“I’m rather seeking than bringing enlightenment,” Cadfael confessed. “But I trust one man’s ill deed cannot mar these meetings between your prince and our sheriff. Owain Gwynedd’s goodwill is gold to us in Shropshire, all the more since Madog ap Meredith is showing his teeth again.”
“Do you tell me so? Owain will want to hear of it, but after supper will be the fitting time. I’ll make you a place at the high table.” Since he had in any case to wait for the arrival of Einon, Cadfael sat back to study and enjoy the gathering in Tudur’s hall over supper, the warmth of the central fire, the torches, the wine, and the harping. A man of Tudur’s status was privileged to possess a harp and maintain his own harper, in addition to his duty to be a generous patron to travelling minstrels. And with the prince here to praise and be praised, they had a rivalry of singers that lasted throughout the meal. There was still a deal of coming and going in the courtyard, late-comers riding in, officers from the camps patrolling their bounds and changing pickets, and the womenfolk fetching and carrying, and loitering to talk to the archers and men-at-arms. For the time being this was the court of Gwynedd, where petitioners, bringers of gifts, young men seeking office and favour, all must come.
The dishes had been removed, and the mead and wine were circulating freely, when Tudur’s steward came into the hall and made for the high table.
“My lord, there’s one here asks leave to present to you his natural son, whom he has acknowledged and admitted to his kinship only two days ago. Griffri ap Llywarch, from close by Meifod. Will you hear him?”
“Willingly,” said Owain, pricking up his fair head to stare down through the smoke and shadows of the hall with some curiosity. “Let Griffri ap Llywarch come in and be welcome.” Cadfael had not paid due attention to the name, and might not even have recognised it if he had, nor was he likely to recognise a man he had never seen before. The newcomer followed the steward into the hall, and up between the tables to the high place. A lean, sinewy man, perhaps fifty years old, balding and bearded, with a hillman’s gait, and the weathered face and wrinkled, far-seeing eyes of the shepherd. His clothing was plain and brown, but good homespun. He came straight to the dais, and made the Welshman’s brisk, unservile reverence to the prince.
“My lord Owain, I have brought you my son, that you may know and approve him. For the only son I had by my wife is two years and more dead, and I was without children, until this my son by another woman came to me declaring his birth and proving it. And I have acknowledged him mine and brought him into my kinship, and as mine he is accepted. Now I ask your countenance also.” He stood proudly, glad of what he had to say and of the young man he had to present; and Cadfael would have had neither eyes nor ears for any other man present, if it had not been for the courteous silence that had followed him up the hall, and the one clear sound that carried in it. Shadows and smoke veiled the figure that followed respectfully at some yards distance, but the sound of its steps was plainly audible, and went haltingly, lighter and faster upon one foot. Cadfael’s eyes were upon the son when he came hesitantly into the torchlight from the high table. This one he knew, though the black hair was trimmed and thrown proudly back from a face not now sullen and closed, but open, hopeful and eager, and there was no longer a crutch under the leaning armpit.
Cadfael looked back from Anion ap Griffri to Griffri ap Llywarch, to whose drear and childless middle age this unlooked-for son had suddenly supplied a warm heart of hope and content. The homespun cloak hanging loose upon Griffri’s shoulders bore in its folds a long pin with a large, chased gold head secured with a thin gold chain. And that, too, Cadfael had seen before, and knew only too well.
So did another witness. Einon ab Ithel had come in, as one familiar with the household and desirous of making no inconvenient stir, by the high door from the private chamber, and emerged behind the prince’s table unnoticed. The man who was holding all attention naturally drew his. The red of torchlight flashed from the ornament worn openly and proudly. Its owner had the best reason to know there could not be two such, not of that exact and massive size and ornamentation.
“God’s breath!” swore Einon ab Ithel in a great bellow of astonishment and indignation. “What manner of thief have we here, wearing my gold under my very eyes?”
Silence fell as ominously as thunder, and every head whirled from prince and petitioner to stare at this loud accuser. Einon came round the high table in a few long strides, dropped from the dais so close as to send Griffri lurching back in alarm, and stabbed a hard brown finger at the pin that glowed in the drab cloak.
“My lord, this—is mine! Gold out of my earth, I had it mined, I had it made for me, there is not another exactly like it in this or any land. When I came back from Shrewsbury, on that errand you know of, it was not in my collar, nor have I seen it since that day. I thought it fallen somewhere on the road, and made no ado about it. What is it to mourn for, gold! Now I see it again and marvel. My lord, it is in your hands. Demand of this man how he comes to be wearing what is mine.” Half the hall was on its feet, and rumbling with menace, for theft, unmitigated by circumstances, was the worst crime they acknowledged, and the thief caught red, handed could be killed on sight by the wronged man. Griffri stood stricken dumb, staring in bewilderment. Anion flung himself with stretched arms and braced body between his father and Einon.
“My lord, my lord, I gave it, I brought it to my father. I did not steal… I took a price! Hold my father blameless, if there is blame it is mine only…” He was sweating with terror, great sudden gouts that ran on his forehead and were snared in his thick brows. And if he knew a little Welsh, in this extremity it did not serve him, he had cried out in English. That gave them all a moment of surprise. And Owain swept a hand over the hall and brought silence.
“Sit, and keep closed mouths. This is my matter. I’ll have quiet and all here shall have justice.” They murmured, but they obeyed. In the ensuing hush Brother Cadfael rose unobtrusively to his feet and made his way round the table and down to the floor of the hall. His movements, however discreet, drew the prince’s eye.
“My lord,” said Cadfael deprecatingly, “I am of Shrewsbury, I know and am known to this man Anion ap Griffri. He was raised English, no fault of his. Should he need one to interpret, I can do that service, so that he may be understood by all here.”
“A fair offer,” said Owain, and eyed him thoughtfully. “Are you also empowered, brother, to speak for Shrewsbury, since it seems this accusation goes back to that town, and the business of which we know? And if so, for shire and town or for abbey?”
“Here and now,” said Cadfael boldly, “I will venture for both. And if any find fault hereafter, let it fall on me.”
“You are here, I fancy,” said Owain, considering, “over this very matter.”
“I am. In part to look for this same jewel. For it vanished from Gilbert Prestcote’s chamber in our infirmary on the day that he died. The cloak that had been added to the sick man’s wrappings in the litter was handed back to Einon ab Ithel without it. Only after he had left did we remember and look for the brooch. And only now do I see it again.”
“From the room where a man died by murder,” said Einon. “Brother, you have found more than the gold. You may send our men home.” Anion stood fearful but steadfast between his father and the accusing stare of a hall full of eyes. He was white as ice, translucent, as though all the blood had left his veins. “I did not kill,” he said hoarsely, and heaved hard to get breath enough to speak. “My lord, I never knew… I thought the pin was his, Prestcote’s. I took it from the cloak, yes,—”