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
Bénezet, 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 Bénezet
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 closely. Did you see it
clearly when you had the load in your hands? Is this the same?” By chance it
was Welsh woollen cloth, patterned in a regular array of crude four-petalled
flowers in a dim blue; many of its kind found their way into English homes
through the market of Shrewsbury. It was worn thin in places, but had been of a
solid, heavy weave, and bound at the edges with flax. Bénezet said without
hesitation: “The same.”
“You
are certain? It was late in the evening, you say. The altar was still lighted?”
“I’m
certain.” Bénezet’s long lips delivered his certainty like an arrow launched.
“I saw the weave plainly. This is what we lifted and carried, that night, and
who was to know what was inside the brychans?”
Brother
Rhun uttered a small, grievous sound, more a sob than a cry, and came forward
almost fearfully to touch and feel, afraid to trust his eyes, young and clear
and honest though they might be.
“But
it is not the same,” he said in a muted whisper, “in which Brother Urien and I
wrapped her, earlier that day, before noon. We left her ready on her altar,
with a plain blanket bound round her, and an old, frayed altarcloth stretched
over her. Brother Richard let us take it, as fitting her holiness. It was a
beautiful one, great love went into the embroidery. That was her coverlet. This
is no way the same. What this good man
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
Bénezet, 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 Bénezet
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 closely. Did you see it
clearly when you had the load in your hands? Is this the same?” By chance it
was Welsh woollen cloth, patterned in a regular array of crude four-petalled
flowers in a dim blue; many of its kind found their way into English homes
through the market of Shrewsbury. It was worn thin in places, but had been of a
solid, heavy weave, and bound at the edges with flax. Bénezet said without
hesitation: “The same.”
“You
are certain? It was late in the evening, you say. The altar was still lighted?”
“I’m
certain.” Bénezet’s long lips delivered his certainty like an arrow launched.
“I saw the weave plainly. This is what we lifted and carried, that night, and
who was to know what was inside the brychans?”
Brother
Rhun uttered a small, grievous sound, more a sob than a cry, and came forward
almost fearfully to touch and feel, afraid to trust his eyes, young and clear
and honest though they might be.
“But
it is not the same,” he said in a muted whisper, “in which Brother Urien and I
wrapped her, earlier that day, before noon. We left her ready on her altar,
with a plain blanket bound round her, and an old, frayed altarcloth stretched
over her. Brother Richard let us take it, as fitting her holiness. It was a
beautiful one, great love went into the embroidery. That was her coverlet. This
is no way the same. What this good man
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