Sometimes, though they did not know it, they were even answering each other’s questions.
“I wonder who she was,” said Annest, soft and hesitant, “that one who drove you to take the cowl? Sioned and I, we can’t help wondering how a lad like you ever came to do it.” Now if he had known Welsh, she could never have said that to him.
“How did I ever come to think that Margery such a beauty!” marvelled John. “And take it so hard when she turned me down? But I’d never really seen beauty then — I’d never seen you!”
“She did us all a bad turn,” said Annest, sighing, “whoever she was, driving you into that habit for life!”
“Dear God,” said John, “to think I might have married her! At least she did me that much of a favour, with her ‘no.’ There’s only the matter of a cowl between you and me, not a wife.” And that was the first moment when he had entertained the dazzling idea that escape from his vows might be possible at all. The thought caused him to turn his head and look with even closer and more ardent attention at the fair face so close to his. She had smooth, rounded, apple-blossom cheeks, and delicate, sun-glossed bones, and eyes like brook-water in the sun over bright pebbles, glittering, polished, crystal-clear.
“Do you still fret after her?” wondered Annest in a whisper. “A conceited ninny who hadn’t the wit to know a good man when she saw one?” For he was indeed a very well-grown, handy, handsome, goodhumoured young fellow, with his long, sturdy legs and his big, deft hands, and his bush of russet curls, and the girl who thought herself too good for him must have been the world’s fool. “I hate her!” said Annest, leaning unwarily towards him.
The lips that tantalised him with soft utterances he could not understand were only a little way from his own. He resorted in desperation to a kind of sign-language that needed no interpreter. He hadn’t kissed a girl since Margery, the draper’s daughter, threw him over when her father became bailiff of Shrewsbury, but it seemed he hadn’t forgotten how. And Annest melted into his arms, where she fitted a great deal better than his too-hasty vows had ever fitted him.
“Oh, Annest!” gasped Brother John, who had never in his life felt less like a brother, “I think I love you!”
Brother Cadfael and Brother Columbanus walked up through the woodland together, to keep the third night of prayer. The evening was mild and still but overcast, and under the trees the light grew dusky green. Until the last moment it had remained a possibility that Prior Robert, having missed his chosen night of duty, might elect to be present on this last occasion, but he had said no word, and to tell the truth, Cadfael was beginning to wonder if that long session with the bailiff had really been necessary at all, or whether the prior had welcomed it as an alternative to keeping the night-watch and facing Sioned with her request in the morning. Not necessarily a proof of any guilt on his part, beyond the guilt of still wishing to refuse grace to Rhisiart, without actually having to do so face to face with his daughter. For whatever virtues might be found in Prior Robert, humility was not one, nor magnanimity. He was invariably sure of his own rightness, and where it was challenged he was not a forgiving man.
“In this quest and this vigil, brother,” said Columbanus, his long young steps keeping easy pace with Cadfael’s seaman’s roll, “we are greatly privileged. The history of our abbey will record our names, and brothers in the generations to come will envy us.”
“I have already heard,” said Cadfael drily, “that Prior Robert is proposing to write a life of Saint Winifred, and complete it with the story of this translation to Shrewsbury. You think he’ll record the names of all his companions?” Yours, however, he thought, he well might mention, as the afflicted brother who first fell sick and was sent to Holywell to be cured. And Jerome’s, who had the dream that took you there. But mine, I feel sure, will remain a silence, and so much the better!
“I have a fault to atone for,” recalled Columbanus devoutly, “having betrayed my trust once in this same chapel, I, who most of all should have been faithful.” They were at the decrepit gate, the tangle of the graveyard before them, threaded by a narrow path just discernible through the long grass. “I feel a holy air reaching out to me,” said the young man, quivering, his face uplifted and pale. “I am drawn into a light. I believe we are approaching a wonder, a miracle of grace. Such mercy to me, who fell asleep in betrayal of her service!” And he led the way to the open door, his stride lengthening in eagerness, his hands extended as if to clasp a mistress rather than make obeisance before a saint. Cadfael followed morosely but resignedly, used to these uncomfortable ardours, but not looking forward to being confined in so small a chapel with them overnight. He had thinking as well as praying to do, and Columbanus was not conducive to either activity.
Inside the chapel the air was heavy with the scent of old wood, and the spices and incense of the draperies on which the reliquary lay, and the faint, aromatic aura of years of dust and partial disuse. A small oil-lamp burned with a dark yellow flame on the altar, and Cadfael went forward and lit the two altar candles from it, and set them one on either side. Through the narrow east window the fragrance of the falling may-blossom breathed freshness on a very light breeze, causing the flames to flicker for a few minutes. Their faint, dancing radiance glanced from every near surface, but did not reach the comers of the roof, or fix the walls in place. They were in a narrow cavern of brown, woodscented darkness, with a dim focus of light before them, that shone on an empty coffin and an uncoffined body, and just showed them the rough outlines of the two prayer-desks drawn up side by side at a little distance from the catafalque. Rhisiart lay nearer to them, the black and silver bulk of the reliquary like a low wall shading him from the altar lights.
Brother Columbanus bowed humbly low to the altar, and took his place at the desk on the right. Brother Cadfael settled solidly at the one on the left, and with practised movements sought and found the best place for his knees. Stillness came down on them gently. He composed himself for a long watch, and said his prayer for Rhisiart, not the first he had said for him. Great darkness and constant, feeble light, the slow flowing of time from far beyond his conception to far beyond his power to follow, the solitude about him and the troubled and peopled world within, all these settled into their perpetual pattern, a steady rhythm as perfect as sleep. He thought no more of Columbanus, he forgot that Columbanus existed. He prayed as he breathed, forming no words and making no specific requests, only holding in his heart, like broken birds in cupped hands, all those people who were in stress or in grief because of this little saint, for if he suffered like this for their sake, how much more must she feel for them?
The candles would last the night, and by instinct he traced time by the rate at which they dwindled, and knew when it was near to midnight.
He was thinking of Sioned, to whom he had nothing but himself to offer in the morning, this pietistic innocent being essentially nothing, and Cadfael himself by no means enough, when he heard the faintest and strangest of sounds issuing from the prie-dieu on his right, where Columbanus leaned in total absorption. Not now with face hidden on his linked hands, but uplifted and strained upwards into what light could reach him, and faint though it was, it conjured his sharp profile into primrose pallor. His eyes were wide open and staring beyond the chapel wall, and his lips open and curved in ecstasy, and singing, a mere thread of Latin chant in praise of virginity. It was barely audible, yet clear as in a dream. And before Cadfael was fully aware of what he heard, he saw the young man thrust himself upwards, holding by the desk, and stand upright before the altar. The chant ceased. Suddenly he reared himself erect to his tallest, drawing back his head as though he would see through the roof into a spring night full of stars, and spreading out his arms on either side like a man stretched on a cross. He gave a great, wordless cry, seemingly both of pain and triumph, and fell forward full-length on the earthen floor, crashing to the ground stiffly, arms still outspread, body stretched to the very toes, and lay still, his forehead against the trailing fringe of the altar-cloth that spilled from beneath Rhisiart’s body.
