St. Peter's Fair by Ellis Peters

anger as hot as ever, but turned sour by brooding. “Yet it is possible. But
there are other possibilities. It may indeed be what it first seems, a mere
crude slaughter for the clothes on the body and the rings on the fingers,
opportune plunder in the night, when no one chanced to be by. Such things
happen, where men are gathered together and there is money changing hands.”
    “It
is true,” said Radulfus, coldly and sadly. “The ancient evil is always with
us.”
    “Also,
the man is of great importance in his trade and his region, and he may have
enemies. Hate, envy, rivalry, are as powerful motives even as gain. And at a
great fair such as ours, enemies may be brought together, far from the towns
where their quarrels are known, and their acts might be guessed at too
accurately. Murder is easier and more tempting, away from home.”
    “Again,
true,” said the abbot. “Is there more?”
    “There
is. There is the matter of the girl, niece and heiress to the dead man. She is
of great beauty,” said Cadfael plainly, asserting his right to recognise and
celebrate even the beauty of women, though their enjoyment he had now
voluntarily forsworn, “and there are three men in her uncle’s service, shut on
board a river barge with her. Only one of them old enough, it may be, to value
his peace more. One, I think, God’s simpleton, but not therefore blind, or
delivered from the flesh. And one whole, able, every way a man, and enslaved to
her. And this one it was who followed his master from the booth on the
fairground, some say a quarter of an hour after him, some say a little more.
God forbid I should therefore point a finger at an honest man. But we speak of
possibilities. And will speak of them no more until, or unless, they become
more than possibilities.”
    “That
is my mind, also,” said Abbot Radulfus, stirring and almost smiling. He looked
at Cadfael steadily and long. “Go and bear witness, brother, as you are
charged, and bring me word again. In your report I shall set my trust.”
    Emma had on, perforce, the same gown and bliaut she
had worn the evening before, the gown dark blue like her eyes, but the tunic
embroidered in many colours upon bleached linen. The only concession she could
make to mourning was to bind up her great wealth of hair, and cover it from
sight within a borrowed wimple. Nevertheless, she made a noble mourning figure.
In the severe white frame her rounded, youthful face gained in concentrated
force and meaning what it lost in pure grace. She had a look of single-minded
gravity, like a lance in rest. Brother Cadfael could not yet see clearly where
the lance was aimed.
    When
she caught sight of him approaching, she looked at him with pleased
recognition, as the man behind the lance might have looked round at the fixed,
partisan faces of his friends before the bout, but never shifted the focus of
her soul’s intent, which reached out where he could not follow.
    “Brother
Cadfael—have I your name right? It’s Welsh, is it not? You were kind,
yesterday. Lady Beringar says you will show me where to find the
master-carpenter. I have to order my uncle’s coffin, to take him back to
Bristol.” She was quite composed, yet still as simple and direct as a child.
“Have we time, before we must go to the castle?”
    “It’s
on the way,” said Cadfael comfortably. “You need only tell Martin Bellecote,
whatever you ask of him he’ll see done properly.”
    “Everyone
is being very kind,” she said punctiliously, like a well brought-up little girl
giving due thanks. “Where is my uncle’s body now? I should care for it myself,
it is my duty.”
    “That
you cannot yet,” said Cadfael. “The sheriff has him at the castle, he must
needs see the body for himself, and have the physician also view it. You need
be put to no distress on that account, the abbot has given orders. Your uncle
will be brought with all reverence to lie in the