Brother Cadfael 16: The Heretic's Apprentice

the lock. It turned smoothly and silently, and Girard opened the lid to reveal a neat, thick swathing of felt, folded in such a way that it could be opened to disclose what the box contained without removing it. Six little bags of similar felt were packed within. All of a size, snugly fitted together to fill the space.
    "Well, they're yours," said Girard, smiling at Fortunata, who was leaning over to stare at them with her face in shadow. "Open one!"
    She drew out one of the bags, and the soft chink of silver sounded under her fingers. There was no drawstring, the top of the bag was simply folded over. She tipped the contents streaming out upon the table, a flood of silver pennies, more than she had ever seen at one time, and yet somehow curiously disappointing. The casket was so beautiful and unusual, a work of art; the contents, however valuable, mere everyday money, the traffic of trade. But yes, they might have their uses, urgent uses if it came to the worst.
    "There you are, girl!" said Girard, delighted. "Good coin of the realm, and all yours. Nigh on a hundred pence there, I should guess. And five more like it. Uncle William did well by you. Shall we count them for you?"
    She hesitated for a moment, and then she said: "Yes!" and herself curved a hand round the little pile of thin, small silver pieces, and began to tell them over one by one back into the bag. There were ninety-three of them. By the time she had folded the bag closed again and restored it to its corner in the box, Girard was halfway through the next.
    Father Elias had drawn back a little from the table, averting his eyes from this sudden dazzling display of comparative wealth with a curious mixture of desire and detestation. A poor parish priest seldom saw even ten silver pennies together, let alone a hundred. He said hollowly: "I will go and enquire about Aldwin at Saint Julian's," and walked quietly out of the room and out of the house, and only Margaret noticed his going, and ran after him to see him courteously out to the street.
    There were five hundred and seventy pennies in the six bags. Fortunata fitted them all snugly back into their places in the box, and closed the lid upon them.
    "Lock it again, and put it away safely for me," she said. "It is mine, isn't it? To use as I like?" They were all looking at her with steady, benevolent interest, and the indulgent respect they had always shown towards her, even from her intense and serious childhood.
    "I wanted you to know. Since Elave came back, even more since this shadow fell, I have come close to him afresh, closer than ever I was. I think I love him. So I did long ago, but this is love in a different kind. He brought me this money to help me to a good marriage, but now I know that the marriage I want is with him, and even if I cannot have it, I want to use this gift to help him out of the shadow, even if it means he must go away from here, where they can't lay hands on him again. And where I may never see him again. Money can buy a lot of things, even ways out of prison, even men to open the doors. At least I can try."
    "Girl dear," said Girard, gently but firmly, "it was you told me, just a while since, how you urged him to run for his life when he had the chance. And he was the one who refused. A man who won't run can't be made to run. And to my way of thinking he's right. And not only because he gave his word, but because of why he gave his word. He said he'd done no wrong, and wouldn't afford any man proof that he went in fear of justice."
    "I know it," said Fortunata. "But he has absolute faith in the justice of Church and state. And I am not sure that I have. I would rather buy him his life against his will than see him throw it away."
    "You would not get him to take it," warned Jevan. "He has refused you once."
    "That was before Aldwin was murdered," she said starkly. "Then he was accused only of heresy. Now, if he is not yet charged, it's a matter of murder. He never did it, I won't believe it, murder is not in his nature. But there he is helpless under lock and key, already in their hands. It is his life now."
    "He still has his life," said Girard robustly, and flung an arm about her to draw her warmly to his solid side. "Hugh Beringar is not the man to take the easy answer and never look beyond. If the lad is blameless he'll come out of it whole and free. Wait! Wait a little and see what the law can discover. I won't meddle with murder. Do I know for sure that any man is