abbot-designate, and leaving the mundane direction of the house to Brother Richard, who certainly would not meddle where it might cost him effort.
Supper was salt fish and pulse, and Cadfael disposed of it with scant attention, and made off across the great court in haste, and out at the gates. The air was chill, but as yet barely on the edge of frost, and there had been no snow at all so far. All the same, he had muffled his sandalled feet in well-wound strips of wool, and drawn his hood close.
The town porters saluted him respectfully and cheerfully, knowing him well. The right-hand curve of the Wyle drew him upward, and he turned off, again to the right, into the open yard under the eaves of Bellecote’s house. After his knock at the closed door there was a longish silence, and that he could well understand, and forbore from knocking again. Clamour would only have alarmed them. Patience might reassure.
The door opened cautiously on a demure young person of about eleven years, erect and splendidly on guard for a troubled household at her back; all of whom, surely, were stretching sharp ears somewhere there beyond. She was bright, well primed and vulnerable; she saw the black Benedictine habit, drew deep breath, and smiled.
“I’m come from Mistress Bonel,” said Cadfael, “with a word to your father, child, if he’ll admit me. There’s none else here, never fear.”
She opened the door with a matron’s dignity, and let him in. The eight-year-old Thomas and the four-year-old Diota, naturally the most fearless creatures in the house, erupted round her skirts to examine him with round, candid eyes, even before Martin Bellecote himself appeared from a half-lit doorway within, and drew the younger children one either side of him, his hands spread protectively round their shoulders. A pleasant, square-built, large- handed man with a wide, wholesome face, and a deep reserve in his eyes, which Cadfael was glad to see. Too much trust is folly, in an imperfect world.
“Step in, brother,” said Martin, “and, Alys, do you close and bar the door.”
“Forgive me if I’m brisk,” said Cadfael as the door was closed behind him, “but time’s short. They came looking for a lad here today, and I’m told they did not find him.”
“That’s truth,” said Martin. “He never came home.”
“I don’t ask you where he is. Tell me nothing. But I do ask you, who know him, is it possible he can have done what they are urging against him?”
Bellecote’s wife came through from the inner room, a candle in her hand. A woman like enough to be known for her mother’s daughter, but softer and rounder and fairer in colouring, though with the same honest eyes. She said with indignant conviction: “Rankly impossible! If ever there was a creature in the world who made his feelings known, and did all his deeds in the daylight, that’s my brother. From an imp just crawling, if he had a grievance everyone within a mile round knew it, but grudges he never bore. And my lad’s just such another.”
Yes, of course, there was the as yet unseen Edwy, to match the elusive Edwin. No sign of either of them here.
“You must be Sibil,” said Cadfael. “I’ve been lately with your mother. And for my credentials—did ever you hear her speak of one Cadfael, whom she used to know when she was a girl?”
The light from the candle was reflected pleasingly in eyes suddenly grown round and bright with astonishment and candid curiosity. “You are Cadfael? Yes, many a time she talked of you, and wondered …” She viewed his black habit and cowl, and her smile faded into a look of delicate sympathy. Of course! She was reflecting, woman-like, that he must have been heartbroken at coming home from the holy wars to find his old love married, or he would never have taken these bleak vows. No use telling her that vocations strike from heaven like random arrows of God, by no means all because of unrequited love. “Oh, it must be comfort to her,” said Sibil warmly, “to find you near her again, at this terrible pass. You she would trust!”
“I hope she does,” said Cadfael, gravely enough. “I know she may. I came only to let you know that I am there to be used, as she already knows. The specific that was used to kill was of my making, and that is something that involves me in this matter. Therefore I am friend to any who may fall suspect unjustly. I will do what I can to uncover the guilty. Should you, or anyone, have reason to speak with me, anything to tell me, anything to ask of me, I am usually to be found between offices in the workshop in the herb-gardens, where I shall be tonight until I go to Matins at midnight. Your journeyman Meurig knows the abbey grounds, if he has not been to my hut. He is here?”
“He is,” said Martin. “He sleeps in the loft across the yard. He has told us what passed at the abbey. But I give you my word, neither he nor we have set eyes on the boy since he ran from his mother’s house. What we know, past doubt, is that he is no murderer, and never could be.”
“Then sleep easy,” said Cadfael, “for God is awake. And now let me out again softly, Alys, and bar the door after me, for I must hurry back for Compline.”
The young girl, great-eyed, drew back the bolt and held the door. The little ones stood with spread feet, sturdily staring him out of the house, but without fear or hostility. The parents said never a word but their still: “Good night!” but he knew, as he hastened down the Wyle, that his message had been heard and understood, and that it was welcome, here in this beleaguered household.
“Even if you are desperate to have a fresh brew of cough syrup boiled up before tomorrow,” said Brother Mark reasonably, coming out from Compline at Cadfael’s side, “is there any reason why I should not do it for you? Is there any need for you, after the day you’ve had, to be stravaiging around the gardens all night, into the bargain? Or do you think I’ve forgotten where we keep mullein, and sweet cicely, and rue, and rosemary, and hedge mustard?” The recital of ingredients was part of the argument. This young man was developing a somewhat possessive sense of responsibility for his elder.
“You’re young,” said Brother Cadfael, “and need your sleep.”
“I forbear,” said Brother Mark cautiously, “from making the obvious rejoinder.”
“I think you’d better. Very well, then, you have signs of a cold, and should go to your bed.”
“I have not,” Brother Mark disagreed firmly. “But if you mean that you have some work on hand that you’d rather I did not know about, very well, I’ll go to the warming-room like a sensible fellow, and then to bed.”
“What you know nothing about can’t be charged against you,” said Brother Cadfael, conciliatory.
“Well, then, is there anything I can be doing for you in blessed ignorance? I was bidden to be obedient to you, when they sent me to work under you in the garden.”
“Yes,” said Cadfael. “You can secure me a habit much your own size, and slip it into my cell and out of sight
