Armed with his axe, he circled the inside of the perimeter wall.There didn’t seem to be any gaps in the stone.Or loose panels of stained glass in the windows of the church.Or gates in disrepair.No secret passageways were in evidence.
He walked through the moonlit cloister with its central well.The square yard was bordered on the west by the monks’ cells and on the east by the prior’s and abbot’s quarters.To the north was the church.To the south was the refectory.
It was possible that a catapult fired from outside the monastery might launch a thief into the midst of the cloister.Otherwise, it was inaccessible to anyone not living within the walls.
He searched the library, where the missing gold chalice had once been seen.But, located in the heart of the monastery, it was the most secure chamber.And none of its small treasury of books, chained to the walls for safekeeping, had been taken.
The only other building was the infirmary, which was at some distance from the other structures, adjoined by its own tiny chapel and kitchen.Mainly for monks who fell ill, it was also open to a few devout outsiders who were at death’s door.But most hadn’t the strength to walk.Much less steal anything.
Hew’s exploration reinforced his view.The thefts had been accomplished, not by a stranger, but by someone with easy access to the monastery.
Stealing back to his cell across the grass of the cloister, he heard a scuffle along the wall.In one smooth motion, he shrugged the axe off his shoulder and gripped it in both hands before him.
It was probably just a monk on his way to matins.But Hew was not a man who liked to be caught unawares.
Narrowing his eyes in the faint moonlight, he saw a low shadow hobbling awkwardly beside the stone wall.Not a monk.An animal.
He lowered his axe and smiled in self-mockery.
A waddling hedgepig snuffled through the leaves.
“You’re not the thief, are you?”he whispered.The wind rose, making him shiver.“Let me know if you find a warm place to bed down.I may join you.”
The hedgepig never obliged him.So Hew endured another chill and restless night.Nonetheless, he set out for the village early the next morn.Armed with his axe and the list the prior had given him, he trudged down the frosty road.
More than sleep, he could use a decent fire to warm his bones.And the apple-cheeked alewife’s establishment had a cheery enough hearth.For a few pennies, he could break his fast.
By a stroke of luck, when he peered above the doorway of the alehouse, he saw the sign matched a name on his list.The Bell.This was the alewife who supplied the monastery.According to the prior’s list, her son Peter visited twice a week to deliver the ale.
He didn’t have to request an interview with Peter.As soon as he walked in with his axe across his shoulder, the lad, perhaps twelve years old and as apple-cheeked as his mother, rushed up in wide-eyed wonder.
“Can I look at that, sir?”he asked.“Your axe?”
“Peter,” his mother chided, “leave the patrons alone.”
“Is this your lad?”Hew asked.
She nodded.
“I’m happy to show him my axe.”He whispered to Peter, “Let’s sit by the fire where the light is better.”
“I’ve just made oatcakes,” the alewife offered.
“I’ll take a pair then,” he said.
She brought him the oatcakes and an ale while he showed his axe to Peter.
“I like the designs,” Peter said, tracing the carvings along the handle with a finger.
“They’re Viking runes.”
Peter’s eyes widened.“Are ye a Vikin’?”
“My ancestors were,” he said.“What about you?Do you have warrior kin?”
“Nay,” he said.“My da died when I was three.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
