A Rare Benedictine by Ellis Peters Page A

great blank between.
    “You
think the fellow must have been hiding behind that yard-door, lying in wait?”
    “So
it seems.”
    “And
you caught never a glimpse? Never had time to turn your head? You can tell us
nothing to trace him? Not even a guess at his build? His age?”
    Nothing.
Simply, there had been early dusk before him, his own steps the only sound, no
man in sight between the high walls of gardens, yards and warehouses going down
to the river, and then the shock of the blow, and abrupt darkness. He was
growing tired again, but his mind was clear enough. There would be no more to
get from him.
    Brother
Edmund came in, eyed his patient, and silently nodded the visitors out at the
door, to leave him in peace. Eddi kissed his father’s dangling hand, but
brusquely, rather as though he would as lief have bitten it, and marched out to
blink at the sunlight in the great court. With a face grimly defiant he waited
for the sergeant’s dismissal.
    “I
left him as I told you, I went to the butts, and played into a wager there, and
shot well. You’ll want names from me. I can give them. And I’m still short the
half of my fine, for what that’s worth. I knew nothing of this until I went
home, and that was late, after your messenger had been there. Can I go home?
I’m at your disposal.”
    “You
can,” granted the sergeant, so readily that it was clear the young man would
not be unwatched on the way, or on arrival. “And there stay, for I shall want
more from you than merely names. I’m away to take their tales from the lay
brothers who were working late at the Gaye yesterday, but I’ll not be long
after you in the town.”
    The
workers were already assembling in the court and moving off to their day’s
labour. The sergeant strode forth to find his men, and left Eddi glowering
after him, and Cadfael mildly observing the wary play of thought in the dark
young face. Not a bad-looking lad, if he would wear a sunnier visage; but
perhaps at this moment he had little cause.
    “He
will truly be a hale man again?” he asked suddenly, turning his black gaze on
Cadfael.
    “As
whole and hearty as ever he was.”
    “And
you’ll take good care of him?”
    “So
we will,” agreed Cadfael innocently, “even though he may be a cantankerous
worrit and a plague.”
    “I
‘m sure none of you here have any call to say so,” flashed the young man with
abrupt ferocity. “The abbey has had loyal and solid service from him all these
years, and owes him more thanks than abuse.” And he turned his back and stalked
away out of the great court, leaving Cadfael looking after him with a
thoughtful face and the mere trace of a smile.
    He
was careful to wipe off the smile before he went back to Master William, who
was in no mood to take himself, his son and his troubles anything but
seriously. He lay trying to blink and frown away his headache, and fulminating
about his offspring in a glum undertone.
    “You
see what I have to complain of, who should be able to look for comfort and
support at home. A wild, unbiddable good-for-nothing, and insolent into the
bargain...”
    “So
he is,” agreed Cadfael sympathetically, wooden-faced. “No wonder you mean to
let him pay for his follies in prison, and small blame to you.” He got an acid
glare as reward. “I shall do no such thing!” snapped Master William sharply.
“The boy’s no worse than you or I at his age, I daresay. Nothing wrong with him
that time won’t cure.”
    Master
William’s disaster, it seemed, had shaken the serenity of the abbey from choir
to guest-hall. The enquiries were many and assiduous. Young Jacob had been
hopping about outside the infirmary from dawn, unable to tear himself away even
to the duties he owed his injured master, until Cadfael had taken pity on his
obvious anxiety, and stopped to tell him that there was no need for such
distress, for the worst was over, and all would be well with