Brother Cadfael 04: St. Peter's Fair

grave moment he spared a long glance for the amicable wrangle going on a score of paces away.
    Then Ivo was there among them, and shaken out of his easy confidence and grace. His face was tense, his dark eyes large and wondering under the proudly raised auburn brows and golden cap of curls. "You wanted me, sir? Hugh has not been specific, but I took it this was urgent matter."
    "It is a matter of a man of yours," said the sheriff.
    "My men?" He shook a doubtful head, and gnawed his lip. "I know of nothing ... Not since Turstan drank himself stiff and stupid, and he's been a penitent and close to home ever since, and he did no harm then to any but himself, the dolt. But they all have leave to go forth, once their work's done. The fair is every man's treat. What's amiss concerning my men?"
    It was left to the sheriff to tell him. Ivo paled visibly as he listened, his ruddy sunburn sallowing. "Then my man is suspect of the killing I brushed arms with - Good God, this very morning! That you may know, his name is Ewald, he comes from a Cheshire manor, and his ancestry is northern, but he never showed ill traits before, though he is a morose man, and makes few friends. I take this hard. I brought him here."
    "You may resolve it," said Prestcote.
    "So I may." His mouth tightened. "And will! About this hour I appointed to ride, my horse has had little exercise here, and he'll be bearing me hence tomorrow. Ewald is the groom who takes care of him. He should be saddling him up in the stables about this time. Shall I send for him? He'll be expecting my summons. No!" he interrupted his own offer, his brows contracting. "Not send for him, go for him myself. If I sent Turstan, there, you might suspect that a servant would stand by a servant, and give him due warning. Do you think he has not been watching us, this short while? And do you think this colloquy has the look of simple talk among us?"
    Assuredly it had not. Turstan, dangling his braced bow, had lost interest in enlightening his rivals, and they, sensing that there was something afoot that did not concern them, were drawing off and moving away, though with discreet backward glances until they vanished into the grange court.
    "I'll go myself," said Ivo, and strode away towards the stable-yard at a great pace. Turstan, hesitant, let him pass, since he got no word out of him in passing, but then turned and hurried on his heels, anxiously questioning. For a little way he followed, and they saw Ivo turn his head and snap some hasty orders at his man. Chastened, Turstan drew back and returned towards the gatehouse, and stood at a loss.
    Some minutes passed before they heard the sharp sound of hooves on the cobbles of the stable-yard, brittle and lively. Then the tall, dusky bay, glowing like the darkest of copper and restive for want of work, danced out of the yard with the stocky, bearded groom holding his bridle, and Ivo stalking a yard or so ahead.
    "Here is my man Ewald," he said shortly, and stood back, as Cadfael noted, between them and the open gateway. Turstan Fowler drew nearer by discreet inches, and silently, sharp eyes flicking from one face to another in quest of understanding. Ewald stood holding the bridle, uneasy eyes narrowed upon Prestcote's unrevealing countenance. When the horse, eager for action, stirred and tossed his head, the groom reached his left hand across to take the bridle, and slid the right one up to the glossy neck, caressing by rote, but without for an instant shifting his gaze.
    "My lord says your honour has something to ask me," he said in a slow and grudging voice.
    Under his left forearm the cobbled mend in his sleeve showed plainly, the cloth puckered between large stitches, and the end of linen thread shivered in sun and breeze like a gnat dancing.
    "Take off your coat," ordered the sheriff. And as the man gaped in real or pretended bewilderment: "No words! Do it!"
    Slowly Ewald slipped out of his coat, somewhat awkwardly because he was at pains to retain his hold on the bridle. The horse had been promised air and exercise, and was straining towards the gate, the way to what he desired. He had already shifted the whole group, except Cadfael, who stood mute and apart, a little nearer the gate.
    "Turn back your sleeve. The left."
    He gave one wild glance round, then lowered his head like a bull, set his jaw, and did it, his right arm through the bridle as he turned up the coarse homespun to the elbow. Brother Mark had bound up the gash in a