Brother Cadfael 03: Monk's Hood

have to bring formal suit for possession, and we would advise that you brief a man of law at once."
    "With respect," said Meurig, paler and brighter than ever, and with hands cupped and curled at his sides, as if he had already filled them with the desired and coveted soil, "there is a provision in Welsh law by which I may take possession even now, before the case is tried. Only the son may do so, but I am the son of this man who is dead. I claim the right of dadanhudd, the right to uncover my father's hearth. Give me the sanction of this court, and I will go, with these elders who uphold my claim, and enter the house which is mine by right."
    Brother Cadfael was so caught into the intensity of this consuming passion that he almost let the just moment slip by him. All his Welsh blood rose in helpless sympathy with so strong a hunger and love for the land, which Meurig's blood would have granted him, but by Norman-English law his birth had denied him. There was almost a nobility about him in this hour, and the bleak force of his longing carried with him judges, witnesses, even Cadfael.
    "It is the court's judgment that your claim is justified," said the president gravely, "and your right to enter the house cannot be denied you. For form's sake we must put it to this assembly, since no notice has been given beforehand. If there is any here who has anything to raise an objection, let him stand forward now, and speak."
    "Yes," said Cadfael, wrenching himself out of his daze with a great effort. "Here is one who has somewhat to say before this sanction is granted. There is an impediment."
    Every head turned to peer and crane and stare. The judges ranged the ranks looking for the source of the voice, for Cadfael was no taller than the majority of his fellow-countrymen, and even his tonsure could be matched by many here conferred by time rather than a cloistered order. Meurig's head had turned with a wild start, his face suddenly fixed and bloodless, his eyes blank. The voice had pierced him like a knife, but he did not recognise it, and for the moment was too blind to be able to mark even the undulation of movement as Cadfael pushed his way clear of the crowd to be seen.
    "You are of the Benedictine order?" said the presiding judge, bewildered, as the sturdy, habited figure emerged and stood in the aisle. "A monk of Shrewsbury? Are you here to speak on behalf of your abbey?"
    "No," said Brother Cadfael. He stood no more than two yards from Meurig now, and the mist of shock and unbelief had cleared from the black, brilliant eyes; they recognised him all too well. "No, I am here to speak on behalf of Gervase Bonel."
    By the brief, contorted struggle of Meurig's throat, he made an attempt to speak, but could not.
    "I do not understand you, brother," said the judge patiently. "Explain yourself. You spoke of an impediment."
    "I am a Welshman," said Cadfael. "I endorse and approve the law of Wales, that says a son is a son, in or out of marriage, and has the same rights though English law may call him a bastard. Yes, a son born out of wedlock may inherit - but not a son who has murdered his father, as this man has."
    He expected uproar, and instead there was such a silence as he had seldom known. The three judges sat rigid and staring, as though turned to stone, and every breath in the church seemed to be held in suspense. By the time they all stirred out of their daze, and turned almost stealthily, almost fearfully, to look at Meurig, he had regained his colour and his hardihood, though at a price. Forehead and high cheekbones had a wet sheen of sweat, and the muscles of his neck were drawn like bow-strings, but he had himself in hand again, he could look his accuser in the face, refrain from hurling himself upon him, even turn from him with dignity and calm to look at the judges, in eloquent protest against a charge he disdained to deny except by silent contempt. And probably, Cadfael reflected ruefully, there are some here who will take for granted that I am an agent sent by my order to prevent, or at least delay, the surrender of Mallilie to its rightful owner. By any means, however base, even by accusing a decent man of murder.
    "This is a most grave charge," said the presiding judge, formidably frowning. "If you are in earnest, you must now stand to it, and make good what you have said, or withdraw."
    "That I will do. My name is Cadfael, a brother of Shrewsbury, and the herbalist who made the oil with which Gervase Bonel