“What must we do?” asked Peredur, uneasy in the silence. “If it tastes unpleasant you’ll have trouble getting her to drink it.”
“It tastes sweet.” But there was not very much of it left, a little reinforcement with something else soothing and pleasant might be necessary. “Go and get a cup of strong wine, and we’ll see how that goes down.”
They had taken with them a measure of wine that day, he remembered, the ration for the two of them, when they set off for the chapel. Columbanus had drawn and carried it. And a bottle of water for himself, since he had made an act of piety of renouncing wine until their mission was accomplished. Jerome had done well, getting a double ration.
Brother Cadfael stirred himself out of his furious thoughts to deal with the immediate need. Peredur hurried to do his bidding, but brought mead instead of wine.
“She’s more likely to drink it down before she minks to be obstinate, for she likes it better. And it’s stronger.”
“Good!” said Cadfael. “It will hide the syrup better. And now, go somewhere quiet, and harden your heart and stop your ears and stay out of her sight, for it’s the best thing you can do for her, and God knows the best for yourself, after such a day. And leave agonising too much over your sins, black as they are, there isn’t a confessor in the land who hasn’t heard worse and never turned a hair. It’s a kind of arrogance to be so certain you’re past redemption.”
The sweet, cloying drink swirled in the cup, the syrup unwinding into it in a long spiral that slowly melted and vanished. Peredur with shadowy eyes watched and was silent.
After a moment he said, very low: “It’s strange! I never could have done so shabbily by anyone I hated.”
“Not strange at all,” said Cadfael bluntly, stirring his potion. “When harried, we go as far as we dare, and with those we’re sure of we dare go very far, knowing where forgiveness is certain.”
Peredur bit his lip until it was biddable. “Is it certain?”
“As tomorrow’s daylight, child! And now be off out of my way, and stop asking fool questions. Father Huw will have no time for you today, there’s more important business waiting.”
Peredur went like a docile child, startled and comforted, and wherever he hid himself, he did it effectively, for Cadfael saw no more of him that evening. He was a good lad at heart, and this wild lunge of his into envy and meanness had brought him up short against an image of himself that he did not like at all. Whatever prayers Huw set him by way of penance were likely to hit heaven with the irresistible fervour of thunderbolts, and whatever hard labour he was given, the result was likely to stand solid as oak and last for ever.
Cadfael took his draught, and went back to where Dame Branwen was still heaving and quivering with uncontrollable sobs, by this time in genuine distress, exhausted by her efforts but unable to end them. He took advantage of her sheer weariness to present the cup to her as soon as he reached her side, and with abrupt authority that acted on her before she could muster the fibre of stubbornness.
“Drink this!” And automatically she drank it, half of it going down out of pure surprise, the second half because the first had taught her how dry and sore her throat was from all its exertions, and how smooth was the texture and how sweet the taste of this brew. The very act of swallowing it broke the frightening rhythm of the huge sighs that had convulsed her almost worse than the sobbing. Father Huw had time to mop his brow with a fold of his sleeve before she was able to resume her complaints. Even then, by comparison with what had gone before, they sounded half-hearted.
“We women, we mothers, we sacrifice our lives to bringing up children, and when they’re grown they reward us by bringing disgrace upon us. What did I ever do to deserve this?”
“He’ll do you credit yet,” said Cadfael cheerfully. “Stand by him in his penance, but never try to excuse his sin, and he’ll think the better of you for it.”
That went by her like the wind sighing at the time, though she may have remembered it later. Her voice declined gradually from its injured self-justification, dwindled into a half-dreamy monologue of grief, and took on at length a tone of warm and drowsy complacency, before it lapsed into silence. Cadwallon breathed deep and cautiously, and eyed his advisers.
“I shall call her women and get her to bed,” said Cadfael. “She’ll sleep the night through, and it’ll do her nothing but good.” And you more good still, he thought but did not say. “Let your son rest, too, and never say another word about his trouble but by the way, like any other daily business, unless he speaks up first. Father Huw will take care of him faithfully.”
“I will,” said Huw. “He’s worth our efforts.”
Dame Branwen went amiably where she was led, and the house was wonderfully quiet. Cadfael and Huw went out together, pursued as far as the gate by Cadwallon’s distracted gratitude. When they were well away from the holding, at the end of the stockade, the quietness of the dusk came down on them softly, a cloud descending delicately upon a cloud.
“In time for supper, if not for Vespers,” said Huw wearily. “What should we have done without you, Brother Cadfael? I have no skill at all with women, they confuse me utterly. I marvel how you have learned to deal with them so ably, you, a cloistered brother.”
Cadfael thought of Bianca, and Arianna, and Mariam, and all the others, some known so briefly, all so well.
“Both men and women partake of the same human nature, Huw. We both bleed when we’re wounded. That’s a poor, silly woman, true, but we can show plenty of poor, silly men. There are women as strong as any of us, and as able.” He was thinking of Mariam—or was it of Sioned? “You go to supper, Huw, and hold me excused, and if I can be with you before Compline, I will. I have some business first at Bened’s smithy.”
The empty phial swung heavily in the pocket in his right sleeve, reminding him. His mind was still busy with the implications. Before ever he reached Bened’s croft he had it clear in his mind what must be done, but was no nearer knowing how to set about it.
Cai was with Bened on the bench under the eaves, with a jug of rough wine between them. They were not talking, only waiting for him to appear, and there could be no reason for that, but that Sioned had told them positively that he would.
“A fine tangle it turns out,” said Bened, shaking his grizzled head. “And now you’ll be off and leave us holding it. No blame to you, you have to go where your duty is. But what are we to do about Rhisiart when you’re gone? There’s more than half this parish thinks your Benedictines have killed him, and the lesser half thinks some enemy here has taken the chance to blame you, and get clean away into cover. We were a peaceful community until you came, nobody looked for murder among us.”
“God knows we never meant to bring it,” said Cadfael. “But there’s still tonight before we go, and I haven’t shot my last bolt yet. I must speak with Sioned. We’ve things to do, and not much time for doing them.”
“Drink one cup with us before you go in to her,” insisted Cai. “That takes no time at all, and is a powerful aid to thought.”
They were seated all together, three simple, honest men, and the wine notably lower in the jug, when someone turned in at the gate, light feet came running in great haste along the path, and suddenly there was Annest confronting them, skirts flying and settling about her like wings folding, her breath short and laboured, and excitement and consternation in her face. And ready to be indignant at the very sight of them sitting peacefully drinking wine.
“You’d better stir yourselves,” she said, panting and sparkling. “I’ve been along to Father Huw’s house to see what’s going on there—Marared and Edwin between them have been keeping an eye open for us. Do you know who’s there taking supper with the Benedictines? Griffith ap Rhys, the bailiff! And do you know where he’s bound, afterwards? Up to our house, to take Brother John to prison!”
They were on their feet fast enough at this news, though Bened dared to question it. “He can’t be there! The last I heard of him he was at the mill.”