“God go with you, then, Father,” she said, radiant and relieved.
“And with you, my child.”
He withdrew by a carefully chosen route that evaded any risk of bumping into the fair young man. And she watched him go for a long moment, before she turned eagerly to meet the ox-caller as he came splashing through the shallows and climbed the bank. Cadfael thought that she was perfectly aware how much he had observed and understood, and was pleased by his reticence. Pleased and reassured. A Welsh girl of status, with embroidery along the hems of her gown, had good need to go softly if she was meeting an outlander, a man landless and rootless here in a clan society, where to be without place in a kinship was to be without the means of living. And yet a very pleasing, comely young man, good at his work and feeling for his beasts. Cadfael looked back, when he was sure the bushes covered him, and saw the two of them draw together, still and glad, not touching, almost shy of each other. He did not look back again.
Now what I really need here, he thought as he walked back towards the church of Gwytherin, is a good, congenial acquaintance, someone who knows every man, woman and child in the parish, without having to carry the burden of their souls. A sound drinking companion with good sense is what I need.
Chapter Three
He found not one of what he wanted, but three at one stroke, after Compline that evening, when he walked back with Brother John in the twilight to the smithy and croft at the edge of the valley fields. Prior Robert and Brother Richard had already withdrawn for the night into Huw’s house, Jerome and Columbanus were on their way through the woods to Cadwallon’s holding, and who was to question whether Brother Cadfael had also gone to his pallet in the priest’s loft, or was footloose among the gossips of Gwytherin? The lodging arrangements were working out admirably. He had never felt less inclined for sleep at this soft evening hour, nor was anyone going to rouse them at midnight here for Matins. Brother John was delighted to introduce him into the smith’s household, and Father Huw favoured the acquaintance for his own reasons. It was well that others besides himself should speak for the people of the parish, and Bened the smith was a highly respected man, like all of his craft, and his words would carry weight. There were three men sitting on the bench outside Bened’s door when they arrived, and the mead was going round as fast as the talk. All heads went up alertly at the sound of their steps approaching, and a momentary silence marked the solidarity of the local inhabitants. But Brother John seemed already to have made himself welcome, and Cadfael cast them a greeting in Welsh, like a fisherman casting a line, and was accepted with something warmer than the strict courtesy the English would have found. Annest with the light-brown, sunflecked hair had spread word of his Welshness far and wide. Another bench was pulled up, and the drinking-horns continued their circling in a wider ring. Over the river the light was fading gradually, the dimness green with the colours of meadow and forest, and threaded through with the string of silver water.
Bened was a thickset, muscular man of middle years, bearded and brown. Of his two companions the younger was recognisable as the ploughman who had followed the ox-team that day, and no wonder he was dry after such labour. And the third was a grey-headed elder with a long, smoothly-trimmed beard and fine, sinewy hands, in an ample homespun gown that had seen better days, perhaps on another wearer. He bore himself as one entitled to respect, and got it.
“Padrig, here, is a good poet and a fine harpist,” said Bened, “and Gwytherin is lucky to have him staying a while among us, in Rhisiart’s hall. That’s away beyond Cadwallon’s place, in a forest clearing, but Rhisiart has land over this way, too, both sides the river. He’s the biggest landowner in these parts. There are not many here entitled to keep a harp, or maybe we’d be honoured with more visits from travelling bards like Padrig. I have a little harp myself—I have that privilege—but Rhisiart’s is a fine one, and kept in use, too. I’ve heard his girl play on it sometimes.”
“Women cannot be bards,” said Padrig with tolerant scorn. “But she knows how to keep it tuned, and well looked after, that I will say. And her father’s a patron of the arts, and a generous, open-handed one. No bard goes away disappointed from his hall, and none ever leaves without being pressed to stay. A good household!”
“And this is Cai, Rhisiart’s ploughman. No doubt you saw the team cutting new land, when you came over the ridge today.”
“I did and admired the work,” said Cadfael heartily. “I never saw better. A good team you had there, and a good caller, too.”
“The best,” said Cai without hesitation. “I’ve worked with a good many in my time, but never known one with the way Engelard has with the beasts. They’d die for him. And as good a hand with all cattle, calving or sick or what you will. Rhisiart would be a sorry man if ever he lost him. Ay, we did a good day’s work today.”
“You’ll have heard from Father Huw,” said Cadfael, “that all the free men are called to the church tomorrow after Mass, to hear what our prior is proposing. No doubt we shall see Rhisiart there.”
“See and hear him,” said Cai, and grinned. “He speaks his mind. An open-hearted, open-natured man, with a temper soon up and soon down, and never a grudge in him, but try and move him when his mind’s made up, and you’re leaning on Snowdon.”
“Well, a man can but hold fast to what he believes right, and even the opponent he baulks should value him for that. And have his sons no interest in the harp, that they leave it to their sister?”
“He has no sons,” said Bened. “His wife is dead, and he never would take another, and there’s only this one girl to follow him.”
“And no male heir anywhere in his kinship? It’s rare for a daughter to inherit.”
“Not a man on his side the family at all,” said Cai, “and a pity it is. The only near kin is her mother’s brother, and he has no claim, and is old into the bargain. The greatest match anywhere in this valley, is Sioned, and young men after her like bees. But God willing, she’ll be a contented wife with a son on her knee long before Rhisiart goes to his fathers.”
“A grandson by a good man, and what could any lord want more.” said Padrig, and emptied the jug of mead and passed the horn along. “Understand me, I’m not a Gwytherin man myself, and have no right to give a voice one way or the other. But if I may say a word my friends won’t say for themselves—you having your duty to your prior as Cai has to his lord, or I to my art and my patrons—don’t look for an easy passage, and don’t take offence if your way is blocked. Nothing personal to you! But where the free men of Wales see no fair dealing, they won’t call it by fair names, and they won’t stand aside.”
“I should be sorry if they did,” said Cadfael. “For my part, the ending I want is the fair ending, leaving no man with a just grievance. And what of the other lords we can expect to see there? Of Cadwallon we’ve heard, two of our brothers are enjoying his hospitality. And his lands are neighbour to Rhisiart’s?”
“It’s a fair piece beyond to Rhisiart’s hall, on through the forest. But they’re neighbours, boundary to boundary, yes, and friends from youth. A peaceable man, Cadwallon, he likes his comfort and his hunting. His way would be to say yes to whatever bishop and prince commend, but then, his way normally is also to say yes to Rhisiart. For that matter,” owned Bened, tilting the last drop from the horn, “I know no more than you what either of them will have to say in this matter. For all I know they’ll accept your omens and bless your errand. If the free voice goes with your prior, then Saint Winifred goes home with you, and that’s the end of it.”
It was the end of the mead, too, for that night.
“Bide the night here,” said Bened to Padrig, when the guests rose to walk home, “and we’ll have a little music before you leave tomorrow. My small harp needs to be played, I’ve kept it in fettle for you.”