St. Peter's Fair (15 page)

“When
we went together to the barge,” said Cadfael, “and
she took no
more than a minute within to cry out that someone had been there, pawing
through all their belongings, I never doubted she was telling truth. Women know
how they leave things, it needs only a wrong fold to betray an alien hand, and
certainly it shocked and startled her, that was no feigning. Nor was it the
next moment, when I asked if anything had been taken, and without pause for
thought, she said: ‘No!’ An absolute no, I would say even triumphant. I thought
little of it, then, but urged her to look thoroughly and make sure. When I said
she must report the matter, she thought again, and took pains to discover that
indeed a few things had been stolen. I think she regretted that ever she had
cried out in the first place, but if the law must know of it, she would ensure
that it was accepted as a trivial theft by some common pick-purse. Truth is
what she told unguardedly, with that scornful ‘no’ of hers. Afterwards she made
to undo the effect by lying, and for one not by nature a liar she did it well.
But for all that, I think, like you, those pretty things of hers never existed,
or never were aboard the barge.”

“Still
remains the question,” said Hugh, considering, “of why she was so sure in the
first place that nothing had been taken.”

“Because,”
said Cadfael simply, “she knew what the thief must have come looking for, and
she knew he had not found it, because she knew it was not there to be found.
The second search was also vain. Whatever it may be, it was not on Master
Thomas’s person, which was clearly the most likely place, nor was it on his
barge.”

“Hence
this third search! So now divine for me, Cadfael, whether this third attempt
has succeeded or no. The merchant’s strong-box is vanished—again a logical
place to keep something so precious. Will this be the end of it?” Cadfael shook
his head emphatically. “This attempt has fared no better than the others,” he
said positively. “You may take that as certain.”

“How
can you be so sure of it?” demanded Hugh curiously.

“You
saw all that I saw. She does not care a farthing for the loss of the
strong-box! As soon as she knew that the man Warm was unhurt, she took
everything else calmly enough. Whatever it is the unknown is seeking, she knew
it was not
in the barge, and she knew it was not in the booth.
And I can think of only one reason why she should know so well where it is not,
and that is that she knows equally well where it is.”

“Then
the next possibility the enemy will be considering,” said Hugh with conviction,
“is where she is—on her person or in some hiding-place only she knows of. Well,
we’ll keep a vigilant eye on Emma, between us. No,” said Hugh reflectively, “I
cannot imagine any evil of her, but neither can I imagine how she can be
tangled in something grim enough to bring about murder, violence and theft, nor
why, if she knows herself to be in danger and in need of help, she won’t speak
out and ask for it. Aline has tried her best to get her to confide, and the
girl remains all sweetness and gratitude, but lets no word drop of any burden
she may be carrying. And you know Aline, she draws out confidences without ever
asking a probing question, and whoever can resist her is beyond the reach of
the rest of us…”

“I’m
glad to see you so fond a husband,” said Cadfael approvingly.

“So
you should be, it was you tossed the girl into my arms in the first place.
You’d best be worrying now about what manner of father I shall make! And you
might put in a prayer for me on the issue, some time when you’re on your knees.
No, truly, Cadfael… I wonder about this girl. Aline likes her, and that’s recommendation
enough. And she seems to like Aline—no, more than like! Yet she never lets down
her veils. When she seems most to cherish my most cherishable lady, she is also
more careful not to let slip one unguarded word about her own situation.”

Brother
Cadfael saw no paradox there. “So she would be, Hugh,” he said gravely. “If she
feels herself to be in danger, the last thing she will do is to draw in beside
her someone she values and likes. By every means in her power—and I think she
is a clever and resourceful girl—she will stand off her friends from any share
in what she is about.”

Beringar
considered that long and sombrely, nursing his empty horn. “Well, all we can do
is hedge her about thick enough to stand off, likewise, whatever move may be
made against her.”

It
had not occurred to him, it was only now insinuating itself into Cadfael’s
thoughts, that the next decisive move
might come from Emma
herself, rather than being made against her. A piece of this mystery,
apparently the vital piece, she had in her hands; if any use was to be made of
it, it might well be at her decree.

Hugh
set aside his drinking-horn and rose, brushing the summer dust from his cotte.
“Meantime, the sheriff is left with a murder on his hands, and I tell you,
Cadfael, that affair now looks less than ever like a drunken revenge by an
aggrieved youth of the town—though to tell truth, it never did look too
convincing, even if we could not discard it out of hand.”

“Surely
there’s good ground now for letting the provost bail his lad out and take him
home?” said Cadfael, encouraged. “Of all the young men around this town, Philip
must be the clearest from any suspicion of this last outrage, or the raid on
the barge, either. The gaoler who turns the key on him can witness where he’s been
all this while, and swear he never left it.”

“I’m
off to the castle now,” said Hugh. “I can’t vouch for the sheriff, but I’ll
certainly speak a word in his ear, and in the provost’s, too. It’s well worth
making the approach.”

He
looked down, flashing out of his preoccupation with a sudden mischievous smile,
combed the fingers of one hand through the hedge of bushy greying hair that
rimmed Cadfael’s sunburned tonsure, leaving it bristling like thorn-bushes,
snapped a finger painfully against the nut-brown dome between, and took his
departure with his usual light stride and insouciant bearing, which the unwary
mistook for the mark of a frivolous man. Such small indulgences he was more
likely to permit himself, strictly with friends, when he was engaged on
something more than usually grave.

Cadfael
watched him go, absently smoothing down the warlike crest Hugh had erected. He
supposed he had better be stirring, too, and hand over charge here to Brother
Mark until evening. It would not do to take his eyes off Emma for any length of
time, and Aline, to please a solicitous husband, consented to doze for an hour
or two in the afternoon, for the sake of the child. Grandchildren by proxy,
Cadfael reflected, might be a rare and pleasurable recompense for a celibate
prime. As for old age, he had not yet begun to think about it; no doubt it had
its own alleviations.

Chapter Two

“FOR
ALL I SAID,” EMMA MUSED ALOUD, putting fine stitches into a linen band for an
infant’s cap, in the lofty midday light in the window of Aline’s bedchamber, “I
do grieve for those gloves of mine. Such fine leather, supple and black, and a
wealth of gold in the embroidery. I never bought such expensive ones before.”
She reached the end of her seam, and snipped off the thread neatly. “They say
there’s a very good glover has a stall in the fair,” she said, smoothing her
work. “I thought I might take a look at his wares, and see if he has anything
as fine as those I’ve lost. They tell me he’s well known in Chester, and the
countess buys from him. I think perhaps I’ll walk along the Foregate this afternoon,
and see what he has. What with all these upsets, I’ve hardly seen anything of
the fair.”

“A
good idea,” said Aline. “Such a fine day, we should not be spending it here
within doors. I’ll come with you.”

“Oh,
no, you should not,” protested Emma solicitously. “You nave not had your sleep
this afternoon. No need to keep me company that short way. I should be
distressed if you tired yourself on my account.”

“Oh,
folly!” said Aline cheerfully. “I am so healthy I shall burst if I have too
little to do. It’s Constance and Hugh who want to make an invalid of me, just
because I’m in a woman’s best and happiest estate. And Hugh is gone to the
sheriff, and Constance is visiting with a cousin of hers in the Wyle, so who’s
to fret? I’ll slip on my shoes, and we’ll go.
I should like to
buy a box of those sugared fruits your uncle brought from the east. We’ll do
that, too.”

It
seemed that Emma had, after all, lost her taste for the expedition. She sat
stroking the embroidered band she had just finished, and eyed the shape of
linen cut for the crown. “I don’t know—I should finish this, perhaps. After
tomorrow there may be no choice, and I should be sorry to leave it for someone
else to finish. As for the candied fruits, I’ll ask Roger to bring you a box,
when he comes again this evening to tell me how the day has gone. Tomorrow it
will be here.”

“That’s
kind,” said Aline, slipping on her shoes none the less, “but he could hardly
try on a pair of gloves for you, or choose with your eye. So let’s go and see
for ourselves. It won’t take long.”

Emma
sat hesitating, but whether in a genuine endeavour to make up her mind, or in
search of a way of extricating herself from an unsatisfactory situation, Aline
could not be sure. “Oh, no, I should not! How can I give my mind to such
vanity, at a time like this! I’m ashamed that I ever thought of it. My uncle
dead, and here am I yearning after trumpery bits of finery. No, I won’t be so
shallow. Let me at least go on with my work for the child, instead of thinking
only of my own adornment.” And she picked up the cut linen. Aline noted that
the hand holding it trembled a little, and wondered whether to persist. Plainly
the girl wanted to go forth for some purpose of her own, but would not go
unless it could be alone. And alone, said Aline firmly to herself, she
certainly shall not go, if I can prevent.

“Well,”
she said doubtfully, “if you’re determined to be so penitential, I won’t play
the devil and tempt you. And I’m the gainer, your sewing is so fine, I could
never match it. Who taught you so well?” She slipped off her soft leather
shoes, and sat down again. Something, at least, she had learned, better to let
well alone now. Emma welcomed the change of subject eagerly. Of her childhood
she would talk freely.

“My
mother was a famous embroidress. She began to teach me as soon as I could
manage a needle, but she died when I was only eight, and Uncle Thomas took me
in. We had a housekeeper, a Flemish lady who had married a Bristol
seaman,
and been widowed when his ship was lost, and she taught me everything she knew,
though I could never equal her work. She used to make altar cloths and
vestments for the church, such beautiful things…”

So
a plain pair of good black gloves, thought Aline, would have done well enough
for you at any time, since you could have adorned them to your own fancy. And
those who can do such things exquisitely, seldom prefer the work of others.

It
was not difficult to keep Emma talking, but for all that, Aline could not help
wondering what was going through the girl’s mind, and how soon, and how
cunningly, she would make the next bid to slip away solitary about her
mysterious business. But as it fell out, she need not have troubled, for late
in the afternoon came a lay brother from the gatehouse, to announce that Martin
Bellecote had brought down Master Thomas’s coffin, and desired permission to
proceed with his business. Emma rose instantly, laying down her sewing, her
face pale and intent. If there was one thing certain, it was that no other
matter, however urgent, would take her away from the church until her uncle was
decently coffined and sealed down for his journey home, and prayers said for
his repose, as later she would attend the first Mass for him. Whatever he had
been to others, he had been uncle and father and friend to his orphaned
kinswoman, and no reverence, no tribute, would be omitted from his obsequies.

“I
will come myself,” said Emma. “I must say farewell to him.” She had not yet
seen him, dead, but the brothers, long expert in the gentle arts that reconcile
life to death, would have made sure that she would be able to remember him
without distress.

“Shall
I come with you?” offered Aline.

“You
are very good, but I would rather go alone.”

Aline
followed as far as the great court, and watched the little procession cross to
the cloister, Emma walking beside the handcart on which Martin and his son
wheeled the coffin. When they had lifted the heavy box and carried it in by the
south door of the church, with Emma following, Aline stood for some minutes
looking about her. At this hour most of the guests and many of the lay servants
were out at the fair, only the brothers went about their business as usual.
Through the wide gate of the distant stable-yard she could see Ivo
Corbière’s
young groom rubbing down a pony, and the archer Turstan Fowler sitting on a
mountingblock, whistling as he burnished a saddle. Sober and recovered from his
debauch, he was a well-set-up and comely fellow, with the open face of one who
has not a care in the world. Evidently he was long since forgiven, and back in
favour.

Brother
Cadfael, coming from the gardens, saw her still gazing pensively towards the
church. She smiled at sight of him.