the kind a man needs to hack his bread and meat in lodgings
along the way, or meals under a hedge. Many of them were sharp enough for most
everyday purposes, but not sharp enough to leave stout cords sheared through
without a twitch to betray the assault. “But men who go shaven carry razors,
too, and a blunt razor would be an abomination. Once a thief comes into the
pale, child, it’s hard for honest men to be a match for him. He who has no scruple
has always the advantage of those who keep to rule. But you need not trouble
your heart, you’ve done no wrong to any man. Never let this ill thing spoil
tomorrow for you.”
“No,”
agreed the boy, still preoccupied. “But, brother, there is another dagger—one,
at least. Sheath and all, a good length—I know, I was pressed close against him
yesterday at Mass. You know I have to hold fast by my crutches to stand for
long, and he had a big linen scrip on his belt, hard against my hand and arm,
where we were crowded together. I felt the shape of it, cross-hilt and all. I
know! But you did not find it.”
“And
who was it,” asked Cadfael, still carefully working the tissues that resisted
his fingers, “who had this armoury about him at Mass?”
“It
was that big merchant with the good gown-made from valley wool. I’ve learned to
know cloth. They call him Simeon Poer. But you didn’t find it. Perhaps he’s
handed it to Brother Porter, just as Matthew has had to do now.”
“Perhaps,”
said Cadfael. “When was it you discovered this? Yesterday? And what of today?
Was he again close to you?”
“No,
not today.”
No,
today he had stood stolidly to watch the play, eyes and ears alert, ready to
open his pouch there before all if need be, smiling complacently as the abbot
directed the disarming of another man. He had certainly had no dagger on him
then, however he had disposed of it in the meantime. There were hiding-places
enough here within the walls, for a dagger and any amount of small, stolen
valuables. To search was itself only a pretence, unless authority was prepared
to keep the gates closed and the guests prisoned within until every yard of the
gardens had been dug up, and every bed and bench in dortoir and hall pulled to
pieces. The sinners have always the start of the honest men.
“It
was not fair that Matthew should be made to surrender his dagger,” said Rhun,
“when another man had one still about him. And Ciaran already so terribly
afraid to stir, not having his ring. He won’t even come out of the dortoir
until tomorrow. He is sick for loss of it.”
Yes,
that seemed to be true. And how strange, thought Cadfael, pricked into
realisation, to see a man sweating for fear, who has already calmly declared
himself as one condemned to death? Then why fear? Fear should be dead.
Yet
men are strange, he thought in revulsion. And a blessed and quiet death in
Aberdaron, well-prepared, and surrounded by the prayers and compassion of
like-minded votaries, may well seem a very different matter from crude
slaughter by strangers and footpads somewhere in the wilder stretches of the
road.
But
this Simeon Poer—say he had such a dagger yesterday, and therefore may well
have had it on him today, in the crowded array of the Mass. Then what did he do
with it so quickly, before Ciaran discovered his loss? And how did he know he
must perforce dispose of it quickly? Who had such fair warning of the need, if
not the thief?
“Trouble
your head no more,” said Cadfael, looking down at the boy’s beautiful,
vulnerable face, “for Matthew nor for Ciaran, but think only of the morrow,
when you approach the saint. Both she and God see you all, and have no need to
be told of what your needs are. All you have to do is wait in quiet for
whatever will be. For whatever it may be, it will not be wanton. Did you take your
dose last night?”
Rhun’s
pale, brilliant eyes were startled wide open, sunlight and ice,
along the way, or meals under a hedge. Many of them were sharp enough for most
everyday purposes, but not sharp enough to leave stout cords sheared through
without a twitch to betray the assault. “But men who go shaven carry razors,
too, and a blunt razor would be an abomination. Once a thief comes into the
pale, child, it’s hard for honest men to be a match for him. He who has no scruple
has always the advantage of those who keep to rule. But you need not trouble
your heart, you’ve done no wrong to any man. Never let this ill thing spoil
tomorrow for you.”
“No,”
agreed the boy, still preoccupied. “But, brother, there is another dagger—one,
at least. Sheath and all, a good length—I know, I was pressed close against him
yesterday at Mass. You know I have to hold fast by my crutches to stand for
long, and he had a big linen scrip on his belt, hard against my hand and arm,
where we were crowded together. I felt the shape of it, cross-hilt and all. I
know! But you did not find it.”
“And
who was it,” asked Cadfael, still carefully working the tissues that resisted
his fingers, “who had this armoury about him at Mass?”
“It
was that big merchant with the good gown-made from valley wool. I’ve learned to
know cloth. They call him Simeon Poer. But you didn’t find it. Perhaps he’s
handed it to Brother Porter, just as Matthew has had to do now.”
“Perhaps,”
said Cadfael. “When was it you discovered this? Yesterday? And what of today?
Was he again close to you?”
“No,
not today.”
No,
today he had stood stolidly to watch the play, eyes and ears alert, ready to
open his pouch there before all if need be, smiling complacently as the abbot
directed the disarming of another man. He had certainly had no dagger on him
then, however he had disposed of it in the meantime. There were hiding-places
enough here within the walls, for a dagger and any amount of small, stolen
valuables. To search was itself only a pretence, unless authority was prepared
to keep the gates closed and the guests prisoned within until every yard of the
gardens had been dug up, and every bed and bench in dortoir and hall pulled to
pieces. The sinners have always the start of the honest men.
“It
was not fair that Matthew should be made to surrender his dagger,” said Rhun,
“when another man had one still about him. And Ciaran already so terribly
afraid to stir, not having his ring. He won’t even come out of the dortoir
until tomorrow. He is sick for loss of it.”
Yes,
that seemed to be true. And how strange, thought Cadfael, pricked into
realisation, to see a man sweating for fear, who has already calmly declared
himself as one condemned to death? Then why fear? Fear should be dead.
Yet
men are strange, he thought in revulsion. And a blessed and quiet death in
Aberdaron, well-prepared, and surrounded by the prayers and compassion of
like-minded votaries, may well seem a very different matter from crude
slaughter by strangers and footpads somewhere in the wilder stretches of the
road.
But
this Simeon Poer—say he had such a dagger yesterday, and therefore may well
have had it on him today, in the crowded array of the Mass. Then what did he do
with it so quickly, before Ciaran discovered his loss? And how did he know he
must perforce dispose of it quickly? Who had such fair warning of the need, if
not the thief?
“Trouble
your head no more,” said Cadfael, looking down at the boy’s beautiful,
vulnerable face, “for Matthew nor for Ciaran, but think only of the morrow,
when you approach the saint. Both she and God see you all, and have no need to
be told of what your needs are. All you have to do is wait in quiet for
whatever will be. For whatever it may be, it will not be wanton. Did you take your
dose last night?”
Rhun’s
pale, brilliant eyes were startled wide open, sunlight and ice,
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