Assarts were few and far between. The beasts of the chase and the beasts of the warren had it for their own domain, but in such a winter even the deer would starve without some judicious nursing from men. Fodder too precious to be wasted by the farmer might still be put out by the lord to ensure the survival of his game in a bad season. Cadfael passed one such store, trampled and spread by the hungry beasts, the snow patterned with their slots all around. The hereditary forester was still minding his duties, no matter which of the two rival rulers claimed his estate.
The sun, seen briefly between the trees, hung very low now, evening had begun to gather like an overhanging cloud, while the ground below still had light enough. Before him the trees drew apart, restoring an hour of the failing day. Someone had carved out an assart, a clearing of narrow garden and field about a low cottage. A man was folding his two or three goats, herding them before him into a wattled enclosure. He looked up alertly at the rustle of crisp snow and frozen leaf under hooves. A sturdy, squat husbandman no more than forty years old, in good brown homespun and leggings of home-tanned leather. He had made a good job of his lonely holding, and stood erect to face the traveller as soon as he had penned his goats. Narrowed eyes surveyed the monastic habit, the tall and vigorous horse, the broad, weathered face beneath the cowl.
“God bless the holding and the holder,” said Cadfael, reining in by the wattle fence.
“God be with you, brother!” His voice was even and deep, but his eyes were wary. “Whither bound?”
“To Bromfield, friend. Am I going right?”
“True enough to your road. Keep on as you are, and in a half-mile you come to the Hopton brook. Cross it, and bear a little to your left over the two lesser brooks that run into it. After the second the track forks. Bear right, level along the slope, and you’ll come out to the road beyond Ludlow, a mile from the priory.”
He did not ask how a Benedictine brother came to be riding this obscure way at such an hour. He did not ask anything. He spread his solid bulk across the gateway of his enclosure like a portcullis, but with courteous face and obliging tongue. It was the eyes that said he had something within to cover from view, and also that he was storing every sight and sound to be delivered faithfully elsewhere. Yet whoever hewed this holding out of the forest could be nothing less than a practical, honest man.
“Thanks for your rede,” said Cadfael. “Now help me with another matter if you can. I am a monk of Shrewsbury, now nursing a brother of our order from Pershore, in the infirmary of Bromfield priory. Our sick brother frets over certain people he met on their way to Shrewsbury from Worcester, in flight from the sacking of the city. They would not turn west with him for Bromfield, they would hold northwards this way. Tell me if you have seen hide or hair of such.” He described them, in doubt of his own intuition until he saw the man cast one swift glance over his shoulder towards his cottage, and again confront him unblinking.
“No such company has come my way in this woodland,” he said steadily. “And why should they? I’m on the way to nowhere.”
“Travellers in strange country and snow may very well find themselves on the road to nowhere, and lost to anywhere,” said Cadfael. “You’re none so far from Godstoke, where I’ve already been inquiring. Well, if any or all of these three should come your way, give them the word that they’re sought by all the shire and the abbeys of Worcester and Shrewsbury, and when they’re found they shall have safe escort wherever they would be. Worcester is re-garrisoned now, and anxious about its strays. Say so, if you meet with them.”
The wary eyes stared him thoughtfully in the face. The man nodded, and said: “I will say so. If ever I do meet with them.”
He did not move from his place before the gate until Cadfael had shaken his rein and moved on along the track, yet when Cadfael reached the shelter of the trees and turned to look back, the cottager had vanished with some speed into his house, as if he had an errand that would not wait. Cadfael rode on, but at a slow, ambling walk, and once well out of sight, halted and sat listening. The small, cautious sounds of movement behind him were his reward. Someone light-footed and shy was following him, trying at the same time to hurry and remain unheard. A sly glance over his shoulder afforded him a fleeting glimpse of a blue cloak that whisked aside into cover. He idled, letting the pursuer draw nearer, and then suddenly reined aside and turned to look back openly. All sounds ceased instantly, but the leaning branches of a beech sapling quivered and shed a few flakes of powdery snow.
“You may come forth,” said Cadfael mildly. “I am a monk of Shrewsbury, no threat to you or any. The goodman told you true.”
The boy stepped out of hiding and stood in the open ride, legs braced well apart, ready to run if he saw fit, or stand his ground sturdily. A small, stocky boy with a round shock-head of brown hair, large unwavering brown eyes, and a formidably firm mouth and chin belying the childish fullness of his cheeks. The bright blue cotte and cloak were somewhat soiled and crumpled now, as if he had slept wild in the woods in them, as perhaps he had, and there was a tear in one knee of the grey hose, but he still wore them with the large assurance of his own nobility. He had a little dagger at his belt, the sheath ornamented with silver, sign enough of his worth to have tempted many a man. He had fallen into good hands at this recent stay, whatever had happened to him earlier.
“He said …” The boy advanced a step or two, reassured. “His name is Thurstan. He and his wife have been good to me. He said that here was one I could trust, a Benedictine brother. He said you have been looking for us.”
“He said truly. For you, I think, must be Yves Hugonin.”
The boy said: “Yes. And may I come with you to Bromfield?”
“Yves, very heartily you may, and a warm welcome you’ll get from all those who are out hunting for you. Since you fled from Worcester your uncle d’Angers is come back from the Holy Land, and reached Gloucester only to hear you were lost, and he’s been sending about to have you sought all through this shire. Main glad he’ll be to get you back whole and well.”
“My uncle d’Angers?” The boy’s face wavered between eagerness and doubt. “In Gloucester? But … but it was men from Gloucester …”
“It was, we know, but none of his doing. Never trouble your head over the divisions that keep him from coming himself to find you, nor you nor I can help those. But we’re pledged to return you to him safe and sound, and that you may rely on. But the search is for three, and here we are fobbed off with but one. Where are your sister and her governess?”
“I don’t know!” It came almost in a wail. The boy’s resolute chin shook for a moment, and recovered gallantly. “I left Sister Hilaria safe at Cleeton, I hope she is safe there still, but what she would do when she found herself alone … And my sister … My sister is the cause of all this! She went off with her lover, in the night. He came for her, I am sure she sent him word to fetch her away. I tried to follow them, but then the snow came …”
Cadfael drew breath in mingled wonder, dismay and relief. Here was at least one of the three safely netted, another might be snug if distracted at Cleeton still, and the third, even if she had committed a great folly, seemed to be in the hands of someone who held her dear, and presumably meant her nothing but good. There might yet be
