Chapter Text
"I never was there, in the north." - Brother Cadfael, Dead Man's Ransom
It was an English ladye bright,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
1
The spring of 1146 came in like a lion. All through March and April cruel, unseasonable cold and icy winds swept through western Mercia.
For the Abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul at Shrewsbury, it meant little – growling ice storms and hard frosts could beat all they wanted against its sturdy stone walls, and all those within could rest easy, knowing they held good stores from the past three years, enough and to spare, to care for themselves, and all those who came needy to their doors.
It wasn't often in this time of civil war that such could be said anywhere, but with much labour from the common folk, and a few happy accidents with the plans of the great ones, Shrewsbury, and its abbey, had been allowed to thrive.
One of those ones entered the hut in the abbey's herb garden on that afternoon in late April, though you wouldn't know it to look at him. A small man to look upon was Sheriff Hugh Beringar, striking though his black hair and brows made him. But within his small frame, he bore a mind and soul that could stand abreast with a far larger man. And, what was more, he bore the trust of many far greater, with an adept, humble grace that often put their greatness to shame.
Brother Cadfael barely acknowledged his friend's entrance, being fully absorbed in rescuing a chest syrup that had nearly burned, the day being slow, and the warm, spicy air of the workshop being alluring, and the bench-seat in the corner being perhaps a shade more comfortable than was wise. . .
Hugh poured his own beaker of wine, and sat quietly on the offending bench-seat for a few minutes, until Cadfael could join him.
When he did at last, with a sigh and a groan – for nearing upon seventy years is no small burden to bear upon a back, however broad – Hugh poured him out another measure of wine, and they sat companionably, not speaking for some minutes more. It was only when Cadfael moved to refill their cups that Hugh spoke.
"How do you think you would feel,” said Hugh, slowly, “If I asked you to come to Scotland with me?"
Cadfael humphed a wry laugh, "Scotland? Why?"
"Robert Bossu needs a go-between for the Earl of Chester and King David, and thinks I might very well do."
"Do? Certainly, you might. You do a great many things. But for the love of God, why?"
Hugh took a deep draught of his wine, and shrugged, as though one short response could answer the world entire.
"Lady Clara Beaufort of Carlisle has married a Scottish knight."