A Rare Benedictine Read Free Page A

years there undisturbed, Roger being
then married and installed here at Sutton. That’s where the dispute starts. The
abbey claims it was clearly agreed the tenancy ended with the old man’s death,
that he himself understood it so, and intended it should be restored to the
abbey as soon as he was out of it. While Roger says there was no such agreement
to restore it unconditionally, but the tenancy was granted to the Mauduits, and
ought to be hereditary. And so far he’s hung on to it tooth and claw. After
several hearings they remitted it to the King himself. And that’s why you and
I, my friend, will be off with his lordship to Woodstock the day after
tomorrow.”
    “And
how do you rate his chances of success? He seems none too sure himself,” said
Cadfael, “to judge by his short temper and nail-biting this last day or so.”
    “Why,
the charter could have been worded better. It says simply that the village is
granted back in tenancy during the old man’s lifetime, but fails to say
anything about what shall happen afterwards, whatever may have been intended.
From what I hear, they were on very good terms, Abbot Fulchered and the old
lord, agreements between them on other matters in the manor book are worded as
between men who trusted each other. The witnesses are all of them dead, as
Abbot Fulchered is dead. It’s one Godefrid now. But for all I know the abbey
may hold letters that have passed between the two, and a letter is witness of
intent, no less than a formal charter. All in good time we shall see.”
    The
nobility still sat at the high table, in no haste to retire, Roger brooding
over his wine, of which he had already drunk his fair share and more. Cadfael
eyed them with interest, seen thus in a family setting. The boy had gone to his
bed, hauled away by an elderly nurse, but the Lady Eadwina sat in close
attendance at her lord’s left hand, and kept his cup well filled, smiling her
faint, demure smile. On her left sat a very fine young squire of about
twenty-five years, deferential and discreet, with a smile somehow the male
reflection of her own. The source of both was secret, the spring of their
pleasure or amusement, or whatever caused them so to smile, remained private
and slightly unnerving, like the carved stone smiles of certain very old
statues Cadfael had seen in Greece, long ago. For all his mild, amiable and
ornamental appearance, combed and curled and courtly, he was a big, well-set-up
young fellow, with a set to his smooth jaw. Cadfael studied him with interest,
for he was plainly privileged here.
    “Goscelin,”
said Alard by way of explanation, following his friend’s glance. “Her
right-hand man while Roger was away.”
    Her
left-hand man now, by the look of it, thought Cadfael. For her left hand and
Goscelin’s right were private under the table, while she spoke winningly into
her husband’s ear; and if those two hands were not paddling palms at this
moment Cadfael was very much deceived. Above and below the drapings of the
board were two different worlds. “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “what she’s
breathing into Roger’s ear now.”
    What
the lady was breathing into her husband’s ear was, in fact: “You fret over
nothing, my lord. What does it matter how strong his proofs, if he never
reaches Woodstock in time to present them? You know the law: if one party fails
to appear, judgement is given for the other. The assize judges may allow more
than one default if they please, but do you think King Henry will? Whoever
fails of keeping tryst with him will be felled on the spot. And you know the
road by which Prior Heribert must come.” Her voice was a silken purr in his
ear. “And have you not a hunting-lodge in the forest north of Woodstock,
through which that road passes?”
    Roger’s
hand had stiffened round the stem of his wine cup. He was not so drunk but he
was listening intently.
    “Shrewsbury
to Woodstock