Brother Cadfael 04: St. Peter's Fair

as foolish as he had been dreading, and the archer's account of his behaviour had not been at all exaggerated.
    "And was I yelling vengeance against the man who struck me? That's what they said of me."
    "Well, now, I wouldn't go so far as that, and yet it's not too far off the mark, either. Let's say you were not greatly loving him, and no wonder, we could all see the dunt he'd given you. Arrogant and greedy you called him, and a few other things I don't recall, and mark your words, you kept telling us, pride like his was due for a disastrous fall, and soon. That must be what they had in mind who witnessed against you. I never heard word of any going to this hearing from my tavern, not until afterwards. Who were they that testified, then?"
    "It was one man," said Philip. "Not that I can blame him, it seems he told no lies - indeed, I never thought he had, I know I was the world's fool that night."
    "Why, bless you, lad, with a cracked head a man's liable to act like one cracked, he has the right. But who's this one man? What with all the incomers at the fair, I had more strangers than known customers of these evenings."
    "It was a man attending one of the abbey guests," said Philip. "Turstan Fowler, they said his name was. He said he was here drinking, and went from ale to wine, and then to strong liquor - it seems he ended up as drunk as I was myself, they took him up helpless later, and slung him into a cell at the abbey overnight. A well-set-up fellow, but slouching and unkempt when I saw him in the court. About thirty-five years old, at a guess, sunburned, a bush of brown hair ..."
    Wat shook his head, pondering the description. "I don't know him, not by that, though I've got a rare memory for faces. An ale-house keeper has to have. Ah, well, if he's a stranger he'd no call to give false witness, I suppose he was but honest, and put the worst meaning on your bletherings for want of knowing you."
    "What time was it when I left here?" Philip winced ever at the recollection of the departure, sudden and desperate, with churning stomach and swimming head, and both hands clamped hard over his grimly locked jaw. Barely time to weave a frantic way across the road and into the edge of the copse beyond, where he had heaved his heart out, and then blundered some distance further in cover towards the orchards of the Gaye, and collapsed shivering and retching into the grass, to pass into a sodden sleep. He had not dragged himself out of it until the small hours.
    "Why, reckoning from Compline, I'd say an hour had passed, it would be about nine of the clock."
    Thomas of Bristol had set out from his booth to return to his barge only a quarter of an hour or so later. And someone, someone unknown, had intercepted him on the way, dagger in hand. No wonder the law had looked so narrowly at Philip Corviser, who had reason to resent and hate, and had blundered out of sight and sound of other men around that time, after venting his grievance aloud for all to hear.
    Wat rose to go and cope with the custom that was overwhelming his two potboys, and Philip sat brooding with his chin on his fist. Most of the flares must be out by now along the Foregate, most of the stalls packed up and ready for departure. Another balmy summer night, heaven dropping fat blessings on the abbey receipts and the profits of trade, after a lost summer of warfare and a winter of uncertainty. And the town walls still unrepaired, and the streets still broken!
    The door stood propped wide on the warm, luminous twilight, and the traffic in and out was brisk. Youngsters came with jugs and pitchers to fetch for their elders, maids tripped in for a measure of wine for their masters, labourers and abbey servants wandered in to slake their thirst between spells of work. Saint Peter's Fair was drawing to its contented and successful close.
    Through the open door came a fresh-faced youngster in a fine leather jerkin, and on his heels a sturdy, brown-faced man at least fifteen years older, in the same good livery. It took Philip a long moment of staring to recognise Turstan Fowler, sober, well-behaved, in good odour with his lord and all the world. Still longer to cause him to reflect afresh how he himself must have looked, drunk, if the difference could stretch so far. He watched the little potboy serve them. Wat was busy with others, and the room was full. The end of the fair was always a busy time. Another day, and these same hours would hang heavy and dark.
    Philip