St. Peter's Fair by Ellis Peters Page B

bright hazel eyes at the lady, and one impudent wink at
Brother Cadfael when Emma was not noticing.
    On
the way through the town, up the steep street to the High Cross, and down the
gentler slope beyond to the ramp which led up to the castle gateway, she fell
into a thoughtful silence, putting in order her recollections. The shadow of
the gate falling upon her serious face and cutting off the sunlight caused her
eyes to dilate in awe; but the casual traffic of the watch here was no longer
reminiscent of siege and battle, but easy and brisk, and the townspeople went
in and out freely with their requests and complaints. The sheriff was a
strong-minded, taciturn, able knight past fifty, and old in experience of both
war and office, and while he could be heavy-handed in crushing disorder, he was
trusted to be fair in day to day matters. If he had not given the goodmen of
the town much help in making good the dilapidations due to the siege, neitherhad he permitted them to be misused or heavily taxed to restore the
damage to the castle. In the great court one tower was still caged in timber
scaffolding, one wall shored up with wooden buttresses. Emma gazed, great-eyed.
    There
were others going the same way with them, anxious fathers here to bail their
sons, two of the abbey stewards who had been assaulted in the affray, witnesses
from the bridge and the jetty, all being ushered through to the inner ward, and
a chill, stony hall hung with smoky tapestries. Cadfael found Emma a seat on a
bench against the wall, where she sat looking about her with anxious eyes but
lively interest.
    “Look,
there’s Master Corbière!”
    He
was just entering the hall, and for the moment had no attention to spare for
anyone but the hunched figure that slouched before him; blear-eyed but in his
full wits today, going softly in awe of his irate lord, Turstan Fowler made his
powerful form as small and unobtrusive as possible, and mustered patience until
the storm should blow over. And what had he to do here, Cadfael wondered. He
had not been on the jetty, and by the state in which he had been found near
midnight, his memories of yesterday should in any case be vague indeed. Yet he
must have something to say to the purpose, or Corbière would not have brought
him here. By his mood last night, he had meant to leave him locked up all day,
to teach him better sense.
    “Is
this the sheriff?” whispered Emma.
    Gilbert
Prestcote had entered, with a couple of lawmen at his elbows to advise him on
the legalities. This was no trial but it rested with him whether the rioters
would go home on their own and their sires’ bond to appear at the assize, or be
held in prison in the meantime. The sheriff was a tall, spare man, erect and
vigorous, with a short black beard trimmed to a point, and a sharp and daunting
eye. He took his seat without ceremony, and a sergeant handed him the list of
names of those in custody. He raised his eyebrows ominously at the number of
them.
    “All
these were taken in riot?” He spread the roll on his table and frowned down at
it. “Very well! There is also the graver matter of the death of Master Thomas
of Bristol. At what hour was the last word we have of Master Thomas alive and
well?”
    “According to his journeyman and his watchman, he
left his booth on the horse-fair, intending to return to his barge, more than
an hour past the Compline bell. That is the last word we have. His man Roger
Dod is here to testify that the hour was rather more than a quarter past nine
of the evening and the watchman bears that out.”
    “Late
enough,” said the sheriff, pondering. “The fighting was over by then, and
Foregate and fairground quiet. Hugh, prick me off here all those who were then
already in custody. Whatever their guilt for damages to goods and gear, they
cannot have had any hand in this murder.”
    Hugh
leaned to his shoulder, and ran a rapid hand down the roster. “It was a