Free The Devils Novice by Ellis Peters

stealing his possessions. Give me,”
he said through his teeth, very quietly, “what is mine!”
    “We
shall see, insolence, what the lord abbot has to say of your behaviour. Such a
vain trophy as this you may not keep. And as for your insubordination, it shall
be reported faithfully. Now let me pass!” ordered Jerome, supremely confident
still of his dominance and his tightness.
    Whether
Meriet mistook his intention, and supposed that it was simply a matter of
sweeping the entire issue into chapter for the abbot’s judgment, Cadfael could
never be sure. The boy might have retained sense enough to accept that, even if
it meant losing his simple little treasure in the end; for after all, he had
come here of his own will, and at every check still insisted that he wanted
with all his heart to be allowed to remain and take his vows. Whatever his
reason, he did step back, though with a frowning and dubious face, and allowed
Jerome to come forth into the corridor.
    Jerome
turned towards the night-stairs, where the lamp was still burning, and all his
mute myrmidons followed respectfully. The lamp stood in a shallow bowl on a
bracket on the wall, and was guttering towards its end. Jerome reached it, and
before either Cadfael or Meriet realised what he was about, he had drawn the
gauzy ribbon through the flame. The tress of hair hissed and vanished in a
small flare of gold, the ribbon fell apart in two charred halves, and smouldered
in the bowl. And Meriet, without a sound uttered, launched himself like a hound
leaping, straight at Brother Jerome’s throat. Too late to grasp at his cowl and
try to restrain him, Cadfael lunged after.
    No
question but Meriet meant to kill. This was no noisy brawl, all bark and no
bite, he had his hands round the scrawny throat, bringing Jerome crashing to
the floor-tiles under him, and kept his grip and held to his purpose though
half a dozen of the dismayed and horrified novices clutched and clawed and
battered at him, themselves ineffective, and getting in Cadfael’s way. Jerome
grew purple, heaving and flapping like a fish out of water, and wagging his
hands helplessly against the tiles. Cadfael fought his way through until he
could stoop to Meriet’s otherwise oblivious ear, and bellow inspired words into
it.
    “For
shame, son! An old man!”
    In
truth, Jerome lacked twenty of Cadfael’s own sixty years, but the need
justified the mild exaggeration. Meriet’s ancestry nudged him in the ribs. His
hands relaxed their grip, Jerome halsed in breath noisily and cooled from
purple to brick-red, and a dozen hands hauled the culprit to his feet and held
him, still breathing fire and saying no word, just as Prior Robert, tall and
awful as though he wore the mitre already, came sailing down the tiled
corridor, blazing like a bolt of the wrath of God.
    In
the bowl of the lamp, the two ends of flowered ribbon smouldered, giving off a
dingy and ill-scented smoke, and the stink of the burned ringlet still hung
upon the air.
    Two
of the lay servants, at Prior Robert’s orders, brought the manacles that were
seldom used, shackled Meriet’s wrists, and led him away to one of the
punishment cells isolated from all the communal uses of the house. He went with
them, still wordless, too aware of his dignity to make any resistance, or put
them to any anxiety on his account. Cadfael watched him go with particular
interest, for it was as if he saw him for the first time. The habit no longer
hampered him, he strode disdainfully, held his head lightly erect, and if it
was not quite a sneer that curled his lips and his still roused nostrils, it
came very close to it. Chapter would see him brought to book, and sharply, but
he did not care. In a sense he had had his satisfaction.
    As
for Brother Jerome, they picked him up, put him to bed, fussed over him,
brought him soothing draughts which Cadfael willingly provided, bound up his
bruised throat with comforting