Brother Cadfael 14: The Hermit of Eyton Forest

Richard. Your father has made his last confession and received his Saviour. He is dead, my child. You are his heir, and you must be worthy of him. In life and in death,' said Brother Paul, 'he is in the hand of God. So are we all.'
    The look of thoughtful bewilderment had not changed. Richard's toes shoved hard against the floor, and his hands gripped the edge of the bench on which he was perched.
    'My father is dead?' he repeated carefully.
    'Yes, Richard. Soon or late, it touches us all. Every son must one day step into his father's place and take up his father's duties.'
    'Then I shall be the lord of Eaton now?'
    Brother Paul did not make the mistake of taking this for a simple expression of self-congratulation on a personal gain, rather as an intelligent acceptance of what he himself had just said. The heir must take up the burden and the privilege his sire had laid down.
    'Yes, you are the lord of Eaton, or you will be as soon as you are of fit age. You must study to get wisdom, and manage your lands and people well. Your father would expect that of you.'
    Still struggling with the practicalities of his new situation, Richard probed back into his memory for a clear vision of this father who was now challenging him to be worthy. In his rare recent visits home at Christmas and Easter he had been admitted on arrival and departure to a sick-room that smelled of herbs and premature aging, and allowed to kiss a grey, austere face and listen to a deep voice, indifferent with weakness, calling him son and exhorting him to study and be virtuous. But there was little more, and even the face had grown dim in his memory. Of what he did remember he went in awe.
    They had never been close enough for anything more intimate.
    'You loved your father, and did your best to please him, did you not, Richard?' Brother Paul prompted gently. 'You must still do what is pleasing to him. And you may say prayers for his soul, which will be a comfort also to you.'
    'Shall I have to go home now?' asked Richard, whose mind was on the need for information rather than comfort.
    'To your father's burial, certainly. But not to remain there, not yet. It was your father's wish that you should learn to read and write, and be properly instructed in figures. And you're young yet, your steward will take good care of your manor until you come to manhood.'
    'My grandmother,' said Richard by way of explanation, 'sees no sense in my learning my letters. She was angry when my father sent me here. She says a lettered clerk is all any manor needs, and books are no fit employment for a nobleman.'
    'Surely she will comply with your father's wishes. All the more is that a sacred trust, now that he is dead.'
    Richard jutted a doubtful lip. 'But my grandmother has other plans for me. She wants to marry me to our neighbour's daughter, because Hiltrude has no brother, and will be the heiress to both Leighton and Wroxeter. Grandmother will want that more than ever now,' said Richard simply, and looked up ingenuously into Brother Paul's slightly startled face.
    It took a few moments to assimilate this news, and relate it to the boy's entry into the abbey school when he was barely five years old. The manors of Leighton and Wroxeter lay one on either side of Eaton, and might well be a tempting prospect, but plainly Richard Ludel had not concurred in his mother's ambitious plans for her grandson, since he had taken steps to place the boy out of the lady's reach, and a year later had made Abbot Radulfus Richard's guardian, should he himself have to relinquish the charge too soon. Father Abbot had better know what's in the wind, thought Brother Paul. For of such a misuse of his ward, thus almost in infancy, he would certainly not approve.
    Very warily he said, fronting the boy's unwavering stare with a grave face: 'Your father said nothing of what his plans for you might be, some day when you are fully grown. Such matters must wait their proper time, and that is not yet. You need not trouble your head about any such match for years yet. You are in Father Abbot's charge, and he will do what is best for you.' And he added cautiously, giving way to natural human curiosity: 'Do you know this child - this neighbour's daughter?'
    'She isn't a child,' Richard stated scornfully. 'She's quite old. She was betrothed once, but her bridegroom died. My grandmother was pleased, because after waiting some years for him, Hiltrude wouldn't have many suitors, not being even pretty, so she