Sanctuary Sparrow by Ellis Peters Page A

eat, yes, perhaps, when he was hungry, an egg from under a hen somewhere, a partridge in the woods, even a loaf… that may be. He has been hungry all his life.” She knew, for much of her life so had she. “But steal more than that? For money, for gold? What good would that do him? And he is not like that… never!”
    Cadfael was aware of the head emerging from the hall door before Rannilt was, and warned her softly: “There, run! Say I kept you with questions, and you knew no answers.”
    She was very quick, she had whirled and was speeding back when Susanna’s voice pealed impatiently: “Rannilt!”
    Cadfael did not wait to see her vanish within on the heels of her mistress, but turned at once to resume his way along the passage to the street.
    Baldwin Peche was sitting with a pot of ale on the steps of his shop. The fact that the street was narrow, and the frontages here faced north-west and were in deep shadow, suggested that he had a reason beyond idleness and ease for being where he was at this hour. No doubt all those townsmen who had been guests at the Aurifaber wedding were up and alert this morning, as soon as they could shake off the effects of their entertainment, roused and restored by the sensational gossip they had to spread, and the possibility of further revelations.
    The locksmith was a man in his fifties; short, sturdy, but beginning to grow a round paunch, a noted fisherman along the Severn, but a weak swimmer, unusually for this river-circled town. He had, truly enough, a long nose that quivered to every breath of scandal, though he was cautious in the use he made of it, as though he enjoyed mischief for its own sake rather than for any personal profit. A cold, inquisitive merriment twinkled in his pale-blue eyes, set in, a round, ruddy and smiling face. Cadfael knew him well enough to pass the time of day, and gave him good morrow as though making the approach himself, whereas he was well apprised Peche had been waiting to make it.
    “Well, Brother Cadfael,” said the locksmith heartily, “you’ll have been tending these unlucky neighbours of mine. I trust you find them bearing up under their griefs? The lad tells me they’ll make good recoveries, the both of them.”
    Cadfael said what was required of him, which was rather enquiry than response, and kept his mouth shut and his ears open to listen to the tale all over again, with more and richer detail, since this was Peche’s chosen craft. The journeyman locksmith, a fine-looking young man who lived with his widowed mother a street or two away in the town, looked out once from the shop doorway, cast a knowledgeable eye on his master, and withdrew, assured of having work to himself, as he preferred it. By this time John Boneth knew everything his skilled but idle tutor could teach him, and was quite capable of running the business single-handed. There was no son to inherit it, he was trusted and depended on, and he could wait.
    “A lucky match, mark,” said Peche, prodding a knowing finger into Brother Cadfael’s shoulder, “especially if this treasury of Walter’s is really lost, and can’t be recovered. Edred Bele’s girl has money enough coming to her to make up the half, at least. Walter’s worked hard to get her for his lad, and the old dame’s done her share, too. Trust them!” He rubbed finger and thumb together suggestively, and nudged and winked. “And the girl no beauty and without graces-neither sings nor dances well, and dumb in company. No monster, though, she’ll pass well enough, or that youngster would never have been brought to… not with what he has in hand!”
    “He’s a fine-looking lad,” said Cadfael mildly, “and they say not unskilled. And a good inheritance waiting for him.”
    “Ah, but short now!” whispered Baldwin, leaning closer still and stabbing with a stiff forefinger, his knowing face gleeful. “It’s the waiting is hard to bear. Young folk live now, not tomorrow, and this side