Brother Cadfael 19: The Holy Thief

to relieve him of the burden of a withered old woman's regard, and leave him free to enjoy his own talent without the need to defer to his audience. Though she might well take pleasure in contemplating his youth and freshness, there could hardly be much joy for him in confronting her emaciation and ruin. She had had the harp moved from the hall into her bedchamber to give him the pleasure of tuning and playing it, and been glad to see that while he stroked and tightened and adjusted, bending his curly head over the work, he had forgotten her very presence. That was as it should be. For her the exquisite anguish of his music was none the less, and his happiness was all the more.
    But an hour was all she could ask. She had promised he should return by the hour of Compline. She turned the hourglass, and on the instant he broke off, the strings vibrating at the slight start he made.
    "Did I play falsely?" he asked, dismayed.
    "No, but you ask falsely," she said dryly. "You know there was no fault there. But time passes, and you must go back to your duty. You have been kind, and I am grateful, but your sub-prior will want you back as I promised, in time for Compline. If I hope to be able to ask again, I must keep to terms."
    "I could play you to sleep," he said, "before I go."
    "I shall sleep. Never fret for me. No, you must go, and there is something I want you to take with you. Open the chest there, beside the psaltery you will find a small leather bag. Bring it to me."
    He set the harp aside, and went to do her bidding. She loosened the cord that drew the neck of the little, worn satchel together, and emptied out upon her coverlet a handful of trinkets, a gold neckchain, twin bracelets, a heavy torque of gold set with roughly cut gemstones, and two rings, one a man's massive seal, the other a broad gold band, deeply engraved. Her own finger showed the shrunken, pallid mark below the swollen knuckle, from which she had removed it. Last came a large and intricate ring brooch, the fastening of a cloak, reddish gold, Saxon work.
    "Take these, and add them to whatever you have amassed for Ramsey. My son promises a good load of wood, part coppice wood, part seasoned timber, indeed Eudo will be sending the carts down tomorrow by the evening. But these are my offering. They are my younger son's ransom." She swept the gold back into the bag, and drew the neck closed. "Take them!"
    Tutilo stood hesitant, eyeing her doubtfully. "Lady, there needs no ransom. He had not taken final vows. He had the right to choose his own way. He owes nothing."
    "Not Sulien, but I," she said, and smiled. "You need not scruple to take them. They are mine to give, not from my husband's family, but my father's."
    "But your son's wife," he urged, "and the lady who is to marry your Sulien, have not they some claim? These are of great value, and women like such things."
    "My daughters are in my councils. We are all of one mind. Ramsey may pray for my soul," she said serenely, "and that will settle all accounts."
    He gave in then, still in some wonder and doubt, accepted the bag from her, and kissed the hand that bestowed it.
    "Go now," said Donata, stretching back into her pillows with a sigh. "Edred will ride with you to see you over the ferry, and bring back the pony. You should not go on foot tonight."
    He made his farewells to her, still a little anxious, unsure whether he did right to accept what seemed to him so rich a gift. He turned again in the doorway to look back, and she shook her head at him, and motioned him away with an authority that drove him out in haste, as though he had been scolded.
    In the courtyard the groom was waiting with the ponies. It was already night, but clear and moonlit, with scudding clouds high overhead. At the ferry the river was running higher than when they had come, though there had been no rain. Somewhere upstream there was flood water on its way.
    He delivered his treasures proudly to Sub-Prior Herluin at the end of Compline. The entire household, and most of the guests, were there to witness the arrival of the worn leather bag, and glimpsed its contents as Tutilo joyfully displayed them. Donata's gifts were bestowed with the alms of the burgesses of Shrewsbury in the wooden coffer that was to carry them back to Ramsey, with the cartload of timber from Longner, while Herluin and Tutilo went on to visit Worcester, and possibly Evesham and Pershore as well, to appeal for further aid.
    Herluin turned the key on the