“And you lose, I gather, your chief contender for a halter. You have no after-thoughts concerning him?”
“None. I am sure he did as he says he did. He dreamed of avenging himself on a strong and overbearing man, and found a broken wreck he could not choose but pity.”
“No bad ending,” said Owain. “And now I think we might withdraw to some quieter place, and you shall tell us whatever you have to tell, and ask whatever you need to ask.”
In the prince’s chamber they sat about the small, wire-guarded brazier, Owain, Tudur, Einan ab Ithel and Cadfael. Cadfael had brought with him the little box in which he had preserved the wisps of wool and gold thread. Those precise shades of deep blue and soft rose could not be carried accurately in the mind, but must continually be referred to the eye, and matched against whatever fabric came to light. He had the box in the scrip at his girdle, and was wary of opening it where there might be even the faintest draught, for fear the frail things within would be blown clean away. A breath from a loophole could whisk his ominous treasures out of reach in an instant.
He had debated within himself how much he should tell, but in the light of Cristina’s revelation, and since her father was here in conference, he told all he knew, how Elis in his captivity had fallen haplessly in love with Prestcote’s daughter, and how the pair of them had seen no possible hope of gaining the sheriffs approval for such a match, hence providing reason enough why Elis should attempt to disturb the invalid’s rest—whether to remove by murder the obstacle to his love, as Melicent accused, or to plead his forlorn cause, as Elis himself protested.
“So that was the way of it,” said Owain, and exchanged a straight, hard look with Tudur, unsurprised, and forbearing from either sympathy or blame. Tudur was on close terms of personal friendship with his prince, and had surely spoken with him of Cristina’s confidences. Here was the other side of the coin. “And this was after Einon had left you?”
“It was. It came out that the boy had tried to speak with Gilbert, and been ordered out by Brother Edmund. When the girl heard of it, she turned on him for a murderer.”
“But you do not altogether accept that. Nor, it seems, has Beringar accepted it.”
“There is no more proof of it than that he was there, beside the bed, when Edmund came and drove him out. It could as well have been for the boy’s declared purpose as for anything worse. And then, you’ll understand, there was the matter of the gold pin. We never realised it was missing, my lord, until you had ridden for home. But very certainly Elis neither had it on him, nor had had any opportunity to hide it elsewhere before he was searched. Therefore someone else had been in that room and taken it away.”
“But now that we know what befell my pin,” said Einon, “and are satisfied Anion did not murder, does not that leave that boy again in danger of being branded for the killing of a sick and sleeping man? Though it sorts very poorly,” he added, “with what I know of him.”
“Which of us,” said Owain sombrely, “has never been guilty of some unworthiness that sorts very ill with what our friends know of us? Even with what we know, or think we know, of ourselves! I would not rule out any man from being capable once in his life of a gross infamy.” He looked up at Cadfael. “Brother, I recall you said, within there, that there was yet one more thing you must find, belore you would have found Prestcote’s murderer. What is that thing?”
“It is the cloth that was used to smother Gilbert. By its traces it will be known, once found. For it was pressed down over his nose and mouth, and he breathed it into his nostrils and drew it into his teeth, and a thread or two of it we found in his beard. No ordinary cloth. Elis had neither that nor anything else in his hands when he came from the infirmary. Once I had found and preserved the filaments from it, we searched for it throughout the abbey precincts, for it could have been a hanging or an altar-cloth, but we have found nothing to match these fragments. Until we know what it was, and what became of it, we shall not know who killed Gilbert Prestcote.”
“This is certain?” asked Owain. “You drew these threads from the dead man’s nostrils and mouth? You think you will know, when you find it, the very cloth that was used to stifle him?”
“I do think so, for the colours are clear, and not common dyes. I have the box here. But open it with care. What’s within is fine as cobweb.” Cadfael handed the little box across the brazier. “But not here. The up-draught from the warmth could blow them away.” Owain took the box aside, and held it low under one of the lamps, where the light would play into it. The minute threads quivered faintly, and again were still. “Here’s gold thread, that’s plain, a twisted strand. The rest—I see it’s wool, by the many hairs and the live texture. A darker colour and a lighter.” He studied them narrowly, but shook his head. “I could not say what tints are here, only that the cloth had a good gold thread woven into it. And I fancy it would be thick, a heavy weave, by the way the wool curls and crimps. Many more such fine hairs went to make up this yarn.”
“Let me see,” said Einon, and narrowed his eyes over the box. “I see the gold, but the colours… No, it means nothing to me.” Tudur peered, and shook his head. “We have not the light for this, my lord. By day these would show very differently.” It was true, by the mellow light of these oil, lamps the prince’s hair was deep harvest, gold, almost brown. By daylight it was the yellow of primroses. “It might be better,” agreed Cadfael, “to leave the matter until morning. Even had we better vision, what could be done at this hour?”
“This light foils the eye,” said Owain. He closed the lid over the airy fragments. “Why did you think you might find what you seek here?”
“Because we have not found it within the pale of the abbey, so we must look outside, wherever men have dispersed from the abbey. The lord Einon and two captains beside had left us before ever we recovered these threads, it was a possibility, however frail, that unknowingly this cloth had gone with them. By daylight the colours will show for what they truly are. You may yet recall seeing such a weave.” Cadfael took back the box. It had been a fragile hope at best, but the morrow remained. There was a man’s life, a man’s soul’s health, snared in those few quivering hairs, and he was their custodian.
“Tomorrow,” said the prince emphatically, “we will try what God’s light can show us, since ours is too feeble.”
In the deep small hours of that same night Elis awoke in the dark cell in the outer ward of Shrewsbury castle, and lay with stretched ears, struggling up from the dullness of sleep and wondering what had shaken him out of so profound a slumber. He had grown used to all the daytime sounds native to this place, and to the normal unbroken silence of the night. This night was different, or he would not have been heaved so rudely out of the only refuge he had from his daytime miseries. Something was not as it should have been, someone was astir at a time when there was always silence and stillness. The air quivered with soft movements and distant voices.
They were not locked in, their word had been accepted without question, bond enough to hold them. Elis raised himself cautiously on an elbow, and leaned to listen to Eliud’s breathing in the bed beside him. Deep asleep, if not altogether at peace. He twitched and turned without awaking, and the measure of his breathing changed uneasily, shortening and shallowing sometimes, then easing into a long rhythm that promised better rest. Elis did not want to disturb him. It was all due to him, to his pig, headed folly in joining Cadwaladr, that Eliud was here a prisoner beside him. He must not be drawn still deeper into question and danger, whatever happened to Elis.