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Authors: Ellis Peters
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silence in the cell when the last crisp, light echo had died away on the day stairs. Brother Humilis lay still, thinking, it seemed, tranquil and contented thoughts, for he was smiling.
'There are parts of myself I have never given to you,' he said at last, 'things that happened before ever I knew you. There is nothing of myself I would not wish to share with you. Poor girl! What had she to hope for from me, so much her elder, even before I was broken? And I never saw her but once, a little lass with brown hair and a solemn round face. I never felt the want of a wife or children until I was thirty years old, having an elder brother to carry on my father's line after the old man died. I took the Cross, and was fitting out a company to go with me to the east, free as air, when my brother also died, and I was left to balance my vow to God and my duty to my house. I owed it to God to do as I had sworn, and go for ten years to the Holy Land, but also I owed it to my house to marry and breed sons. So I looked for a sturdy, suitable little girl who could well wait all those years for me, and still have all her child-bearing time in its fullness when I returned. Barely six years old she was - Julian Grace, from a family with manors in the north of this shire, and in Stafford, too.'
He stirred and sighed for the follies of men, and the presumptuous solemnity of the arrangements they made for lives they would never live. The presence beside him drew near, put back the cowl, and sat down on the stool Nicholas had vacated. They looked each other in the eyes gravely and without words, longer than most men can look each other in the eyes and not turn aside.
'God knew better, my son!' said Humilis. 'His plans for me were not as mine. I am what I am now. She is what she is. Julian Cruce…I am glad she should escape me and go to a better man. I pray she has not yet given herself to any, for this Nicholas of mine would make her a fitting match, one that would set my soul at rest. Only to her do I feel myself a debtor, and forsworn.'
Brother Fidelis shook his head at him, reproachfully smiling, and leaned and laid a finger for an instant over the mouth that spoke heresy.
Cadfael had left Hugh waiting at the gatehouse, and was crossing the court to return to his duties in the herb-garden, when Nicholas Harnage emerged from the arch of the stairway, and recognising him, hailed him loudly and ran to pluck him urgently by the sleeve.
'Brother, a word!'
Cadfael halted and turned to face him. 'How do you find him? The long ride put him to too great a strain, and he did not seek help until his wound was broken and festering, but that's over now. All's clean, wholesome and healing. You need not fear we shall let him founder like that a second time.'
'I believe it, Brother,' said the young man earnestly. 'But I see him now for the first time after three years, and much fallen even from the man he was after he got his injuries. I knew they were grave, the doctors had him in care between life and death a long time, but when he came back to us at least he looked like the man we knew and followed. He made his plans then to come home, I know, but he had served already more years than he had promised, it was time to attend to his lands and his life here at home. I made that voyage with him, he bore it well. Now he has lost flesh, and there's a languor about him when he moves a hand. Tell me the truth of it, how bad is it with him?'
'Where did he ever get such crippling wounds?' asked Cadfael, considering scrupulously how much he could tell, and guessing at how much this boy already knew, or at least hazarded.
'In that last battle with Zenghi and the men of Mosul. He had Syrian doctors after the battle.'
That might very well be why he survived so terrible a maiming, thought Cadfael, who had learned much of his own craft from both Saracen and Syrian physicians. Aloud he asked cautiously: 'You have not seen his wounds? You don't know their whole
'There are parts of myself I have never given to you,' he said at last, 'things that happened before ever I knew you. There is nothing of myself I would not wish to share with you. Poor girl! What had she to hope for from me, so much her elder, even before I was broken? And I never saw her but once, a little lass with brown hair and a solemn round face. I never felt the want of a wife or children until I was thirty years old, having an elder brother to carry on my father's line after the old man died. I took the Cross, and was fitting out a company to go with me to the east, free as air, when my brother also died, and I was left to balance my vow to God and my duty to my house. I owed it to God to do as I had sworn, and go for ten years to the Holy Land, but also I owed it to my house to marry and breed sons. So I looked for a sturdy, suitable little girl who could well wait all those years for me, and still have all her child-bearing time in its fullness when I returned. Barely six years old she was - Julian Grace, from a family with manors in the north of this shire, and in Stafford, too.'
He stirred and sighed for the follies of men, and the presumptuous solemnity of the arrangements they made for lives they would never live. The presence beside him drew near, put back the cowl, and sat down on the stool Nicholas had vacated. They looked each other in the eyes gravely and without words, longer than most men can look each other in the eyes and not turn aside.
'God knew better, my son!' said Humilis. 'His plans for me were not as mine. I am what I am now. She is what she is. Julian Cruce…I am glad she should escape me and go to a better man. I pray she has not yet given herself to any, for this Nicholas of mine would make her a fitting match, one that would set my soul at rest. Only to her do I feel myself a debtor, and forsworn.'
Brother Fidelis shook his head at him, reproachfully smiling, and leaned and laid a finger for an instant over the mouth that spoke heresy.
Cadfael had left Hugh waiting at the gatehouse, and was crossing the court to return to his duties in the herb-garden, when Nicholas Harnage emerged from the arch of the stairway, and recognising him, hailed him loudly and ran to pluck him urgently by the sleeve.
'Brother, a word!'
Cadfael halted and turned to face him. 'How do you find him? The long ride put him to too great a strain, and he did not seek help until his wound was broken and festering, but that's over now. All's clean, wholesome and healing. You need not fear we shall let him founder like that a second time.'
'I believe it, Brother,' said the young man earnestly. 'But I see him now for the first time after three years, and much fallen even from the man he was after he got his injuries. I knew they were grave, the doctors had him in care between life and death a long time, but when he came back to us at least he looked like the man we knew and followed. He made his plans then to come home, I know, but he had served already more years than he had promised, it was time to attend to his lands and his life here at home. I made that voyage with him, he bore it well. Now he has lost flesh, and there's a languor about him when he moves a hand. Tell me the truth of it, how bad is it with him?'
'Where did he ever get such crippling wounds?' asked Cadfael, considering scrupulously how much he could tell, and guessing at how much this boy already knew, or at least hazarded.
'In that last battle with Zenghi and the men of Mosul. He had Syrian doctors after the battle.'
That might very well be why he survived so terrible a maiming, thought Cadfael, who had learned much of his own craft from both Saracen and Syrian physicians. Aloud he asked cautiously: 'You have not seen his wounds? You don't know their whole
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