Simon had been welcome, privileged, smiled upon by Aunt Agnes.
Madlen sat stolidly stitching at a linen coif for herself, and paid no heed. Her ear was older and duller; if she heard the hum of conversation, that was all.
And even that had ceased. A door closed. Iveta thought she caught a renewed murmur next door, urgent and low. Then the door of her own chamber opened, after a round, confident rap, and Simon entered as of right. Iveta was lost, she could only stare; but he had the right note.
“Goodmorrow, Iveta!” he said easily. And to the maid: “Give me leave a little while, Mistress Madlen!”
Madlen had Agnes’s smiles and becks well in mind, he was still privileged to her. She took up her sewing, made her reverence complacently, indulgent as on the last occasion, and left the room.
The door had barely closed on her when Simon was on his knee beside Iveta, and leaning close. And for all his disciplined calm, he was flushed and breathing hard, his nostrils flaring agitatedly.
“Listen, Iveta, for they’ll not let me in to you again…. if she tells them I’m here with you now, they’ll hunt me out… I’ve word for you from Joss!” She would have questioned, dismayed and anxious, but he laid silencing fingers on her lips, and rushed on, low and vehemently: “Tonight, after Vespers, he bids you come to the herb-garden. And I’m to have his horse waiting on the other side of the brook. Don’t fail him, as I shall not. Have you understood?”
She nodded, almost speechless with wonder and joy and alarm all mingled. “Oh, yes! Oh, Simon, I would do anything! God bless you for his loyal friend! But you … What can have happened? Why, why turn against you?”
“Because I spoke up for Joss. I said he was neither murderer nor thief, and in the end I would see him vindicated, and they’d have to take back all they’ve said against him. They’ll have no more of me, I’m cast off. But here’s his message … look!” She knew the scrawl, and read, quivering. She fondled the slip of vellum as if it had been a holy relic, but closed Simon’s hand over it again, though reluctantly.
“They might find it… you keep it. I’ll do his bidding, and thank you a thousand times for all your goodness. But oh, Simon, I’m sorry that between us we’ve brought you to grief, too…”
“Grief, what grief?” he whispered fiercely. “I care nothing for them, if I have your goodwill.”
“Always, always … more than goodwill! You have been so good to me, what should I have done without you? If we break free … if we can … we’ll find you. You will always be our dearest friend!”
She was clinging to the hand with which he had hushed her, trying to express by touch the gratitude for which words seemed inadequate, but he made a warning grimace and withdrew his hand quickly, rising and standing back from her in one lissome movement, for there was a footstep at the door, a hand at the latch. “The herb-garden!” he whispered, and noted the answering flash of her eyes, at once resolute and terrified.
“I’m glad to see you so much restored,” he was saying formally as the door opened. “I could not take my leave without paying my respects.”
Picard came into the room with deliberate pace, his narrow, subtle face cold, his voice colder still, though carefully civil.
“Still here, Messire Aguilon? Our niece is keeping her room, and should not be disturbed. And I had thought you were in haste to return to your household and make ready. You’re pledged to join the sheriff’s forces this day, I hope you mean to keep your word.”
“I shall do what is required of me,” said Simon shortly. “But not on my friend’s horse! But rest assured, my lord, I shall join the sheriff’s line as I’m ordered, and in good time.”
Agnes had appeared at her lord’s shoulder, tight-lipped, with narrowed eyes glittering suspicion. Simon made a deep reverence to Iveta, a stiff and formal one to Agnes, and marched out of the room. Two heads turned to watch him out of the hall in grim silence, and when he was gone, turned with the same chill unanimity to study Iveta. She bent her head meekly over her embroidery, to hide the defiant joy she could not quite banish from her face, and said never a word. The concentrated silence lasted long, but at length they went away, shutting the door upon her. They had asked nothing. She thought they were satisfied. When had she ever shown any spirit on her own account? They did not know, they had no means of understanding, what prodigies she felt she could do now, for Joscelin.
Brother Cadfael had set out, immediately after breaking his fast, on a mule borrowed from the abbey stables, and by the time Iveta received Joscelin’s message he had passed Beistan, and was in the open woodland near the hunting-lodge. To reach the hamlet of Thornbury it was not necessary to keep to the path that led to the lodge, he struck off somewhat to the right, westward into the edges of the Long Forest. Between lodge and village the distance was hardly more than a mile, yet still it remained a mystery why a woman should abandon a good horse, and choose to remove herself there on foot.
The trees fell back as he approached the village, and left open to the sun a pleasant bowl of green meadows and striped ploughland, compact and well cared for. Scattered among the surrounding woods there were a few small, new assarts cut out of the forest by enterprising younger sons. And in the midst the low, timbered buildings clustered, fronds of blue smoke and the scent of wood fires hanging over them like a veil. Small, remote and poor, a place for hard-working men, but for all that, with plentiful fuel all around, and excellent poaching, which Cadfael judged might well be a communal enterprise here. Plentiful timber of all kinds, too, for the wheelwright’s craft. Elm, essential for the stock, oak, to provide the cleft heartwood for the spokes, with the grain unbroken, and springy, supple ash to make the curved felloes of the rim, they were all here to hand.
Cadfael halted his mule at the first cottage, where a woman was feeding hens in her yard, and asked for the wheelwright.
“You’re wanting Ulger?” she said, leaning a plump arm on her fence and viewing him with friendly curiosity. “His toft’s the far end there, past the pond, you’ll see it by the timber stacks on your right hand. He has a wagon in for a new wheel, he’ll be hard at it.”
Cadfael thanked her and rode on. Beyond the pond, where ducks gossiped and plunged, he saw the stacked wood seasoning, and came at once to the toft, a large undercroft well stocked with tools and materials, a room and a garret above, and in the yard before the house, a wagon standing, propped short of one wheel. The broken halves of it lay on the ground, several spokes shattered, the iron rim salvaged and perhaps to be used again. A new elm stock, already fully provided with spokes, lay star-like on the grass, and the wheelwright, a thickset fellow of about forty-five years, bearded and muscular, was working away with an adze on a length of well-curved ash for the felloes, shaping with the grain of the wood.
“God bless the work!” said Cadfael, halting his mule and lighting down. “I think you must be Ulger, and it’s Ulger I’m seeking. But I looked for an older man.”
