Table Of ContentThe
Heretic’s Apprentice
The Sixteenth Chronicle of Brother Cadfael, of the
Benedictine Abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury
Ellis Peters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
ON THE NINETEENTH DAY OF JUNE, when the eminent
visitor arrived, Brother Cadfael was in the abbot’s garden,
trimming off dead roses. It was a task Abbot Radulfus kept
jealously to himself in the ordinary way, for he was proud of his
roses, and valued the brief moments he could spend with them,
but in three more days the house would be celebrating the
anniversary of the translation of Saint Winifred to her shrine in
the church, and the preparations for the annual influx of
pilgrims and patrons were occupying all his time, and keeping
all his obedientiaries busy into the bargain. Brother Cadfael,
who had no official function, was for once allowed to take over
the dead-heading in his place, the only brother privileged to be
trusted with the abbatial blossoms, which must be immaculate
and bright for the saint’s festival, like everything else within
the enclave.
This year there would be no ceremonial procession all the
way from Saint Giles, at the edge of the town, as there had
been two years previously, in 1141. There her relics had rested
while proper preparation was made to receive them, and on the
great day, Cadfael remembered, the threatened rain had fallen
all around, yet never a drop had spattered her reliquary or its
attendants, or doused the candles that accompanied her erect
as lances, undisturbed by the wind. Small miracles followed
wherever Winifred passed, as flowers sprang in the footsteps of
Welsh Olwen in the legend. Great miracles came more rarely,
but Winifred could manifest her power where it was deserved.
They had good reason to know and be glad of that, both far
away in Gwytherin, the scene of her ministry, and here in
Shrewsbury. This year the celebrations would remain within
the enclave, but there would still be room enough for wonders,
if the saint had a mind to it.
The pilgrims were already arriving for the festival, in such
numbers that Cadfael hardly spared a look or an ear for the
steady bustle far up the great court, round the gatehouse and
the guest hall, or the sound of hooves on the cobbles, as
grooms led the horses down into the stableyard. Brother Denis
the hospitaler would have a full house to accommodate and
feed, even before the festival day itself, when the townsfolk and
the villagers from miles around would flood in for worship.
It was only when Prior Robert was seen to round the corner
of the cloister at the briskest walk his dignity would permit,
and head purposefully for the abbot’s lodging, that Cadfael
paused in his leisurely trimming of spent flowers to note the
event, and speculate. Robert’s austere long visage had the look
of an angel sent on an errand of cosmic importance, and
endowed with the authority of the superb being who had sent
him. His silver tonsure shone in the sun of early afternoon, and
his thin patrician nose probed ahead, sniffing glory.
We have a more than ordinarily important visitor, thought
Cadfael. And he followed the prior’s progress into the doorway
of the abbot’s lodging with interest, not greatly surprised to
see the abbot himself issue forth a few minutes later, and set
off up the court with Robert striding at his side. Two tall men,
much of a height, the one all smooth, willowy elegance,
carefully cultivated, the other all bone and sinew and hard,
undemonstrative intelligence. It had been a severe blow to
Prior Robert when he was passed over in favor of a stranger, to
fill the vacancy left by the deposition of Abbot Heribert, but he
had not given up hope. And he was durable, he might even
outlive Radulfus and come into his own at last. Not, prayed
Cadfael devoutly, for many years yet.
He had not long to wait before Abbot Radulfus and his visitor
came down the court together, in the courteous and wary
conversation of strangers measuring each other at first
meeting. Here was a guest of too great and probably too
private significance to be housed in the guest hall, even among
the nobility. A man almost as tall as Radulfus, and in all but the
shoulders twice his width, well fleshed and portly almost to fat,
and yet it was powerful and muscular flesh, too. At first glance
his was a face rounded and glossy with good living, full-lipped,
full-cheeked, and self-indulgent. At second glance the lips set
into a formidable and intolerant strength, the fleshy chin was
seen to clothe a determined jaw, and the eyes in their slightly
puffy settings had nevertheless a sharp and critical
intelligence. His head was uncovered, and wore the tonsure;
otherwise Cadfael, who had never seen him before, would have
taken him for some baron or earl of the king’s court, for his
clothing, but for its somber colors of dark crimson and black,
had a lordly splendor about its cut and its ornament, a long,
rich gown, full-skirted but slashed almost to the waist before
and behind for riding, its gold-hemmed collar open in the
summer weather upon a fine linen shirt, and a gold-linked
chain and cross that circled a thick, muscular throat. Doubtless
there was a body servant or a groom somewhere at hand to
relieve him of the necessity of carrying cloak or baggage of any
kind, even the gloves he had probably stripped off on
dismounting. The pitch of his voice, heard distantly as the two
prelates entered the lodging and vanished from sight, was low
and measured, and yet held a suggestion of current
displeasure.
In a few moments Cadfael saw the possible reason for that. A
groom came down the court from the gatehouse leading two
horses to the stables, a solid brown cob, most likely his own
mount, and a big, handsome black beast with white stockings,
richly caparisoned. No need to ask whose. The impressive
harness, scarlet saddle cloth, and ornamented bridle made all
plain. Two more men followed with their less decorated
horseflesh in hand, and a packhorse into the bargain, well
loaded. This was a cleric who did not travel without the
comforts to which he was accustomed. But what might well
have brought that note of measured irritation into his voice was
that the black horse, the only one of the party worthy to do
justice to his rider’s state, if not the only one fitted to carry his
weight, went lame in the left foreleg. Whatever his errand and
destination, the abbot’s guest would be forced to prolong his
stay here for a few days, until that injury healed.
Cadfael finished his clipping and carried away the basket of
fading heads into the garden, leaving the hum and activity of
the great court behind. The roses had begun to bloom early, by
reason of fine, warm weather. Spring rains had brought a good
hay crop, and June, ideal conditions for gathering it. The
shearing was almost finished, and the wool dealers were
reckoning up hopefully the value of their clips. Saint Winifred’s
modest pilgrims, coming on foot, would have dry traveling and
warm lying, even out-of-doors. Her doing, perhaps? Cadfael
could well believe that if the Welsh girl smiled, the sun would
shine on the borders.
The earlier sown of the two pease fields that sloped down
from the rim of the garden to the Meole brook had already
ripened and been harvested, ten days of sun bringing on the
pods very quickly. Brother Winfrid, a hefty, blue-eyed young
giant, was busy digging in the roots to feed the soil, while the
haulms, cropped with sickles, lay piled at the edge of the field,
drying for fodder and bedding. The hands that wielded the
spade were huge and brown, and looked as if they should have
been clumsy, but in fact were as deft and delicate in handling
Cadfael’s precious glass vessels and brittle dried herbs as they
were powerful and effective with mattock and spade.
Within the walled herb garden the drowning sweetness hung
heavy, spiced and warm. Weeds can enjoy good growing
weather no less than the herbs on which they encroach, and
there was always work to be done at this season. Cadfael
tucked up his habit and set to work on his knees, close to the
warm earth, with the heady fragrance disturbed and quivering
round him like invisible wings, and the sun caressing his back.
He was still at it, though in a happy languor that made no
haste, rather luxuriating in the touch of leaf and root and soil,
when Hugh Beringar came looking for him two hours later.
Cadfael heard the light, springy step on the gravel, and sat
back on his heels to watch his friend’s approach. Hugh smiled
at seeing him on his knees.
“Am I in your prayers?”
“Constantly,” said Cadfael gravely. “A man has to work at it in
so stubborn a case.”
He crumbled a handful of warm, dark earth between his
hands, dusted his palms, and Hugh gave him a hand to help
him rise. There was a good deal more steel in the young
sheriff’s slight body and slender wrist than anyone would
suppose. Cadfael had known him for five years only, but drawn
nearer to him than to many he had rubbed shoulders with all
the twenty-three years of his monastic life. “And what are you
doing here?” he demanded briskly. “I thought you were north
among your own lands, getting in the hay.”
“So I was, until yesterday. The hay’s in, the shearing’s done,
and I’ve brought Aline and Giles back to the town. Just in time
to be summoned to pay my respects to some grand magnate
who’s visiting here, and is none too pleased about it. If his
horse hadn’t fallen lame he’d still be on his way to Chester.
Have you not a drink, Cadfael, for a thirsty man? Though why I
should be parched,” he added absently, “when he did all the
talking, is more than I know.”
Cadfael had a wine of his own within the workshop, new but
fit to drink. He brought a jug of it out into the sunshine, and
they sat down together on the bench against the north wail of
the garden, to sun themselves in unashamed idleness.
“I saw the horse,” said Cadfael. “He’ll be days yet before he’s
fit to take the road to Chester. I saw the man, too, if it’s he the
abbot made haste to welcome. By the sound of it he was not
expected. If he’s in haste to get to Chester he’ll need a fresh
horse, or more patience than I fancy he possesses.”
“Oh, he’s reconciled. Radulfus may have him on his hands a
week or more yet. If he made for Chester now he wouldn’t find
his man there, there’s no haste. Earl Ranulf is on the Welsh
border, fending off another raid from Gwynedd. Owain will
keep him busy a while.”
“And who is this cleric on his way to Chester?” asked Cadfael
curiously. “And what did he want with you?”
“Well, being frustrated himself—until I told him there was no
hurry, for the earl was away riding his borders—he had a mind
to be as busy a nuisance to all about him as possible. Send for
the sheriff, at least exact the reverence due! But there is a
grain of purpose in it, too. He wanted whatever information I
had about the whereabouts and intentions of Owain Gwynedd,
and especially he wished to know how big a threat our Welsh
prince is being to Earl Ranulf, how glad the earl might be to
have some help in the matter, and how willing he might be to
pay for it in kind.”
“In the king’s interests,” Cadfael deduced, after a moment of
frowning thought. “Is he one of Bishop Henry’s familiars,
then?”
“Not he! Stephen’s making wise use of the archbishop for
once, instead of his brother of Winchester. Henry’s busy
elsewhere. No, your guest is one Gerbert, of the Augustinian
canons of Canterbury, a big man in the household of
Archbishop Theobald. His errand is to make a cautious gesture
of peace and goodwill to Earl Ranulf, whose loyalty—to
Stephen’s or any side!—is never better than shaky, but might
be secured—or Stephen hopes it might!—on terms of mutual
gain. You give me full and fair support there in the north, and
I’ll help you hold off Owain Gwynedd and his Welshmen.
Stronger together than apart!”
Cadfael’s bushy eyebrows were arched towards his grizzled
tonsure. “What, when Ranulf is still holding Lincoln castle, in
Stephen’s despite? Yes, and other royal castles he holds
illegally? Has Stephen shut his eyes to that fashion of support
and friendship?”
“Stephen has forgotten nothing. But he’s willing to dissemble
if it will keep Ranulf quiet and complacent for a few months.
There’s more than one unchancy ally getting too big for his
boots,” said Hugh. “I fancy Stephen has it in mind to deal with
one at a time, and there’s one at least is a bigger threat than
Ranulf of Chester. He’ll get his due, all in good time, but
there’s one Stephen has more against than a few purloined
castles, and it’s worth buying Chester’s complacence until
Essex is dealt with.”
“You sound certain of what’s in the king’s mind,” said
Cadfael mildly.
“As good as certain, yes. I saw how the man bore himself at
court, last Christmas. A stranger might have doubted which
among us was the king. Easygoing Stephen may be, meek he is
not. And there were rumors that the earl of Essex was
bargaining again with the empress while she was in Oxford, but
changed his mind when the siege went against her. He’s been
back and forth between the two of them times enough already.
I think he’s near the end of his rope.”
“And Ranulf is to be placated until his fellow Earl has been
dealt with.” Cadfael rubbed dubiously at his blunt brown nose,
and thought that over for a moment in silence. “That seems to
me more like the bishop of Winchester’s way of thinking than
King Stephen’s,” he said warily.
“So it may be. And perhaps that’s why the king is using one
of Canterbury’s household for this errand, and not
Winchester’s. Who’s to suspect that any motion of Henry’s
mind could be lurking behind Archbishop Theobald’s hand?
There isn’t a man in the policies of king or empress who
doesn’t know how little love’s lost between the two.”
Cadfael could not well deny the truth of that. The enmity
dated back five years, to the time when the archbishopric of
Canterbury had been vacant, after William of Corbeil’s death,
and King Stephen’s younger brother, Henry, had cherished
confident pretensions to the office, which he certainly regarded
as no more than his due. His disappointment was acute when
Pope Innocent gave the appointment instead to Theobald of
Bec, and Henry made his displeasure so clear and the influence
he could bring to bear so obvious that Innocent, either in a
genuine wish to recognize his undoubted ability or in pure
exasperation and malice, had given him, by way of consolation,
the papal legateship in England, thus making him in fact
superior to the archbishop, a measure hardly calculated to
endear either of them to the other. Five years of dignified but
fierce contention had banked the fires. No, no suspect earl
approached by an intimate of Theobald’s was likely to look
