Brother Cadfael 16: The Heretic's Apprentice

changes of use and fortune by then. Those are troubled regions. Easier to plant a kingdom there for Christendom than to maintain it."
    "Well, I'm glad," said Fortunata, "that it was good silver coin in the box when it reached me, rather than some old book. I can't read, what use would a book be to me?"
    "A book would have its value, too. A high value if it was well penned and painted. But I'm glad you're content with what you have, and I hope it will bring you what you want."
    She was running a hand along a shelf, and frowning at the faint fur of dust she found on her palm. Just as the monks had smoothed at the lining of the box, and found something significant in whatever minute residue it left upon the skin. She had caught the tiny flashes of gold in the sunlight, but the rest she had not understood. She studied her own hand, and wiped away the almost imperceptible velvety dust. "It's time I cleaned your rooms for you," she said. "You keep everything so neatly, but it does need dusting."
    "Whenever you wish!" Jevan took a detached look about the room, and agreed placidly: "It does build up, even here with the finished membranes there's a special dust. I live in it, I breathe it, so it slips my notice. Yes, dust and polish if you want to."
    "It must be much worse in your workshop," she said, "with all the scraping of the skins, and going back and forth to the river, coming in with muddy feet, and then the skins, when you bring them first to soak, and all the hair... It must smell, too," she said, wrinkling her nose at the very thought.
    "Not so, my lady!" Jevan laughed at her fastidious countenance. "Conan cleans my workshop for me as often as it needs it, and makes a good job of it, too. I could even teach him the trade, if he was not needed with the sheep. He's no fool, he knows a deal already about the making of vellum."
    "But Conan is shut up in the castle," she reminded him seriously. "The sheriff is still hunting for anyone who can show just where he went and what he did before he went out to the pastures, that day that Aldwin was killed. You don't believe, do you, that he really could kill?"
    "Who could not," said Jevan indifferently, "given the cause and the time and place? But no, not Conan. They'll let him go in the end. He'll be back. It won't hurt him to sweat for a few days. And it won't hurt my workshop to wait a while for its next cleaning. Now, madam, are you ready for supper? I'll shut the shop, and we'll go in."
    She was paying no attention. Her eyes were roaming the length of his shelves, and the rack where the largest finished membranes were draped, cut, and trimmed to order into the great bifolia intended for some massive lectern Bible. These she passed by to dwell upon the eight-leaved gatherings of the size that fitted her box.
    "Uncle, you have some books this same size, haven't you?"
    "It's the most usual," he said. "Yes, the best thing I have is of that measure. It was made in France. God knows how it ever found its way to the abbey fair here in Shrewsbury. Why did you ask?"
    "Then it would fit into my box. I'd like you to have it. Why not? If it's so fine, and has a value, it should stay in the household, and I'm unlettered, and have no book to put in it, and besides," she said, "I'm happy with my dowry, and grateful to Uncle William for it. Let's try it, after supper. Show me your books again. I may not be able to read, but they're beautiful to look at."
    Jevan stood looking down at her from his lean height, solemn and still. Thus motionless, everything about him seemed a little more elongated than usual, like a saint carved into the vertical moulding of a church porch, from his narrow, scholarly face to the long-toed shoes on his thin, sinewy feet, and the lean, clever adept's hands. His deep eyes searched her face. He shook his head at such rash and thoughtless generosity.
    "Child, you should not so madly give away everything you have, before you know the value of it, or what need you may have of it in the future. Do nothing on impulse, you may pay for it with regret."
    "No," said Fortunata. "Why should I regret giving a thing for which I have no use to someone who will make good and proper use of it? And dare you tell me that you don't want it?" Certainly his black eyes were glittering, if not with covetousness, with unmistakable longing and pleasure. "Come to supper, and afterward we'll try how they match together. And I'll get Father to mind my money for me."
    The French breviary was