rage."
"And you've both been hiding since then? You've not been home?"
"He couldn't, could he? They'll be watching for him. And I had to stay with him. We had to leave the woodyard, we knew they'd come there. But there are places we know of. And then Alys came and told us about you."
"And that's the whole truth," said Edwin. "And now what are we to do?"
"First," said Cadfael, "let me get this brew of mine off the fire, and stand it to cool before I bottle it. There! You got in here, I suppose, by the parish door of the church, and through the cloisters?" The west door of the abbey church was outside the walls, and never closed except during the bad days of the siege of the town, that part of the church being parochial. "And followed your noses, I daresay, once you were in the gardens. This syrup-boiling gives off a powerful odour."
"It smells good," said Edwy, and his respectful stare ranged the workshop, and the bunches and bags of dried herbs stirring and rustling gently in the rising heat from the brazier.
"Not all my medicines smell so appetising. Though myself I would not call even this unpleasant. Powerful, certainly, but a fine, clean smell." He unstoppered the great jar of anointing oil of monk's-hood, and tilted the neck beneath Edwin's inquisitive nose. The boy blinked at the sharp scent, drew back his head, and sneezed. He looked up at Cadfael with an open face, and laughed at his own pricked tears. Then he leaned cautiously and inhaled again, and frowned thoughtfully.
"It smells like that stuff Meurig was using to rub the old man's shoulder. Not this morning, the last time I came with him. There was a flask of it in the infirmary cupboard. Is it the same?"
"It is," said Cadfael, and hoisted the jar back to its shelf. The boy's face was quite serene, the odour meant nothing more to him than a memory blessedly removed from any connection with tragedy and guilt. For Edwin, Gervase Bonel had died, inexplicably suddenly, of some armed attack, and the only guilt he felt was because he had lost his temper, infringed his own youthful dignity, and made his mother cry. Cadfael no longer had any doubts at all. The child was honest as the day, and caught in a deadly situation, and above all, badly in need of friends.
He was also very quick and alert of mind. The diversion began to trouble him just as it was over. "Brother Cadfael ..." he began hesitantly, the name new and almost reverent on his lips, not for this elderly and ordinary monk, but for the crusader Cadfael he had once been, fondly remembered even by a happy and fulfilled wife and mother, who had certainly much exaggerated his good looks, gallantry and daring. "You knew about my going to the infirmary with Meurig ... you asked Edwy about it. I couldn't understand why. Is it important? Has it something to do with my stepfather's death? I can't see how."
"That you can't see how, child," said Brother Cadfael, "is your proof of an innocence we may have difficulty in proving to others, though I accept it absolutely. Sit down again by your nephew - dear God, shall I ever get these relationships straight? - and refrain from fighting him for a little while, till I explain to you what isn't yet public knowledge outside these walls. Yes, your two visits to the infirmary are truly of great importance, and so is this oil you have seen used there, though I must say that many others know of it, and are better acquainted than you with its properties, both bad and good. You must forgive me if I gave you to understand that Master Bonel was hacked down in his blood with dagger or sword. And forgive me you should, since in accepting that tale you quite delivered yourselves from any guilt, at least to my satisfaction. It was not so, boys. Master Bonel died of poison, given in the dish the prior sent him, and the poison was this same oil of monk's-hood. Whoever added it to the partridge drew it either from this workshop or from the flask in the infirmary, and all who knew of
"And you've both been hiding since then? You've not been home?"
"He couldn't, could he? They'll be watching for him. And I had to stay with him. We had to leave the woodyard, we knew they'd come there. But there are places we know of. And then Alys came and told us about you."
"And that's the whole truth," said Edwin. "And now what are we to do?"
"First," said Cadfael, "let me get this brew of mine off the fire, and stand it to cool before I bottle it. There! You got in here, I suppose, by the parish door of the church, and through the cloisters?" The west door of the abbey church was outside the walls, and never closed except during the bad days of the siege of the town, that part of the church being parochial. "And followed your noses, I daresay, once you were in the gardens. This syrup-boiling gives off a powerful odour."
"It smells good," said Edwy, and his respectful stare ranged the workshop, and the bunches and bags of dried herbs stirring and rustling gently in the rising heat from the brazier.
"Not all my medicines smell so appetising. Though myself I would not call even this unpleasant. Powerful, certainly, but a fine, clean smell." He unstoppered the great jar of anointing oil of monk's-hood, and tilted the neck beneath Edwin's inquisitive nose. The boy blinked at the sharp scent, drew back his head, and sneezed. He looked up at Cadfael with an open face, and laughed at his own pricked tears. Then he leaned cautiously and inhaled again, and frowned thoughtfully.
"It smells like that stuff Meurig was using to rub the old man's shoulder. Not this morning, the last time I came with him. There was a flask of it in the infirmary cupboard. Is it the same?"
"It is," said Cadfael, and hoisted the jar back to its shelf. The boy's face was quite serene, the odour meant nothing more to him than a memory blessedly removed from any connection with tragedy and guilt. For Edwin, Gervase Bonel had died, inexplicably suddenly, of some armed attack, and the only guilt he felt was because he had lost his temper, infringed his own youthful dignity, and made his mother cry. Cadfael no longer had any doubts at all. The child was honest as the day, and caught in a deadly situation, and above all, badly in need of friends.
He was also very quick and alert of mind. The diversion began to trouble him just as it was over. "Brother Cadfael ..." he began hesitantly, the name new and almost reverent on his lips, not for this elderly and ordinary monk, but for the crusader Cadfael he had once been, fondly remembered even by a happy and fulfilled wife and mother, who had certainly much exaggerated his good looks, gallantry and daring. "You knew about my going to the infirmary with Meurig ... you asked Edwy about it. I couldn't understand why. Is it important? Has it something to do with my stepfather's death? I can't see how."
"That you can't see how, child," said Brother Cadfael, "is your proof of an innocence we may have difficulty in proving to others, though I accept it absolutely. Sit down again by your nephew - dear God, shall I ever get these relationships straight? - and refrain from fighting him for a little while, till I explain to you what isn't yet public knowledge outside these walls. Yes, your two visits to the infirmary are truly of great importance, and so is this oil you have seen used there, though I must say that many others know of it, and are better acquainted than you with its properties, both bad and good. You must forgive me if I gave you to understand that Master Bonel was hacked down in his blood with dagger or sword. And forgive me you should, since in accepting that tale you quite delivered yourselves from any guilt, at least to my satisfaction. It was not so, boys. Master Bonel died of poison, given in the dish the prior sent him, and the poison was this same oil of monk's-hood. Whoever added it to the partridge drew it either from this workshop or from the flask in the infirmary, and all who knew of
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