Brother Cadfael 13: The Rose Rent

about in failing to find Judith Perle, close to the end of this second day of searching for her?
    "My lord," said the older sergeant, laying a hand to hold the boat still and inshore, "we've been over well-nigh every tuft of grass between these two reaches of the river, both sides, and nothing to be found, nor a soul who owns to knowing anything."
    "I've done no better," said Hugh resignedly, "except that this must be the boat that carried her off. It was caught in thorn-branches, a little way downstream from here, but it belongs at the bridge. No need to look beyond here, unless the poor woman's been moved and moved again, and that's unlikely."
    "Every house and garden along the road we've searched. We saw you making down-river, my lord, so we took yet another look round here, but you see everything's open as the day. Master Fuller made us free of all his holding."
    Hugh looked about him in a long, sweeping, none too hopeful glance. "No, small chance of doing anything here unperceived, at least by daylight, and it was early in the day she vanished. Someone has looked in Master Hynde's warehouse there?"
    "Yesterday, my lord. His wife gave us the key readily, I was there myself, so was my lord Herbard. Nothing within but his baled fleeces, the loft all but full of them, floor to roof. He had a good clip this year, seemingly."
    "Better than I did," said Hugh. "But I don't keep above three hundred sheep, small coin to him. Well, you've been at it all day, as well take a rest and be off home." He set foot lightly to the thwart and stepped ashore. The boat rocked softly to the motion. "There's nothing more we can do here. I'd best get back to the castle, and see if by chance someone else has had better luck. I'll go in here by the eastern gate, Madog, but we can lend you two rowers, if you like, and help you back upstream with both boats. Some of these lads who've been on the hunt with us could do with a voyage back to the bridge." He cast a glance round the group that held off respectfully, watching and listening. "Better than walking, lads, after all the walking you've done this day. Who's first?"
    Two of the men came forward eagerly to uncouple the boats and settle themselves on the thwarts. They shoved gently off into the stream ahead of Madog, and set a practised pace. And it might well be, Cadfael thought, noting how Bertred the weaver hung well back from offering his own stout arms, that his walk home from the nearby castle gate into the town was barely longer than it would have been from the bridge gate after disembarking, so that he saw small gain in volunteering. It might even be that he was no expert with an oar. But that did not quite account for the small, bland smile and the look of glossy content on his comely young face as he withdrew himself discreetly from notice behind his companions. And it certainly did not account for the last glimpse Cadfael had of him, as he glanced back over his shoulder from midstream. For Bertred had lagged behind Hugh and his henchmen as they set off briskly towards the road and the eastern gate of the town, had halted a moment to watch them as they breasted the rise, and then had turned his back and made off at a purposeful but unhurried pace in the opposite direction, towards the nearest stand of woodland, as though he had important business there.
    Bertred came home for his supper only with the early dusk, to a distracted household which had lost its routine and limped through the day forgetful of work, meal-times, and every other factor that served to mark the hours in an orderly and customary fashion. Miles fretted from workshop to street a dozen times an hour, and ran out to accost any passing soldier of the garrison for news, of which there was none. In two days he had grown so tense and brittle that even his mother, for once daunted into comparative silence, tended to slip aside out of his way. The girls in the spinning room whispered and wondered far more than they worked, and foregathered with the weavers to gossip as often as his back was turned.
    "Who'd have thought he cared so much for his cousin!" Branwen marvelled, awed by his strained and anxious face. "Of course a man feels for his own kin, but - you'd have thought it was his bride he'd lost, not his cousin, he goes so grieved."
    "He'd be a sight less concerned for his Isabel," said a cynic among the weavers. "She'll bring him a passable dowry, and he's well enough satisfied with his bargain, but there are as