“No,” said Cadfael quickly, “not to me, either though soon, I hope, there may be no reason left for hiding him. But that time’s not yet. Is all well, then, with your own family? And Edwy none the worse?”
“Never a whit the worse. Without a bruise or two he’d have valued his adventure less. It was all his own devising. But it’s caused him to draw in his horns for a while. I never knew him so biddable before, and that’s no bad thing. He’s working with more zeal than he commonly shows. Not that we’re overburdened with work, this close to the feast, but wanting Edwin, and now Meurig’s gone to keep Christmas with his kin, I’ve enough on hand to keep my scamp busy.”
“So Meurig goes to his own people, does he?”
“Regularly for Christmas and Easter. He has cousins and an uncle or so up in the borders. He’ll be back before the year ends. He sets store by his own folk, does Meurig.”
Yes, so he had said on the day Cadfael first encountered him. “My kinship is my mother’s kinship, I go with my own. My father was not a Welshman.” Naturally he would want to go home for the feast.
“May we all be at peace for the Lord’s nativity!” said Cadfael, with heartier optimism since the discovery of the small witness now lying on a shelf in his workshop.
“Amen to that, brother! And I and my household thank you for your stout aid, and if ever you need ours, you have but to say.”
Martin Bellecote went back to his shop with duty done, and Brother Cadfael and Brother Mark went to supper with duty still to be done.
“I’ll go early into the town,” said Brother Mark, earnestly whispering in Cadfael’s ear in a corner of the chapter-house, during some very lame readings in the Latin by Brother Francis, after the meal. “I’ll absent myself from Prime, what does it matter if I incur penance?”
“You will not,” Brother Cadfael whispered back firmly. “You’ll wait until after dinner, when you are freed to your own work, as this will truly be legitimate work for you, the best you could be about. I will not have you flout any part of the rule.”
“As you would not dream of doing, of course!” breathed Mark, and his plain, diffident face brightened beautifully into a grin he might have borrowed from Edwin or Edwy.
“For no reason but matter of life and death. And owning my fault! And you are not me, and should not be copying my sins. It will be all the same, after dinner or before,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll ask for Hugh Beringar—no one else, mind, I would not be sure of any other as I am of him. Take him and show him where you found the vial, and I think Edwin’s family will soon be able to call him home again.”
Their planning was largely vain. The next morning’s chapter undid such arrangements as they had made, and changed everything.
Brother Richard the sub-prior rose, before the minor matters of business were dealt with, to say that he had an item of some urgency, for which he begged the prior’s attention.
“Brother Cellarer has received a messenger from our sheepfold near Rhydycroesau, by Oswestry. Lay Brother Barnabas is fallen ill with a bad chest, and is in fever, and Brother Simon is left to take care of all the flock there alone. But more than this, he is doubtful of his skill to tend the sick brother successfully, and asks, if it’s possible, that someone of more knowledge should come to help him for a while.”
“I have always thought,” said Prior Robert, frowning, “that we should have more than two men there. We run two hundred sheep on those hills, and it is a remote place. But how did Brother Simon manage to send word, since he is the only able man left there?”
“Why, he took advantage of the fortunate circumstances that our steward is now in charge at the manor of Mallilie. It seems it is only a few miles from Rhydycroesau. Brother Simon rode there and asked that word be sent, and a groom was despatched at once. No time has been lost, if we can send a helper today.”
The mention of Mallilie had caused the prior to prick up his ears. It had also made Cadfael start out of his own preoccupations, since this so clearly had a bearing on the very problems he was pondering. So Mallilie was but a few short miles from the abbey sheepfolds near Oswestry! He had never stopped to consider that the exact location of the manor might have any significance, and this abrupt enlightenment started a number of mental hares out of their forms in bewildering flight.
“Clearly we must do so,” said Robert, and almost visibly reminded himself that the errand could with propriety be laid upon the abbey’s most skilled herbalist and apothecary, which would effectively remove him not only from all contact with the Widow Bonel, but also from his meddlesome insistence on probing the unfortunate events which had made her a widow. The prior turned his silver, stately head and looked directly at Brother Cadfael, something he normally preferred not to do. The same considerations had dawned upon Cadfael, with the same pleasing effect. If I had devised this myself, he was thinking, it could not have been more apposite. Now young Mark can leave the errand to me, and remain here blameless.
“Brother Cadfael, it would seem this is a duty for you, who are accomplished in medicines. Can you at once put together all such preparations as may be needed for our sick brother?”
“I can and will, Father,” said Cadfael, so heartily that for a moment Prior Robert recoiled into doubt of his own wisdom and penetration. Why should the man be so happy at the prospect of a long winter ride, and hard work being both doctor and shepherd at the end of it? When he had been so assiduously poking his nose into the affairs of the Bonel household here? But the distance remained a guarantee; from Rhydycroesau he would be in no position to meddle further.
“I trust it may not be for very long. We shall say prayers for Brother Barnabas, that he may rally and thrive. You can again send word by the grooms at Mallilie, should there be need. And is your novice Mark well grounded, enough for minor ailments in your absence? In cases of serious illness we may call on the physician.”
“Brother Mark is devoted and able,” said Cadfael, with almost paternal pride, “and can be trusted absolutely, for if he feels himself in need of better counsel he will say so with modesty. And he has a good supply of all those remedies that may most be needed at this season. We have taken pains to provide against an ill winter.”
“That’s very well. Then in view of the need, you may leave chapter and make ready. Take a good mule from the stables, and have food with you for the way, and make sure you’re well provided for such an illness as Brother Barnabas seems to have contracted. If there is any case in the infirmary you feel you should visit before leaving, do so. Brother Mark shall be sent to you, you may have advice for him before you go.”
Brother Cadfael went out from the chapter-house and left them to their routine affairs. God is still looking our way, he thought, bustling blithely into his workshop and raking the shelves for all that he needed. Medicines for throat, chest, head, an unguent for rubbing into the chest, goose-grease and strong herbs. The rest was warmth and care and proper food. They had hens at Rhydycroesau, and their own good milchcow, fed through the winter. And last, a thing he need take only into Shrewsbury, the little green glass vial, still wrapped in its napkin.
Brother Mark came with a rush and out of breath, sent from his Latin studies under Brother Paul. “They say you’re going away, and I’m to be custodian here. Oh, Cadfael, how shall I manage without you? And what of Hugh Beringar, and this proof we have for him?”
“Leave that to me now,” said Cadfael. “To go to Rhydycroesau one must go through the town, I’ll bear it to the castle myself. You pay attention only to what you’ve learned from me, for I know how well it’s been learned, and I shall be here with you in spirit every moment. Imagine that you ask me, and you’ll find the answer.” He had a jar of unguent in one hand, he reached the other with absent affection and patted the young, smooth tonsure ringed by rough, thick, spiky straw-coloured hair. “It’s only for a short while, we’ll have Brother Barnabas on his feet in no time. And listen, child dear, the manor of Mallilie, I find, is but a short way from where I shall be, and it seems to me that the answer to what we need to know may be there, and not here.”