A Rare Benedictine Read Free

presided over their labours. It needed
only a single day of watching the Lady Eadwina in action to show who ruled the
roost here. Roger Mauduit had married a wife not only handsome, but also
efficient and masterful. She had had her own way here for three years, and by
all the signs had enjoyed her dominance. She might, even, be none too glad to
resign her charge now, however glad she might be to have her lord home again.
    She
was a tall, graceful woman, ten years younger than Roger, with an abundance of
fair hair, and large blue eyes that went discreetly half-veiled by absurdly
long lashes most of the time, but flashed a bright and steely challenge when
she opened them fully. Her smile was likewise discreet and almost constant,
concealing rather than revealing whatever went on in her mind; and though her
welcome to her returning lord left nothing to be desired, but lavished on him
every possible tribute of ceremony and affection from the moment his horse
entered at the gate, Cadfael could not but wonder whether she was not, at the
same time, taking stock of every man he brought in with him, and every article
of gear or harness or weaponry in their equipment, as one taking jealous
inventory of his goods and reserves to make sure nothing was lacking.
    She
had her little son by the hand, a boy of about seven years old, and the child
had the same fair colouring, the same contained and almost supercilious smile,
and was as spruce and fine as his mother.
    The
lady received Alard with a sweeping glance that deprecated his tatterdemalion
appearance and doubted his morality, but nevertheless was willing to accept and
make use of his abilities. The clerk who kept the manor roll and the accounts
was efficient enough, but had no Latin, and could not write a good court hand.
Alard was whisked away to a small table set in the angle of the great hearth,
and kept hard at work copying certain charters and letters, and preparing them
for presentation.
    “This
suit of his is against the abbey of Shrewsbury,” said Alard, freed of his
labours after supper in hall. “I recall you said that girl of yours had married
a merchant in that town. Shrewsbury is a Benedictine house, like mine of
Evesham.” His, he called it still, after so many years of abandoning it; or his
again, after time had brushed away whatever division there had ever been. “You
must know it, if you come from there.”
    “I
was born in Trefriw, in Gwynedd,” said Cadfael, “but I took service early with
an English wool-merchant, and came to Shrewsbury with his household. Fourteen,
I was then in Wales fourteen is manhood, and as I was a good lad with the short
bow, and took kindly to the sword, I suppose I was worth my keep. The best of
my following years were spent in Shrewsbury, I know it like my own palm, abbey
and all. My master sent me there a year and more, to get my letters. But I quit
that service when he died. I’d pledged nothing to the son, and he was a poor
shadow of his father. That was when I took the Cross. So did many like me, all
afire. I won’t say what followed was all ash, but it burned very low at times.”
    “It’s
Mauduit who holds this disputed land,” said Alard, “and the abbey that sues to
recover it, and the thing’s been going on four years without a settlement, ever
since the old man here died. From what I know of the Benedictines, I’d rate
their honesty above our Roger’s, I tell you straight. And yet his charters seem
to be genuine, as far as I can tell.”
    “Where
is this land they’re fighting over?” asked Cadfael.
    “It’s
a manor by the name of Rotesley, near Stretton, demesne, village, advowson of
the church and all. It seems when the great earl was just dead and his abbey
still building, Roger’s father gave Rotesley to the abbey. No dispute about
that, the charter’s there to show it. But the abbey granted it back to him as
tenant for life, to live out his latter