The forester was shaking his head doubtfully. A sheriff is a sheriff, pledged to law, and law is rigid and weighted, all in all, against the peasant and the serf and the landless man. ‘He’s a decent, fair-minded man, sure enough,’ said Eilmund, ‘but I dare not stake this boy’s life on any King’s officer.’
The year is 1142. With England in the grip of civil war, the Benedictine abbey outside Shrewsbury, near to the Welsh borders, is a haven not entirely untouched by events beyond its walls and gardens. A mischievous ten-year old, Richard Ludel, who becomes heir on the death of his father, was entrusted to the abbey to provide him with an education until he reaches manhood. But his ambitious grandmother has other ideas.
Amidst rumours of a murdered envoy from the besieged city of Oxford, a hermit arrives and is allowed by the grandmother to take residence in Eyton Forest, on the borders of her lands, along with a young man as his errand-boy, but is either what they seem? The abbey offers accommodation to weary travellers and their horses, and soon a wealthy landowner, Drogo Bosiet, arrives from Northampton, searching for his “property” – a villein, who decked his steward and ran away.
Drogo Bosiet duly arrived at chapter next morning, large, loud and authoritative in an assembly where a wiser man would have realised that authority lay with the abbot, and the abbot’s grip on it was absolute, however calm and measured his voice and austere his face.
A boy goes missing, and then Brother Cadfael stumbles upon a body in the wood.
This works because Cadfael had a life before entering the abbey, and steps easily between the two worlds. The reader is transported into the pattern of prayer times, meals and work, and also that of the landowners and Cadfael’s friend, the Sheriff, Hugh Beringar. As a herbalist and healer, Cadfael, is always in demand. But it’s the author’s descriptions that caught my praise and attention.
The groom, a long-legged boy of sixteen, loped cheerfully beside him, and led the pony as they splashed through the ford at Wroxeter, where centuries back the Romans had crossed the Severn before them. Nothing remained of their sojourn now but a gaunt, broken wall standing russet against the green fields, and a scattering of stones long ago plundered by the villagers for their own building purposes.
A few hours spent with Ellis Peters enriches both my knowledge (in this case, forestry) and vocabulary, especially medieval terms. Few writers can do that. Well-recommended for lovers of historic fiction.