habited pilgrim then, he was in good dark clothes, with cloak and capuchon, and armed, though he kept his sword out of sight. It was almost by chance we got into talk, or I thought so. But I fancy he guessed I was running from something, and he made no secret he was, too, and suggested we might be safer and pass unnoticed together. We were both heading north and west. The pilgrim was his notion, he had the face and bearing for it. Well, you’ve seen him, you know. I stole the habit for him from the priory store. The scallop shell came easy. The medal of Saint James he had?it may even have been his by right, who knows? By the time we got to Buildwas he had his part by rote, and his hair and beard were well grown. And he came very apt to the dame at Eaton, for her own ends. Oh, she knew no worse of him than that he was willing to earn his keep with her. He said he was a priest, and she believed it. I knew he was none, he owned as much when we were alone. He laughed about it. But he had the gift of tongues, he could carry it off. She gave him the hermitage, so close and handy to the abbey’s woods, to do all the mischief he could in the abbot’s despite. I said that was my part, and he knew nothing of it, but I lied for him. He’d never blabbed on me, no more would I on him.’
‘He abandoned you,’ said Hugh flatly, ‘as soon as he knew the hunt was up for you. You need not scruple to speak out on his account.’
‘Well?I live, and he’s dead,’ said Hyacinth. ‘No call now for me to bear him any grudge. You know about Richard? I’d talked with him only once, but he took me so for a true man he’d hear no wrong of me, nor have me run to earth and dragged back into villeinage. That set me up again in my own respect. I never knew till afterwards that he’d been seized like that on his way back, but I was forced to run or hide, and chose to hide till I could make shift to find him. If it hadn’t been for Eilmund’s goodness to me, and after I’d been a thorn in his flesh, too, your men might have had me a dozen times over. But now you know I never laid hand on Bosiet. And Eilmund and Annet can tell you I’ve not been a step away from here since I came back from Leighton. What can have happened to Cuthred I know no more than you.’
‘Less, I daresay,’ said Hugh mildly, and looked across the fire at Cadfael, smiling. ‘Well, after all you may call yourself a lucky lad. From tomorrow you’ll be in no peril at the hands of any of my people, you can be off into the town and find yourself a master. And which of your names do you choose to keep for a new life? Best have but one, that we may all know with whom we have to deal.’
‘Whichever is pleasing to Annet,’ said Hyacinth. ‘It’s she will be calling me by it from this on lifelong.’
‘I might have something to say to that,’ grunted Eilmund from his corner on the other side of the hearth. ‘You mind your impudence, or I’ll make you sweat for my good will.’ But he sounded remarkably complacent about it, as though they had already arrived at an understanding to which this admonitory growl was merely a gruff counterpoint.
‘It was Hyacinth first pleased me,’ said Annet. She had kept herself out of the circle until now, like a dutiful daughter, attentive with cup and pitcher, but wanting and needing no voice in the men’s affairs. Not from modesty or submission Cadfael judged, but because she already had what she wanted, and was assured no one, sheriff nor father nor overlord, had either the power or the will to wrest it from her. ‘You stay Hyacinth,’ she said serenely, ‘and let Brand go.’
She was wise, there was no sense in going back, none even in looking back. Brand had been a villein and landless in Northamptonshire, Hyacinth would be a craftsman and free in Shrewsbury.
‘In a year and a day,’ said Hyacinth, ‘from the day I find a master to take me, I’ll come and ask for your good will, Master Eilmund. Not before!’
‘And if I think you’ve earned it,’ said Eilmund, ‘you shall have it.’
They rode home together in the deepening dusk, as they had so often ridden together since first they encountered in wary contention, wit against wit, and came to a gratifying stand at the end of the match, fast friends. The night was still and mild, the morning would be misty again, the lush valley fields a translucent blue sea. The forest smelled of autumn, ripe, moist earth, bursting fungus, the sweet, rich rot of leaves.
‘I have transgressed against my vocation,’ said Cadfael, at once solaced and saddened by the season and the hour. ‘I know it. I undertook the monastic life, but now I am not sure I could support it without you, without these stolen excursions outside the walls. For so they are. True, I am often sent upon legitimate labours here without, but also I steal, I take more than is my due by right. Worse, Hugh, I do not repent me! Do you suppose there is room within the bounds of grace for one who has set his hand to the plough, and every little while abandons his furrow to turn back among the sheep and lambs?’
‘I think the sheep and lambs might think so,’ said Hugh, gravely smiling. ‘He would have their prayers. Even the black sheep and the grey, like some you’ve argued for against God and me in your time.’
‘There are very few all black,’ said Cadfael. ‘Dappled, perhaps, like this great rangy beast you choose to ride. Most of us have a few mottles about us. As well, maybe, it makes for a more tolerant judgement of the rest of God’s creatures. But I have sinned, and most of all in relishing my sin. I shall do penance by biding dutifully within the walls through the winter, unless I’m sent forth, and then I’ll make haste with my task and hurry back.’
‘Until the next waif stumbles across your path. And when is this penance to begin?’
‘As soon as this matter is fittingly ended.’
‘Why, these are oracular utterances!’ said Hugh, laughing. ‘And when will that be?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Cadfael. ‘If God wills, tomorrow.’
Chapter Fourteen
ON HIS way down the court to the stables, leading his horse, and with the better part of an hour left before Compline, Cadfael saw Dame Dionisia coming from the abbot’s lodging, and walking with sober step and decorously covered head towards the guest hall. Her back was as erect as ever, her gait as firm and proud, but somewhat slower than was her wont, and the draped head was lowered, with eyes on the ground rather than fixed challengingly into the distance before her. Not a word would ever be said concerning her confession, but Cadfael doubted if she had left anything out. She was not one to do things by halves. There would be no more attempts to extract Richard from the abbot’s care. Dionisia had suffered too profound a reverse to take any such risks again until time had dimmed the recollection of sudden unshriven death coming to meet her.
It seemed she meant to stay overnight, perhaps to make her peace tomorrow, in her own arbitrary fashion, with a grandson by this time fast asleep in his bed, blessedly unmarried still, and back where he preferred to be. The boys would sleep well tonight, absolved of their sins and with their lost member restored. Matter for devout thanksgiving. And as for the dead man in the mortuary chapel, bearing a name which it seemed could hardly be his name, he cast no shadow on the world of the children.
Cadfael led his horse into the stable yard, lighted by two torches at the gate, unsaddled him and rubbed him down. There was no sound within there but a small sighing of the breeze that had sprung up with evening, and the occasional easy shift and stir of hooves in the stalls. He stabled his beast and hung up his harness, and turned to
