Free Monk's Hood by Ellis Peters Page B

millpond, it was opened by Richildis
herself. There was no sign either of Aelfric or Aldith, she had taken good care
that the two of them should be able to talk in absolute privacy. In the inner
room all was bare and neat, the morning’s chaos smoothed away, the trestle
table folded aside. Richildis sat down in the great chair which had been her
husband’s, and drew Cadfael down on the bench beside her. It was dim within the
room, only one small rush-light burning; the only other brightness came from
her eyes, the dark, lustrous brightness he was remembering more clearly with
every moment.
    “Cadfael…”
she said haltingly, and was silent again for some moments. “To think it should
really be you! I never got word of you, after I heard you were back home. I
thought you would have married, and been a grandsire by this. As often as I
looked at you, this morning, I was searching my mind, why I should be so sure I
ought to know you… And just when I was in despair, to hear your name spoken!”
    “And
you,” said Cadfael, “you came as unexpectedly to me. I never knew you’d been
widowed from Eward Gurney—I remember now that was his name!—much less that
you’d wed again.”
    “Three
years ago,” she said, and heaved a sigh that might have been of regret or
relief at the abrupt ending of this second match. “I mustn’t make you think ill
of him, he was not a bad man, Gervase, only elderly and set in his ways, and
usedto being obeyed. A widower he was, many years wifeless,
and without any children, leastways none by the marriage. He courted me a long
time, and I was lonely, and then he promised, you see… Not having a legitimate
heir, he promised if I’d have him he’d make Edwin his heir. His overlord
sanctioned it. I ought to tell you about my family. I had a daughter, Sibil,
only a year after I married Eward, and then, I don’t know why, time went on and
on, and there were no more. You’ll remember, maybe, Eward had his business in
Shrewsbury as a master-carpenter and carver. A good workman he was, a good
master and a good husband.”
    “You
were happy?” said Cadfael, grateful at hearing it in her voice. Time and
distance had done well by the pair of them, and led them to their proper
places, after all.
    “Very
happy! I couldn’t have had a better man. But there were no more children then.
And when Sibil was seventeen she married Eward’s journeyman, Martin Bellecote,
and a good lad he is, too, and she’s as happy in her match as I was in mine,
thank God! Well, then, in two years the girl was with child, and it was like
being young again myself—the first grandchild!—it’s always so. I was so joyful,
looking after her and making plans for the birth, and Eward was as proud as I
was, and what with one thing and another, you’d have thought we old folk were
young newlyweds again ourselves. And I don’t know how it happens, but when
Sibil was four months gone, what should I find but I was carrying, too!
    After
all those years! And I in my forty-fourth year—it was like a miracle! And the
upshot is, she and I both brought forth boys, and though there’s the four
months between them, they might as well be twins as uncle and nephew—and the
uncle the younger, at that! They even look very much like, both taking after my
man. And from the time they were first on their feet they’ve been as close as
any brothers, and closer than most, and both as wild as fox-cubs. So that’s my
son Edwin and my grandson Edwy. Not yet turned fifteen, either of them. It’s
for Edwin I’m praying your help, Cadfael. For I swear to you he never did nor
even could do such wicked harm, but the sheriff’s man has it fixed fast in his
head thatit was Edwin who put poison in the dish. If you knew
him, Cadfael, if only you knew him, you’d know it’s madness.”
    And
so it sounded when her fond, maternal voice spoke of it, yet sons no older than
fourteen had been