by Ellis Peters
‘So all that time he was still in the town,’ said Hugh, and gnawed a thoughtful lip. ‘Yet in the end he did cross the bridge, going where he’d said he was going. But why the delay? What can have kept him?’
‘Or who?’ suggested Cadfael.
‘Or who! Do you think someone ran after him to dissuade him? None of his own people, or they would have said so. Who else would try to turn him back? No one else knew what he was about. Well,’ said Hugh, ‘nothing else for it, we’ll walk every yard of the way from Lythwood’s house to the bridge, and hammer on every door, until we find out how far he got before turning aside. Someone must have seen him, somewhere along the way.’
‘I fancy,’ said Cadfael, pondering all he had seen and known of Aldwin, which was meagre enough and sad enough, ‘he was not a man who had many friends, nor one of any great resolution of mind. He must have had to pluck up all his courage to accuse Elave in the first place, it would cost him more to withdraw his accusation, and put himself in the way of being suspect of perjury or malice or both. He may well have taken fright on the way, and changed his mind yet again, and decided to let well or ill alone. Where would a solitary dim soul like that go to think things out? And try to get his courage back? They sell courage of a sort in the taverns. And another sort, though not for sale, a man can find in the confessional. Try the alehouses and the churches, Hugh. In either a man can be quiet and think.’
*
It was one of the young men-at-arms of the castle garrison, not at all displeased at being given the task of enquiring at the alehouses of the town, who came up with the next link in Aldwin’s uncertain traverse of Shrewsbury. There was a small tavern in a narrow, secluded close off the upper end of the steep, descending Wyle. It was sited about midway between the house near Saint Alkmund’s church and the town gate, and the lanes leading to it were shut between high walls, and on a feast day might well be largely deserted. A man overtaken by someone bent on changing his mind for him, or suddenly possessed by misgivings calculated to change it for him without other persuasion, might well swerve from the direct way and debate the issue over a pot of ale in this quiet and secluded place. In any case, the young enquirer had no intention of missing any of the places of refreshment that lay within his commission.
‘Aldwin?’ said the potman, willing enough to talk about so sensational a tragedy. ‘I only heard the word an hour past. Of course I knew him. A silent sort, mostly. If he did come in he’d sit in a corner and say hardly a word. He always expected the worst, you might say, but who’d have thought anyone would want to do him harm? He never did anyone else any that I knew of, not till this to-do yesterday. The talk is that the one he informed on has got his own back with a vengeance. And him with trouble enough,’ said the potman, lowering his voice confidentially, ‘if the Church has got its claws into him, small need to go crying out for worse.’
‘Did you see the man yesterday at all?’ asked the man-at-arms.
‘Aldwin? Yes, he was here for a while, up in the corner of the bench there, as glum as ever. I hadn’t heard anything then about this business at the abbey, or I’d have taken more notice. We’d none of us any notion the poor soul would be dead by this morning. It falls on a man without giving him time to put his affairs in order.’
‘He was here?’ echoed the enquirer, elated. ‘What time was that?’
‘Well past noon. Nearly three, I suppose, when they came in.’
‘They? He wasn’t alone?’
‘No, the other fellow brought him in, very confidential, with an arm round his shoulders and talking fast into his ear. They must have sat there for above half an hour, and then the other one went off and left him to himself another half-hour, brooding, it seemed. He was never a drinker, though, Aldwin. Sober as a stone when he got up and went out at the door, and without a word, mind you. Too late for words now, poor soul.’
‘Who was it with him?’ demanded the questioner eagerly. ‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know that I ever heard his name, but I know who he is. He works for the same master – that shepherd of theirs who keeps the flock they have out on the Welsh side of town.’
*
‘Conan?’ echoed Jevan, turning from the shelves of his shop with a creamy skin of vellum in his hands. ‘He’s off with the sheep, and he may very well sleep up there, these summer nights he often does. Why, is there anything new? He told you what he knew, what we all knew, this morning. Should we have kept him here? I knew of no reason you might need him again.’
‘Neither did I, then,’ agreed Hugh grimly. ‘But it seems Master Conan told no more than half a tale, the half you and all the household could bear witness to. Not a word about running after Aldwin and haling him away into the tavern in the Three-Tree Shut, and keeping him in there more than half an hour.’
Jevan’s level dark brows had soared to his hair, and his jaw dropped for a moment. ‘He did that? He said he’d be off to the flock and get on with his work for the rest of the day. I took it that’s what he’d done.’ He came slowly to the solid table where he folded his skins, and spread the one he was carrying carefully over it, smoothing it out abstractedly with a sweep of one long hand. He was a very meticulous man. Everything in his shop was in immaculate order, the uncut skins draped over racks, the trimmed leaves ranged on shelves in their varied sizes, and the knives with which he cut and trimmed them laid out in neat alignment in their tray, ready to his hand. The shop was small, and open on to the street in this fine weather, its shutters laid by until nightfall.
‘He went into the alehouse with Aldwin in his arm, so the potman says, about three o’clock. They were there a good half-hour, with Conan talking fast and confidentially into Aldwin’s ear. Then Conan left him there, and I daresay did go to his work, and Aldwin still sat there another half-hour alone. That’s the story my man unearthed, and that’s the story I want out of Conan’s hide, along with whatever more there may be to tell.’
Jevan stroked his long, well-shaven jaw and considered, with a speculative eye upon Hugh’s face. ‘Now that you tell me this, my lord, I must say I see more in what was said yesterday than I saw at the time. For when Aldwin said he must go and try to overtake that boy he’d done his best to ruin, and go with him to the monks to withdraw everything he’d said against him, Conan did tell him not to be a fool, that he’d only get himself into trouble, and do no good for the lad. He tried his best to dissuade him. But I thought nothing of it but that it was good sense enough, and all he meant was to haul Aldwin back out of danger. When I said let him go, if he’s bent on it, Conan shrugged it off, and went off about his own business. Or so I thought. Now I wonder. Does not this sound to you as though he spent another half-hour trying to persuade the poor fool to give up his penitent notion? You say it was he was doing the talking, and Aldwin the listening. And another half-hour still before Aldwin could make up his mind to jump one way or the other.’
‘It sounds like that indeed,’ said Hugh. ‘Moreover, if Conan went off content, and left him to himself, surely he thought he had convinced him. If it meant so much to him he would not have let go until he was satisfied he’d got his way. But what I do not understand is why it should matter so gravely to him. Is Conan the man to venture so much for a friend, or care so much into what mire another man blundered?’
‘I confess,’ said Jevan, ‘I’ve never thought so. He has a very sharp eye on his own advantage, though he’s a good worker in his own line, and gives value for what he’s paid.’
‘Then why? What other reason could he have for going to such pains to persuade the poor wretch to let things lie? What could he possibly have against Elave, that he should want him dead, or buried alive in a Church prison? The lad’s barely home. If they’ve exchanged a dozen words that must be the measure of it. If it’s not concern for Aldwin or a grudge against Elave this fellow of yours has in mind, what is it?’
‘You should ask him that,’ said Jevan with a slow and baffled shake of his head, but with
a certain wondering note in his voice that made Hugh prick up his ears.
‘So I will. But now I am asking you.’
‘Well,’ said Jevan cautiously, ‘you must bear in mind I may be wrong. But there is a matter which Conan may be holding against Elave. Quite without provocation, and no doubt Elave would be astonished if he knew of it. You have not noticed our Fortunata? She is grown into a very fresh and winning young woman, since Elave went off with my uncle on this pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and before that, you must remember, they were here familiar in the house some years, and liked each other well enough, he condescending to a child, and she childishly fond of a pleasant young man, even if he did no better than humour her liking. A very different matter he found her when he came back. And here’s Conan…’
‘Who has known her as long, and seen her grow,’ said Hugh sceptically, ‘and could have offered for her long ago if he was so minded, with no Elave to stand in his way. And did he?’
‘He did not,’ Jevan granted, hollowly smiling. ‘But times have changed. In spite of the name my uncle gave to her, Fortunata until now has had nothing of her own, to make her a good match. Young Elave has brought back from the east not only himself, but the legacy my Uncle William, bless his kindly soul, thought to send to his fosterchild when he knew he might not see her again. Oh, no, Conan has no knowledge, as yet, of what may be in the box Elave brought for her. It will not be opened until my brother gets home from his wool-buying. But Conan knows it exists, it is here, it came from a generous man, virtually on his deathbed, when such a man would open his heart. From the looks I’ve seen Conan giving Fortunata these last few days, he’s beginning to look on her as earmarked for him, dowry and all, and on Elave as a threat to be removed.’
‘By death, if need be?’ hazarded Hugh doubtfully. It seemed too bold and bitter an extreme for so ordinary a man to contemplate. ‘It was not he who brought the charge.’
‘I have wondered if they did not hatch that rotten egg between them. It suited them both to get rid of the youngster if they could, since it turns out Aldwin feared he might be elbowed out of office. It was like him to think the worst of my brother and me, as of all others. Oh, I doubt if either of them thought of anything so final as a death sentence. It would do if the lad was whisked off into the bishop’s prison, or even so harried and ill-used here that he’d make off for healthier places when he was released. And doubtless Conan misread women,’ said the cynic who had never married, ‘and thought even the threat against Elave would put the girl off him. He should have known better. It has put her on! She’ll fight for him tooth and nail now. The priests have not heard the last of our Fortunata.’
‘So that’s the way of it,’ said Hugh, and whistled softly. ‘You make a case for more than you know. If that’s how it is with him, he might well be alarmed when Aldwin changed his tune, and wanted to get the boy out of the mire he’d thrust him into. It could well be enough to make him go after Aldwin, hang upon him, pour words into his ear, do everything possible to dissuade him. Would it be enough to make him go still further?’
Jevan stood gazing at him enquiringly, and laid down, slowly and almost absently, the edge of vellum he had taken up to fold across to its matching edge. ‘Further? How further? What have you in mind? It would seem he had won his argument, and went away satisfied. Nothing further was needed.’
‘Ah, but suppose he was not quite satisfied. Suppose he could not rely on it that he’d won? Knowing Aldwin for the whiffle-minded poor soul he was, with a bad conscience, his own fear removed and his grudge with it, and his resolution blown this way and that as the wind changed, suppose Conan stayed lurking somewhere to see what he would do. And saw him get up and walk out of the tavern without a word, and off down the Wyle to the town gate and the bridge. All his words gone to waste, and more than words needed, quickly, before the damage was done. Did it matter to him all that much? Aldwin would think no ill even when he was pursued a second time – by a man he’d known for years. He might even let himself be drawn aside into some quiet place to argue the cause all over again. And Aldwin,’ said Hugh, ‘died somewhere in cover by the bridge, and lay hidden under an upturned boat until dark, and was slipped into the water under cover of the arch.’
Jevan stood contemplating that in silence for some minutes. Then he shook his head vigorously, but without complete conviction. ‘I think it’s out of his scope. But agreed, it would certainly account for why he should conceal half the tale, and pretend the last he saw of Aldwin was in our yard, like the rest of us. But no, surely little men with little grievances don’t kill for them. Unless,’ he ended, ‘it was done in a silly rage, almost by accident, instantly regretted. That they might!’
‘Send and fetch him back here,’ said Hugh. ‘Tell him nothing. If you send, he’ll come unsuspecting. And if he’s wise, he’ll tell the truth.’
*
Girard of Lythwood came home in the middle of the evening, two days later than he had intended, but highly content with his week’s work, for the delay was due to his collecting two new clients on his travels, with good clips to sell, and thankful to make contact with an honest middleman and broker, after some less happy dealings in previous years. All the stores of wool he had weighed and bought were safely stowed in his warehouse outside the Castle Foregate before he came home to his own house. His hired pack-ponies, needed only once a year after the annual clip, were restored to the stable, and the two grooms hired with them were paid off and sent to their homes. Girard was a practical man, who dealt with first things first. He paid his bills on time, and expected others to pay what they owed him with as little reluctance or delay. By the end of June or the beginning of July the contract woolman who dealt with the Flemish export trade would come to collect the summer’s load. Girard knew his limitations. He was content to spread his net over a quarter of the shire and its Welsh neighbours, and leave the wholesale trade to more ambitious men.
Girard was half a head shorter than his younger brother, but a good deal broader in the shoulders and thicker in the bone, a portly man in the best of health and spirits, round-faced and cheerful, with a thick thorn-bush of reddish brown hair and a close trimmed beard. His good humour was seldom shaken even by the unexpected, but even he was taken aback at arriving home after a week’s absence to find his pilgrim Uncle William dead and buried, William’s young companion back safely from all the perils of his travels only to fall headlong into mortal trouble at home, his clerk dead and laid out for burial in one of the outhouses in his yard, the parish priest of Saint Alkmund’s probing anxiously into the dead man’s spiritual health before he would bury him, and his shepherd sweating and dumbstruck in Jevan’s shop with one of the sheriff’s men standing over him. It was no help to have three people all attempting to explain at the same time how these chaotic events had come about in his absence.
But Girard was a man who saw to first things first. If Uncle William was dead, and buried with all propriety, then there was nothing to be done about that, no haste even about coming to terms with the truth of it. If Aldwin, of all improbable people had come by a violent death, then that, too, though requiring a just resolution, was hardly within his competence to set right. Father Elias’s doubts about the poor fellow’s spiritual condition was another matter, and would need consideration. If Elave was in a locked cell at the abbey, then at least nothing worse could happen to him at this moment. As for Conan, he was solid enough, it would do him no harm to sweat a little. There would be time to salvage him, if it proved necessary. Meantime, Girard’s horse had done a good few miles that day, and needed stabling, and Girard himself was hungry.
‘Come within, lass,’ he said briskly, flinging a bracing arm about his wife’s waist and sweeping her towards the hall, ‘and, Jevan, see to my beast for me, will you, till I get this tale straight. It’s too late for lamentation and too soon for panic. Whatever’s gone wrong, there’ll be a time for putting it right. The more haste, the less speed! Fortunata, my chick, go and draw me so
me ale, I’m dry as a lime-pit. And set the supper forward, for if I’m to be any use I need my food.’
They did as he bade, every one of them. The pivot of the house, hearty and heartening, was home. Jevan, who had left most of the exclaiming to the women, allowed his brother his position as prop and stay of household, business and all, as from a relaxed and acknowledged distance, having his own separate kingdom among the membranes of vellum. He stabled, groomed and fed the tired horse at leisure, before he went into the house to join the rest at table. By that time Conan had been whisked away to the castle, to answer to Hugh Beringar. Jevan smiled, somewhat wryly, as he shuttered the frontage, and went into the hall.
‘Well, it’s a strange thing,’ said Girard, sitting back with a satisfied sigh, ‘that a man can’t be off about his business one week in the year but everything must happen in that week. Just as well Conan never caught up with me, or I should have missed two new customers, for I should have set off back with him if he had reached me. The wool of four hundred sheep I got from those two villages, and some of it the lowland breed, too. But I’m sorry, love, that you’ve had the worry of all this, and me not here to lift it from you. We’ll see now what’s to be done. The first thing, as I reckon, is this matter of Aldwin. Whatever he may have done and said against another man in his fret – was there ever such a one as Aldwin for fearing the worst and being afraid to ask in case it came true? Well, whatever he may have done, he was our man, and we’ll see him properly buried. But Father Elias here is troubled about the funeral.’