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Cadfael turfed his brazier down and made all neat in his hut in the garden with a feeling of pleasant tranquility. It was September, and after the labor of the grain harvest and the grape, the apple trees beckoned for picking. A week more, perhaps, and then time for them to go out and enjoy the labor and the sweet winey scent of the apples in the slanting sunlight. But that would come in due time. Tonight, he was asked to dinner with Hugh Beringar and his lady wife. As godfather to Hugh's son Giles, he had certain responsibilities to him, and they might be well discharged by a visit to consider the state of his godson's developing soul. As Cadfael judged young Giles to be no worse and no better than most six year olds, this could be done in a visit over a meal, and a chance to sit and talk with Hugh as he had not done for some weeks. He was sure this had figured in the timing of Hugh's invitation. This, he looked forward to with pleasure as he shut the door of his hut and strolled off to wash before dinner.
Giles had performed the trick of growing tremendously in the summer, as children will, and Aline was busy with a new pair of hose for him. He was full of being fitted for new boots the following day, and of the puppies his father's dogs had had at Maesbury, and Cadfael smiled and let the flow of chatter wash over him like water, basking in the happiness around him. Hugh leaned back, talking low with Aline about household business while Giles was diverted, and Constance was busy in the back making up the young master's bed for him. The house was warm and cheerful, and so the knock at the door came as a great surprise.
By Aline's voice and the way her shoulders relaxed, they knew it to be a friend, and she turned, smiling brightly as Olivier de Bretagne entered. His smile for Hugh grew as he turned to see Cadfael comfortable in the corner, and he said, "Father! I did not expect you here! Now is my happiness quite complete!"
He knelt for Cadfael's kiss, and sprang up, smiling. "I had thought to look in at the Abbey and see that you were well, as well as visiting my friends here."
"You look well yourself," Hugh said, "What brings you here?"
"It is a long story," he said, glancing at Giles. "And one with some odd features I'd welcome the opinions of you both regarding."
They had a glass of wine, talked of Olivier's son Laurence, his wife, and before long Giles was ordered off to his bed under great protest. Olivier accepted a refill of his cup, leaned back in his chair, and spoke.
"As we all know, I am squired to Laurence d'Angiers, and he is in the fealty of the Empress. Her cause is hard pressed; at this point, there's no harm in admitting it. "
"It begins to be not will but when," Hugh said. There was sympathy in his eyes for his friend. They both respected each other's fealties, though they were on opposite sides of the war.
"As you know, Chester defaulted to Stephen a year ago. There are rumors in the court that the Baron of Kenilworth may follow."
"A baron is not so much compared to an Earl," commented Hugh.
"Ah, but he holds Tickhill, Kimberworth, Laughten-en-le-Morthen, and Mexborough. After the default of Chester, our situation becomes tenuous. Should Kenilworth defect as well, we should require a miracle. But we do not know if he will or will not."
Hugh nodded, listening. The fire flickered, and Aline rose and stooped to tend it.
"He is a proud man, is Kenilworth, and to be suspected of treachery when he is true will be an insult that he cannot abide, and he will go. But should he indeed be intending to turn to Stephen, the sooner we know, the better we may try to deal with the situation."
"Soonest known, best mended," Cadfael said, nodding. "It is indeed a deep problem."
"So I am sent to watch them, to catch a stray word, carry it back, that my liege lord's lady may judge what to do, and when. He is close-mouthed to most. His wife is rumored to be rather less so, especially with those to whom she is...close."
Hugh inhaled in understanding. "It is a job most men would envy."
"And more so, for the Lady Malota is quite fair, and and spirited of bearing," Olivier said. He shifted in his seat uneasily. "I...another man might have found this easier than I do."
"You think your lord...." Hugh broke off.
"I feel like Joseph in the house of Potiphar," Olivier said with a little laugh. Cadfael laughed too, and a slight blush rose in Olivier's cheeks. Certainly he was handsome enough to arouse desire in women, and there was no wrong in that. But he could see that what he did bothered Olivier deeply. It did him credit, being a happily married man.
"So you are here," Cadfael said.
"The lady has dower of Pengwern , a half-day's journey from here," Olivier said. "I announced my intentions to stop here a night that I might see my friends, then I would join them there. He has invited me to hunt with him there."
"And you two are friends?" Cadfael said.
"Friends as far as it goes," Olivier said. "I know not what he is thinking, but he is cordial enough, and yet something dark flickers in his eyes every time his lady laughs at my wit."
"Have you a bed?" Aline said.
"I thought to seek the abbey guesthouse," Olivier said. "I'll walk back with Cadfael when he goes."
"I must not abuse my privilege," Cadfael said, sitting up. The wine and the hour had him a little sleepy, and missing his bed.
"Now I call that out," Hugh said with a laugh. "You'll abuse your privilege as you feel you need to, old friend."
Cadfael just laughed in reply. Hugh knew him well.
In the end, it was nearer to Matins that Olivier and Cadfael walked down from the town. It was a good night, the crisp of autumn stealing into the air. Olivier walked his horse that he might the better speak with Cadfael, both of them treasuring the time. The night porter grumbled at being roused but gave a cheerful enough greeting to Cadfael, who went upstairs to get what rest he could before Matins while Olivier went to bed his horse down before seeking his own. He joined his brothers when the bell rang, and sang with them in thankfulness for the fortune of the face of his son, all so unexpected, and granted to him yet again.
Olivier held up a hand to stop the server from pouring him more wine. His host, the Baron of Kenilworth, raised a brow.
"I am not as solid built a man as you, my lord," Olivier said, temporizing. "Tis poor return for your hospitality for me to have my man carry me insensible to my bed."
Beside him, the Lady Malota, Kenilworth's wife giggled musically. "I have seen enough men who think they impress a lady by how much wine they can carry. They are not cargo ships."
"Bah," said Kenilworth. "If a man's a warrior, he should be able to fight. Saw the Earl of Chester so drunk once he couldn't hold onto his sword. Lion of the north. Hah."
Malota smiled and cast up a glance towards Olivier under long lashes. "I am sure our dear friend never forgets how to handle his weapon." Her slight smile confirmed her meaning. On her other side, her husband shifted uneasily in his seat, and took another drink of wine.
Olivier looked round and commented upon the quality of the service.
"All the more impressive as no lord has sat here these seven years," Lady Malota said. "Pengwern is my dowry, and was my father's favorite house."
"The stag we ran today was superb," Olivier said with real appreciation. "I did wonder, my lord, that you brought the pack, but I see why."
"I hunted here with the Earl before my marriage," said Kenilworth. "I tell you, there was a man born to the saddle. They say he took down a boar at fifteen years. Fifteen!"
Olivier laughed in disbelief. "Fifteen? Gave it the death stroke, perhaps, and it spitted already by three men..."
"No, no, a great solid dark man he was, like an oak, and his growth came on him young. He was man-sized, and the sword he did it with is the sword he was carrying when the arrow cut him down in battle." Kenilworth heaved a sigh. "And his son not half the man his father was."
Lady Malota sighed as well, but there was a petulant note to it. "I am going to retire to the solar, gentlemen. Do not be long over your wine. I should hate to be bored."
"I am sure it is rare," Olivier said, automatically, then checking himself. He recognized the game, but he was a faithful husband. But despite himself, when she stopped and lifted her kirtle hem for the stair, his eyes met hers.
Kenilworth leaned back in his chair and smiled, and gave forth his riddle. "I am the lone wood in the warp of battle, wounded by iron, weary of war. The hard hammer-leavings strike me, the bright-edged battle-work of smiths bite me, yet none among herbalists or wise women can heal me. I suffer my deathwound day and night."
Olivier grinned. He enjoyed riddles, and Kenilworth was not a bad riddler. This one, though, he'd heard before.
"Ah, that one I know, my lord," he said. "Tis a shield, made of wood, split by swords and war-axes, and no herbs can heal it."
Kenilworth laughed. The wine he'd taken earlier seemed to have done its subtle cheering work, and he said with good humor, "Then you have a go, man. Surely knocking round the world as you did, you've heard a few."
Olivier paused and gazed up at the ceiling, considering.
"I am crushed and pressed hard, then laid by a man in a tub. But as anyone who wrestles with me finds out, I can be picked up by any man, but I'll stretch him on the ground, give him such a blow in the dark that it addles his head in daylight." He smiled, and Lady Malota smiled back.
"That is a good hard one," she said, considering. She fingered a lock of golden hair that had slipped from her headdress. "Is it too hard for you, my lord husband?"
Olivier paused, and darted a glance at the Baron, who had flushed a little.
"It is not," he said. "I've been in Bordeaux in the fall, and seen them crush and press the grapes for wine. And a good wine will lay a man flat, if he drinks enough."
Malota briefly rolled her eyes, and her husband leaned away and poked the fire savagely. "Now it's time for mine, I believe," she said. She smiled at Olivier, and said her riddle with a twinkle that had been in Eve's eye when she handed Adam the apple.
"I am a strange creature, shaped for war, the dearest possession of any combatant. Everyone speaks of my deeds, crafts poetry and song round them. I give one woman her deepest desire, bring another to tears and ruin. When I am drawn from my sheath, both men and women sigh in frustration, sing wordless songs of prayer and longing." She leaned back slightly, and both men's gaze was drawn to the slope of her breasts. She glanced at them, raised one brow, and smiled.
There was a long silence. "Your pardon," gritted out her husband, sprang from his seat, and strode from the room. The door slammed behind him.
In the silence of his going, he heard her draw one breath, and before she spoke, the door opened again. Olivier could have cried with relief at the entry of his manservant.
"Your pardon, my lady," he said, bowing, then turned to his master. "Sir, the groom says that Rufus has a stone bruise on his off hind. He is going to poultice it tonight and tomorrow, but cannot promise he'll be sound for our leavetaking in two days."
Olivier found he had many questions for him. Finally, though, the man left to ready his chamber for him, and he was left alone with the Lady Malota.
"Well, sir, and have you thought of the answer?" she said teasingly.
"There are two," he said. He trained a level gaze upon her. "One is the sword sworn to my liege lord. One is the sword sworn to my lady wife. I keep my vows unto death."
A slight, amused quirk of her lips showed it had hit. "My lord, you take all too seriously a passing game," she murmured.
"I find no amusement in pricking a friend's honor," he said, and turned, stirring the fire together restlessly with the poker.
She sighed. "Have no fear for my lord. It is a passing thing. I shall kiss him later and he'll forget his anger."
Olivier just shook his head. "I am tired, and perhaps a little ungracious," he said, and paused as the door opened again.
Lady Malota turned, and said, "Ah, there you are," to the woman who entered. "I was wondering why you took so long about my wine." The woman flushed brightly and handed her the cup. Lady Malota took a sip, and nodded. Then she looked up at Olivier. "Come, my lord. We are friends, and understand each other, do we not? A drink shared, then."
He hesitated a long moment. "Olivier...." she said, her voice caressing his name. He shot her a reproving look, and she smiled impishly back. He laughed, and crossed the room.
"You must be content with but a sip," he said. "And then I am for my bed." His hands wrapped round hers, and she raised the cup to his lips. It was spiced and sweetened wine, a good red lightly watered.
"A lady must take what she can get, and be content with it," she said. He laughed, and she laughed too, and then he felt a gaze at his shoulder. He turned to see that the Baron of Kenilworth had entered the room, the steward at his elbow.
"My lord, I hoped to ask you about the line of your horse. He is magnificent," said the steward.
"He's off Gloucester's best warhorse, they crossed him to a saddle mare in hopes of making a more tractable mount, for Deimos has a vicious temper, the legend of the stables," Olivier said. He bowed to the Baron. "My lord, if you'll excuse me, I am for my bed. If you'd show me the way?" he said to the steward.
He glanced up at Kenilworth, but the man had his gaze averted, looking into the fire, and merely said, "Sleep well. I'll call you early so we can get the best chance at a good run tomorrow."
Olivier bowed, and took his leave.
Two days after Cadfael's visit to Hugh a man rode into the abbey, his riding the rough but adequate style of one who was no horseman, and begged urgent audience with the abbot, who soon sent for Cadfael. He dusted his habit off, and came.
The man was a servant of the Baron of Kenilworth, currently at the manor of Pengwern. The reason Radulfus sent for Cadfael soon became clear.
"He hears from a friend, one Olivier de Bretagne, that there is a brother who is skilled in the understanding of medicines and of their use, and begs the loan of him, for there is sickness in the house."
Radulfus nodded judiciously. "What manner of sickness?"
"The Lady is ill, her, and her maid, and their guest, one Olivier de Bretagne," said the man.
Cadfael felt his heart lurch within him. "What manner of sickness is it?" he asked. "What are the symptoms?"
"They complain of pains in the head, fever, and rapid beating of the heart, and strangury, and the lady is right out of her head, raving like a madwoman, " he said.
Cadfael narrowed his eyes in thought. That did not sound like natural illness to him. He said as much to Radulfus privately after the man left the room.
"Father, the symptoms he speak of come together in a poison, rather than an illness," he said. "If this is the case...."
"If it is poison, then God's justice demands it be named for what it is, and the source of the poison found, that none others be injured," Radulfus said. "Go and pack what you will need. I shall send to Hugh Beringar, as well. If it is poison then this is his concern, as well."
There was nothing going on that needed him right there in the next day or so, and none of his projects would suffer being put off for a day. There were enough hands among his brothers to pick apples without him, if it came to that. Cadfael thought furiously as he walked. He recognized the symptoms. He had attended a case in the town barely a month ago. The elder child had learned to only pretend eating, but the toddler had been attracted to the shiny black berries, sitting so invitingly in their cups. Birds might eat them without harm, but not men. He remembered the name they called it in Rome, belladonna, for the women used it in their eyes to give them the widened pupils they saw as part of beauty. That child had died, fevered and raving. He breathed deep as he opened his hut, gathered his medicines together. He would not contemplate that. No, he would wash their bodies with cool water to bring down the fever, keep them from harming themselves as their minds wandered, dose them with clover tea and elecampane. A decotion of willow bark would help reduce the fever's heat. They were young and healthy. They would live. Surely they would.
He met Hugh Beringar in the courtyard as he fastened his bags to the saddle with the quick, economical movements of the soldier he had been.
"What is this? Two nights ago he sat at wine with us! Are you sure this is the action of a man, not a sad accident?"
"I'll know when I get there," Cadfael said, mounting up with a grunt. "But most poisonings that are accident are children. They gather berries and herbs and pretend at dining, and some forget not to eat, or they are the man who works in a dyer's shop, or the painter, who forget to wash before they eat. No, my friend, I fear that this is deliberate."
It was near Nones when they arrived at Pengwern, and Hugh looked round with approval. It was a handsome house built up over an undercroft, and the yard well kept. They were expected; a boy came running to hold the horses, and another man to meet them. He gave his name as Simon, and said he was steward there. Hugh engaged him in conversation, sent him to find the master of the house, and looked back to where Cadfael's head had turned to look at the border of the woods with something of the same acuteness as a dog on the hunt.
"Do you see it?" he said. Cadfael moved across the yard, and said, after a glance. "This is the plant. Deadly poison, but very pretty." Hugh granted that it was, with its large leaves and shining berries. "The poison is here, my friend. Now we must find out whose hand placed it into the cup."
"That is my work," Hugh said. "And I'll be off on that trail. You have lives to save."
Cadfael turned and looked back at him. "If God wills it."
"It is that thieving steward, I've no doubt," said Nicholas de Livet, Baron of Kenilworth. He glanced thunderously over at the man as he left the room. "I suspected as much. When there's a lady, servants think they've room to steal her blind."
"Have you proved it by the books?"
The Baron shook his head. "A cup of wine spilt and the critical page blotched to unreadability. But I think he's skimming. The man has a fat and satisfied look, and I trust him not. He's got a suit against him for breach of promise, too. "
He explained that his wife always had a cup of wine in the evenings, and she had her maid make it, adding spices and honey to the cup. "She said it made her sleep better," he said, pain tightening his face. "All here knew it. Simple of him to pause and flirt with her maid as she brought it, drop the crushed berries in. They'd mingle with the lees and no one would ever know." He took a deep breath. "Sir, if this is murder, I'll see him hanged for it."
"This is no matter of whether you hold for Matilda or Stephen, " Hugh said, "I am sheriff of the shire, and I'll see justice done."
"My lord, you must prevent this!" the steward said. He was, indeed, a solidly prosperous looking man with a good gown and a bit of a belly beginning to strain his belt, but he was clearly frightened. "I'm an honest man, so I am, and I've kept the accounts fair. I mind that as I looked over the accounts not a week ago the one cat chased the other through the solar and across the table, and my wine spilt on that page. And, of course, it would be just the page that would prove my honesty now, could it be read." He sighed. "I shall surely lose my place, and all to cover his sin!"
"There's trouble between him and his wife?" Hugh asked.
"If he tells you there is not, he lies," the man said. "The lady is a flirt. She is chasing the lord's friend, who is certainly man enough to turn any woman's head. And my lord is lowering like a thundercloud, and she teases him into a good humor, flatters him and then upsets him again by having his friend share her wine after dinner, sit next to her and play her at tables and his riddles are better, by her laughter, than her husband's. Oh, there was fighting that first night when they were abed, harsh whispers and hissed oaths, and were her girl in her right mind, she'd tell you as she told me."
"Well, sir, if my lord's friend weren't so ill, and my lady's girl, I'd suspect the girl did it," said the cook. He was a tall, solid man, and he clearly ran his domain with a stern hand, even with being relocated here. "She's the one that heats and spices the wine, no other. She must come to me for the spices, of course, but who else could have had the opportunity to add something?"
"But she was loyal to her mistress, and had been with her for years, says my lord Kenilworth."
"Ah, well!" the cook said. "My lord hasn't told you all. You've not seen Anne in her right mind; a lady of great bearing and gentle nature. Says she's baseborn of a baron, and I believe it. She's villein, though, and though she would marry the steward at Mexborough, the lady won't have it, for she'd lose her service, and so Anne says him no. And the thanks she gets? That fool woman uses her for carrying her love letters and makes her lie to her lord for her, and when she pulled her hair last night brushing it, she slapped her so hard it left her eye blackened. They were buzzing about it in the hall this morning. How they treat her! And they'll not let her go."
There were servants sitting with each of the sufferers, and all expressed their willingness to help. Such a gentleman Olivier had been, though he'd only been here the one night. Such a gentle lady their mistress was, so well-respected the maid. They were glad to see someone who might know what to do, and soon there were herbs simmering for teas, the sufferers washed with cold water to bring down their fevers, and sips of the strong decotion of damson root given. Olivier was the least affected. He smiled weakly at Cadfael. He obediently drank the bitter potions he was given, cooperated with his attendants, and in three hours his fever broke. They washed him, dosed him again, and left him drowsing in the bed, his man weeping in gratitude to God that his master lived. The maid Anne took longer, but she soon was firmly on the road towards recovery.
But the Lady Malota died, babbling of childhood, burning so hot that she seemed heated in a forge, and it was not til the following morning that Cadfael could find a bed of his own, knowing all of them out of danger, in this world and the next. He fell asleep with his soul singing. My son lives. Thank you, dear Lord. My son lives.
The poison had been in the cup. The spices, the wine, and the little pot the wine had heated in was from the common stock, used the following day to cook the dinner, and no harm from it. But the lees of wine had been licked by the Lady's little dog, and it too was dead.
"And that is why I fell ill," said Olivier thoughtfully. He was sitting up in bed, color much better, and drinking broth. "For the lady did insist playfully that I drink from her cup. His eye fell upon me, and so I took the merest sip, for politeness, and begged fatigue from the day's hunting. And the steward will tell you that we walked to the door of my room, and he saw me safe within, for we spoke of my horse, and the hunts I'd seen at Winchester, and of the great stag my lord killed last autumn. I had to fair yawn my head off before he recollected his manners and left me to sleep, and my man Roger between me and the door in the bed. He knows I went neither out nor in, til he came to wake me and I burnt with fever."
"Between the kitchen door and the solar, then, 'twas added," said Hugh thoughtfully. "But how the maid?"
"Ask her if she drank from the cup?" Olivier offered.
The maid, Anne, was inclined to evade, but finally admitted it. She had. Her lord had cornered her in the passage, forced her to set the cup aside, and ordered her to kneel before him. Tears rolled down her face at the memory. She had turned aside when he'd finished, retching, and lost her dinner in the corner. He had left by the time she remembered the cup, still standing there on the flagstones unspilt, and she took a long drink of the spiced wine to clear her mouth from the taste of his seed.
In the courtyard, a man paced back and forth. He listened to two men speaking.
"Nay, he's done naught... When I left, his man was in bed with him, and blowing out the lamp for sleep, and the man out towards the door, not the master. Had she gone to him, he'd know, and he swears not, on his hope of heaven. So keep your tongue off him; a man can't help if the Lord makes him fair any more than a woman can, and he's done nothing to harm your master."
The other man's reply was inaudible to the listener, who stopped dead. He stared at the shining berries, sick realization filling him. His dagger was on his hip. A mortal sin, either way. This way was faster. As the pain blossomed white behind his eyes, he heard shouting, but paid it no heed.
Hugh went in search of Cadfael. He was in the chapel, staring at the great Bible before the altar.
"I've the answer, my friend," he said.
"As do I," said Cadfael. "I know why."
"How do you know this?" Hugh said. "I do not. Why now?"
"The man leaves the room rather than watch his wife hunt a man, a more handsome and younger man. He cannot see how a woman can resist his charms, and knows in his heart that she will slip from her bed tonight and into his, for he's seen him smile and laugh with her. He comes here for guidance, and prays. And he opens the Bible, and puts his finger down." And Cadfael did just that, laying his finger against a verse. "I came to pray, looked, and it leapt to my eye as if gilded. I could see it all."
Hugh read where he pointed. "If another man hath not slept with thee, and if thou be not defiled by forsaking thy husband's bed, these most bitter waters, on which I have heaped curses, shall not hurt thee." He breathed out in comprehension. "But she was innocent, of Olivier at least."
The door to the chapel banged. "Please, Brother, come quickly! My lord is wounded!"
They had moved Lord Kenilworth to a bed, and Cadfael packed the wound, administered clover and woundwort. But he shook his head at Hugh. Kenilworth would stand to God's judgement, not the King's. It had been done by his own hand, and he was a warrior who knew where to strike.
"I wronged a woman who was true," he said, feebly, and then closed his eyes. He slid from life more easily than had his wife.
By the time they were ready to leave, so was Olivier, who consented to ride behind his man rather than sitting a horse alone. "I shall rest a few more days here in Shrewsbury," he said, "But then I must carry this news to my lord, that he may let his lady know of this tragedy."
"You shall stay with me," Hugh said, "and we shall talk."
Olivier's smile was lovely to behold. "We will talk, my friend."
Olivier came to the garden before he left. "I could not leave without seeing you, Father," he said. Cadfael smiled, and sat down with him outside on the bench. The slope down to the river was cut, and the smell of apples being pressed for cider drifted on the breeze like perfume, the light that lovely gold that only autumn can bring, the wind just slightly crisp.
"As I found myself in great need of rest when I reached Hugh's house in town, I had a letter sent to my lord, putting him wise of the news about Kenilworth." Olivier broke off, looked pensive. "Father, I am troubled. Was I sent there to cause trouble between them? Perhaps precipitate a scene? For all her flirtings, she was ever silent about her husband and his thoughts."
"Have you received word?"
Olivier nodded. "This outcome displeases neither my lord nor his lady, for all the niceties of their words, and their regret expressed. I am bid to Winchester, and then I know not where." He shook his head. "There must soon be an end to this struggle, we are all weary, and so many dead. And I wonder, who will be the last to die, and whether Kenilworth will be reckoned a suicide or a murder."
There was nothing more to say. Cadfael gave him a father's blessing, accompanied him to the gate, and watched him ride away, gilded by the afternoon light. The bell rang, and he moved, with his brothers, to his seat in the choir.