At about the same time that Hugh and Cadfael set out from the castle, Jevan of Lythwood had occasion to go up to his chamber, to discard and fold away the best cotte he had worn for Aldwin’s funeral, and put on the lighter and easier coat in which he worked. He seldom entered the room without casting a pleased, possessive glance at the chest that held his books, and so he did now. The sunlight, declining from the zenith into the golden, sated hours of late afternoon, came slanting in by the south-facing window, gilded a corner of the lid, and just reached the metal plate of the lock. Something gossamer-fine fluttered from the ornate edge, appearing and disappearing as it stirred in an air not quite motionless. Four or five long hairs, dark but bright, showing now and then a brief scintillation of red. But for the light, which just touched them against shadow, they would have been invisible.
Jevan saw them and stood at gaze, his face unchanging. Then he went to take the key from its place, and unlocked the chest and raised the lid. Nothing within was disturbed. Nothing was changed but those few sunlit filaments that stirred like living things, and curled about his fingers when he carefully detached them from the fretted edge in which they were caught.
In thoughtful silence he closed and locked the chest again, and went down into the shuttered shop. The key of his workshop upriver, on the right bank of Severn well clear of the town, was gone from its hook.
He crossed the yard and looked in at the hall, where Girard was busy over the accounts Aldwin had left in arrears, and Margaret was mending a shirt at the other end of the table.
“I’m going down to the skins again,” said Jevan. “There’s something I left unfinished.”
Chapter Thirteen
The welcome at Girard’s house was all the warmer because Conan had arrived home only a quarter of an hour earlier, ebullient with relief and none the worse for his few days incarceration, and Girard, a practical man, was disposed to let the dead bury their dead, once the living had seen to it that they got their dues and were seen off decently into a better world. What was left of his establishment seemed now to be cleared of all aspersions, and could proceed about its business without interference.
Two members, however, were missing.
“Fortunata?” said Margaret in answer to Cadfael’s enquiry. “She went out after dinner. She said she was going to the abbey, to try to see Elave again, or at least to find out if anything had happened yet in his case. I daresay you’ll be meeting her on the way down, but if not, you’ll find her there.”
That was a load lifted from Cadfael’s mind, at least. Where better could she be, or safer? “Then I’d best be on my way home,” he said, pleased, “or I shall be outstaying my leave.”
“And I came hoping to pick your brother’s brains,” said Hugh. “I’ve been hearing a great deal about this box of your daughter’s, and I’m curious to see it. I’m told it may have been made to hold a book, at one time. I wondered what Jevan thought of that. He knows everything about the making of books, from the raw skin to the binding. I should like to consult him when he has time to spare. But perhaps I might see the box?”
They were quite happy to tell him what they could. There was no foreboding, no tremor in the house. “He’s away to his workshop just now,” said Girard. “He was down there this morning, but he said he’d left something unfinished. He’ll surely be back soon. Come in and wait a while, and he’ll be here. The box? I doubt it’s locked away until he comes. Fortunata gave it to him last night. If it’s meant to hold a book, she says, Uncle Jevan is the man who has books, let me give him the box. And he’s using it for the one he most values, as she wanted. He’ll be pleased to show it to you. It is a very fine thing.”
“I won’t trouble you now, if he’s not here,” said Hugh. “I’ll look in later, I’m close enough.”
They took their leave together, and Hugh went with Cadfael as far as the head of the Wyle. “She gave him the box,” said Hugh, frowning over a puzzle. “What should that mean?”
“Bait,” said Cadfael soberly. “Now I do believe she has been following the same road my mind goes. But not to prove - rather to disprove if she can. But at all costs needing to know. He is her close and valued kin, but she is not one who can shut her eyes and pretend no wrong has ever been done. Yet still we may both be wrong, she as well as I. Well, at the worst, she is safe enough if she’s at the abbey. I’ll go and find her there. And as for the other one“
“The other one,” said Hugh, “leave to me.”
Cadfael walked in through the arch of the gatehouse into a scene of purposeful activity. It seemed he had arrived on the heels of an important personage, to whose reception the hierarchies of the house were assembling busily. Brother Porter had come in a flurry of skirts to take one bridle, Brother Jerome was contending with a groom for another one, Prior Robert was approaching from the cloister at his longest stride, Brother Denis hovered, not yet certain whether the newcomer would be housed in the guest hall or with the abbot. A flutter of brothers and novices hung at a respectful distance, ready to run any errands that might arise, and three or four of the schoolboys, sensibly withdrawn out of range of notice and censure, stood frankly staring, all eyes and ears.
And in the middle of this flurry of arrival stood Deacon Serlo, just dismounted from his mule and shaking out the skirts of his gown. A little dusty from the ride, but as rounded and pink-cheeked and wholesome as ever, and decidedly happier now that he had brought his bishop with him, and could leave all decisions to him with a quiet mind.
Bishop Roger de Clinton was just alighting from a tall roan horse, with the vigor and spring of a man half his age. For he must, Cadfael thought, be approaching sixty. He had been bishop for fourteen years, and wore his authority as easily and forthrightly as he did his plain riding clothes, and with the same patrician confidence. He was tall, and his erect bearing made him appear taller still. A man austere, competent, and of no pretensions because he needed none, there was something about him, Cadfael thought, of the warrior bishops who were becoming a rare breed these days. His face would have done just as well for a soldier as for a priest, hawk-featured, direct and resolute, with penetrating grey eyes that summed up as rapidly and decisively as they saw. He took in the whole scene about him in one sweeping glance, and surrendered his bridle to the porter as Prior Robert bore down on him all reverence and welcome.
They moved off together towards the abbot’s lodging, and the group broke apart gradually, having lost its center. The horses were eased of their saddlebags and led away to the stables, the hovering brothers dispersed about their various businesses, the children drifted off in search of other amusement until they should be rounded up for their early supper. And Cadfael thought of Elave, who must have heard, distantly across the court, the sounds that heralded the coming of his judge. Cadfael had seen Roger de Clinton only twice before, and had no means of knowing in what mood and what mind he came to this vexed cause. But at least he had come in person, and looked fully capable of wresting back the responsibility for his diocese and its spiritual health from anyone who presumed to trespass on his writ.
Meantime, Cadfael’s immediate business was to find Fortunata. He approached the porter with his enquiry. “Where am I likely to find Girard of Lythwood’s daughter? They told me at the house she would be here.”
“I know the girl,” said the porter, nodding. “But I’ve seen nothing of her today.”
“She told them at home she was coming down here. Soon after dinner, so the mother told me.”
“I’ve neither seen nor spoken to her, and I’ve been here most of the time since noon. An errand or two to do, but I was only a matter of minutes away. Though she may have come in while my back was turned. But she’d need to speak to someone in authority. I think she’d have waited here at the gate until I came.”