Vox Angelica

by Soledad

Author's note: vox angelica is an organ stop, giving a gentle tremolo effect; it means "the voice of the angels". For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Chapter 1.

This story takes place after the sixteenth novel, "The Heretic's Apprentice", but before the seventeenth, "The Potter's Field".


Chapter Eleven – Evidence

Dame Astola de Hammerwich felt as if she were slowly awakening from a long dream; not quite a nightmare but not a pleasant one, either. She had needed a few days to understand that she was free now: a widow of some standing and with enough income to feed her for the rest of her life. Not princely – not now that her late husband had given half of the lands they had held to the nuns – but she had learned at a very young age how to live on very little.

She would manage; she always did. Only that now she would manage on her own, without a cantankerous, aging man looking over her shoulder. Without the harsh words chastising her imaginary mistakes… and without the beatings that had robbed her the chance to have children of her own.

The Reverend Mother had offered her lodging and procuratio on priory grounds, as reparation for what she had lost due to the grant, but for now, she thankfully rejected the generous offer. Perchance one day she would accept it; even join the convent, after a few years. Right now, though, she wanted to enjoy her newly-won freedom; the unexpected peace she had long ceased to hope for.

The burden of running the household on her own did not frighten her. She had done so since the day of her wedding. The only difference would be that she would not need to carefully herd a stubborn, bad-tempered man towards the right decisions. It would be infinitely easier this way.

A discreet knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She went to answer it and was greeted by a nun; probably one of the new ones, as she could not recognize her.

"How can I help you, Sister…" she trailed off, not knowing the nun's name.

"Sister Eata," supplied the nun helpfully. Gold-flecked blue-grey eyes – Saxon eyes! – smiled at her from under the crisp white wimple. "I am in charge of the scriptorium here. The Reverend Mother asked me to bring you this."

She handed the widow a small book in a soft leather pouch. It was a so-called girdle book, barely lager than a man's palm; small enough for a lady to carry it on her belt. Bound in gilded leather, it was of excellent penmanship, with tiny yet colourful illumination, clearly the legends of some saint.

"This is the Vita of Saint Milburga, and as it is written in Saxon, the Reverend Mother thought you would like to have it," explained the nun. "She understands that you delight in reading."

Dame Astola nodded with a faint smile. "It has always been my greatest joy. Brother Petrus, the precentor of Burton Abbey, used to send me books with one of their lay servants," she glanced at the nun thoughtfully. "Our manor lies just outside of Burton-upon-Trent, you know; my husband was one of the lord bishop's chief tenants. We used to go to the Abbey Church for Mass and the offices all the time."

"'Tis strange then that Master Haminch would make his grant to our house," said Sister Eata in surprise. "Surely Burton could have used it, too, moreover as they have just finished rebuilding their church."

"Haminch said that Burton was rich enough already," replied Dame Astola, "while a fledgling house like yours needed all the support that could be provided. Although I do have the feeling that he held a grudge against the monks of Burton for supporting my reading habit," she added with a weary smile. "He was not lettered, you see, and neither is his son, despite my efforts to teach him, and thus they were both deeply suspicious towards books."

"Ignorant men usually are," agreed the nun.

"Of course, I did not know that the Abbey servant that brought me the books was, in truth, his bastard," added Dame Astola. "How could I? I do not hail from Burton, and no-one ever told me about him. All I knew was this pleasant, scholarly young man, a friend of letters and a servant of the monks. I never asked about his parentage. Haminch was… most displeased when he found out who he truly was. I… I never saw him again."

"How long ago has that been?" asked Sister Eata, secretly wondering if the late Master Haminch would truly have had a reason to be displeased.

Had there been more between his young wife and his dispossessed son than the shared love for books? As someone who had spent the greater part of her life in the outside world, the nun knew that things were seldom as innocent as they seemed at first sight. On the other hand, even if they were, indeed, completely innocent, people might not believe it. Elderly, tyrannous husbands with much younger wives the least.

"Six years," Dame Astola gave the nun another one of those weary smiles. "I know what you must think, Sister, but you are wrong. Nothing untoward has ever happened between Garth and me. Yes, I loved him, and he loved me; but that was a love between two kindred spirits – we never even touched. There was no need. We had our books and the strange new worlds they opened for us, and that was enough. We were happy and content."

A dedicated scholar herself, Sister Eata could believe that easily, although she doubted many other people would. Least of all her husband.

"He gave you something your husband could not," she said, and the widow nodded.

"He was the best thing that ever happened to me. I knew it could not last; I wonder sometimes what happened to him, though.

Sister Eata had her own thoughts about that but found it better not to voice them just yet.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked instead.

"I shall go back to our manor and continue what I have done before," the widow shrugged lightly. "I just hope Hamo would prove innocent. I shall need him to tend to our fields. I cannot do that on my own."

"You still have that villein of yours to tend to the fields," reminded her Sister Eata.

The widow's face clouded over.

"I would prefer not to live alone with Sweyn in the house," she said tonelessly. "Not when there is no other man to protect me.

Sister Eata gave her a sharp look. "Has he tried to force himself upon you?"

Dame Astola shook her head. "Not while my husband was alive; he would not dare. No-one dared to cross Haminch, least of all his villeins. But he has had his eyes on me all the time, and I fear that he may become more… bold now that the only one he must face is a defenceless widow."

"You must not return home; not yet, and certainly not alone," said Sister Eata with emphasis. "Stay here, with us, until the riddle of your husband's death is solved. Sister Ursula will see that you do not lack anything."

"I shall, for a while," agreed Dame Astola, "but I cannot stay forever. I have a household to run. Sooner or later, I shall have to return. And should Hamo prove guilty, I will be alone."

"Hold on to your hope, just a little longer," said the nun. "I shall speak with Brother Cadfael to see what he has learned. Perchance not everything is lost just yet."


Brother Cadfael came from Mass deep in thought. He had spent a considerable part of the night thinking about this strange murder case, with so many people who could have committed the crime, each of them for a perfectly good reason. So why did he still have the feeling that they were overlooking something?

Something that was glaringly obvious, they were just unable to see it – and why? Was it possible that all these people – the two ill-used sons, the long-suffering widow and the groom with the well-founded grudge – were innocent, after all? Could there be a fifth suspect, with a motivation of which he had not even thought yet?

Greed, revenge, pure hatred, or simply the end of what an abused wife could still endure – what else could there be?

He shook his head ruefully, nodded his greetings to the ever-vigilant Sister Amadea who was leaving the sacristy and about to begin her daily round among he poor and the suffering, and headed back to the guest hall. Perhaps if he revealed his doubts to Brother Mark, it would help. Mark was the brightest soul he had ever had under his hand; perhaps his inner light could illuminate the shadows of this dark riddle.

He stopped on his way to examine Brother Godric's ill-fated rosebush that had been broken under the dead weight of the late Master Haminch. He saw with a certain amount of delight that someone had righted the bush during his absence; wrapped the broken bole tightly with thin rope, so that it might hold nonetheless, and even supported the trunk with a few sturdy sticks that took over some of the weight. A few buds on the upper branches were just beginning to open, showing the first hint of white petals.

Cadfael wondered who might have done such excellent work on the rosebush. Had Sister Benedicta, under whose blessed hands everything flourished like in the Garden Eden, taken it upon herself to heal the poor, innocent plant? Or had Brother Ifan asked for leave to do it, as some kind of penance? It was unlikely that Brother Godric would have suddenly developed the right hand for roses in any case.

Whoever it might have been, they have saved the bush and thus prevented a piece of beauty from getting lost. For which, Cadfael decided, they deserved thanks.

He leaned closer to take in the scent of the budding roses… and then he saw it. Half-buried in the soil under the rosebush, a string of black wool lay, about a foot or so long, almost invisibly. Holding his breath, Cadfael went to his knees and carefully, patiently swept the soil away with his bare hands until he had laid the string free. Then he held it up against the rays of the early morning sun and examined it from every side.

There could be no doubt what he was seeing. The string had patches of encrusted blood, on several places. This was clearly the weapon that had ended Master Haminch's life.


"Are you certain about that?" asked Alvrich de Quadraria with a frown.

He had come up hot-footed from his nearby manor, following the summons of the lad Bened, sent by Cadfael, in the hope that they might finally unravel the mystery surrounding Master Haminch's death.

Cadfael nodded. "Quite certain, my lord. See this," he took a small spoonful of clear water and let a few drops fall onto one of the blood-encrusted spots. The water that ran through the wool gained a visibly reddish hue. "This is blood."

"But if this is the string with which Master Haminch was murdered, how is it possible that we haven't found it earlier?" asked the knight.

"That is a good question," admitted Cadfael. "I have searched the rosebush and the soil under and around it thoroughly after the body had been removed. I could swear that this string was not there. I should have seen it, had it been there."

"Not necessarily," said the knight. "You said it yourself that it was partially buried."

"And that, exactly, is what makes me wonder," replied Cadfael. "Had it already been there in the night of the murder, it would have got deeper into the earth since then, due to wind and weather. Sister Alphonse tells me it rained here in the night I spent in Burton. Had the string been already there…"

"… the rain would have washed the blood away," finished the knight for him. "I see your point. So it must have been placed there afterwards."

"Yesterday or last night, presumably," said Cadfael.

Alvrich de Quadraria shook his head in bewilderment. "But why?"

"Two reasons," explained Cadfael. "Firstly, the murderer no longer dared to keep it. He could not afford it to be found on him. Secondly, this way he could direct all suspicions to Brother Godric."

"Or Hamo," said he knight, but Cadfael shook his head.

"Where would anybody but you and me know that Hamo is hiding in his brother's cell?"

"True," admitted the knight. "Are you saying, then, that the murderer is trying to put the blame on Brother Godric?"

"That is what I am saying, yes."

"But to do so, he had to know that Brother Godric was the son of the late Master Haminch, had he not? Why else would he choose to blame him?"

"I fear it is not that simple," said Cadfael thoughtfully. "If anyone else but Brother Ifan had heard the quarrel between Godric and his father that night – and remember, he told us they were quite loud – they would have seen Godric as the perfect victim. After all, has Master Haminch not accused him of having seduced his wife?"

"And Godric, in turn, accused him of murdering his mother," considered the knight, thinking. Cadfael nodded.

"An accusation that apparently hit Master Haminch hard. How did Ifan phrase it? He just broke under the weight of his sin that he had carried with him for six years. That was what everyone knowing him well told us: that it has been six years since he became so worried about the salvation of his soul. And now he broke down, begged for forgiveness…"

"… and promised reparations," added the knight. "I regret to say, Brother, but that puts Hamo de Hammerwich back into the picture. Hearing that his father would revert the grant for his brother but not for him… And hiding in Godric's very cell gave him ample chances to place the evidence."

"Ah, but has he also righted the rosebush?" asked Cadfael.

The knight gave him a bewildered look. "What does the rosebush have to do with this?"

"Everything," said Cadfael. "I firmly believe that the rosebush is the key to this foul deed. Hamo, hiding under Godric's roof, would not need any excuse for being in the garden. He could have placed the evidence any time he wanted. But someone from the outside had to cover his true intentions – and what would look more innocent than righting a broken bush?"

Alvrich de Quadraria mulled over that aspect for a while. "Let's say you are right," he then said. "Who would be able to right the bush then?"

Cadfael sighed. "That is the problem, my lord. Nearly everyone here could have done it. It was done with care and some skill, but it did not require an experienced gardener."

"That means we are back to the beginning," said the knight unhappily. "We are no closer to solving this mystery than two days ago."

"Oh, I would not say that," replied Cadfael. "The murderer has placed the evidence; something that he used to have on him all the time. Which means we need to look for something that is missing now."

"You realize how hopeless it is to find someone with a missing purse string or string belt, do you?" said the knight drily.

Cadfael nodded. "I do. Which is why we ought to focus on the rosebush."


The lad Bened had finished mucking out the stables and was coming back to the kitchen to break his fast. As always, he was welcomed heartily. Old Sister Aleth smiled at him and handed him a chunk of bread, some cheese and a few stripes of dried bacon, with a tankard of small beer and patted his head in a grandmotherly manner.

"You must eat well, my lad," she said in that high, hollow voice of those with severely impaired hearing, "to keep up your strength."

Chewing contentedly, Bened nodded his thanks and watched the nuns going after their work with mild nostalgia. He was grateful to Lord Quadraria for offering him work at the High Meadows; he had been there a few times, on one errand or another, and knew it would be a good life for a mere serving boy. But it still saddened him a little that he would have to leave the priory grounds. He would miss his mother; and he would miss the kindness of the other nuns, all of who loved him like a son or a younger brother – save one.

Said exception was coming to the kitchen at this very minute to collect the leftovers from the previous days, which she would then distribute among the poor in the neighbourhood: lonely widows in half-ruined cottages, families with more children than they could feed, and beggars sitting at the church door. Sister Amadea took her duties as the almoner of the house very seriously. By sunshine or stormy rain, she always left the house after morning Mass to take care of the needs of her charges.

She packed oatmeal, bread, cheese, dried meats and some greens and fruits into a large wicker basket under the weight of which a strong man would have staggered, gave Bened a disapproving look down her long nose – she strongly, albeit mutely opposed his living on priory grounds – and left with her burden. Hiltrude Astley, sent to help in the kitchen so that she would learn all sorts of work that needed to be done in a cloister one by one, looked after their self-appointed saint with a wry expression on her plain face.

"The good sister clearly has managed to find fault – again," she said loudly, so that Sister Aleth would hear it. The old nun grinned slyly.

"Must be hard for a saint like her to live among us, sinners," she replied in her high voice. "Look, she was so shaken that she forgot her pouch with the alms. Bened, me lad, will you take it after her? It would upset her terribly if she came late to her merciful duties."

She said that with such an earnest, innocent mien that even young Sister Alumna, still skittish like a doe after her treatment at Godric's Ford, allowed herself the shadow of a smile. Bened nodded, grinning like a loon, drank his beer and stuffed the rest of his breakfast into his pocket. Then he picked up the pouch and hurried after Sister Amadea.


He was in such a hurry that he nearly ran into Brother Cadfael, who was walking back to the chapel, after having taken his leave from Alvrich de Quadraria.

"Whoa, lad, not so fast!" said the old monk. "You shall run over someone if you go on like this. What is the hurry for anyway?"

"Sister Amadea forgot her pouch, the one with the coin for her charges, in the kitchen," explained the boy. "Old Sister Aleth asked me to take it after her, so that she could go on with her work of mercy."

"Without having to return to the kitchen, I deem," Cadfael gave the pouch an absent-minded glance. It was simply a small bag, made of rough, black wool, held together by a grey drawstring. Nothing to see there.

"That, too," agreed Bened with a wicked grin, confirming Cadfael's suspicion that the saintly Sister Amadea was not particularly well-liked among her fellow nuns – or among the servants.

But that was neither new nor of any interest. He needed to focus on the rosebush.

"Tell you what, my lad," he said. "Come to me when you have delivered the pouch. I will be helping out Sister Alphonse in her workshop, but I would also like to ask you a few questions about life in this house."

Bened agreed readily and ran off with the pouch. With a thoughtful shake of his grizzled head, Cadfael continued his way t the chapel. He had a few private prayers to speak before going to Sister Alphonse's workshop.

True to his word, Bened came to the small cottage amidst the herb garden, where Sister Alphonse prepared her medicines, within the hour, red-faced and sweaty, but in a fairly good mood.

"Phew, she is fast!" he complained, wiping his glistening face with his shirt-sleeve; but he was laughing as he spoke. "I marvel how she can walk so swiftly in that heavy cowl of hers – and carrying a full basket, too! I only caught up with her at the edge of the woods."

"I assume she was grateful for your efforts," said Brother Mark, who had come to help Cadfael, as Sister Alphonse was busy in the infirmary. Just like in old times.

Bened shrugged and grinned again, this time a bit more grimly.

"If she was, she hid it well. She snatched the pouch from me, searched it to see if I had stolen anything – as if I would, ever! – and then turned her back to me and marched away."

"That," said Brother Mark, trying hard not to sound judgemental – and failing, "was not nice of her. You went out of your way to do her a favour, and that is the thank you get?"

Bened shrugged again. "She is always like this. We are all but vermin in her eyes; unworthy to walk on the same ground she does." He shook himself like a dog that had been out in the rain and got soaked; then he looked at Cadfael askance. "You wanted to ask me some questions, brother?"

"That I did," replied Cadfael, taking the tincture boiling in a small iron pan off the fire and setting it on a marble slate to cool. "Can you perchance tell me which sisters do work regularly in the gardens?"

"Well, Sister Benedicta, of course," said Bened promptly, "and one of the new sisters, a young one; I think Osyth is her name?"

Cadfael shook his head. "No, I did no mean the regular gardeners. I'm looking for someone who's not a gardener herself but works in the gardens from time to time and thus can use the basic tools."

"Almost all of them do that; more so at the time of the harvest," answered Bened thoughtfully. "Sister Donata often helps out, as she has the strength of an ox; so does my mother when it isn't a washing day. Old Sister Alphonse, too, if her herbs allow her the time; and, of course, Sister Amadea."

"Sister Amadea?" repeated Brother Mark in surprise. "Why would she help out in the gardens? She has two important offices already, both quite time-consuming. Why would she take on even more duties?"

Cadfael shrugged. "I cannot answer that; but I believe there's someone in this house who can."


"No, she would not need to help out in the gardens, seeing how valuable her work is, both as almoner and as sacristan," said old Sister Alphonse in agreement, rubbing the small, cloudy glass flasks meant for lavender oil clean with a white rag. "But if there's a hair shirt anywhere within reach, our resident saint will claim it and wear it. God only knows for what imagined sins, for I never heard of her to break even the smallest rule; perchance she does penance for the rest of us sinners."

"And the Reverend Mother allows her to do so?" asked Brother Mark with a surprised frown.

Sister Alphonse shrugged. "I suppose it's easier for Mother Patrice to let her have her way. Arguing with someone who has taken a wow of silence would be pointless, anyway. Besides, Sister Amadea has a stout supporter in Sister Augustine. Our sub-prioress seems to believe that the overflow from Amadea's penitence and piety would wash off a few of our own shortcomings."

Brother Mark shook his head thoughtfully.

"It does not work that way," he said with the simple faith of one preparing himself for priesthood. "Our Lord gives His mercy freely; we don't have the means to deserve it, or we would not need it. Although we must keep trying all our life. In the end, though, His is the grace as His is judgement, too."

"Thankfully," agreed the old nun, "or we would have but little hope for salvation. Sister Augustine sees it differently, though. She is used to think in terms of business: in gains and losses and reparations; as she used to do before taking the veil."

Cadfael nodded; that certainly made sense. The sub-prioress kept running the very successful clothiers' business that had been her dowry within the cloister walls. She would keep the mindset that came with it as well.

Unfortunately, a mindset that had made her business flourish would not necessarily be beneficial for the souls under her hand as well. Sister Magdalen's example in Godric's Ford had clearly shown that. But the late prioress of Godric's Ford had been old and weary; Cadfael had little doubt that Mother Patrice would be able to deal both with her sub-prioress and any errant sister if she saw the need. She must have thought that the lesser harm would come from not interfering – so far.

"So Sister Amadea can do as she pleases, knowing that Sister Augustine would support her," he concluded.

The old nun nodded. "She's been given considerable freedom in her coming and going, so that she could do her pious work better. How she manages to be present at the Office every time is a marvel. She must go on very little sleep, I presume. Why, just this very morning, I saw her come back from somewhere before Lauds even, while it was still dark outside."

"Before Lauds?" repeated Cadfael in surprise. "Where could she have possibly gone that early?"

"There's a widow, living alone save from her maidservant in the shepherd's cottage," explained Sister Alphonse. "She's ancient and at death's own door; has been for months by now. I look after her once a day, but Sister Amadea regularly visits her, too, and sits with her when she is having a bad night. The little maidservant is allowed to ask for her at Sister Porter day or night."

"The shepherd's cottage?" Cadfael frowned, trying to remember some fleeting remark he had overheard while talking to people before the church in the morning of Master Haminch's death. "Does that not stand right at the edge of the forest, just beyond the hermits' gardens?"

"Why, it does indeed," replied Sister Alphonse, a bit surprised. "In what way would that be of interest for you, Brother?"

"I'm not so certain about that myself," admitted Cadfael. "But it gave me an idea. I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave from you now, Sister; and I'll need to take Brother Mark with me, too."

"Go," the old nun waved generously. "You've been of immense help already. What still has to be done today, I can manage alone."

And with that, she turned her attention to the portly glass bottle full of lavender oil that stood on the middle of her working table. It had a small tap near its bottom, meant to fill the little flasks through it. Sister Alphonse, already forgotten about their presence, began with the concentrated work of filling the flasks.

Lavender oil, prized for its healing properties, was part of the house's income, after all.


"Where are we going?" asked Brother Mark, following Cadfael out of the workshop obediently. Then, knowing the way the mind of his former mentor worked, he added with a smile. "We're going to the shepherd's cottage, are we not? But why? Do you think the old widow can tell us anything?"

"Not she, if she is truly in such a bad shape," answered Cadfael. "But her maidservant ought to remember if Sister Amadea visited her last night. Moreover, I want to see how long it takes from the church to the cottage and back again. If it can be done between Matins and Lauds… and for what else one would have the time between these two Offices."

"Like righting a broken rosebush and placing evidence that would point straight at Brother Godric?" asked Brother Mark doubtfully. "But why would a nun set so firmly on sainthood as Sister Amadea do something like that? Are you suspecting her of having murdered Master Haminch now?"

"At least I cannot write off that possibility," Cadfael sighed heavily.

Brother Mark shook his head. "I can't believe it. The widow, the groom, the two sons – they all have good, solid motivations. But the sister? What could possibly be hers?"

"I don't know; not yet," admitted Cadfael. "What little we know about her is not enough to find a reason. Let's see first if she had the chance to work on the bush at all; we can think about why she might have done it later."

~TBC~