“I do believe,” sighed Simon Aguilon, bringing his friend back in his arm to the courtyard, “that you haven’t given up, even now. For God’s sake, what have you to hope for? Two days more, and she’s my lady Domville.”
Joscelin held his peace, and thought of the uplifted hand, and knew in his heart that her fingers had touched her lips; and that was more than had been agreed.
The entire guest-hall of the abbey, apart from the common quarters, had been given over to Sir Godfrid Picard and his wedding party. In the privacy of their own chamber, within, Agnes Picard turned to her husband with an anxious face. “I still do not like this quietness of hers. I do not trust her.”
He shrugged it off disdainfully. “Ah, you fret too much. She has given over the battle. She is altogether submissive. What can she do? Daniel has his orders not to let her out of the gate, and Walter keeps watch on the parish door of the church. There’s no other way out, unless she finds a means to fly over the wall, of leap the Meole brook. No harm in keeping a close eye on her, even within, but not so close as to draw too much attention. But I’m sure you mistake her. That timid mouse has not the courage to stand up at the altar and declare herself unwilling.”
“As well!” said the lady grimly. “I hear this Abbot Radulfus has a fine conceit of his own rights and powers, and is no respecter of barons if he feels his writ infringed. But I wish I could be as sure of her lameness as you.”
“You fret too much, I tell you, woman. Once bring her to the altar, and she’ll speak her words as taught, and no bones about it.”
Agnes gnawed a lip, and still was not quite convinced. “Well, it may be so … But for all that, I wish it was done. I shall breathe the easier when these next two days are over.”
In Brother Cadfael’s workshop in the herbarium, Brother Oswin shuffled his feet, folded his large, willing but disastrous hands, and looked sheepish. Cadfael looked apprehensively round the hut, aware of ill news to come, though it was an advance if the lad even realized it when he had done something mad, without having it pointed out to him. Most things appeared to be still in their places. The brazier burned low, there were no noticeable evil smells, the wines in their great flasks bubbled gently to themselves as usual.
Brother Oswin rendered account self-consciously, gleaning what credit he could before the blow fell. “Brother Infirmarer has fetched the electuaries and the powders. And I have taken Brother Prior the stomachic you made for him. The troches you left drying I think should be ready now, and the dried herbs for the decoction you spoke of, I have ground to fine powder ready for use tomorrow.”
But… Now he was coming to the bad news. That look of astonished reproach, that a thing well-meant and confidently undertaken should so betray him.
“But such a strange thing… I don’t understand how it could happen, the pot must surely have been cracked, though I could see no break in it. The linctus you left boiling… I did watch it most carefully, I’m sure I took it from the brazier when it was just the right thickness, and I stirred it as you told me. You know you said it was wanted urgently for old Brother Francis, his chest being so bad … I thought I would cool it quickly, to be able to bottle it for you, so I took the pot from the fire and set it in a bowl of cold water…”
“And the pot burst,” said Cadfael resignedly.
“Fell apart,” owned Oswin, bewildered and grieved, “in two great pieces, and shed forth all that honey and the herbs into the water. An extraordinary thing! Did you know the pot was cracked?”
“Son, the pot was sound as a bell, and one of my best, but nor it nor any other here is meant to be taken straight from the fire and plumped into cold water. The clay does not like so sharp a change, it shrinks and shatters. And while we are on that, take heed that glass bottles have the same objection,” added Cadfael hastily. “If warm things are to be put in them, the bottles must be warmed first. Never thrust any matter straight from heat to cold or cold to heat.”
“I have cleared away all,” said Oswin apologetically, “and thrown out the pot, too. But all the same, I am sure there must have been a crack somewhere in it… But I am sorry the linctus is wasted, and I will come back after supper and make a fresh brew in its place.”
God forbid! thought Cadfael, but managed to refrain from saying it aloud. “No, son!” he said firmly. “Your duty is to attend Collations and keep the true round of your order. I will see to the linctus myself.” His supply of pots would have to be defended from Brother Oswin’s excellent intentions henceforth. “Now be off and get ready for Vespers.”
Thus Brother Oswin’s latest achievement in the herbarium was the reason for Cadfael returning to his workshop that evening after supper, and for his involvement in all that happened afterwards.
2
Sir Godfrid Picard and his lady came to Vespers in state, with Iveta de Massard diminutive between them like a lamb led to sacrifice. A hard-faced elderly maid carried Lady Picard’s prayer book, and a valet attended Sir Godfrid. The girl had put off her display finery, and came simply dressed in dark colors, with a veil over her great sheaf of gold hair. She stood and knelt throughout with downcast eyes and pale, mute face. Cadfael watched her with curiosity and sympathy from his place among the brethren, and wondered the more, the more he gazed. What kin could she be to the crusader whose name had been a legend among his contemporaries, however this present generation might have forgotten him? Nearly forty years dead, and a man is dead indeed.
At the end of Vespers, as the brothers filed out to supper, Iveta rose, and went swiftly forward, hands clasped, into the Lady Chapel, and there sank to her knees before the altar. It seemed to Cadfael that Agnes Picard would have followed her, but that her husband laid a restraining hand on her arm, for Prior Robert Pennant, ever attentive to Norman nobility of his own kind, was bearing down upon them in all his lofty, silver-haired grandeur, with some civil invitation which could not well be refused. The lady cast one sharp glance at the devout figure of her niece, who seemed to be totally absorbed in fervent prayer, and surrendered gracefully, pacing beside the prior on her husband’s arm.
Cadfael made a very hasty supper among his fellows, still disturbed by the events of the day, for which, unhappily, all his herbs had no remedy. As well that he had a specific task to occupy him during the evening, thanks to the inexhaustible optimism of Brother Oswin.
Iveta remained on her knees until all had been silent about her for some minutes, the prior’s voice fading away into distance, assiduously attentive. Then she stole up from her place and went to peer cautiously through the south door into the cloister. Robert had drawn the guests into the garth with him to admire the last of the carefully tended roses. Their backs were turned to her, and the western walk of the cloister stood empty before her. Iveta gathered up her skirts and her courage, only she knew with how much heroism and how little hope, and ran like a frightened mouse from cats, out into the great court, and there looked round her desperately.
She knew this enclave not at all, it was the first time she had entered it; but she saw between the buildings of the guest-hall and the abbot’s lodging the green of pleached hedges framing a narrow alley, and the heads of trees nodding beyond. There must be the gardens, at this hour surely deserted. Somewhere there he had said he would wait for her, and as she passed him she had given him the signal that she would not fail him. Why had she done so? This could be nothing better than a farewell. Yet she sped towards it with a despairing courage she would have done better to summon up long ago, before it was too late. She was already solemnly affianced, a contract almost as binding as marriage itself. Easier far to slip out of life than out of that bargain.
The thick green walls enclosed her, twilight within twilight. She drew breath and slowed to a walk, uncertain which way to go. The path to the right led between the rear of the guest-hall and the abbey fish-ponds, and beyond the second pool a little footbridge crossed the mill leat near the outflow, and brought her to a gateway in a mellow stone wall. With one more wall between herself and detection she felt unaccountably safer, and there was a curious comfort and calm in the wave of spiced sweetness that rose about her as her skirts brushed the greenery within. Rosemary and lavender, mint and thyme, all manner of herbs filled the walled garden with aromatic odors, grown a little rank now with autumn, ready to sink into their winter sleep very soon. The best of their summer was already harvested.