Brother Cadfael left the church after Compline by the south porch, intending only to pay a brief visit to his workshop to see that the brazier, which Brother Oswin had been using earlier, was safely out, everything securely stoppered, and the door properly closed to conserve what warmth remained. The night was starry and sharp with frost, and he needed no other light to see his way by such familiar paths. But he had got no further than the archway into the court when he was plucked urgently by the sleeve, and a breathless voice whispered in his ear: “Brother Cadfael, I must talk to you!”
“Isouda! What is it? Something has happened?” He drew her back into one of the carrels of the scriptorium; no one else would be stirring there now, and in the darkness the two of them were invisible, drawn back into the most sheltered corner. Her face at his shoulder was intent, a pale oval afloat above the darkness of her cloak.
“Happened, indeed! You said I might pull down the thunderbolt. I have found something,” she said, rapid and low in his ear, “in Roswitha’s jewel box. Hidden at the bottom. A great ring-brooch, very old and fine, in gold and silver and enamels, the kind men made long before ever the Normans came. As big as the palm of my hand, with a long pin. When she saw what I had, she came and thrust it back into the box and closed the lid, saying that was too heavy and old-fashioned to wear. So I let it pass, and never said word of what I knew. I doubt if she understands what it is, or how whoever gave it to her came by it, though I think he must have warned her not to wear or show it, not yet… Why else should she be so quick to put it out of my sight? Or else simply she doesn’t like it—I suppose it might be no more than that. But I know what it is and where it came from, and so will you when I tell you…” She had run out of breath in her haste, and panted soft warmth against his cheek, leaning close. “I have seen it before, as she may not have done. It was I who took the cloak from him and carried it within, to the chamber we made ready for him. Fremund brought in his saddle-bags, the cloak I carried… and this brooch was pinned in the collar.”
Cadfael laid a hand over the small hand that gripped his sleeve, and asked, half-doubting, half-convinced already: “Whose cloak? Are you saying this thing belonged to Peter Clemence?”
“I am saying it. I will swear it.”
“You are sure it must be the same?”
“I am sure. I tell you I carried it in, I touched, I admired it.”
“No, there could not well be two such,” he said, and drew breath deep. “Of such rare things I doubt there were ever made two alike.”
“Even if there were, why should both wander into this shire? But no, surely every one was made for a prince or a chief and never repeated. My grandsire had such a brooch, but not near so fine and large, he said it came from Ireland, long ago. Besides, I remember the very colours and the strange beasts. It is the same. And she has it!” She had a new thought, and voiced it eagerly. “Canon Eluard is still here, he knew the cross and ring, he will surely know this, and he can swear to it. But if that fails, so can I, and I will. Tomorrow—how must we deal tomorrow? For Hugh Beringar is not here to be told, and the time so short. It rests with us. Tell me what I can best do?”
“So I will,” said Cadfael slowly, his hand firm over hers, “when you have told me one more most vital thing. This brooch—it is whole and clean? No stain, no discolouration anywhere upon it, on metals or enamels? Not even thin edges where such discolourings may have been cleaned away?”
“No!” said Isouda after a sudden brief silence, and drew in understanding breath. “I had not thought of that! No, it is as it was made, bright and perfect. Not like the others…No, this has not been through the fire.”
Chapter Twelve
THE WEDDING DAY DAWNED CLEAR, bright and very cold. A flake or two of frozen snow, almost too fine to be seen but stinging on the cheek, greeted Isouda as she crossed the court for Prime, but the sky was so pure and lofty that it seemed there would be no fall. Isouda prayed earnestly and bluntly, rather demanding help from heaven than entreating it. From the church she went to the stableyard, to give orders that her groom should go with her horse and bring Meriet at the right time, with Mark in attendance, to see his brother married. Then she went to dress Roswitha, braid her hair and dress it high with the silver combs and gilt net, fasten the yellow necklace about her throat, walk round her and twitch every fold into place. Uncle Leoric, whether avoiding this cloistered abode of women or grimly preoccupied with the divergent fortunes of his two sons, made no appearance until it was time for him to proceed to his place in the church, but Wulfric Linde hovered in satisfied admiration of his daughter’s beauty, and did not seem to find this over-womaned air hard to breathe. Isouda had a mild, tolerant regard for him; a silly kind man, competent at getting good value out of a manor, and reasonable with his tenants and villeins, but seldom looking beyond, and always the last to know what his children or neighbours were about.
Somewhere, at this same time, Janyn and Nigel were certainly engaged in the same archaic dance, making the bridegroom ready for what was at the same time triumph and sacrifice.
Wulfric studied the set of Roswitha’s bliaut, and turned her about fondly to admire her from every angle. Isouda withdrew to the press, and let them confer contentedly, totally absorbed, while she fished up by touch, from the bottom of the casket, the ancient ring-brooch that had belonged to Peter Clemence, and secured it by the pin in her wide over-sleeve.
The young groom Edred arrived at Saint Giles with two horses, in good time to bring Meriet and Brother Mark to the dim privacy within the church before the invited company assembled. In spite of his natural longing to see his brother wed, Meriet had shrunk from being seen to be present, an accused felon as he was, and a shame to his father’s house. So he had said when Isouda promised him access, and assured him that Hugh Beringar would allow the indulgence and accept his prisoner’s sworn word not to take advantage of such clemency; the scruple had suited Isouda’s purpose then and was even more urgently welcome now. He need not make himself known to anyone, and no one should recognise or even notice him. Edred would bring him early, and he could be safely installed in a dim corner of the choir before ever the guests came in, some withdrawn place where he could see and not be seen. And when the married pair left, and the guests after them, then he could follow unnoticed and return to his prison with his gentle gaoler, who was necessary as friend, prop in case of need, and witness, though Meriet knew nothing of the need there might well be of informed witnesses.
“And the lady of Foriet orders me,” said Edred cheerfully, “to tether the horses outside the precinct, ready for when you want to return. Outside the gatehouse I’ll hitch them, there are staples there, and you may take your time until the rest have gone in, if you so please. You won’t mind, brothers, if I take an hour or so free while you’re within? There’s a sister of mine has a house along the Foregate, a small cot for her and her man.” There was also a girl he fancied, in the hovel next door, but that he did not feel it necessary to say.
Meriet came forth from the barn strung taut like an overtuned lute, his cowl drawn forward to hide his face. He had discarded his stick, except when overtired at the end of the day, but he still went a little lame on his sprained foot. Mark kept close at his elbow, watching the sharp, lean profile that was honed even finer by the dark backcloth of the cowl, a face lofty-browed, high-nosed, fastidious.