The Heretic's Apprentice (9 page)

Before the company dispersed there were civilities to be exchanged, condolences to be dispensed by the clerics and gracefully received by the family. In the sunlit court the company sorted itself, for the decent while required, into little groups, kind with kind, Abbot Radulfus and Prior Robert paying due attentions to Margaret and Jevan of Lythwood before withdrawing, Brother Jerome, as the prior's chaplain, making it his business to spend some minutes with the lesser members of the bereaved household. A few words had to be said to the girl, before he moved on to the menservants. The pious platitudes he first offered to Conan and Aldwin showed signs of developing into something much more voluble and interesting, and at the same time more confidential, for now there were three heads together instead of two, and still the occasional narrowed glance darted in Elave's direction.

Well, the young man had behaved impeccably throughout, and since the confrontation with Canon Gerbert had kept a guard on his tongue. Small bait for Brother Jerome there, though the very hint of unorthodoxy, especially when frowned upon by so eminent a prelate, was enough to cause Jerome's little nose to sniff the air like a meagre hound on a scent. The canon himself had not chosen to grace William's obsequies with his presence, but he would probably receive a full account from Prior Robert, who also knew how to value the opportunity to cultivate a close confidant and agent of the archbishop.

Howbeit, this minor matter, which had briefly threatened to blaze up into a dangerous heat, must surely be over now. William had his wish, Elave had done his loyal duty in securing it for him, and Radulfus had maintained the petitioner's right. And once tomorrow's festivities were over, Gerbert would soon be on his way, and without his exalted rigidity, almost certainly sincere, and probably excited by recent embassages to France and Rome, there would be an end here in Shrewsbury of these arid measurings and probings of every word a man spoke.

Cadfael watched the household of William of Lythwood muster its funeral guests and sally forth from the gatehouse towards the town, and went off to dinner in the refectory with the easy mind of a man who believes himself to have seen an important matter satisfactorily settled.

*

William's wake was well supplied with ale, wine and mead, and went the way of most wakes, from dignified solemnity and pious remembrance to sentimental and increasingly elaborated reminiscence, while discreet voices grew louder and anecdotes borrowed as much from imagination as from memory. And since Elave had been his companion for seven years while he had been out of sight and often out of mind of these old neighbours of his, the young man found himself being plied with the best ale in the house, in exchange for the stories he had to tell of the long journey and the wonders seen along the way, and of William's dignified farewell to the world.

If he had not drunk considerably more than he was accustomed to, he might not have given direct and open answers to oblique and insinuating questions. On the other hand, in view of his habitual and belligerent honesty, and the fact that he had no reason to suppose he had need of caution in this company, it is at least equally probable that he would.

It did not begin until all the visitors were leaving, or already gone, and Jevan was out in the street taking slow and pleasurable leave of the last of them, and being a comfortable, neighbourly time about it. Margaret was in the kitchen with Fortunata, clearing away the remains of the feast and supervising the washing of the pots that had provided it. Elave was left sitting at the table in the hall with Conan and Aldwin, and when most of the work in the kitchen was done, Fortunata came in quietly and sat down with them.

They were talking of the next day's festival. It was only seemly that a funeral should be fittingly observed and tidied away before the day of Saint Winifred's translation, so that everything on the morrow could be festive and auspicious, like the unclouded weather they hoped for. From the efficacy of the relics of saints and the validity of their miracles it was no long way to the matter of William. It was, after all, William's day, and fitting that they should be remembering him well into the dusk.

‘According to one of the brothers down there,' said Aldwin earnestly, ‘the little anxious grey fellow that runs so busy about the prior, it was a question whether the old man would be let in at all. Somebody there was for digging up that old scuffle he had with the missioner, to deny him a place.'

‘It's a grave matter to disagree with the Church,' agreed Conan, shaking his head. ‘It's not for us to know better than the priests, not where faith's concerned. Listen and say Amen, that's my advice. Did ever William talk to you about such things, Elave? You travelled a long way and a good many years with him, did he try to take you along with him down that road, too?'

‘He never made any secret of what he thought,' said Elave. ‘He'd argue his point, and with good sense, too, even to priests, but there was none of them found any great fault with him for thinking about such things. What are wits for unless a man uses them?'

‘That's presumption,' said Aldwin, ‘in simple folk like us, who haven't the learning or the calling of the churchmen. As the king and the sheriff have power over us in their field, so has the priest in his. It's not for us to meddle with matters beyond us. Conan's right, listen and say Amen!'

‘How can you say Amen to damning a newborn child to hell because the little thing died before it could be baptised?' Elave asked reasonably. ‘It was one of the things that bothered him. He used to argue not even the worst of men could throw a child into the fire, so how could the good God? It's against his nature.'

‘And you,' said Aldwin, staring curiosity and concern, ‘did you agree with him? Do you say so, too?'

‘Yes, I do say so. I can't believe the reason they give us, that babes are born into the world already rotten with sin. How can that be true? A creature new and helpless, barely into this world, how can it ever have done wrong?'

‘They say,' ventured Conan cautiously, ‘even babes unborn are rotten with the sin of Adam, and fallen with him.'

‘And I say that it's only his own deeds, bad and good, that a man will have to answer for in the judgement, and that's what will save or damn him. Though it's not often I've known a man so bad as to make me believe in damnation,' said Elave, still absorbed into his own reasoning, and intent only on expressing himself clearly and simply, without suspicion of hostility or danger. ‘There was a father of the Church, once, as I heard tell, in Alexandria, who held that in the end everyone would find salvation. Even the fallen angels would return to their fealty, even the devil would repent and make his way back to God.'

He felt the chill and the shiver that went through his audience, but thought no more of it than that his travelled wisdom, small as it still was, had carried him out of the reach of their parochial innocence. Even Fortunata, listening silently to the talk of the menfolk, had stiffened and opened her eyes wide and round at such an utterance, startled and perhaps shocked. She said nothing in this company, but she followed every word that was spoken, and the colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks as she glanced attentively from face to face.

‘That's blasphemous!' said Aldwin in an awed whisper. ‘The Church tells us there's no salvation but by grace, not by works. A man can do nothing to save himself, being born sinful.'

‘I don't believe that,' said Elave stubbornly. ‘Would the good God have made a creature so imperfect that he can have no free will of his own to choose between right and wrong? We can make our own way towards salvation, or down into the muck, and at the last we must every one stand by his own acts in the judgement. If we are men we ought to make our own way towards grace, not sit on our hams and wait for it to lift us up.'

‘No, no, we're taught differently,' insisted Conan doggedly. ‘Men are fallen by the first fall, and incline towards evil. They can never do good but by the grace of God.'

‘And I say they
can
and do! A man
can
choose to avoid sin and do justly, of his own will, and his own will
is
the gift of God, and meant to be used. Why should a man get credit for leaving it all to God?' said Elave, roused but reasonable. ‘We think about what we're doing daily with our hands, to earn a living. What fools we should be not to give a thought to what we're doing with our souls, to earn an eternal life.
Earn
it,' said Elave with emphasis, ‘not wait to be given it unearned.'

‘It's against the Church fathers,' objected Aldwin just as strongly. ‘Our priest here preached a sermon once about Saint Augustine, how he wrote that the number of the elect is fixed and not to be changed, and all the rest are lost and damned, so how can their free will and their own acts help them? Only God's grace can save, everything else is vain and sinful.'

‘I don't believe it,' said Elave loudly and firmly. ‘Or why should we even try to deal justly? These very priests urge us to do right, and demand of us confession and penance if we fall short. Why, if the roll is already made up? Where is the sense of it? No, I do not believe it!'

Aldwin was looking at him in awed solemnity. ‘You do not believe even Saint Augustine?'

‘If he wrote that, no, I do not believe him.'

There was a sudden heavy silence, as though this blunt statement had knocked both his interrogators out of words. Aldwin, looking sidewise with narrowed and solemn eyes, drew furtively along the bench, removing even his sleeve from compromising contact with so perilous a neighbour.

‘Well,' said Conan at length, too cheerfully and too loudly, shifting briskly on his side of the table as though time had suddenly nudged him in the ribs, ‘I suppose we'd best be stirring, or we'll none of us be up in time to get the work done tomorrow before Mass. Straight from a wake to a wedding, as the saying goes! Let's hope the weather still holds.' And he rose, thrusting back his end of the bench, and stood stretching his thick, long limbs.

‘It will,' said Aldwin confidently, recovering from his wary stillness with a great intake of breath. ‘The saint had the sun shine on her procession when they brought her here from Saint Giles, while it rained all around. She won't fail us tomorrow.' And he, too, rose, with every appearance of relief. Plainly the convivial evening was over, and two, at least, were glad of it.

Elave sat still until they were gone, with loud and over-amiable goodnights, about their last tasks before bed. The house had fallen silent. Margaret was sitting in the kitchen, going over the day's events for flaws and compensations with the neighbour who came in to help her on such special occasions. Fortunata had not moved or spoken. Elave turned to face her, doubtfully eyeing her stillness, and the intent gravity of her face. Silence and solemnity seemed alien in her, and perhaps really were, but when they took possession of her they were entire and impressive.

‘You are so quiet,' said Elave doubtfully. ‘Have I offended you in anything I've said? I know I've talked too much, and too presumptuously.'

‘No,' she said, her voice measured and low, ‘nothing has offended me. I never thought about such things before, that's all. I was too young, when you went away, for William ever to talk so to me. He was very good to me, and I'm glad you spoke up boldly for him. So would I have done.'

But she had no more to say, not then. Whatever she was thinking now about such things she was not yet ready to say, and perhaps by tomorrow she would have abandoned the consideration of what was difficult even for the world's philosophers and theologians, and would come down with Margaret and Jevan to Saint Winifred's festival content to enjoy the music and excitement and worship without questioning, to listen and say Amen.

She went out with him across the yard and through the entry into the street when he left, and gave him her hand at parting, still in a silence that was composed and withdrawn.

‘I shall see you at church tomorrow?' said Elave, belatedly afraid that he had indeed alienated her, for she confronted him with so wide and thoughtful a stare of her unwavering hazel eyes that he could not even guess at what went on in the mind behind them.

‘Yes,' said Fortunata simply, ‘I shall be there.' And she smiled, briefly and abstractedly, withdrew her hand gently from his, and turned back to return to the house, leaving him to walk back through the town to the bridge still unhappily in doubt whether he had not talked a great deal too much and too rashly, and injured himself in her eyes.

*

The sun duly shone for Saint Winifred on her festival day, as it had on the day of her first coming to the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. The gardens overflowed with blossom, the eager pilgrims housed by Brother Denis put on their best and came forth like so many more gaily coloured flowers, the burgesses of Shrewsbury flocked down from the town, and the parishioners of Holy Cross in from the Foregate and the scattered villages of Father Boniface's extensive parish. The new priest had only recently been inducted after a lengthy interregnum, and his flock were still carefully taking his measure, after their unhappy experience with the late Father Ailnoth. But first reactions were entirely favourable. Cynric the verger acted as a kind of touchstone for Foregate opinion. His views, so seldom expressed in words, but so easy for the simple and direct to interpret by intuition, would be accepted without question by most of those who worshipped at Holy Cross, and it was already clear to the children, Cynric's closest cronies in spite of his taciturnity, that their long, bony, silent friend liked and approved of Father Boniface. That was enough for them. They approached their new priest with candour and confidence, secure in Cynric's recommendation.

Boniface was young, not much past thirty, of unassuming appearance and modest bearing, no scholar like his predecessor, but earnestly cheerful about his duties. The deference he showed to his monastic neighbours disposed even Prior Robert to approve of him, though with some condescension in view of the young man's humble birth and scanty Latin. Abbot Radulfus, conscious of one disastrous mistake in the previous appointment, had taken his time over this one, and studied the candidates with care. Did the Foregate really need a learned theologian? Craftsmen, small merchants, husbandmen, cottars and hardworking villeins from the villages and manors, they were better off with one of their own kind, aware of their needs and troubles, not stooping to them but climbing laboriously with them, elbow to elbow. It seemed that Father Boniface had energy and determination for the climb, force enough to urge a few others upward with him, and the stubborn loyalty not to leave them behind if they tired. In Latin or in the vernacular, that was language the people could understand.