Brother Cadfael 04: St. Peter's Fair

his words with care, "that he had been concerned in murder, most likely with at least one other man."
    "Then harsh though it may be, this was justice." He caught the heaviness of Cadfael's silence, and looked up sharply. "You are not satisfied?"
    "That the man took part in murder, yes, I am satisfied. The proofs are clear. But what is justice? If there were two, and one bears all, and the other goes free, is that justice? I am certain in my soul that there is more, not yet known."
    "And tomorrow all these people will depart about their own affairs, to their own homes and shops, wherever they may be. The guilty and the innocent alike. That cannot be the will of God," said the abbot, and brooded a while in silence. "Nevertheless, it may be God's will that it should be taken out of our hands. Continue your vigil, brother, through the morrow. After that others, elsewhere, must take up the burden."
    Brother Mark sat on the edge of his cot, in his cell in the dortoir, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and grieved. From a child he had lived a hard life, privation, brutality and pain were all known to him as close companions until he came into this retreat, at first unwilling. But death was too monstrous and too dark for him, coming thus instant in terror, and without the possibility of grace. To live misused, ill-fed, without respite from labour, was still life, with a sky above it, and trees and flowers and birds around it, colour and season and beauty. Life, even so lived, was a friend. Death was a stranger.
    "Child, it is with us always," said Cadfael, patient beside him. "Last summer ninety-five men died here in the town, none of whom had done murder. For choosing the wrong side, they died. It falls upon blameless women in war, even in peace at the hands of evil men. It falls upon children who never did harm to any, upon old men, who in their lives have done good to many, and yet are brutally and senselessly slain. Never let it shake your faith that there is a balance hereafter. What you see is only a broken piece from a perfect whole."
    "I know," said Brother Mark between his fingers, loyal but uncomforted. "But to be cut off without trial ..."
    "So were the ninety-four last year," said Cadfael gently, "and the ninety-fifth was murdered. Such justice as we see is also but a broken shred. But it is our duty to preserve what we may, and fit together such fragments as we find, and take the rest on trust."
    "And unshriven!" cried Brother Mark.
    "So went his victim also. And he had neither robbed nor killed, or if he had, only God knows of it. There has many a man gone through that gate without a safe-conduct, who will reach heaven ahead of some who were escorted through with absolution and ceremony, and had their affairs in order. Kings and princes of the church may find shepherds and serfs preferred before them, and some who claim they have done great good may have to give place to poor wretches who have done wrong and acknowledge it, and have tried to make amends."
    Brother Mark sat listening, and at least began to hear. Humbly he recognised and admitted the real heart of his grievance. "I had his arm between my hands, I saw him wince when I cleansed his wound, and I felt his pain. It was only a small pain, but I felt it. I was glad to help him, it was pleasure to anoint the cut with balm, and wrap it clean, and know he was eased. And now he's dead, with a cross-bow bolt through him ..." Briefly and angrily, Brother Mark brushed away tears, and uncovered his accusing face. "What is the use of mending a man, if he's to be broken within a few hours, past mending?"
    "We were speaking of souls," said Cadfael mildly, "not mere bodies, and who knows but your touch with ointment and linen may have mended to better effect the one that lasts the longer? There's no arrow cleaves the soul but there may be balm for it."
    Chapter Five
    Head-down on his own traces, Philip had run his friend John Norreys to earth at last at the butts by the riverside, where the budding archers of the town practised, and together they hunted out Edric Flesher's young journeyman from the yard behind his master's shop. Philip's odyssey on the eve of the fair had begun with these two, who had had him bundled into their arms by Brother Cadfael when the sheriff's men descended on the Gaye.
    By their own account, they had hauled him away through the orchards and the narrow lanes behind the Foregate, avoiding the highroads, and sat him