Monk's Hood (7 page)

If
Prior Robert’s face paled at the thought of what that might all too easily have
meant, the change was not detectable, for his complexion was always of unflawed
ivory. To do him justice, he was not a timorous man. He demanded squarely:
“What is this poison, if you are so sure of your judgement?”

“It
is an oil that I make for rubbing aching joints, and it must have come either
from the store I keep in my workshop, or from some smaller quantity taken from
it, and I know of but one place where that could be found, and that is our own
infirmary. The poison is monk’s-hood—they call it so from the shape of the
flowers, though it is also known as wolfsbane. Its roots make an excellent rub
to remove pain, but it is very potent poison if swallowed.”

“If
you can make medicines from this plant,” said Prior Robert, with chill dislike,
“so, surely, may others, and this may have come from some very different
source, and not from any store of ours.”

“That
I doubt,” said Cadfael sturdily, “since I know the odour of my own specific so
well, and can detect here mustard and houseleek as well as monk’s-hood. I have
seen its effects, once taken, I know them again. I am in no doubt, and so I
shall tell the sheriff.”

“It
is well,” said Robert, no less frigidly, “that a man should know his own work.
You may, then, remain here, and do what you can to provide my lord Prestcote or
his deputies with whatever truth you can furnish. I will speak with them first,
I am responsible now for the peace and good order of our house. Then I will
send them here. When they are satisfied that they have gathered all the facts
that can be gathered, send word to Brother Infirmarer, and he will have the
body made seemly and brought to the chapel. Madam,” he said in quite different
tones, turning to the widow, “you need have that your tenure here will be
disturbed. We will not add to
your distresses, we deplore
them heartily. If you are in any need, send your man to me.” And to Brother
Edmund, who hovered unhappily: “Come with me! I wish to see where these
medicaments are kept, and how accessible they may be to unauthorised people.
Brother Cadfael will remain here.”

He
departed as superbly as he had come, and at the same speed, the infirmarer
scurrying at his heels. Cadfael looked after him with tolerant comprehension;
this was certainly a disastrous thing to happen when Robert was new in his
eminence, and the prior would do everything he could to smooth it away as a
most unfortunate but perfectly natural death, the result of some sudden
seizure. In view of the unconcluded charter, it would present him with problems
enough, even so, but he would exert himself to the utmost to remove the
scandalous suspicion of murder, or, if it must come to that, to see it ebb away
into an unsolved mystery, attributed comfortably to some unidentified rogue
outside the abbey enclave. Cadfael could not blame him for that; but the work
of his own hands, meant to alleviate pain, had been used to destroy a man, and
that was something he could not let pass.

He
turned back with a sigh to the doleful household within, and was brought up
short to find the widow’s dark eyes, tearless and bright, fixed upon him with
so significant and starry a glance that she seemed in an instant to have shed
twenty years from her age and a great load from her shoulders. He had already
come to the conclusion that, though undoubtedly shocked, she was not
heartbroken by her loss; but this was something different. Now she was
unmistakably the Richildis he had left behind at seventeen. Faint colour rose
in her cheeks, the hesitant shadow of a smile caused her lips to quiver, she
gazed at him as if they shared a knowledge closed to everyone else, and only
the presence of others in the room with them kept her from utterance.

The
truth dawned on him only after a moment’s blank incomprehension, and struck him
as the most inconvenient and entangling thing that could possibly have happened
at this moment. Prior Robert in departing had called him by his name, no usual
name in these parts, and reminder enough
to one who had,
perhaps, already been pondering half-remembered tricks of voice and movement,
and trying to run them to earth.

His
impartiality and detachment in this affair would be under siege from this
moment. Richildis not only knew him, she was sending him urgent, silent signals
of her gratitude and dependence, and her supreme assurance that she could rely
on his championship, to what end he hardly dared speculate.

Chapter Three

GILBERT
PRESTCOTE, SHERIFF OF SHROPSHIRE since the town fell into King Stephen’s hands
during the past summer, had his residence in Shrewsbury castle, which he held
fortified for the king, and managed his now pacified shire from that
headquarters. Had his deputy been in Shrewsbury when Prior Robert’s message
reached the castle, Prestcote would probably have sent him to answer the call,
which would have been a relief to Brother Cadfael, who had considerable faith
in Hugh Beringar’s shrewd sense; but that young man was away on his own manor,
and it was a sergeant, with a couple of men-at-arms as escort, who finally
arrived at the house by the mill-pond.

The
sergeant was a big man, bearded and deep-voiced, in the sheriff’s full
confidence, and able and willing to act with authority in his name. He looked
first to Cadfael, as belonging to the abbey, whence the summons had come, and
it was Cadfael who recounted the course of events from the time he had been
sent for. The sergeant had already spoken with Prior Robert, who would
certainly have told him that the suspected dish had come from his own kitchen
and at his own orders.

“And
you swear to the poison? It was in this and no other food that he swallowed
it?”

“Yes,”
said Cadfael, “I can swear to it. The traces left are small, but even so minute
a smear of the sauce, if you
put it to your lips, would bring
out a hot prickling some minutes later. I have confirmed it for myself. There
is no doubt.”

“And
Prior Robert, who ate the remainder of the bird, is live and well, God be praised.
Therefore somewhere between the abbot’s kitchen and yonder table, poison was
added to the dish. It is not a great distance, or a great time. You, fellow,
you fetch the meals from the kitchen to this house? And did so today? Did you
halt anywhere by the way? Speak to any? Set down your tray anywhere?”

“I
did not,” said Aelfric defensively. “If I delay, or the food is cold, I have to
answer for it. I do to the letter what I am supposed to do, and so I did
today.”

“And
here? What did you do with the dishes when you came in?”

“He
delivered them to me,” said Aldith, so quickly and firmly that Cadfael looked
at her with new interest. “He put down the tray on the bench by the brazier,
and I myself set the small dish on the hob to keep warm, while we two served
the main dish to our lord and lady. He told me the prior had kindly sent it for
the master. When I had served them within, we sat down in the kitchen to eat
our own meal.”

“And
none of you noticed anything wrong with the partridge? In odour or appearance?”

“It
was a very rich, spiced sauce, it had a fine smell. No, there was nothing to
notice. The master ate it and found nothing wrong until his mouth began to
prick and burn, and that was afterwards.”

“Both
scent and savour,” confirmed Cadfael, consulted with a rapid glance, “could
well be covered by such a sauce. And the amount needed would not be so great.”

“And
you…” The sergeant turned to Meurig. “You were also here? You belong to the
household?”

“Not
now,” said Meurig readily. “I come from Master Bonel’s manor, but I’m working
now for the master-carpenter Martin Bellecote, in the town. I came here today
to visit an old great-uncle of mine in the infirmary, as Brother Infirmarer
will tell you, and being about the abbey I came to visit here
also.
I came into the kitchen just when Aldith and Aelfric were about to share out
their own meal, and they bade me join them, and I did.”

“There
was enough,” said Aldith. “The abbot’s cook is generous-handed.”

“So
you were the three eating here together. And giving the little dish a stir now
and then? And within…” He passed through the doorway and looked a second time
about the debris of the table. “Master Bonel and the lady, naturally.” No, he
was not a stupid man, he could count, and he had noted the absence of one person
both from the house and from their talk, as if they were all united to smooth
the sixth trencherman out of sight. “Here are three places laid. Who was the
third?”

There
was no help for it, someone had to answer. Richildis made the best of it. With
apparently ingenuous readiness, rather as though surprised at the introduction
of an irrelevancy, she said: “My son. But he left well before my husband was
taken ill.”

“Without
finishing his dinner! If this was his place?”

“It
was,” she said with dignity, and volunteered nothing more.

“I
think, madam,” said the sergeant, with a darkly patient smile, “you had better
sit down and tell me more about this son of yours. As I have heard from Prior
Robert, your husband was by way of granting his lands to the abbey in return
for this house and guest status for the rest of his life and yours. After what
has happened here, that agreement would seem to be forcibly in abeyance, since
it is not yet sealed. Now, it would be greatly to the advantage of an heir to
those lands, supposing such to be living, to have your husband removed from
this world before the charter was ratified. Yet if there was a son of your
marriage, his consent would have been required before any such agreement could
have been drawn up. Read me this riddle. How did he succeed in disinheriting
his son?”

Plainly
she did not want to volunteer anything more than she must, but she was wise
enough to know that too stubborn
reticence would only arouse
suspicion. Resignedly she replied: “Edwin is my son by my first marriage.
Gervase had no paternal obligation to him. He could dispose of his lands as he
wished.” There was more, and if she left it to be ferreted out through others
it would sound far worse. “Though he had previously made a will making Edwin
his heir, there was nothing to prevent him from changing his mind.”

“Ah!
So there was, it seems, an heir who was being dispossessed by this charter, and
had much to regain by rendering it void. And limited time for the business—only
a few days or weeks, until a new abbot is appointed. Oh, don’t mistake me, my
mind is open. Every man’s death may be convenient to someone, often to more
than one. There could be others with something to gain. But you’ll grant me,
your son is certainly one such.”

She
bit her lip, which was unsteady, and took a moment to compose herself before
she said gallantly: “I don’t quarrel with your reasoning. I do know that my
son, however much he may have wanted his manor, would never have wanted it at
this price. He is learning a trade, and resolved to be independent and make his
own future.”

“But
he was here today. And departed, it appears, in some haste. When did he come?”

Meurig
said readily: “He came with me. He’s apprenticed himself to Martin Bellecote,
who is his sister’s husband and my master. We came here together this morning,
and he came with me, as he has once before, to see my old uncle in the
infirmary.”

“Then
you arrived at this house together? You were together throughout that time? A
while ago you said you came into the kitchen—‘I,’ you said, not ‘we.’ “

“He
came before me. He was restive after a while… he’s young, he grew tired of
standing by the old man’s bed while we spoke only Welsh together. And his
mother was here waiting to see him. So he went ahead. He was in at the table
when I got here.”

“And
left the table almost dinnerless,” said the sergeant very thoughtfully. “Why?
Can that have been a very comfort
able dinner-table, a young man
come to eat with the man who disinherited him? Was this the first time they had
so met, since the abbey supplanted him?”

He
had his nose well down on a strong trail now, and small blame to him, it reeked
enough to lure the rawest pup, and this man was far from being that. What would
I have said to such a strong set of circumstances, Cadfael wondered, had I been
in his shoes? A young man with the most urgent need to put a stop to this
charter, while he had time, and into the bargain, here on the scene just prior
to the disaster, and fresh from the infirmary, which he had visited before, and
where the means to the end was to be found. And here was Richildis, between
holding the sheriff’s sergeant fast with huge, challenging eyes, shooting
desperate glances in Cadfael’s direction, crying out to him silently that he
must help her, or her darling was deep in the mire! Silently, in turn, he
willed her to spill out at once everything that could count against her son,
leave nothing untold, for only so could she counter much of what might
otherwise be alleged against him.

“It
was the first time,” said Richildis. “And it was a most uneasy meeting, but it
was for my sake Edwin sought it. Not because he hoped to change my husband’s
mind, only to bring about peace for me. Meurig, here, has been trying to
persuade him to visit us, and today he prevailed, and I’m grateful to him for
his efforts. But my husband met the boy with illwill, and taunted him with
coming courting for his promised manor—for it was promised!—when Edwin intended
no such matter. Yes, there was a quarrel! They were two hasty people, and they
ended with high words. And Edwin flung out, and my husband threw that platter
after him—you see the shards there against the wall. That’s the whole truth of
it, ask my servants. Ask Meurig, he knows. My son ran out of the house and back
into Shrewsbury, I am sure, to where he now feels his home to be, with his
sister and her family.”