him that cut his feet to ribbons. Well that we kept him alive.”
They were speaking of him softly, a little aside, though he lay back as eased and still as if he had fallen asleep, his eyes closed, the long dark lashes shadowing his hollow cheeks. The hall had emptied about them, all the bustle of activity withdrawn elsewhere, busy with pillows and brychans and the hospitable business of the kitchen.
“They’re slow with the wine,” said Cenred, “and you must both need some warmth inside you. If you’ll hold me excused. Brother, I’ll go and hasten things in the pantry.”
And he was off, the flurry and wind of his passing causing Haluin’s closed eyelids to quiver. In a moment he opened his eyes and looked slowly and dazedly about him, taking in the warm, high-roofed dimness of the hall, the glow of the fire, the heavy hangings that screened two alcoves withdrawn from the public domain, and the half- open door of the solar from which Cenred had emerged. The pale, steady gleam of candlelight showed from within.
“Have I dreamed?” wondered Haluin, gazing. “How did we come here? What place is this?”
“Never fear,” said Cadfael. “On your own feet you came here, only an arm to help you up the steps into the house. The manor is called Vivers, and the lord of it is Cenred. We’ve fallen into good hands.”
Haluin drew deep breath. “I am not so strong as I believed I was,” he said sadly.
“No matter, you can rest now. We have left Elford behind.”
They were both speaking in low voices, a little awed by the enfolding silence presiding even in the center of this populous household. When both ceased speaking, the quietness seemed almost expectant. And in the hush the half-open door of the solar opened fully upon the pale gold candlelight within, and a woman stepped into the doorway. For that one instant she was sharply outlined as a shadow against the soft light within, a slender, erect figure, mature and dignified in movement, surely the lady of the house and Cenred’s wife. The next moment she had taken two or three light, swift steps into the hall, and the light of the nearest torch fell upon her shadowy face and advancing form, and conjured out of the dim shape a very different person. Everything about her was changed. Not a gracious chatelaine of more than thirty years, but a rounded, fresh-faced girl, no more than seventeen or eighteen, half her oval countenance two great startled eyes and the wide, high forehead above them, white and smooth as pearl.
Haluin uttered a strange, soft sound in his throat, between gasp and sigh, clutched at his crutches, and heaved himself to his feet, staring at this sudden glowing apparition as she, brought up abruptly against the intrusion of strangers, had drawn back in haste, starring at him. For one moment they hung so, mute and still, then the girl whirled about and retreated into the solar, drawing the door to almost stealthily after her.
Haluin’s hands slackened their hold, dangling inertly, the crutches slid and fell from under him, and he went down on his face in a gradual, crumpled fail, and lay senseless in the rushes of the floor.
They carried him to a bed prepared for him in a quiet chamber withdrawn from the hall, and bedded him there, still in a deep swoon.
“This is simple exhaustion,” said Cadfael in reassurance to Cenred’s solicitous anxiety. “I knew he was driving himself too hard, but that’s done with now. From this on we can take our time. Leave him to sleep through this night, and he’ll do well enough. See, he’s coming round. His eyes are opening.”
Haluin stirred, his eyelids quivering before they rose on the dark, sharply conscious eyes within, that looked up into a circle of vague, concerned faces. He was aware of his surroundings, and knew what had happened to him before he was carried here, for the first words he spoke were in meek apology for troubling them, and thanks for their care.
“My fault!” he said. “It was presumptuous to attempt too much. But now all is well with me. All is very well!”
Since his chief need was clearly of rest, they were left to make themselves comfortable in their small chamber, though the evening brought them a number of visits. The bearded steward brought them hot, spiced wine, and sent in to them the old woman Edgytha, who brought them water for their hands, food, and a lamp, and offered whatever more they might need for their comfort.
She was a tall, wiry, active woman probably sixty years old, with the free manner and air of authority habitual in servants who have spent many years in the confidence of lord or lady, and earned a degree of trust that brings with it acknowledged privilege. The younger maidservants deferred to her, if they did not actually go in awe of her, and her neat black gown and stiff white wimple, and the keys jingling at her waist bore witness to her status.
Late in the evening she came again, in attendance on a plump and pleasant lady, soft-voiced and gracious, who came to inquire kindly whether the reverend brothers had all that they needed for the night, and whether the one who had swooned was now comfortably recovered from his faintness, Cenred’s wife was rosily pretty, brown-haired and brown-eyed, a very different creature from the tall, slender, vulnerable young thing who had stepped out of the solar, to be startled into recoil from the unexpected apparition of strangers.
“And have the lord Cenred and his lady any children?” Cadfael asked when their hostess was gone.
Edgytha was close-lipped, possessively protective of her family and all that was theirs, to the point of rendering every such inquiry suspect, but after a moment’s hesitation she answered civilly enough: “They have a son, a grown son.” And she added, unexpectedly reconsidering her reluctance to satisfy such uncalled-for curiosity: “He’s away, in service with my lord Cenred’s overlord.”
There was a curious undertone of reserve, even of disapproval, in her voice, though she would never have acknowledged it. It almost distracted Cadfael’s mind from his own preoccupation, but he pursued delicately:
“And no daughter? There was a young girl looked into the hall for a moment, while we were waiting. Is she not a child of the house?”
She gave him a long, steady, searching look, with raised brows and tight lips, plainly disapproving of such interest in young women, coming from a monastic. But guests in the house must be treated with unfailing courtesy, even when they fall short of deserving it.
“That lady is the lord Cenred’s sister,” she said. “The old lord Edric, his father, married a second time in his later years. More like a daughter to him than a sister, with the difference in years. I doubt you’ll see her again. She would not wish to disturb the retirement of men of your habit. She has been well brought up,” concluded Edgytha with evident personal pride in the product of her own devotion, and a plain warning that black monks cast by chance into the household should deep their eyes lowered in a young virgin’s presence.
“If you had her in charge,” said Cadfael amiably, “I make no doubt she does credit to her upbringing. Had you Cenred’s boy in your care too?”
