you need here, and lie at least as softly as in the dortoir at home? There is no great difference between the soldier’s bed and the monk’s, or so they tell me. I have tried only the one, since I came to manhood.”
Truth, indeed, since he had taken up arms in this endless contention in support of his father before he reached twenty.
“I have known both,” said Cadfael, “and complain of neither.”
“So they told me, I recall, at Coventry. Some who knew of you. As I did not, not then,” said Philip, and drew his gown closer about him. “I, too, had a word to say to God,” he said, and passed Cadfael and entered his chapel. “Come to me after Mass.”
“Not behind a closed door this time,” said Philip, taking Cadfael by the arm as they came out from Mass, “but publicly in hall. No, you need not speak at all, your part is done. I have considered all that has emerged concerning Brien de Soulis and Yves Hugonin, and if the one matter is still unproven, guilty or no, the other cries out too loud to be passed over. Let Brien de Soulis rest as well as he may, it is too late to accuse him, at least here. But Hugonin, no, there is too great a doubt. I no longer accuse him, I dare not. Come, see him released to ride and rejoin his own faction, wherever he pleases.”
In the hall of La Musarderie trestle tables and benches were all cleared away, leaving the great space stark and bare, the central fire roused and well tended, for winter was beginning to bite with night frosts, and for all the shelter of the deep river valley the winds found their bitter way in by every shutter and every arrow-slit. Philip’s officers gathered there turned impartial faces as he entered, and a cluster of men-at-arms held off and watched, awaiting his will.
“Master of arms,” said Philip, “go and bring up Yves Hugonin from his cell. Take the smith with you, and strike off his chains. It has been shown me that in all probability I have done him wrong in thinking him guilty of de Soulis’s death. At least I have doubt enough in me to turn him loose and clear him of all offence against me. Go and fetch him here.”
They went without hesitation, with a kind of indifferent briskness that came naturally to these men who served him. Fear had no part in their unquestioning promptness. Any who feared him would have fallen off from him and taken themselves elsewhere.
“You have given me no chance to be grateful,” said Cadfael in Philip’s ear.
“There is no occasion for gratitude here. If you have told me truth, this is due. I make too much haste, sometimes, but I do not of intent spit in the face of truth.” And to some of the men who hovered in the doorway: “See his horse saddled, and his saddle-roll well provided. No, wait a while for that. His own grooming may take a while, and we must send our guests forth fed and presentable.”
They went to do his bidding, to heat water and carry it to an empty apartment, and install there the saddle-roll that had been hoisted from the horse when Yves had been brought in prisoner. So it was more than half an hour later when the boy was brought into the hall before his captor, and baulked and stared at the sight of Brother Cadfael standing at Philip’s side.
“Here is one says I have grossly mistaken you,” said Philip directly, “and I have begun to be of his opinion. I make known now that you are free to go, no enemy henceforth of mine, and not to be meddled with where my writ runs.”
Yves looked from one to the other, and was at a loss, so suddenly hailed out of his prison and brought forth into the light. He had been captive for so short a time that the signs hardly showed on him at all. His wrists were bruised from the irons, but there was no more than a thin blue line to be seen, and either he had been housed somewhere clean and dry, or he had changed into fresh clothes. His hair, still damp, curled about his head, drying fluffy as a child’s. But there were the dark shadows of anger and suspicion in the stiffness of his face when he looked at Philip.
“You won him fairly,” said Philip indifferently, smiling a little at the boy’s black stare. “Embrace him!”
Bewildered and wary, Yves tensed at the very touch of Cadfael’s hands on his shoulders, but as suddenly melted, and inclined a flushed and still half-reluctant cheek for the kiss, quivering. In a stumbling breath he demanded helplessly: “What have you done? What brings you here? You should never have followed.”
“Question nothing!” said Cadfael, putting him off firmly to the length of his arms. “No need! Take what is offered you, and be glad. There is no deceit.”
“He said you had won me.” Yves turned upon Philip, frowning, ready to blaze. “What has he done? How did he get you to let go of me? I do not believe you do it for nothing. What has he pledged for me?”
“It is true,” said Philip coolly,”that Brother Cadfael came offering a life. Not, however, for you. He has reasoned me out of you, my friend, no price has been paid. Nor asked.”
“That is truth,” said Cadfael.
Yves looked from one to the other, swayed between belief in the one and disbelief in the other. “Not for me,” he said slowly. “It’s true, then, it must be true. Olivier is here! Who else?”
“Olivier is here,” agreed Philip equably, and added with finality: “And stays here.”
“You have no right.” Yves was too intent and solemn now to have room for anger. “What you held against me was at least credible. Against him you have no justification. Let him go now. Keep me if you will, but let Olivier go free.”
“I will be the judge,” said Philip, his brows drawn formidably, but his voice as level as before, “whether I have ground of bitter complaint against Olivier de Bretagne. As for you, your horse is saddled and provided, and you may ride where you will, back to your empress without hindrance from any man of mine. The gate will open for you. Be on your way.”
The curtness of the dismissal raised a flush in Yves’ smooth, scrubbed cheeks, and for a moment Cadfael feared for the young man’s newly achieved maturity. Where would be the sense in protesting further when the situation put all but dignified compliance out of his reach? A few months back, and he might have blazed in ineffective rage, in the perilous confusion of the transition from boy to man. But somewhere beneath one of the curtain towers of La Musarderie Yves had completed his growing up. He confronted his antagonist with mastered face and civil bearing.
“Let me at least ask,” he said, “what is your intent with Brother Cadfael. Is he also prisoner?”
“Brother Cadfael is safe enough with me. You need not fear for him. But for the present I desire to retain his company, and I think he will not deny me. He is free to go when he will, or stay as long as he will. He can keep the
