Read Online Brother Cadfael 19: The Holy Thief by Ellis Peters - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellis Peters
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injury. The wrappings unrolled one after another and were laid aside, and it seemed to Cadfael, watching, that with the removal of each one the swaddled shape, dwindling, assumed a form too rigid and rectangular to match with what he carried devoutly in his mind. But the final padding was thick enough to shroud the delicacies of fashioning he knew so well. Prior Robert reached a hand with ceremonious reverence to take hold of the last fold, and drew it back to uncover what lay within.
He uttered a muted shriek that emerged with startling effect from so august a throat, though it was not loud. He fell back a long, unsteady pace in shock, and then as abruptly started forward again and dragged the rug away, to expose to general view the inexplicable and offensive reality they had manipulated so carefully down from its place of safety. Not the silver-chased reliquary of Saint Winifred, but a log of wood, smaller and shorter than the coffin it had been used to represent, light enough, probably, for one man to handle; and not new, for it had dried and weathered to seasoned ripeness.
All that care and reverence had been wasted. Wherever Saint Winifred was, she was certainly not here.
After the stunned and idiot silence, babble and turmoil broke out on all sides, drawing to the spot others who had heard the strangled cry of dismay, and left their own tasks to come and stare and wonder. Prior Robert stood frozen into an outraged statue, the rug clutched in both hands, glaring at the offending log, and for once stricken dumb. It was his obsequious shadow who lifted the burden of protest for him.
This is some terrible error," blurted Brother Jerome, wringing his hands. "In the confusion... and it grew dark before we were done... Someone mistook, someone moved her elsewhere. We shall find her, safe in one of the lofts..."
"And this?" demanded Prior Robert witheringly, pointing a damning finger at the offence before them. "Thus shrouded, as carefully as ever we did for her? No error! No mistake made in innocence! Someone did this deliberately to deceive! This was laid in her place, to be handled and cherished in her stead. And where now... where is she?"
Some disturbance in the air, some wind of alarm, had caught the scent by then, and carried it through the great court, and minute by minute more openmouthed onlookers were gathering, stray brothers summoned from scattered cleansing duties in the grange court and the stables, sharp-eared guests from their lodgings, a couple of round-eyed, inquisitive schoolboys who were chased away less indulgently than usual by Brother Paul.
"Who last handled her?" suggested Brother Cadfael reasonably. "Someone... more than one... carried her up to Cynric's rooms. Any of you here?"
Brother Rhun came through the press of curious and frightened brothers, the youngest among them, the special protege of his saint, and her most devoted servitor, as every man here knew.
"It was I, with Brother Urien, who wrapped her safely. But to my grief, I was not here when she was moved from her place."
A tall figure came looming over the heads of the nearest brothers, craning to see what was causing the stir. "That was the load from the altar there?" asked B�zet, and thrust his way through to look more closely. "The reliquary, the saint's coffin? And now this ...? But I helped to carry it up to the verger's rooms. It was one of the last things we moved, late in the evening. I was here helping, and one of the brothers, Brother Matthew I've heard him named, called me to give him a hand. And so I did. We hefted her up the stairs and stowed her safely enough." He looked round in search of confirmation, but Brother Matthew the cellarer was not there to speak for himself. "He'll tell you," said B�zet confidently. "And this, a log of wood? Is this what we took such care of?"
"Look at the brychan," said Cadfael, reaching in haste to open it before the man's eyes and spread it wide. "The outer wrapping, look at it
He uttered a muted shriek that emerged with startling effect from so august a throat, though it was not loud. He fell back a long, unsteady pace in shock, and then as abruptly started forward again and dragged the rug away, to expose to general view the inexplicable and offensive reality they had manipulated so carefully down from its place of safety. Not the silver-chased reliquary of Saint Winifred, but a log of wood, smaller and shorter than the coffin it had been used to represent, light enough, probably, for one man to handle; and not new, for it had dried and weathered to seasoned ripeness.
All that care and reverence had been wasted. Wherever Saint Winifred was, she was certainly not here.
After the stunned and idiot silence, babble and turmoil broke out on all sides, drawing to the spot others who had heard the strangled cry of dismay, and left their own tasks to come and stare and wonder. Prior Robert stood frozen into an outraged statue, the rug clutched in both hands, glaring at the offending log, and for once stricken dumb. It was his obsequious shadow who lifted the burden of protest for him.
This is some terrible error," blurted Brother Jerome, wringing his hands. "In the confusion... and it grew dark before we were done... Someone mistook, someone moved her elsewhere. We shall find her, safe in one of the lofts..."
"And this?" demanded Prior Robert witheringly, pointing a damning finger at the offence before them. "Thus shrouded, as carefully as ever we did for her? No error! No mistake made in innocence! Someone did this deliberately to deceive! This was laid in her place, to be handled and cherished in her stead. And where now... where is she?"
Some disturbance in the air, some wind of alarm, had caught the scent by then, and carried it through the great court, and minute by minute more openmouthed onlookers were gathering, stray brothers summoned from scattered cleansing duties in the grange court and the stables, sharp-eared guests from their lodgings, a couple of round-eyed, inquisitive schoolboys who were chased away less indulgently than usual by Brother Paul.
"Who last handled her?" suggested Brother Cadfael reasonably. "Someone... more than one... carried her up to Cynric's rooms. Any of you here?"
Brother Rhun came through the press of curious and frightened brothers, the youngest among them, the special protege of his saint, and her most devoted servitor, as every man here knew.
"It was I, with Brother Urien, who wrapped her safely. But to my grief, I was not here when she was moved from her place."
A tall figure came looming over the heads of the nearest brothers, craning to see what was causing the stir. "That was the load from the altar there?" asked B�zet, and thrust his way through to look more closely. "The reliquary, the saint's coffin? And now this ...? But I helped to carry it up to the verger's rooms. It was one of the last things we moved, late in the evening. I was here helping, and one of the brothers, Brother Matthew I've heard him named, called me to give him a hand. And so I did. We hefted her up the stairs and stowed her safely enough." He looked round in search of confirmation, but Brother Matthew the cellarer was not there to speak for himself. "He'll tell you," said B�zet confidently. "And this, a log of wood? Is this what we took such care of?"
"Look at the brychan," said Cadfael, reaching in haste to open it before the man's eyes and spread it wide. "The outer wrapping, look at it
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