Brother Cadfael 09: Dead Man's Ransom

lingered upon the crutch that was laid carelessly aside against the open door of a stall, a good fifty paces from where its owner was working. 'Yes, I see you're about ready to throw it away. You were still using it yesterday, though, unless Brother Rhys was mistaken. He heard you tap your way out for your walk in the garden, or thought he did.'
    'He well might,' said Anion, and shook back his shaggy black mane from his round brown forehead. 'It's habit with me, after so long, even after the need's gone. But when there's a beast to see to, I forget, and leave it behind me in corners.' He turned deliberately, laid an arm over the pony's neck, and led him slowly round on the cobbles to mark his gait. And that was the end of the colloquy.
    Brother Cadfael was fully occupied with his proper duties all that day, but that did not prevent him from giving a great deal of thought to the matter of Gilbert Prestcote's death. The sheriff had long ago requested space for his tomb in the abbey church of which he had been a steady patron and benefactor, and the next day was to see him laid to rest there. But the manner of his death would not allow any rest to those who were left behind him. From his distracted family to the unlucky Welsh suspects and prisoners in the castle, there was no one who did not find his own life disrupted and changed by this death.
    The news was surely making its way about the countryside by this time, from village to village and assart to manor round the shire, and no doubt men and women in the streets of Shrewsbury were busily allotting the blame to this one and that one, with Elis ap Cynan their favourite villain. But they had not seen the minute, bright fragments Cadfael nursed in his little box, or hunted in vain through the precinct for any cloth that could show the identical tints and the twisted gold thread. They knew nothing about the massive gold pin that had vanished from Gilbert's death chamber and could not be found within the pale.
    Cadfael had caught glimpses of Lady Prestcote about the court, moving between the guest-hall and the church, where her husband lay in the mortuary chapel, swathed for his burial. But the girl had not once shown her face. Gilbert the younger, a little bewildered but oblivious of misfortune, played with the child oblates and the two young pupils, and was tenderly shepherded by Brother Paul, the master of the children. At seven years old he viewed with untroubled tolerance the eccentricities of grown-up people, and could make himself at home wherever his mother unaccountably conveyed him. As soon as his father was buried she would certainly take him away from here, to her favourite among her husband's manors, where his life would resume its placid progress untroubled by bereavement.
    A few close acquaintances of the sheriff had begun to arrive and take up residence ready for the morrow. Cadfael lingered to watch them, and fit noble names to the sombre faces. He was thus occupied, on his way to the herbarium, when he observed one unexpected but welcome face entering. Sister Magdalen, on foot and alone, stepped briskly through the wicket, and looked about her for the nearest known face. To judge by her brightening eye and prompt advance, she was pleased that it should be Cadfael's.
    'Well, well!' said Cadfael, going to meet her with equal pleasure. 'We had no thought of seeing you again so soon. Is all well in your forest? No more raiders?'
    'Not so far,' said Sister Magdalen cautiously, 'but I would not say they might not try again, if ever they see Hugh Beringar looking the other way. It must have gone much against the grain with Madog ap Meredith to be bested by a handful of foresters and cottars, he may well want his revenge when he feels it safe to bid for it. But the forest men are keeping a good watch. It's not we who are in turmoil now, it seems. What's this I've been hearing in the town? Gilbert Prestcote dead, and that Welsh youngster I sent you blamed for the deed?'
    'You've been in the town, then? And no stout escort with you this time?'

'Two,' she said, 'but I've left them up in the Wyle, where we shall lie overnight. If it's true the sheriff is to be buried tomorrow I must stay to do him honour among the rest. I'd no thought of such a thing when we set out this morning. I came on quite different business. There's a greatniece of Mother Mariana, daughter to a cloth merchant here in Shrewsbury, who's coming to take the veil among us. A plain child, none