Brother Cadfael 09: Dead Man's Ransom

wait,' said Cristina.
    Pointless, thought Cadfael, to attempt to cast any doubt over this new radiance of hers. She had lived in shadow far too long to be intimidated. What was a murder unsolved to her? He doubted if guilt or innocence would make any difference. She had but one aim, nothing would deflect her from it. No question but from childhood she had read her playfellows rightly, known the one who owned the right to her but valued it lightly, and the one who contained the gnawing grief of loving her and knowing her to be pledged to the foster, brother he loved only a little less. Perhaps no less at all, until he grew into the pain of manhood. Girl children are always years older than their brothers at the same age in years, and see more accurately and jealously.
    'Since you are going back,' said Cristina, viewing the activity in the stables with a kindling eye, 'you will see him again. Tell him I am my own woman now, or soon shall be, and can give myself where I will. And I will give myself to no one but him.'
    'I will tell him so,' said Cadfael.
    The yard was alive with men and horses, harness and gear slung on every staple and trestle down the line of stalls. The morning light rose clear and pale over the timber buildings, and the greens of the valley forest were stippled with the pallor of new leafbuds like delicate green veils among the darkness of fir. There was a small wind, enough to refresh without troubling. A good day for riding.
    'Which of these horses is yours?' she asked.
    Cadfael led him forth to be seen, and surrendered him to the groom who came at once to serve.
    'And that great rawboned grey beast? I never saw him before. He should go well, even under a man in armour.'
    'That is Hugh Beringar's favourite,' said Cadfael, recognising the dapple with pleasure. 'And a very ill-conditioned brute towards any other rider. Hugh must have left him resting in Oswestry, or he would not be riding him now.'
    'I see they're saddling up for Einon ab Ithel, too,' she said. 'I fancy he'll be going back to Chirk, to keep an eye on your Beringar's northern border while he's busy elsewhere.' A groom had come out across their path with a draping of harness on one arm and a saddlecloth over the other, and tossed them over a rail while he went back to lead out the horse that would wear them. A very handsome beast, a tall, bright bay that Cadfael remembered seeing in the great court at Shrewsbury. He watched its lively gait with pleasure as the groom hoisted the saddlecloth and flung it over the broad, glossy back, so taken with the horse that he barely noticed the quality of its gear. Fringes to the soft leather bridle, and a tooled browband with tiny studs of gold. There was gold on Einon's land, he recalled. And the saddlecloth itself...
    He fixed and stared, motionless, for an instant holding his breath. A thick, soft fabric of dyed woollens, woven from heavy yarns in a pattern of twining, blossomy sprays, muted red roses, surely faded to that gentle shade, and deep blue irises. Through the centre of the flowers and round the border ran thick, crusted gold threads. It was not new, it had seen considerable wear, the wool had rubbed into tight balls here and there, some threads had frayed, leaving short, fine strands quivering.
    No need even to bring out for comparison the little box in which he kept his captured threads. Now that he saw these tints at last he knew them past any doubt. He was looking at the very thing he had sought, too well known here, too often seen and too little regarded, to stir any man's memory.
    He knew, moreover, instantly and infallibly, the meaning of what he saw.
    He said never a word to Cristina of what he knew, as they walked back together. What could he say? Better by far keep all to himself until he could see his way ahead, and knew what he must do. Not one word to any, except to Owain Gwynedd, when he took his leave.
    'My lord,' he said then, 'I have heard it reported of you that you have said, concerning the death of Gilbert Prestcote, that the only ransom for a murdered man is the life of the murderer. Is that truly reported? Must there be another death? Welsh law allows for the paying of a blood, price, to prevent the prolonged bloodshed of a feud. I do not believe you have forsaken Welsh for Norman law.'
    'Gilbert Prestcote did not live by Welsh law,' said Owain, eyeing him very keenly. 'I cannot ask him to die by it. Of what value is a payment in goods or cattle to his widow and