Brother Cadfael 02: One Corpse Too Many

But ask her - as I know she will - to deal generously by the boy who fished it out of the river. So much you will have to tell her. For the rest, for her brother's part, yes, silence, now and always. For her he was only one of the many who chose the unlucky side, and died for it.'
    Beringar took the repaired dagger in his hand, and booked at it long and sombrely. 'Yet this is not justice,' he said slowly. 'You and I between us have forced into the light the truth of one man's sins, and covered up the truth of another's.' This night, for all his gains, he was very grave and a little sad, and not only because all his wounds were stiffening, and all his misused muscles groaning at every movement. The recoil from triumph had him fixing honest eyes on the countenance of failure, the fate he had escaped. 'Is justice due only to the blameless? If he had not been so visited and tempted, he might never have found himself mired to the neck in so much infamy.'
    'We deal with what is,' said Cadfael. 'Leave what might have been to eyes that can see it plain. You take what's lawfully and honourably won, and value and enjoy it. You have that right. Here are you, deputy sheriff of Salop, in royal favour, affianced to as fine a girl as heart could wish, and, the one you set your mind on from the moment you saw her. Be sure I noticed! And if you're stiff and sore in every bone tomorrow - and, lad, you will be! - what's a little disciplinary pain to a young man in your high feather?'
    'I wonder,' said Hugh, brightening, 'where the other two are by now.'
    'Within reach of the Welsh coast, waiting for a ship to carry them coastwise round to France. They'll do well enough.' As between Stephen and Maud, Cadfael felt no allegiance; but these young creatures, though two of them held for Maud and two for Stephen, surely belonged to a future and an England delivered from the wounds of civil war, beyond this present anarchy.
    'As for justice,' said Brother Cadfael thoughtfully, 'it is but half the tale.' He would say a prayer at Compline for the repose of Nicholas Faintree, a clean young man of mind and life, surely now assuaged and at rest. But he would also say a prayer for the soul of Adam Courcelle, dead in his guilt; for every untimely death, every man cut down in his vigour and strength without time for repentance and reparation, is one corpse too many. 'No need,' said Cadfael, 'for you ever to look over your shoulder, or feel any compunction. You did the work that fell to you, and did it well. God disposes all. From the highest to the lowest extreme of a man's scope, wherever justice and retribution can reach him, so can grace.'