violence, struck down improbably in his own forests.
Sioned's eyes held Cadfael's, above her father's pierced heart. She was a gallant girl, she said never a word, though she had words building up in her ripe for saying, spitting, rather, into Prior Robert's pallid, aristocratic, alabaster face. It was not she who suddenly spoke out. It was Peredur.
"I don't believe it!" He had a fine, clear, vehement voice that rang under the branches. "What, a gentle virgin saint, to take such vengeance on a good man? Yes, a good man, however mistaken! If she had been so pitiless as to want to slay - and I do not believe it of her! - what need would she have of arrows and bows? Fire from heaven would have done her will just as well, and shown her power better. You are looking at a murdered man, Father Prior. A man's hand fitted that arrow, a man's hand drew the bow, and for a man's reason. There must have been others who had a grudge against Rhisiart, others whose plans he was obstructing, besides Saint Winifred. Why blame this killing on her?"
This forthright Welsh sense Cadfael translated into English for Robert's benefit, who had caught the dissenting tone of it, but not the content. "And the young man's right. This arrow never was shot from heaven. Look at the angle of it, up from under his ribs into the heart. Out of the earth, rather! A man with a short bow, on his knee among the bushes? True, the ground slopes, he may even have been lower than Rhisiart, but even so..."
"Avenging saints may make use of earthly instruments," said Robert overbearingly.
"The instrument would still be a murderer," said Cadfael. "There is law in Wales, too. We shall need to send word to the prince's bailiff."
Bened had stood all this time darkly gazing, at the body, at the very slight ooze of blood round the wound, at the jutting shaft with its trimmed feathers. Slowly he said: "I know this arrow. I know its owner, or at least the man whose mark it bears. Where young men are living close together in a household, they mark their own with a distinctive sign, so that there can be no argument. See the tip of the feathering on one side, dyed blue." It was as he said, and at the mention of it several there drew breath hard, knowing the mark as well as he knew it.
"It's Engelard's," said Bened outright, and three or four hushed voices bore him out.
Sioned raised her stricken face, shocked into a false, frozen calm that suddenly melted and crumbled into dread and anger. Rhisiart was dead, there was nothing she could do now for him but mourn and wait, but Engelard was alive and vulnerable, and an outlander, with no kinship to speak for him. She rose abruptly, slender and straight, turning her fierce eyes from face to face all round the circle.
"Engelard is the most trustworthy of all my father's men, and would cut off his own drawing hand rather than loose against my father's life. Who dares say this is his work?"
"I don't say so," said Bened reasonably. "I do say this is marked as his arrow. He is the best shot with the short bow in all this countryside."
"And everybody in Gwytherin knows," spoke up a voice from among the Welshmen, not accusing, only pointing out facts, "that he has quarrelled often and fiercely with Rhisiart, over a certain matter at issue between them."
"Over me," said Sioned harshly. "Say what you mean! I, of all people, know the truth best. Better than you all! Yes, they have had high words many times, on this one matter, and only this, and would have had more, but for all that, these two have understood each other, and neither one of them would ever have done the other harm. Do you think the prize fought over does not get to know the risks to herself and both the combatants? Fight they did, but they thought more highly of each other than either did of any of you, and with good reason."
"Yet who can say," said Peredur in a low voice, "how far a man may step aside even from his own nature, for love?"
She turned and looked at him
Sioned's eyes held Cadfael's, above her father's pierced heart. She was a gallant girl, she said never a word, though she had words building up in her ripe for saying, spitting, rather, into Prior Robert's pallid, aristocratic, alabaster face. It was not she who suddenly spoke out. It was Peredur.
"I don't believe it!" He had a fine, clear, vehement voice that rang under the branches. "What, a gentle virgin saint, to take such vengeance on a good man? Yes, a good man, however mistaken! If she had been so pitiless as to want to slay - and I do not believe it of her! - what need would she have of arrows and bows? Fire from heaven would have done her will just as well, and shown her power better. You are looking at a murdered man, Father Prior. A man's hand fitted that arrow, a man's hand drew the bow, and for a man's reason. There must have been others who had a grudge against Rhisiart, others whose plans he was obstructing, besides Saint Winifred. Why blame this killing on her?"
This forthright Welsh sense Cadfael translated into English for Robert's benefit, who had caught the dissenting tone of it, but not the content. "And the young man's right. This arrow never was shot from heaven. Look at the angle of it, up from under his ribs into the heart. Out of the earth, rather! A man with a short bow, on his knee among the bushes? True, the ground slopes, he may even have been lower than Rhisiart, but even so..."
"Avenging saints may make use of earthly instruments," said Robert overbearingly.
"The instrument would still be a murderer," said Cadfael. "There is law in Wales, too. We shall need to send word to the prince's bailiff."
Bened had stood all this time darkly gazing, at the body, at the very slight ooze of blood round the wound, at the jutting shaft with its trimmed feathers. Slowly he said: "I know this arrow. I know its owner, or at least the man whose mark it bears. Where young men are living close together in a household, they mark their own with a distinctive sign, so that there can be no argument. See the tip of the feathering on one side, dyed blue." It was as he said, and at the mention of it several there drew breath hard, knowing the mark as well as he knew it.
"It's Engelard's," said Bened outright, and three or four hushed voices bore him out.
Sioned raised her stricken face, shocked into a false, frozen calm that suddenly melted and crumbled into dread and anger. Rhisiart was dead, there was nothing she could do now for him but mourn and wait, but Engelard was alive and vulnerable, and an outlander, with no kinship to speak for him. She rose abruptly, slender and straight, turning her fierce eyes from face to face all round the circle.
"Engelard is the most trustworthy of all my father's men, and would cut off his own drawing hand rather than loose against my father's life. Who dares say this is his work?"
"I don't say so," said Bened reasonably. "I do say this is marked as his arrow. He is the best shot with the short bow in all this countryside."
"And everybody in Gwytherin knows," spoke up a voice from among the Welshmen, not accusing, only pointing out facts, "that he has quarrelled often and fiercely with Rhisiart, over a certain matter at issue between them."
"Over me," said Sioned harshly. "Say what you mean! I, of all people, know the truth best. Better than you all! Yes, they have had high words many times, on this one matter, and only this, and would have had more, but for all that, these two have understood each other, and neither one of them would ever have done the other harm. Do you think the prize fought over does not get to know the risks to herself and both the combatants? Fight they did, but they thought more highly of each other than either did of any of you, and with good reason."
"Yet who can say," said Peredur in a low voice, "how far a man may step aside even from his own nature, for love?"
She turned and looked at him
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