A hand reached out of an arbor in the wall to take her hand, and a voice whispered in haste: “This way, quickly! There’s a hut here in the corner … an apothecary’s shop. Come! No one will look for us in there.”
Every time she had ever been able to draw close to him— the times had been very few and very brief—she had been startled and reassured by the very size of him, head and shoulders above her, wide in breast and shoulder, long in the arm, narrow and fleet in the flank, as though his engulfing shadow could wall her in from all threats, like a tower. But she knew it could not, and he was as unblessed and vulnerable as she. The very thought had made her even more timorous than she was for herself. Great lords, if they once take against, can quite destroy young squires, however tall and strong and well versed in arms.
“Someone may come there,” she whispered, clinging to his hand.
“At this time of the evening? No one will come. They’re at supper now, they’ll be in the chapterhouse afterwards.” He drew her along with him in his arm, under the eaves rustling with dried herbs, into the wood-warm interior where glass gleamed on the shelves, and the brazier, fed to burn slowly until it was needed, provided a small eye of fire in the dimness. The door he left open, just as it stood. Better move nothing, to betray the visit of unauthorized strangers. “Iveta! You did come! I was afraid….”
“You knew I’d come!”
“… afraid you might be watched too closely, and every moment. Listen, for we may not have long. You shall not, you shall not be delivered over to that gross old man. Tomorrow, if you’ll trust me, if you will to go with me, come at this hour again, here….”
“Oh, God!” she said in a soft moan. “Why do we make believe there can be any escape?”
“But there can, there must!” he insisted furiously. “If you truly want it… if you love me …”
“If I love you . . . !”
She was in his arms, her own slight arms embracing with all their might as much of his hard young body as they could span, when Brother Cadfael, in all innocence, his sandals silent on his well-kept grass paths, darkened the doorway and startled them apart. He was a good deal more astonished than they, and to judge by their faces, much less terrible than whatever they had momentarily taken him for. Iveta recoiled until her shoulders were brought up against the wooden wall of the hut. Joscelin stood his ground by the brazier, feet solidly spread. Both of them recovered countenance with a gallantry that was more than half desperation.
“I cry your pardon,” said Cadfael placidly. “I did not know I had patients waiting. Brother Infirmarer will have recommended you to me, I take it. He knew I should be working here until Compline.”
He might have been speaking Welsh to them, of course, but with luck they might pick up the hints he was hastily offering. Desperation does tend to sharpen the wits at need. And he had heard, as they had not, the brushing of garments along the path outside, the rapid, irate tread of a woman’s feet bearing down on them. He was standing by the brazier, striking flint and steel to light his little oil-lamp, when Agnes Picard appeared in the doorway, tall and chill, brows drawn together into a level, unbroken line.
Brother Cadfael, having lit and trimmed the wick, turned to gather up into a box the troches Brother Oswin had left drying, little white cakes of carminative powder bound with gum. The act enabled him to keep his back turned serenely upon the woman in the doorway, though he was very well aware of her. Since it was plain that neither of the young people was yet capable of uttering a sensible word, he went on talking for them all.
“It will be the tiring journey,” he said comfortably, closing the box upon his tablets, “that has brought on your headache. It was wise of you to consult Brother Edmund, a headache should not be neglected, it may deprive you of the sleep you need, otherwise. I’ll make you a draught—the young gentleman will not mind waiting a few moments for his lord’s needs…”
Joscelin, recovering, and resolutely keeping a shoulder turned on the baleful presence in the doorway, said fervently that he would gladly wait until the Lady Iveta had whatever she required. Cadfael reached for a small cup from a shelf, and selected one from a row of bottles. He was in the act of pouring when a voice cold and piercing as fine steel said behind them, with deliberation: “Iveta!”
All three of them swung round in a very fair show of being innocently startled. Agnes came forward into the hut, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“What are you doing here? I have been looking for you. You are keeping everyone waiting for supper.”
“Your lady niece, madam,” said Cadfael, forestalling whatever the girl might have roused herself to say, “is suffering from a common distress after the exertion of travel, and Brother Infirmarer rightly recommended her to come to me for a remedy.” He held out the cup to Iveta, who took it like one in a dream. She was white and still, the sum of her frustration and fear showed only in her eyes. “Drink it off now, at once, before you go to supper. You may safely, it will do you nothing but good.”
And so it would, whether her head ached or no. It was one of his best wines, he kept it for his special favorites, since the amount he made of it each year was small. He had the satisfaction of seeing faint astonishment and pleasure sparkle through the desperation of her eyes, even if it faded soon, She put the empty cup back into his hand, and gave him the palest of smiles. At Joscelin she did not venture to look at all.
In a small voice she said: “Thank you, brother. You are very good.” And to the presence that loomed darkly watching her: “I am sorry I have delayed you, aunt. I am ready now.”
Agnes Picard said never a word more, but stood aside in cold invitation to the girl to precede her out of the room, eyed her steadily and glitteringly as she passed, and then, before following her, gave the young man a long, intent look that threatened all possible evil. The civilities might have been preserved, but very certainly Agnes had not been deceived, never for a moment.
They were gone, the bride and her keeper, the last rustle of skirts silenced. There was a long moment of stillness while the two left behind gazed helplessly at each other. Then Joscelin let out his breath in a great groan, and threw himself down on the bench that stood against the wall.
“The hag should fall from the bridge and drown in the fish-pond, now, this moment, while she’s crossing! But things never work out as they should. Brother, don’t think me ungrateful for the goodwill and the wit you’ve spent for us, but I doubt it was all thrown away. She’s had her suspicions of me some while, I fancy. She’ll find some way of making me pay for this.”
“At that, she may be right,” said Cadfael honestly. “And God forgive me for the lies!”
“You told none. Or if she has not a headache, she has what’s worse, an ache of the heart.” He ran angry fingers through his shock of flaxen hair, and leaned his head back against the wall. “What was it you gave her?”
On impulse Cadfael refilled the cup and held it out to him. “Here! The like potion might not do you any harm. God he knows whether you deserve it, but we’ll scamp the judgment until I know more of you.”
Joscelin’s eyebrows, winged and expressive, and darker by many shades than his hair, rose in appreciative surprise at the savor of the wine. His forehead and cheeks had the rich golden tan of an outdoor life, rare among those of such fair coloring. The eyes, now conning Cadfael rather warily over the rim of the cup, were as radiantly blue as Cadfael remembered them from Saint Giles, like cornflowers in a wheat-field. He did not look like a deceiver or a seducer, rather like an overgrown schoolboy, honest, impatient, clever after his fashion, and probably unwise. Cleverness and wisdom are not inevitable yoke-fellows.
“This is the best medicine I ever tasted. And you have been uncommonly generous to us, as you were uncommonly quick in the uptake,” said the boy, warmed and disarmed. “And you know nothing about us, and had never seen either of us before!”
“I had seen you both before,” Cadfael corrected him. He began to measure his various pectoral herbs into a mortar, and took a small bellows to rouse the brazier from its quiescent state. “I have a linctus to make before Compline. You’ll not mind if I start work.”