St. Peter's Fair

by Ellis Peters

  “I never saw it so lively before,” said Mark, gazing with pleasure.

  “You’ve not lived through a fair as yet. Last year the town was under siege all through July and into August, small hope of getting either buyers or sellers into Shrewsbury for any such business. I had my doubts even about this year, but it seems trade’s well on the move again, and our gentlefolk are hungrier than ever for what they missed a year ago. It will be a profitable fair, I fancy!”

  “Then could we not have spared a tithe to help put the town in order?” demanded Mark.

  “You have a way, child, of asking the most awkward questions. I can read very well what was in the provost’s mind, since he spoke it out in full. But I’m by no means so sure I know what was in the abbot’s, nor that he uttered the half of it. A hard man to read!”

  Mark had stopped listening. His eyes were on a rider who had just entered at the gatehouse, and was walking his horse delicately through the moving throng towards the stables. Three retainers on rough-coated ponies followed at his heels, one of them with a cross-bow slung at his saddle. In these perilous times, even here in regions summarily pacified so short a time ago, no gentleman would undertake a longer journey without provision for his own defence, and an arbalest reaches further than a sword. This young man both wore a sword and looked as if he could use it, but he had also brought an archer with him for security.

  It was the master who held Mark’s eyes. He was perhaps a year or two short of thirty, past the uncertainties of first youth—if, indeed, he had ever suffered them—and at his resplendent best. Handsomely appointed, elegantly mounted on a glistening dark bay, he rode with the negligent ease of one accustomed to horses almost from birth. In the summer heat he had shed his short riding-cotte, and had it slung over his lap, and rode with his shirt open over a spare, muscular chest, hung with a cross on a golden chain. The body thus displayed to view in simple linen shirt and dark hose was long and lissome and proud of its comeliness, and the head that crowned it was bared to the light, a smiling, animated face nicely fashioned about large, commanding dark eyes, and haloed in a cropped cap of dark gold hair, that would have curled had it been allowed to grow a little longer. He came and passed, and Mark’s eyes followed him, at once tranquil and wistful, quite without any shade of envy.

  “It must be a pleasant thing,” he said thoughtfully, “to be so made as to give pleasure to those who behold you. Do you suppose he realises his blessings?”

  Mark was rather small himself, from undernourishment from childhood, and plain of face, with spiky, straw-coloured hair round his tonsure. Not that he ever viewed himself much in the glass, or realised that he had a pair of great grey eyes of such immaculate clarity that common beauty faltered before them. Nor was Cadfael going to remind him of any such assets.

  “As the world usually goes,” he said cheerfully, “he probably has a mind that looks no further ahead or behind than the length of his own fine eyelashes. But I grant you he’s a pleasure to look at. Yet the mind lasts longer. Be glad you have one that will wear well. Come on, now, all this will keep till after supper.”

  The word diverted Brother Mark’s thoughts very agreeably. He had been hungry all his life until he entered this house, and still he preserved the habit of hunger, so that food, no less than beauty, was unflawed pleasure. He went willingly at Cadfael’s side towards Vespers, and the supper that would follow. It was Cadfael who suddenly halted, hailed by name in a high, delighted voice that plucked his head about towards the summons gladly.

  A lady, a slender, young, graceful lady with a heavy sheaf of gold hair and a bright oval face, and eyes like irises in twilight, purple and clear. Her body, as Brother Mark saw in his first startled glance, though scarcely swollen as yet, and proudly carried, was girdled high, and rounded below the girdle. There was a life there within. He was not so innocent that he did not know the signs. He should have lowered his eyes, and willed to do so, and could not; she shone so that it was like all the pictures of the Visiting Virgin that he had ever seen. And this vision held out both hands to Brother Cadfael, and called him by his name. Brother Mark, though unwillingly, bent his head and went on his way alone.

  “Girl,” said Brother Cadfael heartily, clasping the proffered hands with delight, “you bloom like a rose! And he never told me!”

  “He has not seen you since the winter,” she said, dimpling and flushing, “and we did not know then. It was no more than a dream, then. And I have not seen you since we were wed.”

  “And you are happy? And he?”

  “Oh, Cadfael, can you ask it!” There had been no need, the radiance Brother Mark had recognised was dazzling Cadfael no less. “Hugh is here, but he must go to the sheriff first. He’ll certainly be asking for you before Compline. I have come to buy a cradle, a beautiful carved cradle for our son. And a Welsh coverlet, in beautiful warm wool, or perhaps a sheepskin. And fine spun wools, to weave his gowns.”

  “And you keep well? The child gives you no distress?”

  “Distress?” she said, wide-eyed and smiling. “I have not had a moment’s sickness, only joy. Oh, Brother Cadfael,” she said, breaking into laughter, “how does it come that a brother of this house can ask such wise questions? Have you not somewhere a son of your own? I could believe it! You know far too much about us women!”

  “As I suppose,” said Cadfael cautiously, “I was born of one, like the rest of us. Even abbots and archbishops come into the world the same way.”

  “But I’m keeping you,” she said, remorseful. “It’s time for Vespers, and I’m coming, too. I have so many thanks to pour out, there’s never enough time. Say a prayer for our child!” She pressed him by both hands, and floated away through the press towards the guest-hall. Born Aline Siward, now Aline Beringar, wife to the deputy sheriff of Shropshire, Hugh Beringar of Maesbury, near Oswestry. A year married, and Cadfael had been close friend to that marriage, and felt himself enlarged and fulfilled by its happiness. He went on towards the church in high content with the evening, his own mood, and the prospects for the coming days.

  When he emerged from the refectory after supper, into an evening still all rose and amber light, the court was as animated as at noon, and new arrivals still entering at the gatehouse. In the cloister Hugh Beringar sat sprawled at ease, waiting for him; a lightweight, limber, dark young man, lean of feature and quizzical of eyebrow. A formidable face, impossible to read unless a man knew the language. Happily, Cadfael did, and read with confidence.

  “If you have not lost your cunning,” said the young man, lazily rising, “or met your overmatch in this new abbot of yours, you can surely find a sound excuse for missing Collations—and a drop of good wine to share with a friend.”

  “Better than an excuse,” said Cadfael readily, “I have an acknowledged reason. They’re having trouble in the grange court with scour among the calves, and want a brewing of my cure in a hurry. And I daresay I can find you a draught of something better than small ale. We can sit outside the workshop, such a warm evening. But are you not a neglectful husband,” he reproved, as they fell companionably into step on their way into the gardens, “to abandon your lady for an old drinking crony?”

  “My lady,” said Hugh ruefully, “has altogether abandoned me! A breeding girl has only to show her nose in the guest-hall, and she’s instantly swept away by a swarm of older dames, all cooing like doves, and loading her with advice on everything from diet to midwives’ magic. Aline is holding conference with all of them, hearing details of all their confinements, and taking note of all their recommendations. And since I can neither spin, nor weave, nor sew, I’m banished.” He sounded remarkably complacent about it, and being well aware of it himself, laughed aloud. “But she told me she had seen you, and you needed no telling. How do you think she is looking?”

  “Radiant!” said Cadfael. “In full bloom, and prettier than ever.”

  In the herb-garden, shaded along one side by its high hedge from the declining sun, the heavy fragran
ces of the day hung like a spell. They settled on a bench under the eaves of Cadfael’s workshop, with a jug of wine between them.

  “But I must start my draught brewing,” said Cadfael. “You may talk to me while I do it. I shall hear you within, and I’ll be with you as soon as I have it stirring. What’s the news from the great world? Is King Stephen secure on his throne now, do you think?”

  Beringar considered that in silence for a few moments, listening contentedly to the soft sounds of Cadfael’s movements within the hut. “With all the west still holding out for the empress, however warily, I doubt it. Nothing is moving now, but it’s an ominous stillness. You know that Earl Robert of Gloucester is in Normandy with the empress?”

  “So we’d heard. It’s not to be wondered at, he is her half-brother, and fond of her, so they say, and not an envious man.”

  “A good man,” agreed Hugh, doing an opponent generous justice, “one of the few on either side not grasping for what he himself can get. The west, however quiet now, will do what Robert says. I can’t believe he’ll hold off for ever. And even out of the west, he has kinsmen and influence. The word runs that he and Maud, from their refuge in France, are working away quietly to enlist powerful allies, wherever they see a hope. If that’s true, this civil war is by no means over. Promised enough support, there’ll be a bid for the lady’s cause, soon or late.”

  “Robert has daughters married about the land,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, “and all of them to men of might. One of them to the earl of Chester, I recall. If a few of that measure declared for the empress, you might well have a war on your hands to some purpose.”

  Beringar drew a long face, and then shrugged off the thought. Earl Ranulf of Chester was certainly one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, virtually king himself of an immense palatine where his writ ran, and no other. But for that very reason he was less likely to feel the need to declare for either side in the contention for the throne. Himself supreme, and unlikely ever to be threatened in his own possessions by either Maud or Stephen, he could afford to sit back and watch his own borders, not merely with a view to preserving them intact, rather to extending them. A land at odds with itself offers opportunities, as well as threats.

  “Ranulf will need a lot of persuading, kinsman or no. He’s very well as he is, and if he does move it will be because he sees profit and power in it for himself, and the empress will come a poor second. He’s not the man to risk anything for any cause but his own.”

  Cadfael came out from the hut to sit beside him, drawing grateful breath in the evening coolness, for he had his small brazier burning within, beneath his simmering brew. “That’s better! Now fill me a cup, Hugh, I’m more than ready for it.” And after a long and satisfying draught he said thoughtfully: “There were some fears this disturbed state of things could ruin the fair even this year, but it seems trade keeps on the move while barons skulk in their castles. The prospects are excellent, after all.”

  “For the abbey, perhaps,” agreed Hugh. “The town is less happy about the outlook, from all we heard as we passed through. This new abbot of yours has set the burgesses properly by the ears.”

  “Ah, you’ve heard about that?” Cadfael recounted the course of the argument, in case his friend had caught but one side of it. “They have a case for seeking relief, no question. But so has he for refusing it, and he’s standing firm on his rights. No way round it in law, he’s taking no more than is granted to him. And no less!” he added, and sighed.

  “Feelings are running high in the town,” warned Beringar seriously. “I would not be sure you may not have trouble yet. I doubt if the provost made any too much of their needs. The word in the town is that this may be law, but it is not justice. But what’s the word with you? How are you faring in the new dispensation?”

  “You’ll hear murmurs even within our walls,” admitted Cadfael, “if you keep your ears open. But for my part, I have no complaint. He’s a hard man, but fair, and at least as hard on himself as on others. We’ve been spoiled and easy with Heribert, and the new curb pulled us up pretty sharply, but that’s the sum of it. I have much confidence in the man. He’ll chasten where he sees fault, but he’ll stand by his own against any power where they are threatened blameless. He’s a man I’d be glad to have beside me in any battle.”

  “But his loyalty’s limited to his own?” said Beringar slyly, and cocked a slender black brow.

  “We live in a contentious world,” said Brother Cadfael, who had lived more than half his life in the thick of the battles. “Who says peace would be good for us? I don’t know the man well enough yet to know what’s in his mind. I have not found him limited, but his vows are to his vocation and this house. Give him room and time, Hugh, and we shall see what follows. Time was when I was in two minds, or more, about you!” His voice marvelled and smiled at the thought. “Not very long, however! I shall soon get the measure of Radulfus, too. Hand me the jug, lad, and then I must go and stir this brew for the calves. How long have we yet to Compline?”

  Chapter 2

  ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY the vendors came flooding in, by road and by river. From noon onward the horse-fair was marked out in lots for stalls and booths, and the abbey stewards were standing by to guide pedlars and merchants to their places, and levy the tolls due on the amount of merchandise they brought. A halfpenny for a modest man-load, a penny for a horse-load, from twopence to fourpence for a cart-load, depending on the size and capacity, and higher fees in proportion for the goods unloaded from the river barges that tied up at the temporary landing-stage along the Gaye. The entire length of the Foregate hummed and sparkled with movement and colour and chatter, the abbey barn and stable outside the wall was full, children and dogs ran among the booths and between the wheels of the carts, excited and shrill.

  The discipline of the day’s devotions within the walls was not relaxed, but between offices a certain air of holiday gaiety had entered with the guests, and novices and pupils were allowed to wander and gaze without penalty. Abbot Radulfus held himself aloof, as was due to his dignity, and left the superintendence of the occasion and the collection of tolls to his lay stewards, but for all that he knew everything that was going on, and had measures in mind to deal with any emergency. As soon as the arrival of the first Flemish merchant was reported to him, together with the news that the man had little French, he dispatched Brother Matthew, who had lived for some years in Flanders in his earlier days, and could speak fluent Flemish, to deal with any problems that might arise. If the fine-cloth merchants were coming, there was good reason to afford them every facility, for they were profitable visitors. It was a mark of the significance of the Shrewsbury fair that they should undertake so long a journey from the East Anglian ports where they put in, and find it worth their while to hire carts or horses for the overland pilgrimage.

  The Welsh, of course, would certainly be present in some numbers, but for the most part they would be the local people who had a foot on either side the border, and knew enough English to need no interpreters. It came as a surprise to Brother Cadfael to be intercepted once again as he left the refectory after supper, this time by the steward of the grange court, preoccupied and breathless with business, and told that he was needed at the jetty, to take care of one who spoke nothing but Welsh, and a man of consequence, indeed of self-importance, who would not be fobbed off with the suspect aid of a local Welshman who might well be in competition with him on the morrow.

  “Prior Robert gives you leave, for as long as you’re needed. It’s a fellow by the name of Rhodri ap Huw, from Mold. He’s brought a great load up the Dee, and ported it over to Vrnwy and Severn, which must have cost him plenty.”

  “What manner of goods?” asked Cadfael, as they made for the gatehouse together. His interest was immediate and hearty. Nothing could have suited him better than a sound excuse to be out among the noise and bustle along the Foregate.

  “What looks like a very fine wool-clip, mainly. And also honey and me
ad. And I thought I saw some bundles of hides—maybe from Ireland, if he trades out of the Dee. And there’s the man himself.”

  Rhodri ap Huw stood solid as a rock on the wooden planking of the jetty beside his moored barge, and let the tides of human activity flow round him. The river ran green and still, at a good level for high summer; even boats of deeper draught than usual had made the passage without mishap, and were unloading and unbaling on all sides. The Welshman watched, measuring other men’s bales with shrewd, narrowed dark eyes, and pricing what he saw. He looked about fifty years old, and so assured and experienced that it seemed strange he had never picked up English. Not a tall man, but square-built and powerful, fierce Welsh bones islanded in a thick growth of thorny black hair and beard. His dress, though plain and workmanlike, was of excellent material and well-fitted. He saw the steward hurrying towards him, evidently having carried out his wishes to the letter, and large, white teeth gleamed contentedly from the thicket of the black beard.

  “Here am I, Master Rhodri,” said Cadfael cheerfully, “to keep you company in your own tongue. And my name is Cadfael, at your service for all your present needs.”

  “And very welcome, Brother Cadfael,” said Rhodri ap Huw heartily. “I hope you’ll pardon my fetching you away from your devotions…”

  “I’ll do better. I’ll thank you! A pity to have to miss all this bustle, I can do with a glimpse of the world now and again.”

  Sharp, twinkling eyes surveyed him from head to toe in one swift glance. “You’ll be from the north yourself, I fancy. Mold is where I come from.”

  “Close by Trefriw I was born.”