St. Peter's Fair (17 page)

When
Lauds ended, and the silent procession began to file back towards the night
stairs and the dortoir, Cadfael stepped aside, stooped, and picked up the mote
that had been troubling him. It was a single petal from a rose, its colour
indistinguishable by this light, but pale, deepening round the tip. He knew at
once what it was, and with this midnight clarity in him he knew how it had come
there.

Fortunate,
indeed, that he had seen Emma bring her chosen rose and lay it in the coffin.
If he had not, this petal would have told him nothing. Since he had, it told
him all. With hieratic care and ceremony, after the manner of the young when
moved, she had brought her offering cupped in both hands, and not one leaf, not
one grain of yellow pollen from its open heart, had fallen to the floor.

Whoever was
hunting so persistently for something believed to be in Master Thomas’s
possession, after searching his person, his barge and his booth, had not
stopped short of the sacrilege of searching his coffin. Between Compline and
Matins it had been opened and closed again; and a single petal from the wilting
rose within had shaken loose and been wafted unnoticed over the side, to bear
witness to the blasphemy.

The Third Day of the Fair

Chapter One

EMMA
AROSE WITH THE DAWN, stole out of the wide bed she shared with Constance, and
dressed herself very quietly and cautiously, but even so the sense of movement,
rather than any sound, disturbed the maid’s sleep, and caused her to open eyes
at once alert and intelligent.

Emma
laid a finger to her lips, and cast a meaning glance towards the door beyond
which Hugh and Aline were still sleeping. “Hush!” she whispered. “I’m only
going to church for Prime. I don’t want to wake anyone else.”

Constance
shrugged against her pillow, raised her brows a little, and nodded. Today there
would be the Mass for the dead uncle, and then the transference of his coffin
to the barge that would take him home. Not surprising if the girl was disposed
to turn this day into a penitential exercise, for the repose of her uncle’s
soul and the merit of her own. “You won’t go out alone, will you?”

“I’m
going straight to the church,” promised Emma earnestly.

Constance
nodded again, and her eyelids began to close. She was asleep before Emma had
drawn the door to very softly, and slipped away towards the great court.

Brother
Cadfael rose for Prime like the rest, but left his cell before his companions,
and went to take counsel with the only authority in whom he could repose his
latest discovery. Such a violation was the province of the abbot, and only he
had the right to hear of it first.

With the door of the abbot’s austere cell closed
upon them, they were notably at ease together, two men who knew their own minds
and spoke clearly what they had to say. The rose petal, a little shrunken and
weary, but with its yellow and pink still silken-bright, lay in the abbot’s palm
like a golden tear.

“You
are sure this cannot have fallen when our daughter brought it as an offering?
It was a gentle gift,” said Radulfus.

“Not
one grain of dust fell. She carried it like a vessel of wine, in both hands. I
saw every move. I have not yet seen the coffin by daylight, but I doubt not it
has been dealt with competently, and looks as it looked when the
master-carpenter firmed it down. Nevertheless, it has been opened and closed
again.”

“I
take your word,” said the abbot simply. “This is vile.”

“It
is,” said Cadfael and waited.

“And
you cannot put name to the man who would do this thing?”

“Not
yet.”

“Nor
say if he has gained by it? As God forbid!”

“No,
Father! But God will forbid.”

“Give
your might to it,” said Radulfus, and brooded for a while in silence. Then he
said: “We have a duty to the law. Do what is best there, for I hear you have
the deputy sheriff’s ear. As for the affont to the church, to our house, to our
dead son and his heiress, I am left to read between rubrics. There will be a
Mass this morning for the dead man. The holy rite will cleanse all foulness
from his passing and his coffin. As for the child, let her be at peace, for so
she may, her dead is in the hand of God, there has no violence been done to his
soul.”

Brother
Cadfael said, with hearty gratitude: “She will rest the better if she knows
nothing. She is a good girl, her grief should have every consolation.”

“See
to it, brother, as you may. It is almost time for Prime.”

Cadfael
was hurrying from the abbot’s lodging towards the cloister when he saw Emma
turn in there ahead of him, and slowed his steps to be unnoticed himself while
he watched what she would do. On this of all days Emma was entitled to every
opportunity of prayer and meditation, but she also had
a very
private secular preoccupation of her own, and which of these needs she was
serving by this early-rising zeal there was no telling.

In
at the south door went Emma, and in after her, just as discreetly, went Brother
Cadfael. The monks were already in their stalls, and concentrating all upon the
altar. The girl slipped silently round into the nave, as though she would find
herself a retired spot there in privacy; but instead of turning aside, she
continued her rapid, silent passage towards the west door, the parish door that
opened on to the Foregate, outside the convent walls. Except during times of
stress, such as the siege of Shrewsbury the previous year, it was never closed.

In
at one door and out at another, and she was free, for a little while, to go
where she would, and could return by the same way, an innocent coming back from
church.

Brother
Cadfael’s sandals padded soundlessly over the tiled floor after her, keeping
well back in case she should look round, though here within he was reasonably
sure she would not. The great parish door was unlatched, she had only to draw
it open a little way, her slenderness slipped through easily, and since this
was facing due west, no betraying radiance flooded in. Cadfael gave her a
moment to turn right or left outside the door, though surely it would be to the
right, towards the fairground. What should she have to do in the direction of
the river and the town?

She
was well in sight when he slid through the doorway and round the corner of the
west front, and looked along the Foregate. She did not hurry now, but curbed
her pace to that of the early buyers who were sauntering along the highroad,
halting at stalls already busy, handling goods, arguing over prices. The last
day of the fair was commonly the busiest. There were bargains to be snapped up
at the close, and lowered prices. There was bustle everywhere, even at this
hour, but the pace of the ambulant shoppers was leisurely. Emma matched hers to
it, as though she belonged among them, but for all that, she was making her way
somewhere with a purpose. Cadfael followed at a respectful distance.

Only
once did she speak to anyone, and then she chose the holder of one of the larger
stalls, and it seemed that she was asking him for directions, for he turned and
pointed ahead
along the street, and towards the abbey wall. She
thanked him, and went on in the direction he had indicated, and now she
quickened her pace. Small doubt that she had known all along to whom she was
bound; apparently she had not known precisely where to find him. Now she knew.
By this time all the chief merchants gathered here knew where to find one
another.

Emma
had come to a halt, almost at the end of the Foregate, where a half-dozen
booths were backed into the abbey wall. It seemed that she had arrived at her
destination, yet now stood hesitant, gazing a little helplessly, as if what she
confronted surprised and baffled her. Cadfael drew nearer. She was frowning
doubtfully at the last of the booths, backed into a corner between buttress and
wall. Cadfael recognised it; a lean, suspicious face had peered out from that
hatch as the sheriff’s officers had hoisted Turstan Fowler on to a board and
borne him away to an abbey cell on the eve of the fair. The booth of Euan of
Shotwick. Here they came again, those imagined gloves, so feelingly described,
so soon stolen!

And
Emma was at a loss, for the booth was fast-closed, every panel sealed, and
business all around in full swing. She turned to the nearest neighbour, clearly
questioning, and the man looked, and shrugged, and shook his head. What did he
know? There had been no sign of life there since last night, perhaps the glover
had sold out and departed.

Cadfael
drew nearer. Beneath the austere white wimple, so sharp a change from the frame
of blue-black hair, Emma’s young profile looked even more tender and
vulnerable. She did not know what to do. She advanced a few steps and raised a
hand, as though she would knock at the closed shutter, but then she wavered and
drew back. From across the street a brawny butcher left his stall, patted her
amiably on the shoulder, and did the knocking for her lustily, then stood to
listen. But there was no move from within.

A
large hand clapped Cadfael weightily on the back, and the cavernous voice of
Rhodri ap Huw boomed in his ear in Welsh: “What’s this, then? Master Euan not
open for trade? That I should see the day! I never knew him to miss a sale
before, or any other thing to his advantage.”

“The
stall’s deserted,” said Cadfael. “The man may have left for home.”

“Not he! He was there past midnight, for I took a
turn along here to breathe the cool before going to my inn, and there was a
light burning inside there then.” No gleam from within now, though the slanting
sunlight might well pale it into invisibility. But no, that was not so, either.
The chinks between shutter and frame were utterly dark.

It
was all too like what Roger Dod had found at another booth, only one day past.
But there the booth had been barred from within, and the bar hoisted clear with
a dagger. Here there was a lock, to be mastered from within or without, and
certainly no visible key.

“This
I do not like,” said Rhodri ap Huw, and strode forward to try the door, and
finding it, as was expected, locked, to peer squint-eyed through the large
keyhole. “No key within,” he said shortly over his shoulder, and peered still.
“Not a movement in there.” He had Cadfael hard on his heels by then, and three
or four others closing in. “Give me room!”

Rhodri
clenched the fingers of both hands in the edge of the door, set a broad foot
against the timber wall, and hauled mightily, square shoulders gathered in one
great heave. Wood splintered about the lock, small flinders flying like motes
of dust, and the door burst open. Rhodri swayed and recovered in recoil, and
was first through the opening, but Cadfael was after him fast enough to ensure
that the Welshman touched nothing within. They craned into the gloom together, cheek
by jowl.

The
glover’s stall was in chaos, shelves swept clear, goods scattered like grain
over the floor. On a straw palliasse along the rear wall his cloak lay
sprawled, and on an iron stand beside, a quenched candle sagged in folds of
tallow. It took them a few seconds to accustom their eyes to the dimness and
see clearly. Tangled in his spilled stock of belts, baldricks, gloves, purses
and saddle-bags, Euan of Shotwick lay on his back, knees drawn up, a coarse
sacking bag drawn half-over his lean face and greying head. Beneath the hem of
the hood his thin-lipped mouth grinned open in a painful rictus, large white
teeth staring, and the angle at which his head lay had the horrible suggestion
of a broken wooden puppet.

Cadfael
turned and flung up the shutter of the booth, letting in the morning light. He
stooped to touch the contorted neck
and hollow cheek. “Cold,”
said Rhodri, behind him, not attempting to verify his judgment, which for all
that was accurate enough. Euan’s flesh was chilling. “He’s dead,” said Rhodri
flatly.

“Some
hours,” said Cadfael.

In
the stress of the moment he had forgotten Emma, but the shriek she gave caused
him to swing round in haste and dismay. She had crept in fearfully to peer over
the shoulders of the neighbours, and stood staring with eyes wide with horror,
both small fists crushed against her mouth. “Oh, no!” she said in a whisper.
“Not dead! Not he, too…”

Cadfael
took her in his arms, and thrust her bodily before him out of the booth,
elbowing the gaping onlookers out of his way. “Go back! You mustn’t stay here.
Go back before you’re missed, and leave this to me.” He wondered if she even
heard his rapid murmur into her ear; she was shaking and white as milk, her
blue eyes fixed and huge with shock. He looked about him urgently for someone
to whom he could safely confide her, for he doubted if she should be left to
return alone, and yet he did not care to leave this scene until Beringar should
be here to take charge, or one of the sheriff’s sergeants at least. The sudden
alarmed shout of recognition that came from the rear of the gathering crowd was
a most welcome sound.

“Emma!
Emma!” Ivo Corbière came cleaving an unceremonious way through the press, like
a sudden vehement wind in a cornfield, bludgeoning the standing stems out of
its path. She turned at the call, and a spark of returning life sprang up in
her eyes. Thankfully Cadfael thrust her into the young man’s arms, which
reached eagerly and anxiously to receive her.