“There was a box mentioned that has yet to be opened. Why, does any man think I would let my girl want for a dowry, when she has a mind to marry? Though it’s good that the old man remembered her, and thought to send her his blessing, too. If she did have a mind to Conan, well, I suppose he’s not a bad fellow, a girl could do worse. He should have known I’d never let her go empty-handed, whoever she chose.” And he added, with an appreciative glance at Fortunata: “Though our girl might do a great deal better, too!”
“Coin in the hand,” said Jevan sardonically, “is more worth than all the promises.”
“Ah, you surely do the man an injustice! What’s to prevent him waking up to the fact that our little lass has grown into a beauty, and as good as she is pretty, too. And even if he did bear witness against Elave to elbow him out of the running, and urge Aldwin not to recant for the same none too creditable reason, men have done worse, and not been made to pay too highly for it. But this business of Aldwin is murder. No, that’s out of Conan’s scope, surely!” He looked down the length of the table to Father Elias, sitting small, attentive, and sharp-eyed under his wispy grey tonsure. “Surely, Father?”
“I have learned,” said the little priest, “not to put any villainy out of any man’s reach. Nor any goodness, either. A life is a very fragile thing, created in desperate labor and snuffed out by a breath of wind - anger, or drunkenness, or mere horseplay, it takes no more than an instant.”
“Conan has merely a few hours of time to account for,” Jevan pointed out mildly. “He must surely have met with someone who knew him on his way out to the sheep. He has only to name them, they have only to say where and when they saw him. This time, if he tells all the truth instead of half, he cannot miscarry.”
And that would leave only Elave. The grossly offended, the most aggrieved, suddenly approached by his accuser, among trees, without witnesses, too enraged to wait to hear what his enemy wanted to say to him. It was what almost every soul in Shrewsbury must be saying, taking the ending for granted. One charge of heresy, one of murder. All that afternoon until Vespers he was at liberty, and who had seen Aldwin alive since he passed the porter on the town gate? Two and a half hours between then and Vespers, when Elave was again in custody, two and a half hours in which he could have done murder. Even the objection that Aldwin’s wound was in the back could easily be set aside. He came running to plead his penitence, Elave turned on him so furious a face and so menacing a front that he took fright and turned to flee, and got the knife in his back as he fled. Yes, they would all say so. And if it was argued that Elave had no knife on him, that it was left in his bundle in the guest hall? He had another, doubtless at the bottom of the river now. There was an answer to everything.
“Father,” said Fortunata abruptly, rising from her place, “will you open my box for me now? Let us see what I am worth. And then I must talk to you. About Elave!”
Margaret brought the box from the corner press, and cleared an end of the table to make room for it before her husband. Girard’s bushy brows rose appreciatively at the sight of it, and he handled it admiringly.
“Why, this is a beautiful thing in itself. This could bring you in an extra penny or two if ever you need it.” He took up the gilded key and fitted it into 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 innocent, whether it’s Elave or Conan? But if it comes down to the simple matter of heresy, then I’ll throw all the weight I have into the balance to bring him off safely. You shall have him, he shall have the place poor Aldwin grudged to him, and I’ll be guarantor for his good behavior. But murder - no! Am I God, to see guilt or innocence in a man’s face?”