Leicester. Has he also told you of the fate of the knights of Faringdon who refused to desert the empress?”
“He has,” said Radulfus. “I have seen the list of names, and I know how they were disposed of. I trust that at this proposed meeting in Coventry some agreement may be reached for a general release of prisoners, even if nothing better can be achieved.”
“Father, I wish I shared your trust, but I fear they are neither of them in any mind to give way. Howbeit, you will have noted the name of Olivier de Bretagne, who has not been located, and of whom nothing is known since Faringdon fell. His lord is willing and anxious to ransom him, but he has not been offered the opportunity. Father, I must tell you certain things concerning this young man, things I know Hugh will not have told you.”
“I have some knowledge of the man myself,” Radulfus reminded him, smiling, “when he came here four years ago at the time of Saint Winifred’s translation, in search of a certain squire missing from his place after the conference in Winchester. I have not forgotten him.”
“But this one thing,” said Cadfael, “is still unknown to you, though it may be that I should have told you long since, when first he touched my life. I had not thought that there was any need, for I did not expect that in any way my commitment to this place could be changed. Nor did I suppose that I should ever meet him again, nor he ever have need of me. But now it seems meet and right that all should be made plain. Father,” said Cadfael simply, “Olivier de Bretagne is my son.”
There was a silence that fell with surprising serenity and gentleness. Men within the pale as without are still men, vulnerable and fallible. Radulfus had the wise man’s distant respect for perfection, but no great expectation of meeting it in the way.
“When first I came to Palestine,” said Cadfael, looking back without regret, “an eighteen-year-old boy, I met with a young widow in Antioch, and loved her. Long years afterwards, when I returned to sail from Saint Symeon on my way home, I met with her again, and lingered with her in kindness until the ship was ready to sail. I left her a son, of whom I knew nothing, until he came looking for two lost children, after the sack of Worcester. And I was glad and proud of him, and with good reason. For a short while, when he came the second time, you knew him. Judge if I was glad of him, or no.”
“You had good reason,” said Radulfus readily. “However he was got, he did honour to his getting. I dare make no reproach. You had taken no vows, you were young and far from home, and humanity is frail. No doubt this was confessed and repented long since.”
“Confessed,” said Cadfael bluntly, “yes, when I knew I had left her with child and unfriended, but that is not long ago. And repented? No, I doubt if ever I repented of loving her, for she was well worth any man’s love. And bear in mind, Father, that I am Welsh, and in Wales there are no bastards but those whose fathers deny their paternity. Judge if I would ever deny my right to that bright, brave creature. The best thing ever I did was to cause him to be brought forth into a world where very few can match him.”
“However admirable the fruit may be,” said the abbot drily, “it does not justify priding oneself on a sin, nor calling a sin by any other name. But neither is there any profit in passing today’s judgement upon a sin some thirty years past. Since your avowal I have very seldom found any fault to chasten in you, beyond the small daily failings in patience or diligence, to which we are all prone. Let us deal, therefore, with what confronts us now. For I think you have somewhat to ask of me or to put to me concerning Olivier de Bretagne.”
“Father,” said Cadfael, choosing his words gravely and with deliberation, “if I presume in supposing that fatherhood imposes a duty upon me, wherever child of mine may be in trouble or misfortune, reprove me. But I do conceive of such a duty, and cannot heave it off my heart. I am bound to go and seek my son, and deliver him when found. I ask your countenance and your leave.”
“And I,” said Radulfus, frowning, but not wholly in displeasure, rather in profound concentration, “put to you the opposing view of what is now your duty. Your vows bind you here. Of your own will you chose to abandon the world and all your ties within it. That cannot be shed like a coat.”
“I took my vows in good faith,” said Cadfael, “not then knowing that there was in the world a being for whose very existence I was responsible. From all other ties my vows absolved me. All other personal relationships my vows severed. Not this one! Whether I would have resigned the world if I had known it contained my living seed, that I cannot answer, nor may you hazard at an answer. But he lives, and it was I engendered him. He suffers captivity and I am free. He may be in peril, and I am safe. Father, can the creator forsake the least of his creatures? Can a man turn away from his own imperilled blood? Is not procreation itself the undertaking of a sacred and inviolable vow? Knowing or unknowing, before I was a brother I was a father.”
This time the silence was chiller and more detached, and lasted longer. Then the abbot said levelly: “Ask what you have come to ask. Let it be plainly said.”
“I ask your leave and blessing,” said Cadfael, “to go with Hugh Beringar and attend this conference at Coventry, there to ask before king and empress where my son is held, and by God’s help and theirs see him delivered free.”
“And then?” said Radulfus. “If there is no help there?”
“Then by whatever means to pursue that same quest, until I do find and set him free.”
The abbot regarded him steadily, recognizing in the voice some echo from far back and far away, with the steel in it that had been blunted and sheathed as long as he had known this elderly brother. The weathered face, brown-browed and strongly boned, and deeply furrowed now by the wear and tear of sixty-five years, gazing back at him from wide-set and wide open eyes of a dark, autumnal brown, let him in honestly to the mind within. After years of willing submission to the claims of community, Cadfael stood suddenly erect and apart, again solitary. Radulfus recognized finality.
“And if I forbid,” he said with certainty, “you will still go.”
“Under God’s eye, and with reverence to you, Father, yes.”
“Then I do not forbid,” said Radulfus. “It is my office to keep all my flock. If one stray, the ninety and nine left are also bereft. I give you leave to go with Hugh, and see this council meet, and I pray some good may come of it. But once they disperse, whether you have learned what you need or no, there your leave of absence ends. Return with Hugh, as you go with Hugh. If you go further and delay longer, then you go as your own man, none of mine. Without my leave or my blessing.”
“Without your prayers?” said Cadfael.
“Have I said so?”
“Father,” said Cadfael, “it is written in the Rule that the brother who by his own wrong choice has left the monastery may be received again, even to the third time, at a price. Even penance ends when you shall say: It is
