grey-blue, clear as crystal between long, dark lashes. It was a very
still and tranquil face, one that had learned patient endurance, and expected
to have need of it lifelong. It was clear to Cadfael, in that first exchange of
glances, that Rhun did not look for any miraculous deliverance, whatever
Mistress Weaver’s hopes might be.
“If
you please,” said the girl shyly, “I have brought my brother, as my aunt said I
should. And his name is Rhun, and mine is Melangell.”
“She
has told me about you,” said Cadfael, beckoning them with him towards his
workshop. “A long journey you’ve had of it. Come within, and let’s make you as
easy as we may, while I take a look at this leg of yours. Was there ever an
injury brought this on? A fall, or a kick from a horse? Or a bout of the
bone-fever?” He settled the boy on the long bench, took the crutches from him
and laid them aside, and turned him so that he could stretch out his legs at
rest.
The
boy, with grave eyes steady on Cadfael’s face, slowly shook his head. “No such
accident,” he said in a man’s low, clear voice. “It came. I think, slowly, but
I don’t remember a time before it. They say I began to falter and fall when I
was three or four years old.”
Melangell,
hesitant in the doorway—strangely like Ciaran’s attendant shadow, thought
Cadfael—had her chin on her shoulder now, and turned almost hastily to say:
“Rhun will tell you all his case. He’ll be better private with you. I’ll come
back later, and wait on the seat outside there until you need me.”
Rhun’s
light, bright eyes, transparent as sunlit ice, smiled at her warmly over
Cadfael’s shoulder. “Do go,” he said. “So fine and sunny a day, you should make
good use of it, without me dangling about you.”
She
gave him a long, anxious glance, but half her mind was already away; and
satisfied that he was in good hands, she made her hasty reverence, and fled.
They were left looking at each other, strangers still, and yet in tentative
touch.
“She
goes to find Matthew,” said Rhun simply, confident of being understood. “He was
good to her. And to me, also—once he carried me the last piece of the way to
our night’s lodging on his back. She likes him, and he would like her, if he
could truly see her, but he seldom sees anyone but Ciaran.”
This
blunt simplicity might well get him the reputation of an innocent, though that
would be the world’s mistake. What he saw, he said—provided, Cadfael hoped, he
had already taken the measure of the person to whom he spoke—and he saw more
than most, having so much more need to observe and record, to fill up the hours
of his day.
“They
were here?” asked Rhun, shifting obediently to allow Cadfael to strip down the
long hose from his hips and his maimed leg.
“They
were here. Yes, I know.”
“I
would like her to be happy.”
“She
has it in her to be very happy,” said Cadfael, answering in kind, almost
without his will. The boy had a quality of dazzle about him that made unstudied
answers natural, almost inevitable. There had been, he thought, the slightest
of stresses on ‘her’. Rhun had little enough expectation that he could ever be
happy, but he wanted happiness for his sister. “Now pay heed,” said Cadfael,
bending to his own duties, “for this is important. Close your eyes, and be at
ease as far as you can, and tell me where I find a spot that gives pain. First,
thus at rest, is there any pain now?”
Docilely
Rhun closed his eyes and waited, breathing softly. “No, I am quite easy now.”
Good,
for all his sinews lay loose and trustful, and at least in that state he felt
no pain. Cadfael began to finger his way, at first very gently and soothingly,
all down the thigh and calf of the helpless leg, probing and manipulating. Thus
stretched out at rest, the twisted limb partially regained its proper
alignment, and showed fairly formed, though
still and tranquil face, one that had learned patient endurance, and expected
to have need of it lifelong. It was clear to Cadfael, in that first exchange of
glances, that Rhun did not look for any miraculous deliverance, whatever
Mistress Weaver’s hopes might be.
“If
you please,” said the girl shyly, “I have brought my brother, as my aunt said I
should. And his name is Rhun, and mine is Melangell.”
“She
has told me about you,” said Cadfael, beckoning them with him towards his
workshop. “A long journey you’ve had of it. Come within, and let’s make you as
easy as we may, while I take a look at this leg of yours. Was there ever an
injury brought this on? A fall, or a kick from a horse? Or a bout of the
bone-fever?” He settled the boy on the long bench, took the crutches from him
and laid them aside, and turned him so that he could stretch out his legs at
rest.
The
boy, with grave eyes steady on Cadfael’s face, slowly shook his head. “No such
accident,” he said in a man’s low, clear voice. “It came. I think, slowly, but
I don’t remember a time before it. They say I began to falter and fall when I
was three or four years old.”
Melangell,
hesitant in the doorway—strangely like Ciaran’s attendant shadow, thought
Cadfael—had her chin on her shoulder now, and turned almost hastily to say:
“Rhun will tell you all his case. He’ll be better private with you. I’ll come
back later, and wait on the seat outside there until you need me.”
Rhun’s
light, bright eyes, transparent as sunlit ice, smiled at her warmly over
Cadfael’s shoulder. “Do go,” he said. “So fine and sunny a day, you should make
good use of it, without me dangling about you.”
She
gave him a long, anxious glance, but half her mind was already away; and
satisfied that he was in good hands, she made her hasty reverence, and fled.
They were left looking at each other, strangers still, and yet in tentative
touch.
“She
goes to find Matthew,” said Rhun simply, confident of being understood. “He was
good to her. And to me, also—once he carried me the last piece of the way to
our night’s lodging on his back. She likes him, and he would like her, if he
could truly see her, but he seldom sees anyone but Ciaran.”
This
blunt simplicity might well get him the reputation of an innocent, though that
would be the world’s mistake. What he saw, he said—provided, Cadfael hoped, he
had already taken the measure of the person to whom he spoke—and he saw more
than most, having so much more need to observe and record, to fill up the hours
of his day.
“They
were here?” asked Rhun, shifting obediently to allow Cadfael to strip down the
long hose from his hips and his maimed leg.
“They
were here. Yes, I know.”
“I
would like her to be happy.”
“She
has it in her to be very happy,” said Cadfael, answering in kind, almost
without his will. The boy had a quality of dazzle about him that made unstudied
answers natural, almost inevitable. There had been, he thought, the slightest
of stresses on ‘her’. Rhun had little enough expectation that he could ever be
happy, but he wanted happiness for his sister. “Now pay heed,” said Cadfael,
bending to his own duties, “for this is important. Close your eyes, and be at
ease as far as you can, and tell me where I find a spot that gives pain. First,
thus at rest, is there any pain now?”
Docilely
Rhun closed his eyes and waited, breathing softly. “No, I am quite easy now.”
Good,
for all his sinews lay loose and trustful, and at least in that state he felt
no pain. Cadfael began to finger his way, at first very gently and soothingly,
all down the thigh and calf of the helpless leg, probing and manipulating. Thus
stretched out at rest, the twisted limb partially regained its proper
alignment, and showed fairly formed, though
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