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  Brother Cadfael shut the door upon the rich horehound reek of a mixture for coughs, and went very soberly to High Mass.

  *

  Abbot Heribert departed by the London road, turning his back upon the town of Shrewsbury, in the early morning of a somewhat grey day, the first time there had been the nip of frost in the air as well as the pale sparkle in the grass. He took with him his own clerk, Brother Emmanuel, and two lay grooms who had served here longest; and he rode his own white mule. He put on a cheerful countenance as he took leave, but for all that he cut a sad little figure as the four riders dwindled along the road. No horseman now, if he ever had been much of one, he used a high, cradling saddle, and sagged in it like a small sack not properly filled. Many of the brothers crowded to the gates to watch him as long as he remained in view, and their faces were apprehensive and aggrieved. Some of the boy pupils came out to join them, looking even more dismayed, for the abbot had allowed Brother Paul to conduct his schooling undisturbed, which meant very tolerantly, but with Prior Robert in charge there was no department of this house likely to go its way un-goaded, and discipline might be expected to tighten abruptly.

  There was, Cadfael could not but admit, room for a little hard practicality within these walls, if the truth were told. Heribert of late had grown deeply discouraged with the world of men, and withdrawn more and more into his prayers. The siege and fall of Shrewsbury, with all the bloodshed and revenge involved, had been enough to sadden any man, though that was no excuse for abandoning the effort to defend right and oppose wrong. But there comes a time when the old grow very tired, and the load of leadership unjustly heavy to bear. And perhaps—perhaps!—Heribert would not be quite so sad as even he now supposed, if the load should be lifted from him.

  Mass and chapter passed that day with unexceptionable decorum and calm, High Mass was celebrated devoutly, the duties of the day proceeded in their smooth and regular course. Robert was too sensible of his own image to rub his hands visibly, or lick his lips before witnesses. All that he did would be done according to just and pious law, with the authority of sainthood. Nevertheless, what he considered his due would be appropriated, to the last privilege.

  Cadfael was accustomed to having two assistants allotted to him throughout the active part of the gardening years, for he grew other things in his walled garden besides the enclosure of herbs, though the main kitchen gardens of the abbey were outside the enclave, across the main highway and along the fields by the river, the lush level called the Gaye. The waters of Severn regularly moistened it in the flood season, and its soil was rich and bore well. Here within the walls he had made, virtually single-handed, this closed garden for the small and precious things, and in the outer levels, running down to the Meole brook that fed the mill, he grew food crops, beans and cabbages and pulse, and fields of pease. But now with the winter closing gently in, and the soil settling to its sleep like the urchins under the hedges, curled drowsily with all their prickles cushioned by straw and dead grass and leaves, he was left with just one novice to help him brew his draughts, and roll his pills, and stir his rubbing oils, and pound his poultices, to medicine not only the brothers, but many who came for help in their troubles, from the town and the Foregate, sometimes even from the scattered villages beyond. He had not been bred to this science, he had learned it by experience, by trial and study, accumulating knowledge over the years, until some preferred his ministrations to those of the acknowledged physicians.

  His assistant at this time was a novice of no more than eighteen years, Brother Mark, orphaned, and a trouble to a neglectful uncle, who had sent him into the abbey at sixteen to be rid of him. He had entered tongue-tied, solitary and homesick, a waif who seemed even younger than his years, who did what he was told with apprehensive submission, as though the best to be hoped out of life was to avoid punishment. But some months of working in the garden with Cadfael had gradually loosened his tongue and put his fears to flight. He was still undersized, and slightly wary of authority, but healthy and wiry, and good at making things grow, and he was acquiring a sure and delicate touch with the making of medicines, and an eager interest in them. Mute among his fellows, he made up for it by being voluble enough in the garden workshop, and with none but Cadfael by. It was always Mark, for all his silence and withdrawal about the cloister and court, who brought all the gossip before others knew it.

  He came in from an errand to the mill, an hour before Vespers, full of news.

  “Do you know what Prior Robert has done? Taken up residence in the abbot’s lodging! Truly! Brother Sub-prior has orders to sleep in the prior’s cell in the dormitory from tonight. And Abbot Heribert barely out of the gates! I call it great presumption!”

  So did Cadfael, though he felt it hardly incumbent upon him either to say so, or to let Brother Mark utter his thoughts quite so openly. “Beware how you pass judgment on your superiors,” he said mildly, “at least until you know how to put yourself in their place and see from their view. For all we know, Abbot Heribert may have required him to move into the lodging, as an instance of his authority while we’re without an abbot. It is the place set aside for the spiritual father of this convent.”

  “But Prior Robert is not that, not yet! And Abbot Heribert would have said so at chapter if he had wished it so. At least he would have told Brother Sub-prior, and no one did. I saw his face, he is as astonished as anyone, and shocked. He would not have taken such a liberty!”

  Too true, thought Cadfael, busy pounding roots in a mortar, Brother Richard the sub-prior was the last man to presume; large, good-natured and peace-loving to the point of laziness, he never exerted himself to advance even by legitimate means. It might dawn on some of the younger and more audacious brothers shortly that they had gained an advantage in the exchange. With Richard in the prior’s cell that commanded the length of the dortoir, it would be far easier for the occasional sinner to slip out by the night-stairs after the lights were out; even if the crime were detected it would probably never be reported. A blind eye is the easiest thing in the world to turn on whatever is troublesome.

  “All the servants at the lodging are simmering,” said Brother Mark. “You know how devoted they are to Abbot Heribert, and now to be made to serve someone else, before his place is truly vacant, even! Brother Henry says it’s almost blasphemy. And Brother Petrus is looking blacker than thunder, and muttering into his cooking-pots something fearful. He said, once Prior Robert gets his foot in the door, it will take a dose of hemlock to get him out again when Abbot Heribert returns.”

  Cadfael could well imagine it. Brother Petrus was the abbot’s cook, old in his service, and a black-haired, fiery-eyed barbarian from near the Scottish border, at that, given to tempestuous and immoderate declarations, none of them to be taken too seriously; but the puzzle was where exactly to draw the line.

  “Brother Petrus says many things he might do well not to say, but he never means harm, as you well know. And he’s a prime cook, and will continue to feed the abbot’s table nobly, whoever sits at the head of it, because he can do no other.”

  “But not happily,” said Brother Mark with conviction.

  No question but the even course of the day had been gravely shaken; yet so well regulated was the regime within these walls that every brother, happy or not, would pursue his duties as conscientiously as ever.

  “When Abbot Heribert returns, confirmed in office,” said Mark, firmly counting wishes as horses, “Prior Robert’s nose will be out of joint.” And the thought of that august organ bent aside like the misused beak of an old soldier so consoled him that he found heart to laugh again, while Cadfael could not find the heart to scold him, since even for him the picture had its appeal.

  *

  Brother Edmund the infirmarer came to Cadfael’s hut in the middle of the afternoon, a week after Abbot Heribert’s departure, to collect some medicines for his inmates. The frosts, though not yet severe, had come after such mild weather as to take more than one young brothe
r by surprise, spreading a sneezing rheum that had to be checked by isolating the victims, most of them active youngsters who worked outdoors with the sheep. He had four of them in the infirmary, besides the few old men who now spent their days there with none but religious duties, waiting peacefully for their end.

  “All the lads need is a few days in the warm, and they’ll cure themselves well enough,” said Cadfael, stirring and pouring a large flask into a smaller one, a brown mixture that smelled hot and aromatic and sweet. “But no need to endure discomfort, even for a few days. Let them drink a dose of this, two or three times in the day and at night, as much as will fill a small spoon, and they’ll be the easier for it.”

  “What is it?” asked Brother Edmund curiously. Many of Brother Cadfael’s preparations he already knew, but there were constantly new developments. Sometimes he wondered if Cadfael tried them all out on himself.

  “There’s rosemary, and horehound, and saxifrage, mashed into a little oil pressed from flax seeds, and the body is a red wine I made from cherries and their stones. You’ll find they’ll do well on it, any that have the rheum in their eyes or heads, and even for the cough it serves, too.” He stoppered the large bottle carefully, and wiped the neck. “Is there anything more you’ll be wanting? For the old fellows? They must be in a taking at all these changes we’re seeing. Past the three score men don’t take kindly to change.”

  “Not, at all events, to this change,” owned Brother Edmund ruefully. “Heribert never knew how he was liked, until they began to feel his loss.”

  “You think we have lost him?”

  “I fear it’s all too likely. Not that Stephen himself bears grudges too long, but what the legate wants, Stephen will let him have, to keep the pope sweet. And do you think a brisk, reforming spirit, let loose here in our realm with powers to fashion the church he wants, will find our abbot very impressive? Stephen cast the doubt, while he was still angry, but it’s Alberic of Ostia who will weigh up our good little abbot, and discard him for too soft in grain,” said Brother Edmund regretfully. “I could do with another pot of that salve of yours for bed-sores. Brother Adrian can’t be much longer for this penance, poor soul.”

  “It must be pain now, just shifting him for the anointing,” said Cadfael with sympathy.

  “Skin and bone, mere skin and bone. Getting food down him at all is labour enough. He withers like a leaf.”

  “If ever you want an extra hand to lift him, send for me, I’m here to be used. Here’s what you want. I think I have it better than before, with more of Our Lady’s mantle in it.”

  Brother Edmund laid bottle and pot in his scrip, and considered on other needs, scouring his pointed chin between thumb and forefinger. The sudden chill that blew in through the doorway made them both turn their heads, so sharply that the young man who had opened the door a wary inch or two hung his head in instant apology and dismay.

  “Close the door, lad,” said Cadfael, hunching his shoulders.

  A hasty, submissive voice called: “Pardon, brother! I’ll wait your leisure.” And the door began to close upon a thin, dark, apprehensively sullen face.

  “No, no,” said Cadfael with cheerful impatience, “I never meant it so. Come into the warm, and close the door on that wicked wind. It makes the brazier smoke. Come in, I’ll be with you very shortly, when Brother Infirmarer has all his needs.”

  The door opened just wide enough to allow a lean young man to slide in through the aperture, which he thereupon very hastily closed, and flattened his thin person against the door in mute withdrawal, willing to be invisible and inaudible, though his eyes were wide in wonder and curiosity at the storehouse of rustling, dangling, odorous herbs that hung about the place, and the benches and shelves of pots and bottles that hoarded the summer’s secret harvest.

  “Ah, yes,” said Brother Edmund, recollecting, “there was one more thing. Brother Rhys is groaning with creaks and pains in his shoulders and back. He gets about very little now, and it does pain him, I’ve seen it make him jerk and start. You have an oil that gave him ease before.”

  “I have. Wait, now, let me find a flask to fill for you.” Cadfael hoisted from its place on a low bench a large stone bottle, and rummaged along the shelves for a smaller one of cloudy glass. Carefully he unstoppered and poured a viscous dark oil that gave off a strong, sharp odour. He replaced the wooden stopper firmly, bedding it in with a wisp of linen, and with another torn shred scrupulously wiped the lips of both containers, and dropped the rag into the small brazier beside which he had a stoneware pot simmering gently. “This will answer, all the more if you get someone with good strong fingers to work it well into his joints. But keep it carefully, Edmund, never let it near your lips. Wash your hands well after using it, and make sure any other who handles it does the same. It’s good for a man’s outside, but bad indeed for his inside. And don’t use it where there’s any scratch or wound, any break in the skin, either. It’s powerful stuff.”

  “So perilous? What is it made from?” asked Edmund curiously, turning the bottle in his hand to see the sluggish way the oils moved against the glass.

  “The ground root of monk’s-hood, chiefly, in mustard oil and oil from flax seeds. It’s powerfully poisonous if swallowed, a very small draught of this could kill, so keep it safe and remember to cleanse your hands well. But it works wonders for creaking old joints. He’ll notice a tingling warmth when it’s rubbed well in, and then the pain is dulled, and he’ll be quite easy. There, is that all you need? I’ll come over myself presently, and do the anointing, if you wish? I know where to find the aches, and it needs to be worked in deep.”

  “I know you have iron fingers,” said Brother Edmund, mustering his load. “You used them on me once, I thought you would break me apart, but I own I could move the better, the next day. Yes, come if you have time, he’ll be glad to see you. He wanders, nowadays, there’s hardly one among the young brothers he recognises, but he’ll not have forgotten you.”

  “He’ll remember any who have the Welsh tongue,” said Cadfael simply. “He goes back to his childhood, as old men do.”

  Brother Edmund took up his bag and turned to the door. The thin young man, all eyes, slipped aside and opened it for him civilly, and again closed it upon his smiling thanks. Not such a meagre young man, after all, inches above Cadfael’s square, solid bulk, and erect and supple of movement, but lean and wary, with a suggestion of wild alertness in his every motion. He had a shock of light-brown hair, unkempt from the rising wind outside, and the trimmed lines of a fair beard about lips and chin, pointing the hungry austerity of a thin, hawk-featured face. The large, bright-blue eyes, glittering with intelligence and defensive as levelled spears, turned their attention upon Cadfael, and sustained the glance unwavering, lances in rest.

  “Well, friend,” said Cadfael comfortably, shifting his pot a shade further from the direct heat, “what is it I can do for you?” And he turned and viewed the stranger candidly, from head to foot. “I don’t know you, lad,” he said placidly, “but you’re welcome. What’s your need?”

  “I’m sent by Mistress Bonel,” said the young man, in a voice low-pitched and pleasant to hear, if it had not been so tight and wary, “to ask you for some kitchen-herbs she needs. Brother Hospitaller told her you would be willing to supply her when her own stocks fail. My master has today moved into a house in the Foregate, as guest of the abbey.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Cadfael, remembering the manor of Mallilie, gifted to the abbey in return for the means of life to the giver. “So they are safely in, are they? God give them joy of it! And you are the manservant who will carry their meals back and forth—yes, you’ll need to find your way about the place. You’ve been to the abbot’s kitchen?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “No man’s master,” said Cadfael mildly, “every man’s brother, if you will. And what’s your name, friend? For we shall be seeing something of each other in the days to come, we may as well be acquainted.”

 
“My name is Aelfric,” said the young man. He had come forward from the doorway, and stood looking round him with open interest. His eyes lingered with awe on the large bottle that held the oil of monk’s-hood. “Is that truly so deadly? Even a little of it can kill a man?”

  “So can many things,” said Cadfael, “used wrongly, or used in excess. Even wine, if you take enough of it. Even wholesome food, if you devour it beyond reason. And are your household content with their dwelling?”

  “It’s early yet to say,” said the young man guardedly.

  What age would he be? Twenty-five years or so? Hardly more. He bristled like an urchin at a touch, alert against all the world. Unfree, thought Cadfael, sympathetic; and of quick and vulnerable mind. Servant to someone less feeling than himself? It might well be.

  “How many are you in the house?”

  “My master and mistress, and I. And a maid.” A maid! No more, and his long, mobile mouth shut fast even on that.

  “Well, Aelfric, you’re welcome to make your way here when you will, and what I can supply for your lady, that I will. What is it I can send her this time?”

  “She asks for some sage, and some basil, if you have such. She brought a dish with her to warm for the evening,” said Aelfric, thawing a little, “and has it on a hob there, but it wants for sage. She was out. It’s a curious time, moving house here, she’ll have left a mort of things behind.”