look at the weather. The air was on the softer edge of frost, no wind stirring. The sky was clear and full of stars, but they had not the blaze and bite of extreme cold. A beautiful night, and even without his cloak he was tempted to go as far as the edge of the maenol, where a copse of bushes and trees sheltered the gate. He drew in deep, chill breaths, scented with timber, night and the mysterious sweetness of turf and leaf sleeping but not dead, and blew the smokiness of withindoors out of his nose.
He was about to turn back and compose his mind for the night prayers when the luminous darkness quickened around him, and two people came up from the shadowy buildings of the stables towards the hall, softly and swiftly, but with abrupt pauses that shook the air more than their motion. They were talking as they came, just above the betraying sibilance of whispers, and their conference had an edge and an urgency that made him freeze where he stood, covered by the bulk and darkness of the trees. By the time he was aware of them they were between him and his rest, and when they drew close enough he could not choose but hear. But man being what he is, it cannot be avowed that he would so have chosen, even if he could.
‘, mean me no harm!’ breathed the one, bitter and soft. ‘And do you not harm me, do you not rob me of what’s mine by right, with every breath you draw? And now you will be off to him, as soon as this English lord can be moved…’ ‘Have I a choice,’ protested the other, ‘when the prince sends me? And he is my foster, brother, can you change that? Why can you not let well alone?’ ‘It is not well, it is very ill! Sent, indeed!’ hissed the girl’s voice viciously. ‘Ha! And you would murder any who took the errand from you, and well you know it. And I to sit here! While you will be together again, his arm around your neck, and never a thought for me!’ The two shadows glared in the muted gleam from the dying fire within, black in the doorway. Eliud’s voice rose perilously. The taller shadow, head and shoulders taller, wrenched itself away.
‘For God’s love, woman, will you not hush, and let me be!’ He was gone, casting her off roughly, and vanishing into the populous murmur and hush of the hall. Cristina plucked her skirts about her with angry hands, and followed slowly, withdrawing to her own retiring place.
And so did Cadfael, as soon as he was sure there was none to be discomposed by his going. There went two losers in this submerged battle. If there was a winner, he slept with a child’s abandon, as seemed to be his wont, in a stone cell that was no prison, in Shrewsbury castle. One that would always fall on his feet. Two that probably made a practice of falling over theirs, from too intense peering ahead, and too little watching where they trod.
Nevertheless, he did not pray for them that night. He lay long in thought instead, pondering how so complex a knot might be disentangled.
In the early morning he and his remaining force mounted and rode. It did not surprise him that the devoted cousin and foster, brother should be there to see him go, and send by him all manner of messages to his captive friend, to sustain him until his release. Most fitting that the one who was older and wiser should stand proxy to rescue the younger and more foolish. If folly can be measured so?
‘I was not clever,’ owned Eliud ruefully, holding Cadfael’s stirrup as he mounted, and leaning on his horse’s warm shoulder when he was up. ‘I made too much of it that he should not go with Cadwaladr. I doubt I drove him the more firmly into it. But I knew it was mad!’ ‘You must grant him one grand folly,’ said Cadfael comfortably. ‘Now he’s lived through it, and knows it was folly as surely as you do. He’ll not be so hot after action again. And then,’ he said, eyeing the grave oval countenance close, ‘I understand he’ll have other causes for growing into wisdom when he comes home. He’s to be married, is he not?’ Eliud faced him a moment with great hazel eyes shining like lanterns. Then: ‘Yes!’ he said very shortly and forbiddingly, and turned his head away.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE NEWS went round in Shrewsbury, abbey, castle and town, almost before Cadfael had rendered account of his stewardship to Abbot Radulfus, and reported his success to Hugh. The sheriff was alive, and his return imminent, in exchange for the Welshman taken at Godric’s Ford. In her high apartments in the castle, Lady Prestcote brightened and grew buoyant with relief. Hugh rejoiced not only in having found and recovered his chief, but also in the prospect of a closer alliance with Owain Gwynedd, whose help in the north of the shire, if ever Ranulf of Chester did decide to attack, might very well turn the tide. The provost and guildsmen of the town, in general, were well pleased. Prestcote was a man who did not encourage close friendships, but Shrewsbury had found him a just and well, intentioned officer of the crown, if heavy, handed at times, and was well aware that it might have fared very much worse. Not everyone, however, felt the same simple pleasure. Even just men make enemies.
Cadfael returned to his proper duties well content, and having reviewed Brother Oswin’s stewardship in the herbarium and found everything in good order, his next charge was to visit the infirmary and replenish the medicine, cupboard there.
‘No new invalids since I left?’ ‘None. And two have gone out, back to the dortoir, Brother Adam and Brother Everard. Strong constitutions they have, both, in spite of age, and it was no worse than a chest cold, and has cleared up well. Come and see how they all progress. If only we could send out Brother Maurice with the same satisfaction as those two,’ said Edmund sadly. ‘He’s eight years younger, strong and able, and barely sixty. If only he was as sound in mind as in body! But I doubt we’ll never dare let him loose. It’s the bent his madness has taken. Shame that after a blameless life of devotion he now remembers only his grudges, and seems to have no love for any man. Great age is no blessing, Cadfael, when the body’s strength outlives the mind.’ ‘How do his neighbours bear with him?’ asked Cadfael with sympathy.
‘With Christian patience! And they need it. He fancies now that every man is plotting some harm against him. And says so, outright, besides any real and ancient wrongs he’s kept in mind all too clearly.’ They came into the big, bare room where the beds were laid, handy to the private chapel where the infirm might repair for the offices. Those who could rise to enjoy the brighter part of the day sat by a large log fire, warming their ancient bones and talking by fits and starts, as they waited for the next meal, the next office or the next diversion. Only Brother Rhys was confined to his bed, though most of those within here were aged, and spent much time there. A generation of brothers admitted in the splendid enthusiasm of an abbey’s founding also comes to senility together, yielding place to the younger postulants admitted by ones and twos after the engendering wave. Never again, thought Cadfael, moving among them, would a whole chapter of the abbey’s history remove thus into retirement and decay. From this time on they would come one by one, and be afforded each a death-bed reverently attended, single and in solitary dignity. Here were four or five who would depart almost together, leaving even their attendant brothers very weary, and the world indifferent.
Brother Maurice sat installed by the fire, a tall, gaunt, waxen, white old man of elongated patrician face and irascible manner. He came of a noble house, an oblate since his youth, and had been removed here some two years previously, when after a trivial dispute he had suddenly called out Prior Robert in a duel to the death, and utterly refused to be distracted or reconciled. In his more placid moments he was gracious, accommodating and courteous, but touch him in his pride of family and honour and he was an implacable enemy. Here in his old age he called up from the past, vivid as when they happened, every affront to his line, every lawsuit waged against them, back to his own birth and beyond, and brooded over every one that had gone unrevenged.
It was a mistake, perhaps, to ask him how he did, but his enthroned hauteur seemed to demand it. He raised his narrow hawk, nose, and tightened his bluish lips. ‘None the better for what I hear, if it be true. They’re saying that Gilbert Prestcote is alive and will soon be returning here. Is that truth?’ ‘It is,’ said Cadfael. ‘Owain Gwynedd is sending him home in exchange for the Welshman captured in the Long Forest a while since. And why should you be none the better for good news of a decent Christian man?’ ‘I had thought justice had been done,’ said Maurice
