lips and neck
are grown stiff and hard… So she said!”
By
the sound of it, she was a good witness, too, thought Cadfael, already making
for the door and his workshop at a purposeful trot. “Go before, Edmund, I’ll
join you as fast as I may. I’ll bring what may be needed.”
He
ran, and Edmund ran, and behind Brother Edmund the messenger scuttled
breathlessly towards the gatehouse, and the agitated girl waiting there.
Prickling of the lips, mouth and throat, Cadfael was reckoning as he ran,
tingling and then rigidity, and urgent need, but little ability, to rid himself
of whatever it was he had consumed. And a quarter of an hour since he got it
down, more by now, if it was in the dinner he had eaten. It might be late to
give him the mustard that would make him sick, but it must be tried. Though
surely this was merely an attack of illness from some normal disagreement
between an indisposed man and his perfectly wholesome food, nothing else was
possible. But then, that prickling of the flesh of mouth and throat, and the
stiffness following… that sounded all too like at least one violent illness he
had witnessed, which had almost proved fatal; and the cause of that he knew.
Hurriedly he snatched from the shelves the preparations he wanted, and ran for
the gatehouse.
For
all the chill of the December day, the door of the first house beyond the
mill-pond stood wide, and for all the awed quietness that hung about it, a
quivering of agitation and confusion seemed to well out at the doorway to meet
him, an almost silent panic of fluttering movements and hushed voices. A good house,
with three rooms and the kitchen, and a small garden behind, running down to
the pond; he knew it well enough, having visited a previous inmate upon less
desperate business. The kitchen door faced away from the pond,
towards the prospect of Shrewsbury beyond the river, and the north light at
this time of day and year made the interior dim, although the window that
looked out southwards stood unshuttered to let in light and air upon the
brazier that did duty as all the cooking facilities such pensioners needed. He
caught the grey gleam of a reflection from the water, as the wind ruffled it;
the strip of garden was narrow here, though the house stood well above the
water level.
By
the open inner door through which the murmur of frightened voices emerged, stood
a woman, obviously watching for him, her hands gripped tightly together under
her breast, and quivering with tension. She started eagerly towards him as he
came in, and then he saw her more clearly; a woman of his own years and his own
height, very neat and quiet in her dress, her dark hair laced with silver and
braided high on her head, her oval face almost unlined except for the agreeable
grooves of good-nature and humour that wrinkled the corners of her dark-brown
eyes, and made her full mouth merry and attractive. The merriment was quenched
now, she wrung her hands and fawned on him; but attractive she was, even
beautiful. She had held her own against the years, all forty-two of them that
had come between.
He
knew her at once. He had not seen her since they were both seventeen, and
affianced, though nobody knew it but themselves, and probably her family would
have made short work of the agreement if they had known of it. But he had taken
the Cross and sailed for the Holy Land, and for all his vows to return to claim
her, with his honours thick upon him, he had forgotten everything in the fever
and glamour and peril of a life divided impartially between soldier and sailor,
and delayed his coming far too long; and she, for all her pledges to wait for him,
had tired at last and succumbed to her parents’ urgings, and married a more
stable character, and small blame to her. And he hoped she had been happy. But
never, never had he expected to see her here. It was no Bonel, no lord of a
northern manor, she had married, but an honest craftsman
of
Shrewsbury. There was no accounting for her, and no time to wonder.
Yet
he knew her at once. Forty-two years between, and he knew her! He had not, it
seemed, forgotten very much. The eager way she leaned to him now, the turn of
her head, the very way she coiled her hair; and the eyes, above all, large,
direct, clear as light for all their darkness.
At
this moment she did not, thank God, know him. Why should she? He must be far
more changed than she; half a world, alien to her, had marked, manipulated,
adapted him, changed his very shape of body and mind. All she saw was the monk
who knew his herbs and remedies, and had run to fetch aids for her stricken
man.
“Through
here, brother… he is in here. The infirmarer has got him to. bed. Oh, please
help him!”
“If
I may, and God willing,” said Cadfael, and went by her into the next room. She
pressed after him, urging and ushering. The main room was furnished with table
and benches, and chaotically spread with the remains of a meal surely
interrupted by something more than one man’s sudden illness. In any case, he
was said to have eaten his meal and seemed well; yet there were broken dishes
lying, shards on both table and floor. But she drew him anxiously on, into the
bedchamber.
