woman’s
No, the women’s, for these were two, one steady, deep, slow and clear in utterance, as though an effort was needed to form the words and give them sound; one young, fresh and sweet, with a candid fullness about it. That one Cadfael did recognise. So they had progressed this far, that somehow she or circumstances or fate itself had prevailed upon Sulien to bring her home. Therefore this must be Sulien in the solar with her.
Cadfael drew back the curtain fully, and rapped on the door as he opened it wide, pausing on the threshold. The voices had ceased abruptly, Sulien’s and Pernel’s with instant recognition and instant reserve, the Lady Donata’s with the slightly startled but gracious tolerance of her kind. Intruders here were few and surprising, but her durable, worn dignity would never be disrupted.
‘Peace on all here!’ said Cadfael. The words had come naturally, a customary benediction, but he felt the instant stab of guilt at having used them, when he was all too conscious that what he brought them might be anything but peace. ‘I am sorry, you did not hear me come. I was told to come through to you. May I enter?’
‘Enter and be warmly welcome, Brother!’ said Donata.
Her voice had almost more body than her flesh, even though it cost her effort and care to use it. She was installed on the wide bench against the far wall, under a single torch that spilled wavering light from its sconce over her. She was propped in cushions carefully piled to support her upright, with a padded footstool under her feet. The thin oval of her face was the translucent bluish colour of shadows in untrodden snow, lit by huge, sunken eyes of the deep, lustrous blue of bugloss. The hands that lay at rest on the pillows were frail as cobweb, and the body within her dark gown and brocaded bliaut little but skin and bone. But she was still the mistress here, and equal to her role.
‘You have ridden from Shrewsbury? Eudo and Jehane will be sorry to have missed you, they have ridden over to Father Eadmer at Atcham. Sit here, Brother, close to me. The light’s feeble. I like to see my visitor’s faces, and my sight is not quite so sharp as it used to be. Sulien, bring a draught of ale for our guest. I am sure,’ she said, turning upon Cadfael the thin, tranquil smile that softened the stoical set of her lips,’that your visit must really be to my son. It is one more pleasure his return has brought me.’
Pernel said nothing at all. She was sitting at Donata’s right hand, very quiet and still, her eyes upon Cadfael. It seemed to him that she was quicker even than Sulien to sense a deeper and darker purpose beyond this unexpected visit. If so, she suppressed what she knew, and continued composed and dutiful, the well-conditioned young gentlewoman being respectful and attentive to her elder. A first visit here? Cadfael thought so, by the slight tension that possessed both the young people.
‘My name is Cadfael. Your son was my helper in the herb gardens at the abbey, for the few days he spent with us. I was sorry to lose him,’ said Cadfael, ‘but not sorry that he should return to the life he chose.’
‘Brother Cadfael was an easy master,’ said Sulien, presenting the cup to him with a somewhat strained smile.
‘So I believe,’ she said, ‘from all that you have told me of him. And I do remember you, Brother, and the medicines you made for me, some years ago. You were so kind as to send a further supply by Sulien, when he came to see you. He has been persuading me to use the syrup. But I need nothing. You see I am very well tended, and quite content. You should take back the flask, others may need it.’
‘It was one of the reasons for this visit,’ said Cadfael,’to enquire if you had found any benefit from the draught, or if there is anything besides that I could offer you.’
She smiled directly into his eyes, but all she said was: ‘And the other reason?’
“The lord abbot,’ said Cadfael,’sent me to ask if Sulien will ride back with me and pay him a visit.’
Sulien stood fronting him with an inscrutable face, but betrayed himself for a second by moistening lips suddenly dry. ‘Now?’
‘Now.’ The word fell too heavily, it needed leavening. ‘He would take it kindly of you. He thought of your son,’ said Cadfael, turning to Donata, ‘for a short while as his son. He has not withdrawn that paternal goodwill. He would be glad to see and to know,’ he said with emphasis, looking up again into Sulien’s face,’that all is well with you. There is nothing we want more than that.’ And whatever might follow, that at least was true. Whether they could hope to have and keep what they wanted was another matter.
‘Would an hour or two of delay be allowed me?’ asked Sulien steadily. ‘I must escort Pernel home to Withington. Perhaps I should do that first.’ Meaning, for Cadfael, who knew how to interpret: It may be a long time before I come back from the abbey. Best to clear up all unfinished business.
‘No need for that,’ said Donata with authority. ‘Pernel shall stay here with me over the night, if she will be so kind. I will send a boy over to Withington to let her father know that she is safe here with me. I have not so many young visitors that I can afford to part with her so soon. You go with Brother Cadfael, and we shall keep company very pleasantly together until you come back.’
That brought a certain wary gleam to Sulien’s face and Pernel’s. They exchanged the briefest of glances, and Pernel said at once: ‘I should like that very much, if you’ll really let me stay. Gunnild is there to take care of the children, and my mother, I’m sure, will spare me for a day.’
Was it possible, Cadfael wondered, that Donata, even in her own extremity, was taking thought for her younger son, and welcomed this first sign in him of interest in a suitable young woman? Mothers of strong nature, long familiar with their own slow deaths, may also wish to settle any unfinished business.
He had just realised what it was that most dismayed him about her. This wasting enemy that had greyed her hair and shrunk her to the bone had still not made her look old. She looked, rather, like a frail waif of a young girl, blighted, withered and starved in her April days, when the bud should just have been unfolding. Beside Pernel’s radiance she was a blown wisp of vapour, the ghost of a child. Yet in this or any room she would still be the dominant.
‘I’ll go and saddle up, then,’ said Sulien, almost as lightly as if he had been contemplating no more than a canter through the woods for a breath of air. He stooped to kiss his mother’s fallen cheek, and she lifted a hand that felt like the flutter of a dead leaf’s filigree skeleton as it touched his face. He said no farewells, to her or to Pernel. That might have spilled over into something betrayingly ominous. He went briskly out through the hall, and Cadfael made his own farewells as gracefully as he could, and hurried down to join him in the stables.
They mounted in the yard, and set out side by side without a word being spoken, until they were threading the belt of woodland.
‘You will already have heard,’ said Cadfael then,’that Hugh Beringar and his levy came back today? Without losses!’
