"Draw out the stopper," said Cadfael to the three judges, almost strident now in his urgency. "Note the odour, it is still strong enough to be recognised again. You must take my word for it that it was the means of death. And you see how it has run down the vial. It was stoppered in haste after the act, for all was then done in haste. Yet some creature carried this vial on his person for a considerable while after, until the sheriffs officers had come and gone. In this condition, oiled without as well as within. It would leave a greasy stain not easy to remove, and a strong smell-yes, I see you detect the smell." He swung upon Meurig, pointing to the coa.r.s.e linen scrip that hung at his belt. "This, as I recall, you wore that day. Let the judges themselves examine, with the vial in their hands, and see whether it lay within there an hour, two hours or more, and left its mark and its odour. Come, Meurig, unbuckle and give up your scrip."

Meting indeed dropped a hand to the buckles, as though stunned into obedience. And after this while, Cadfael knew, there might be nothing to find, even though he no longer had any doubts that the vial had indeed lain within there all that prolonged and agonising afternoon of Bonel's death. It needed only a little hardihood and a face of bra.s.s, and the single fragile witness against Meurig might burst like a bubble, and leave nothing but the scattered dew of suspicion, like the moisture a bubble leaves on the hand. But he could not be sure! He could not be sure! And to examine the scrip and find nothing would not be to exonerate him completely, but to examine it and find the seam stained with oil, and still with the penetrating scent clinging, would be to condemn him utterly. The fingers that had almost withdrawn the first thong suddenly closed into a clenched fist denying access.

"No!" he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Why should I submit to this indignity? He is the abbey's man sent to besmirch my claim."

"It is a reasonable requirement," said the presiding judge austerely. "There is no question of your surrendering it to anyone but this court. There can be no suspicion that we have anything to gain by discrediting you. The bench requires you to hand it over to the clerk."

The clerk, accustomed to having the court's orders respected without demur, advanced trustingly, extending a hand. Meurig dared not take the risk. Suddenly he whirled and sprang for the open door, scattering the old men who had come to back his claim. In a moment he was out into the wintry light of the morning, running like a deer. Behind him uproar broke out, and half of those in the church poured out after the fugitive, though their pursuit was half-hearted after the first instinctive rush. They saw Meurig vault the stone wall of the churchyard and head for the fringes of woodland that clothed the hillside behind. In a moment he was lost to view among the trees.

In the half-deserted church a heavy silence fell. The old men looked at one another helplessly, and made no move to join the hunt. The three judges conferred in low and anxious tones. Cadfael stood drooping in a weariness that seemed temporarily to have deprived him of energy or thought, until at last he drew breath long and deeply, and looked up.

"It is not a confession, nor has there been a formal charge, or any suit as yet brought against him. But it is evidence for a boy who is now in prison at Shrewsbury on suspicion of this crime. Let me say what can and should be said for Meurig: he did not know Edwin Gurney had been taken, of that I am sure."

"We have now no choice but to pursue him," said the presiding judge, "and it will be done. But certainly the record of this court must be sent, out of courtesy, to the sheriff at Shrewsbury, and at once. Will that content you?"

"It's all I ask. Send also, if you will, the vial, concerning which a novice by the name of Mark will testify, for it was he who found it. Send all to Hugh Beringar, the sheriff's deputy, who is in charge, and deliver the report only to him, of your kindness. I wish I might go, but I have still work to do here."

"It will take some hours for our clerks to make the necessary copies and have them certified. But by tomorrow evening, at latest, the report shall be delivered. I think your prisoner will have nothing more to fear."

Brother Cadfael uttered his thanks, and went out from the church into a village thronging with agitated, head-shaking neighbours. The tale of the morning's events was on the wing by now, surely already being carried over the hills throughout the commote of Cynllaith, but even rumour had not flown so fast as Meurig, for nothing was seen of him all that day. Cadfael led his horse from the paddock, and mounted and rode. The weariness that had fallen upon him when the need for effort ended so suddenly was subsiding slowly into a desperate sadness, and that again into a drear but grateful calm. He took the journey back very slowly, for he needed time to think, and above all, time for another to do some even more urgent thinking. He pa.s.sed by the manor-house of Mallilie with only a rueful glance. The ending would not be there.

He was very well aware that it was not yet over.

"You are back in good time, brother," said Simon, stoking the brazier with fresh fuel for the evening. "Whatever your business, I trust G.o.d prospered it."

"He did," said Cadfael. "And now it must be your turn to rest, and leave the remaining work to me. I've stabled and groomed and fed the horse, he's not overdone for I took things gently with him. After supper there'll be time for shutting the hen-house and seeing to the cow, and light enough still to bring down the ewes in lamb to the barn, for I think there may be harder frost in the night. Curious how the light lies in these hills a good half-hour longer than in the town."

"Your Welsh eyes, brother, are only just regaining their proper vision. There are few nights here that a man could not travel safely even among the upland bogs, knowing the ground at all well. Only in the woods is it ever truly dark. I talked with a wandering brother from the north once, a rough red-haired man with a tongue I could barely understand, a Scot. He said in his far country there were nights when the sun barely set before it rose again on the other side, and you could see your way in an endless afterglow. But I do not know," said Brother Simon wistfully, "if he was romancing. I have never been further than Chester."

Brother Cadfael forbore from citing his own travels, remembered now with the astonished contentment of a man at rest. To tell the truth, he had enjoyed the storms no less than he now enjoyed the calm, if this was indeed calm: but each had its own time and place.

"I've been glad of this stay with you," he said, and that at least was true "It smells like Gwynedd here. And the folk hereabouts have me speaking Welsh to them, and that's gain, for I use it little enough in Shrewsbury."

Brother Barnabas came with the supper, his own good bread, barley gruel, ewe's-milk cheese and dried apples. He breathed without labour, and strode round the house unwearied and energetic. "You see I'm ready and able for work, brother, thanks to your skills. I could fold the ewes myself tonight."

"You will not," said Cadfael firmly, "for I've taken that task for myself, having been truant all day. You be content to see us devouring this baking of yours, for that's one art I have not, and at least I have the grace to know it, and be thankful for the skills of other men."

They ate early at Rhydycroesau, having normally laboured out of doors from early morning. There was still a muted half-light, the east a clear, deep blueness, the west a pallid glow, when Cadfael went out to climb to the nearer crest and bring down the ewes already heavy with lamb. They were few but precious, once in a while they even dropped twins, and with care both survived. Cadfael discerned a deep and tranquil satisfaction in the shepherd's life. The children of his solicitude were seldom killed, unless disease, injury or decrepitude threatened, or in time of desperation the flock could not all be fed through the winter. Their wool and milk were of more value than their meat, and their precious skins could be garnered only once, and better when for distress they had to be slaughtered. So they remained through their natural lives, growing into familiarity and affection, trusting and being understood, even acquiring names. Shepherds had a community of their own, peopled with gentle, obstinate, quiet companions, who did no murder or theft or banditry, broke no laws, made no complaints, fuelled no rebellions.

All the same, he thought, climbing the hill In long, easy strides, I could not be a shepherd for long. I should miss all the things I deplore, the range and grasp of man for good and evil. And instantly he was back with the struggles and victories and victims of the day.

On the crest of the ridge he stood to contemplate the coming night, aware that he must be seen from a good distance around. The sky above was immense and very lofty, a very deep blue, with a faint dappling of stars so new and fine that they were visible only when seen from the corner of the eye, and a direct stare immediately put them out. He looked down at the cl.u.s.ter of walled folds and the snug dark huddle of buildings, and could not be quite sure whether he had seen a mere quiver of movement at the corner of the barn. The ewes, accustomed to extra pampering, were gathering about him of their own will, ready to go down into the steamy, wool-scented warmth of the barn for the night. Their rounded sides and bellies swayed contentedly as they walked. By this light only an occasional gleam showed the disconcerting yellow stare of their eyes.

When at last he stirred, and began slowly to descend the hill, they followed daintily on their little, agile feet, crowding close, jostling one another, the mild, warm, greasy smell of their fleeces making a flowing cloud about them. He counted, called softly back to one or two stragglers, young ones in their first lamb, and irresponsible, though they came hurrying at his call. Now he had them all.

Apart from himself and his little flock, the night was empty and still, unless that was the momentary intrusion and instant withdrawal of some live thing he had caught between the buildings below. Blessedly, Brother Simon and Brother Barnabas had taken him at his word, and remained contentedly in the warmth of the house, by this time probably nodding over the brazier.

He brought his charges down to the large barn, half of which was cleared by now for their housing at night until they gave birth. The wide doors opened inwards, he thrust them open before him and ushered his flock within, where there was a rack filled for their use, and a trough of water. These needed no light to find their way. The interior of the barn was still peopled with vague, bulky shadows, but otherwise dark, and smelled of dried gra.s.s and clover and the fat scent of fleeces. The mountain sheep had not the long, curly wool of the lowlands, but they brought a very thick, short fleece that carried almost as much wool of a somewhat less valuable kind, and they converted handsomely the pasture their spoiled lowland cousins could not make use of. Their cheeses alone were worth their keep.

Cadfael chided the last and most unbiddable of his charges into the barn, and pa.s.sed in after her, advancing into the dimness that left him temporarily blind. He felt the sudden presence behind him, and stood, every muscle stilled. The blade that was laid cold and sudden against the skin of his throat started no movement; he had had knives at his throat before, he was not such a fool as to provoke them into malice or fright, especially when he approached them forewarned.

An arm encircled him from behind, pinning both arms fast to his body, and he made no move to recoil or resist. "And did you think when you destroyed me, brother," panted a suffocating voice in his ear, "that I would go into the dark alone?"

"I have been expecting you, Meurig," said Brother Cadfael quietly. "Close the door! You may safely, I shall not move. You and I have no need now of witnesses."

Chapter Ten.

"NO," SAID THE VOICE IN HIS EAR, low and savagely, "no need of witnesses. My business is with you alone, monk, and brief enough." But the arms withdrew from him, and in a moment the heavy doors closed with a hollow sound upon the glimpse of sky in which, from this walled darkness within, the stars showed doubly large and bright.

Cadfael stood motionless, and heard the soft brushing of cloth as Meurig leaned back against the closed door, arms spread, drawing deep breaths to savour the moment of arrival, and antic.i.p.ate the last vengeful achievement. There was no other way out, and he knew his quarry had not moved by so much as a step.

"You have branded me murderer, why should I draw back now from murder? You have ruined me, shamed me, made me a reproach to my own kin, taken from me my birthright, my land, my good name, everything that made my existence worth calling a life, and I will have your life in recompense. I cannot live now, I cannot even die, until I have been your death, Brother Cadfael."

Strange how the simple act of giving his victim a name changed everything, even this blind relationship, like the first gleam of light. Further light could only a.s.sist the change.

"Hanging behind the door, where you are," said Cadfael practically, "you'll find a lantern, and on another nail there a leather bag with flint and steel and tinder in it. We may as well see each other. Take care with the sparks, you've nothing against our sheep, and fire would bring people running. There's a shelf where the lantern will stand."

"And you will make your bid to keep your forfeit life. I know!"

"I shall not move hand or foot," said Cadfael patiently. "Why do you suppose I have made so certain the last work tonight should fall to me? Did I not say I was expecting you? I have no weapon, and if I had I would not use it. I finished with arms many years ago."

There was a long pause, during which, though he felt that more was expected of him, he added nothing more. Then he heard the creek of the lantern as Meurig's questing hand found it, the grating noise of the horn shutter being opened, the groping of fingers to find the shelf, and the sound of the lantern being set down there. Flint and steel tapped sharply several times, sparks flashed and vanished, and then a corner of charred cloth caught and held the tiny fire, and Meurig's face hung ghostlike over it, blowing until the wick caught in its turn, and sent up a lengthening flame. Dim yellow light brought into being the feeding-rack, the trough, the forest of shadows in the network of beams above, and the placid, incurious ewes; and Cadfael and Meurig stood looking intently at each other.

"Now," said Cadfael, "you can at least see to take what you came for." And he sat down and settled himself solidly on a corner of the feeding-rack.

Meurig came towards him with long, deliberate strides through the straw-dust and chaff of the floor. His face was fixed and grey, his eyes sunken deep into his head and burning with frenzy and pain. So close that their knees touched, he advanced the knife slowly until the point p.r.i.c.ked Cadfael's throat; along eight inches of steel they eyed each other steadily.

"Are you not afraid of death?" asked Meurig, barely above a whisper.

"I've brushed elbows with him before. We respect each other. In any case there's no evading him for ever, we all come to it, Meurig. Gervase Bonel... you... I. We have to die, every one of us, soon or late. But we do not have to kill. You and I both made a choice, you only a week or so ago, I when I lived by the sword. Here am I, as you willed it. Now take what you want of me."

He did not take his eyes from Meurig's eyes, but he saw at the edge of vision the tightening of the strong brown fingers and the bracing of the muscles in the wrist to strike home. But there was no other movement. All Meurig's body seemed suddenly to writhe in an anguished attempt to thrust, and still he could not. He wrenched himself backward, and a muted animal moan came from his throat. He cast the knife out of his hand to whine and stick quivering in the beaten earth of the floor, and flung up both arms to clasp his head, as though all his strength of body and will could not contain or suppress the pain that filled him to overflowing. Then his knees gave under him, and he was crouched in a heap at Cadfael's feet, his face buried in his arms against the hay-rack. Round yellow eyes, above placidly chewing muzzles, looked on in detached surprise at the strangeness of men.

Broken sounds came from Meurig's buried mouth, m.u.f.fled and sick with despair "Oh, G.o.d, that I could so face my death... for I owe it, I owe it, and dare not pay! If I were clean... if I were only clean again..."And in a great groan he said: "Oh, Mallilie..."

"Yes," said Cadfael softly. "A very fair place. Yet there is a world outside it."

"Not for me, not for me... I am forfeit. Give me up! Help me... help me to be fit to die..." He raised himself suddenly, and looked up at Cadfael, clutching with one hand at the skirts of his habit. "Brother, those things you said of me... never meant to be a murderer, you said..."

"Have I not proved it?" said Cadfael. "I live, and it was not fear that stayed your hand."

"Mere chance that led me, you said, and that because of an act of simple kindness... Great pity it is, you said! Pity... Did you mean all those things, brother? Is there pity?"

"I meant them," said Cadfael, "every word. Pity, indeed, that ever you went so far aside from your own nature, and poisoned yourself as surely as you poisoned your father. Tell me, Meurig, in these last days you have not been back to your grandfather's house, or had any word from him?"

"No," said Meurig, very low, and shuddered at the thought of the upright old man now utterly bereft.

"Then you do not know that Edwin was fetched away from there by the sheriff's men, and is now in prison in Shrewsbury."

No, he had not known. He looked up aghast, seeing the implication, and shook with the fervour of his denial: "No, that I swear I did not do. I was tempted... I could not prevent that they cast the blame on him, but I did not betray him... I sent him here, I would have seen that he got clear... I know it was not enough, but oh, this at least don't lay to my charge! G.o.d knows I liked the boy well."

"I also know it," said Cadfael, "and know it was not you who sent them to take him. No one wittingly betrayed him. None the less, he was taken. Tomorrow will see him free again. Take that for one thing set right, where many are past righting."

Meurig laid his clasped hands, white-knuckled with tension, on Cadfael's knees, and lifted a tormented face into the soft light of the lantern. "Brother, you have been conscience to other men in your time, for G.o.d's sake do as much by me, for I am sick, I am maimed, I am not my own. You said... great pity! Hear me all my evil!"

"Child," said Cadfael, shaken, and laid his own hand over the stony fists that felt chill as ice, "I am not a priest, I cannot give absolution, I cannot appoint penance..."

"Ah, but you can, you can, none but you, who found out the worst of me! Hear me my confession, and I shall be better prepared, and then deliver me to my penalty, and I will not complain."

"Speak, then, if it gives you ease," said Cadfael heavily, and kept his hand closed over Meurig's as the story spilled out in broken gouts of words, like blood from a wound: how he had gone to the infirmary with no ill thought, to pleasure an old man, and learned by pure chance of the properties of the oil he was using for its true purpose, and how it could be put to a very different use. Only then had the seed been planted in his mind. He had a few weeks, perhaps, of grace before Mallilie was lost to him forever, and here was a means of preventing the loss.

"And it grew in me, the thought that it would not be a hard thing to do... and the second time I went there I took the vial with me, and filled it. But it was still only a mad dream... Yet I carried it with me, that last day, and I told myself it would be easy to put in his mead, or mull wine for him... I might never have done it, only willed it, though that is sin enough. But when I came to the house, they were all in the inner room together, and I heard Aldith saying how the prior had sent a dish from his own table, a dainty to please my father. It was there simmering on the hob, a spoon in it... The thing was done almost before I knew I meant to do it... And then I heard Aelfric and Aldith coming back from the table, and I had no time for more than to step quickly outside the door again, as if I had just opened it, and I was sc.r.a.ping my shoes clean to come in when they came into the kitchen... What could they think but that I had only just come? A score of times in the next hour, G.o.d knows how wildly, I wished it undone, but such things cannot be undone, and I am d.a.m.ned... What could I do but go forward, when there was no going back?"

What, indeed, short of what he was doing now, and this had been forced on him. Yet it was not to kill that he had flown like a homing bird to this meeting, whatever he himself had believed.

"So I went on. I fought for the fruit of my sin, for Mallilie, as best I could. I never truly hated my father, but Mallilie I truly loved, and it was mine, mine... if only I could have come by it cleanly! But there is justice, and I have lost, and I make no complaint. Now deliver me up, and let me pay for his death with mine, as is due. I will go with you willingly, if you will wish me peace."

He laid his head on Cadfael's steadying hand with a great sigh, and fell silent; and after a long moment Cadfael laid his other hand on the thick dark hair, and held him so. Priest he might not be, and absolution he could not give, yet here he was in the awful situation of being both judge and confessor. Poison is the meanest of killings, the steel he could respect. And yet... Was not Meurig also a man gravely wronged? Nature had meant him to be amiable, kindly, unembittered, circ.u.mstances had so deformed him that he turned against his nature once, and fatally, and he was all too well aware of his mortal sickness. Surely one death was enough, what profit in a second? G.o.d knew other ways of balancing the scale.

"You asked your penance of me," said Cadfael at last. "Do you still ask it? And will you bear it and keep faith, no matter how terrible it may be?"

The heavy head stirred on his knee. "I will," said Meurig in a whisper, "and be grateful."

"You want no easy penalty?"

"I want all my due. How else can I find peace?"

"Very well, you have pledged yourself. Meurig, you came for my life, but when it came to the stroke, you could not take it. Now you lay your life in my hands, and I find that I cannot take it, either, that I should be wrong to take it. What benefit to the world would your blood be? But your hands, your strength, your will, that virtue you still have within you, these may yet be of the greatest profit. You want to pay in full. Pay, then! Yours is a lifelong penance, Meurig, I rule that you shall live out your life-and may it be long!-and pay back all your debts by having regard to those who inhabit this world with you. The tale of your good may yet outweigh a thousand times the tale of your evil. This is the penance I lay on you."

Meurig stirred slowly, and raised a dazed and wondering face, neither relieved nor glad, only utterly bewildered. "You mean it? This is what I must do?"

"This is what you must do. Live, amend, in your dealings with sinners remember your own frailty, and in your dealings with the innocent, respect and use your own strength in their service. Do as well as you can, and leave the rest to G.o.d, and how much more can saints do?"

"They will be hunting for me," said Meurig, still doubting and marvelling. "You will not hold that I've failed you if they take and hang me?"

"They will not take you. By tomorrow you will be well away from here. There is a horse in the stable next to the barn, the horse I rode today. Horses in these parts can very easily be stolen, it's an old Welsh game, as I know. But this one will not be stolen. I give it, and I will be answerable. There is a whole world to reach on horseback, where a true penitent can make his way step by step through a long life towards grace. Were I you, I should cross the hills as far west as you may before daylight, and then bear north into Gwynedd, where you are not known. But you know these hills better than I."

"I know them well," said Meurig, and now his face had lost its anguish in open and childlike wonder. "And this is all? All you ask of me?"

"You will find it heavy enough," said Brother Cadfael. "But yes, there is one thing more. When you are well clear, make your confession to a priest, ask him to write it down and have it sent to the sheriff at Shrewsbury. What has pa.s.sed today in Llansilin will release Edwin, but I would not have any doubt or shadow left upon him when you are gone."

"Neither would I," said Meurig. "It shall be done."

"Come, then, you have a long pilgrimage to go. Take up your knife again." And he smiled. "You will need it to cut your bread and hunt your meat."

It was ending strangely. Meurig rose like one in a dream, both spent and renewed, as though some rainfall from heaven had washed him out of his agony and out of his wits, to revive, a man half-drowned and wholly transformed. Cadfael had to lead him by the hand, once they had put out the lantern. Outside, the night was very still and starlit, on the edge of frost. In the stable Cadfael himself saddled the horse.

"Rest him when you safely may. He's carried me today, but that was no great journey. I'd give you the mule, for he's fresh, but he'd be slower, and more questionable under a Welshman. There, mount and go. Go with G.o.d!"

Meurig shivered at that, but the pale, fixed brightness of his face did not change. With a foot already in the stirrup, he said with sudden inexpressibly grave and burdened humility: "Give me your blessing! For I am bound by you while I live."

He was gone, up the slope above the folds, by ways he knew better than did the man who had set him free to ride them, back into the world of the living. Cadfael looked after him for only a moment, before turning down towards the house. He thought as he went: Well, if I have loosed you on the world unchanged and perilous, if this cleansing wears off once you are safe, then on me be the guilt. But he found he could not feel greatly afraid; the more he reviewed the course he had taken, the more profound became his soul's tranquillity.

"You were a long time, brother," said Simon, welcoming him with pleasure into the evening warmth within the house. "We were wondering about you."

"I was tempted to stay and meditate among the ewes," said Brother Cadfael. "They are so calming. And it is a beautiful night."

Chapter Eleven.

IT WAS A GOOD CHRISTMAS; he had never known one more firelit and serene. The simple outdoor labour was bliss after stress, he would not have exchanged it for the ceremonial and comparative luxury of the abbey. The news that came in from the town, before the first snow discouraged travel, made a kind of shrill overtone to the homely Christmas music they made between them, with three willing but unskilled voices and three contented and fulfilled hearts. Hugh Beringar sent word, not only that he had received the record of the Llansilin court, but also that Edwin's well-meant conciliatory gift had been cast up in the shallows near Atcham, in considerable disarray, but still recognisable. The boy was restored to his doting mother, and the Bonel household could breathe freely again, now that the culprit was known. The apologetic report that the horse belonging to the Rhydycroesau sheepfolds had gone missing, due to Brother Cadfael's reprehensible failure to bar the stable door securely, had been noted with appropriate displeasure by the chapter of the abbey, and repayment in some form awaited him on his return.

As for the fugitive Meurig, cried through Powys for murder, the hunt had never set eyes on him since, and the trail was growing cold. Even the report of his voluntary confession, sent by a priest from a hermitage in Penllyn, did not revive the scent, for the man was long gone, and no one knew where. Nor was Owain Gwynedd likely to welcome incursions on his territory in pursuit of criminals against whom he had no complaint, and who should never have been allowed to slip through authority's fingers in the first place.

In fact, all was very well. Cadfael was entirely happy among the sheep, turning a deaf ear to the outer world. He felt he had earned a while of retreat. His only regret was that the first deep snow prevented him from riding to visit Ifor ap Morgan, to whom he owed what consolation there was to be found for him. Frail though it might seem, Cadfael found it worth cherishing, and so would Ifor; and the very old are very durable.

They had no less than three Christmas morning lambs, a single and twins. They brought them all, with their dams, into the house and made much of them, for these innocents shared their stars with the Christchild. Brother Barnabas, wholly restored, nursed the infants in his great hands and capacious lap, and was as proud as if he had produced them of his own substance. They were very merry together, in a quiet celebration, before Brother Cadfael left them to return to Shrewsbury. His patient was by this time the most vigorous force within twenty miles round, and there was no more need for a physician here at Rhydycroesau.

The snow had abated in a temporary thaw, when Cadfael mounted his mule, three days after the feast, and set out southwards for Shrewsbury.

He made a long day of it because he did not take the direct road to Oswestry, but went round to pay his delayed visit on Ifor ap Morgan before cutting due east from Croesau Bach to strike the main road well south of the town. What he had to say to Ifor, and what Ifor replied to him, neither of them ever confided to a third. Certainly when Cadfael mounted again, it was in better heart that he set out, and in better heart that Ifor remained alone.

By reason of this detour it was already almost dusk when Cadfael's mule padded over the Welsh bridge into Shrewsbury, and through the hilly streets alive with people and business again after the holiday. No time now to turn aside from the Wyle for the pleasure of being let in by the shrewd little housewife Alys, and viewing the jubilation of the Bellecote family; that would have to keep for another day. No doubt Edwy was long since released from his pledge to keep to home, and off with his inseparable uncle on whatever work, play or mischief offered. The future of Mallilie still lay in the balance; it was to be hoped that the lawmen would not manage to take the heart out of it in their fees, before anyone got acknowledged possession.

And here round the curve of the Wyle the arc of the river showed before him, the waning day regaining half its light as he stepped on to the open span and pa.s.sed through the gates on to the draw-bridge. Here Edwin checked in his indignant flight to hurl away his despised offering. And here beyond was the level road opening before him, and on his right the house where Richildis must still be living, and the mill-pond, a dull silver plane in the twilight; then the wall of the abbey enclosure, the west front and the parish door of the great church looming before him, and on his right hand the gate-house.

He turned in and checked in astonishment at the bustle and noise that met him. The porter was out at his door, brushed and flushed and important as though for a bishop's visitation, and the great court was full of brothers and lay brothers and officials running to and fro busily, or gathered in excited groups, conversing in raised voices, and looking round eagerly at every creature who entered at the gate. Cadfael's coming caused one such stir, which subsided with unflattering promptness when he was recognised. Even the schoolboys were out whispering and chirruping together under the wall of the gatehouse, and travellers crowded into the doorway of the guest-hall. Brother Jerome stood perched on the mounting-block by the hail, his attention divided between giving orders left and right, and watching every moment at the gate. In Cadfael's absence he seemed, if anything, to have grown more self-important and officious than ever.

Cadfael lighted down, prepared to stable his own beast, but unsure whether the mules might still be housed in the barn on the horse-fair; and out of the weaving excitement around him Brother Mark came darting with a whoop of pleasure.

"Oh, Cadfael, what joy to see you! Such happenings! And I thought you would be missing everything, and all the while you were in the thick of it. We've heard about the court at Llansilin... Oh, you're so welcome home again!"

"So I see," said Cadfael, "if this reception is for me."

"Mine is!" said Brother Mark fervently. "But this... Of course, you won't have heard yet. We're all waiting for Abbot Heribert. One of the carters was out to St. Giles a while ago, and he saw them, they've made a stop at the hospital there. He came to give the word. Brother Jerome is waiting to run and tell Prior Robert as soon as they come in at the gate. They'll be here any moment."

"And no news until they come? Will it still be Abbot Heribert, I wonder?" said Cadfael ruefully.