‘What of my son Meriet? He has now, of his own will, a closer kinship with you, brother, than with me, and has taken another father in the lord abbot. Where is the need to consult me?’
His voice was measured and quiet, making the chill words sound rather mild and reasonable than implacable, but Cadfael knew then that he would get no help here. Still, it was worth trying.
‘Nevertheless, it was you engendered him. If you do not wish to be reminded of it,’ said Cadfael, probing for a chink in this impenetrable armour, ‘I recommend you never look in a mirror. Parents who offer their babes as oblates do not therefore give up loving them. Neither, I am persuaded, do you.’
‘Are you telling me he has repented of his choice already?’ demanded Aspley, curling a contemptuous lip. ‘Is he trying to escape from the Order so soon? Are you sent to herald his coming home with his tail between his legs?’
‘Far from it! With every breath he insists on this one wish, to be admitted. All that can help to hasten his acceptance he does, with almost too much fervour. His every waking hour is devoted to achieving the same goal. But in sleep it is no such matter. Then, as it seems to me, his mind and spirit recoil in horror. What he desires, waking, he turns from, screaming, in his bed at night. It is right you should know this.’
Aspley sat frowning at him in silence and surely, by his fixed stillness, in some concern. Cadfael pursued his first advantage, and told him of the disturbances in the dortoir, but for some reason which he himself did not fully understand he stopped short of recounting the attack on Brother Jerome, its occasion and its punishment. If there was a fire of mutual resentment between them, why add fuel? ‘When he wakes,’ said Cadfael, ‘he has no knowledge of what he has done in sleep. There is no blame there. But there is a grave doubt concerning his vocation. Father Abbot asks that you will consider seriously whether we are not, between us, doing Meriet a great wrong in allowing him to continue, however much he may wish it now.’
‘That he wants to be rid of him,’ said Aspley, recovering his implacable calm, ‘I can well understand. He was always an obdurate and ill-conditioned youth.’
‘Neither Abbot Radulfus nor I find him so,’ said Cadfael, stung.
‘Then whatever other difficulties there may be, he is better with you than with me, for I have so found him from a child. And might not I as well argue that we should be doing him a great wrong if we turned him from a good purpose when he inclines to one? He has made his choice, only he can change it. Better for him he should endure these early throes, rather than give up his intent.’
Which was no very surprising reaction from such a man, hard and steadfast in his own undertakings, certainly strict to his word, and driven to pursue his courses to the end as well by obstinacy as by honour. Nevertheless, Cadfael went on trying to find the joints in his armour, for it must be a strangely bitter resentment which could deny a distracted boy a single motion of affection.
‘I will not urge him one way or the other,’ said Aspley finally, ‘nor confuse his mind by visiting him or allowing any of my family to visit him. Keep him, and let him wait for enlightenment, and I think he will still wish to remain with you. He has put his hand to the plough, he must finish his furrow. I will not receive him back if he turns tail.’
He rose to indicate that the interview was over, and having made it plain that there was no more to be got out of him, he resumed the host with assured grace, offered the midday meal, which was as courteously refused, and escorted his guest out to the court.
‘A pleasant day for your ride,’ he said,’though I should be the better pleased if you would take meat with us.’
‘I would and thank you,’ said Cadfael, ‘but I am pledged to return and deliver your answer to my abbot. It is an easy journey.’
A groom led forth the mule. Cadfael mounted, took his leave civilly, and rode out at the gate in the low stone wall.
He had gone no more than two hundred paces, just enough to carry him out of sight of those he had left within the pale, when he was aware of two figures sauntering without haste back towards that same gateway. They walked hand in hand, and they had not yet perceived a rider approaching them along the pathway between the fields, because they had eyes only for each other. They were talking by broken snatches, as in a shared dream where precise expression was not needed, and their voices, mellowly male and silverly female, sounded even in the distance like brief peals of laughter. Or bridle bells, perhaps, but that they came afoot. Two tolerant, well-trained hounds followed them at heel, nosing up the drifted scents from either side, but keeping their homeward line without distraction.
So these must surely be the lovers, returning to be fed. Even lovers must eat. Cadfael eyed them with interest as he rode slowly towards them. They were worth observing. As they came nearer, but far enough from him to be oblivious still, they became more remarkable. Both were tall. The young man had his father’s noble figure, but lissome and light-footed with youth, and the light brown hair and ruddy, outdoor skin of the Saxon. Such a son as any man might rejoice in. Healthy from birth, as like as not, growing and flourishing like a hearty plant, with every promise of full harvest. A stocky dark second, following lamely several years later, might well fail to start any such spring of satisfied pride. One paladin is enough, besides being hard to match. And if he strides towards manhood without ever a flaw or a check, where’s the need for a second?
And the girl was his equal. Tipping his shoulder, and slender and straight as he, she was the image of her brother, but everything that in him was comely and attractive was in her polished into beauty. She had the same softly rounded, oval face, but refined almost into translucence, and the same clear blue eyes, but a shade darker and fringed with auburn lashes. And there beyond mistake was the reddish gold hair, a thick coil of it, and curls escaping on either side of her temples.
Thus, then, was Meriet explained? Frantic to escape from his frustrated love into a world without women, perhaps also anxious to remove from his brother’s happiness the slightest shadow of grief or reproach—did that account for him? But he had taken the symbol of his torment into the cloister with him—was that sensible?
The small sound of the mule’s neat hooves in the dry grass of the track and the small stones had finally reached the ears of the girl. She looked up and saw the rider approaching, and said a soft word into her companion’s ear. The young man checked for a moment in his stride, and stared with reared head to see a Benedictine monk in the act of riding away from the gates of Aspley. He was very quick to connect and wonder. The light smiled faded instantly from his face, he drew his hand from the girl’s hold, and quickened his pace with the evident intention of accosting the departing visitor.
They drew together and halted by consent. The elder son, close to, loomed even taller than his sire, and improbably good to look upon, in a world of imperfection. With a large but shapely hand raised to the mule’s bridle, he looked up at Cadfael with clear brown eyes rounded in concern, and gave short greeting in his haste.
‘From Shrewsbury, brother? Pardon if I dare question, but you have been to my father’s house? There’s news? My brother—he has not…’ He checked himself there to make belated reverence, and account for himself. ‘Forgive such a rough greeting, when you do not even know me, but I am Nigel Aspley, Meriet’s brother. Has something happened to him? He has not done—any foolishness?’
What should be said to that? Cadfael was by no means sure whether he considered Meriet’s conscious actions to be foolish or not. But at least there seemed to be one person who cared what became of him, and by the anxiety and concern in his face suffered fears for him which were not yet justified.
‘There’s no call for alarm on his account,’ said Cadfael soothingly. ‘He’s well enough and has come to no harm, you need not fear.’
‘And he is still set—He has not changed his mind?’