St. Peter's Fair
Authors: Ellis Peters
Tags: #Fiction, #Traditional British, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Crime
St. Peter’s
Fair
The Fourth
Chronicle of Brother Cadfael, of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint Peter and Saint
Paul, at Shrewsbury
Ellis
Peters
IT
BEGAN AT THE NORMAL DAILY CHAPTER in the Benedictine monastery of Saint Peter
and Saint Paul, of Shrewsbury, on the thirtieth day of July, in the year of Our
Lord 1139. That day being the eve of Saint Peter ad Vincula, a festival of
solemn and profitable importance to the house that bore his name, the routine
business of the morning meeting had been devoted wholly to the measures
necessary to its proper celebration, and lesser matters had to wait.
The
house, given its full dedication, had two saints, but Saint Paul tended to be
neglected, sometimes even omitted from official documents, or so abbreviated
that he almost vanished. Time is money, and clerks find it tedious to inscribe
the entire title, perhaps as many as twenty times in one charter. They had had
to amend their ways, however, since Abbot Radulfus had taken over the rudder of
this cloistral vessel, for he was a man who brooked no slipshod dealings, and
would have all his crew as meticulous as himself.
Brother
Cadfael had been out before Prime in his enclosed herb-garden, observing with
approval the blooming of his oriental poppies, and assessing the time when the
seed would be due for gathering. The summer season was at its height, and
promising rich harvest, for the spring had been mild and moist after plenteous
early snows, and June and July hot and sunny, with a few compensatory showers
to keep the leafage fresh and the buds fruitful. The hay harvest was in, and
lavish, the corn looked ripe for the sickle. As soon as the annual fair was
over, the reaping would begin. Cadfael’s fragrant
domain, dewy
from the dawn and already warming into drunken sweetness in the rising sun,
filled his senses with the kind of pleasure on which an ascetic church
sometimes frowns, finding something uneasily sinful in pure delight. There were
times when young Brother Mark, who worked with him this delectable field, felt
that he ought to confess his joy among his sins, and meekly accept some
appropriate penance. He was still very young, there were excuses to be found
for him. Brother Cadfael had more sense, and no such scruples. The manifold
gifts of God are there to be delighted in, to fall short of joy would be
ingratitude.
Having
put in two hours of work before Prime, and having no office in connection with
the abbey fair, which was engaging all attention, Cadfael was nodding, as was
his habit, behind his protective pillar in the dimmest corner of the
chapter-house, perfectly ready to snap into wakefulness if some unexpected
query should be aimed in his direction, and perfectly capable of answering
coherently what he had only partially heard. He had been sixteen years a monk,
by his own considered choice, which he had never regretted, after a very
adventurous life which he had never regretted, either, and he was virtually out
of reach of surprise. He was fifty-nine years old, with a world of experience
stored away within him, and still as tough as a badger—according to Brother
Mark almost as bandy-legged, into the bargain, but Brother Mark was a
privileged being. Cadfael dozed as silently as a closed flower at night, and
hardly ever snored; within the Benedictine rule, and in genial companionship
with it, he had perfected a daily discipline of his own that suited his needs
admirably.
It
is probable that he was fast asleep when the steward of the grange court, with
an appropriate apology, ventured into the chapter-house and stood waiting the
abbot’s permission to speak. He was certainly awake when the steward reported:
“My lord, here in the great court is the provost of the town, with a delegation
from the Guild Merchant, asking leave to speak with you. They say the matter is
important.”
Abbot
Radulfus allowed his steely, level brows to rise a little, and indicated
graciously that the fathers of the borough should be admitted at once.
Relations between the town of Shrewsbury on one side of the river and the abbey
on the
other, if never exactly cordial—that was too much to expect,
where their interests so often collided—were always correct, and their
skirmishes conducted with wary courtesy. If the abbot scented battle, he gave
no sign. But for all that, thought Cadfael, watching the shrewd, lean
hatchet-face, he has a pretty accurate idea of what they’re here for.
The
worthies of the guild entered the chapter-house in a solid phalanx, no less
than ten of them, from half the crafts in the town, and led by the provost.
Master Geoffrey Corviser, named for his trade, was a big, portly, vigorous man
not yet fifty, clean-shaven, brisk and dignified. He made some of the finest
shoes and riding-boots in England, and was well aware of their excellence and
his own worth. For this occasion he had put on his best, and even without the
long gown that would have been purgatory in this summer weather, he made an
impressive figure, as clearly he meant to do. Several of those grouped at his
back were well known to Cadfael: Edric Flesher, chief of the butchers of
Shrewsbury, Martin Bellecote, master-carpenter, Reginald of Aston, the
silversmith—men of substance every one. Abbot Radulfus did not know them, not
yet. He had been only half a year in office, sent from London to trim an
easy-going provincial house into more zealous shape, and he had much to learn
about the men of the borders, as he himself, being no man’s fool, was well
aware.
“You
are welcome, gentlemen,” said the abbot mildly. “Speak freely, you shall have
attentive hearing.”
The
ten made their reverences gravely, spread sturdy feet, and stood planted like a
battle-square, all eyes alert, all judgments held in reserve. The abbot was
concentrating courteous attention upon them with much the same effect. In his
interludes of duty as shepherd, Cadfael had once watched two rams level just such
looks before they clashed foreheads.
“My
lord abbot,” said the provost, “as you know, Saint Peter’s Fair opens on the
day after tomorrow, and lasts for three days. It’s of the fair we come to
speak. You know the conditions. For all that time all shops in the town must be
shut, and nothing sold but ale and wine. And ale and wine are sold freely here
at the fairground and the Foregate, too, so that no man can make his living in
the town from that merchandise. For three days, the three busiest of the year,
when we might do well out of tolls on carts and pack-horses and
man-loads passing through the town to reach the fair, we must levy no charges,
neither murage nor pavage. All tolls belong only to the abbey. Goods coming up
the Severn by boat tie up at your jetty, and pay their dues to you. We get
nothing. And for this privilege you pay no more than thirty-eight shillings,
and even that we must go to the trouble to distrain from the rents of your
tenants in the town.”
“No
more than thirty-eight shillings!” repeated Abbot Radulfus, and elevated the
iron-grey brows a shade higher, but still with an urbane countenance and a
gentle voice. “The sum was appointed as fair. And not by us. The terms of the
charter have been known to you many years, I believe.”
“They
have, and often before now have been found burdensome enough, but bargains must
be kept, and we have never complained. But bad years or good, the sum has never
been raised. And it falls very hard on a town so pressed as we are now, to lose
three days of trade, and the best tolls of the year. Last summer, as you must
know, though you were not then among us, Shrewsbury was under siege above a
month, and stormed at last with great damage to the town walls, and great
neglect of the streets, and for all our efforts there’s still great need of
work on them, and it’s costly labour, after all last summer’s losses. Not the
half of the dilapidations are yet put right, and in these troublous times, who
knows when we may again be under attack? The very traffic of your fair will be
passing through our streets and adding to the wear, while we get nothing to
help make good the damage.”
“Come
to the point, Master Provost,” said the abbot in the same tranquil tone. “You
are come to make some demand of us. Speak it out plainly.”
“Father
Abbot, so I will! We think—and I speak for the whole guild merchant and borough
gathering of Shrewsbury—that in such a year we have the best possible case for
asking that the abbey should either pay a higher fee for the fair, or, better
by far, set aside a proportion of the fair tolls on goods, whether by
horse-load or cart or boat, to be handed over to the town, and spent on
restoring the walls. You benefit by the protection the town affords you; you
ought, we think, to bear a part with us in maintaining its defences. A tenth
share of the profits would be welcomed, and we should thank
you
heartily for it. It is not a demand, with respect, it is an appeal. But we
believe the grant of a tenth would be nothing more than justice.”
Abbot
Radulfus sat, very erect and lean and lofty, gravely considering the phalanx of
stout burgesses before him. “That is the view of you all?”
Edric
Flesher spoke up bluntly: “It is. And of all our townsmen, too. There are many
who would voice the matter more forcibly than Master Corviser has done. But we
trust in your fellow-feeling, and wait your answer.”
The
faint stir that went round the chapter-house was like a great, cautious sigh.
Most of the brothers looked on wide-eyed and anxious; the younger ones shifted
and whispered, but very warily. Prior Robert Pennant, who had looked to be
abbot by this time, and been sorely disappointed at having a stranger promoted
over his head, maintained a silvery, ascetic calm, appeared to move his lips in
prayer, and shot sidelong looks at his superior between narrowed ivory lids,
wishing him irredeemable error while appearing to compassionate and bless. Old
Brother Heribert, recently abbot of this house and now degraded to its ranks,
dozed in a quiet corner, smiling gently, thankful to be at rest.
“We
are considering, are we not,” said Radulfus at length, gently and without
haste, “what you pose as a dispute between the rights of the town and the
rights of this house. In such a balance, should the judgment rest with you, or
with me? Surely not! Some disinterested judge is needed. But, gentlemen, I
would remind you, there has been such a decision, now, within the past
half-year, since the siege of which you complain. At the beginning of this year
his Grace King Stephen confirmed to us our ancient charter, with all its grants
in lands, rights and privileges, just as we held them aforetime. He confirmed
also our right to this three-day fair on the feast of our patron Saint Peter,
at the same fee we have paid before, and on the same conditions. Do you suppose
he would have countenanced such a grant, if he had not held it to be just?”
