“How many,” asked Cadfael carefully, after a moment of silence, “were with him then?”
“Three of us. On a simple journey and a short, thinking no evil. There were eight of them. I am the only one left who rode with Anarawd that day.” His voice was low and even. He had forgotten nothing and forgiven nothing, but he was in complete command of voice and face.
“I marvel,” said Cadfael, “that you lived to tell the story. It would not take long to bleed to death from such a wound.”
“And even less time to strike again and finish the work,” the young man agreed with a twisted smile. “And so they would have done if some others of our people had not heard the affray and come in haste. Me they left lying when they rode away. I was taken up and tended after his murderers had run. And when Hywel came with his army to avenge the slaying, he brought me back here with him, and Owain has taken me into his own service. A one-armed man is still good for something. And he can still hate.”
“You were close to your prince?”
“I grew up with him. I loved him.” His black eyes rested steadily upon the lively profile of Hywel ab Owain, who surely had taken Anarawd’s place in his loyalty, in so far as one man can ever replace another.
“May I know your name?” asked Cadfael. “And mine is, or in the world it was, Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd, a man of Gwynedd myself, born at Trefriw. And Benedictine though I may be, I have not forgotten my ancestry.”
“Nor should you, in the world or out of it. And my name is Cuhelyn ab Einion, a younger son of my father, and a man of my prince’s guard. In the old days,” he said, darkling, “it was disgrace for a man of the guard to return alive from the field on which his lord was slain. But I had and have good reason for living. Those of the murderers whom I knew I have named to Hywel, and they have paid. But some I did not know. I keep the faces in mind, for the day when I see them again and hear the names that go with the faces.”
“There is also one other, the chief, who has paid only a blood-price in lands,” said Cadfael. “What of him? Is it certain he gave the orders for this ambush?”
“Certain! They would never have dared, otherwise. And Owain Gwynedd has no doubts.”
“And where, do you suppose, is this Cadwaladr now? And has he resigned himself to the loss of everything he possessed?”
The young man shook his head. “Where he is no one seems to know. Nor what mischief he has next in mind. But resigned to his loss? That I doubt! Hywel took hostages from among the lesser chiefs who served under Cadwaladr, and brought them north to ensure there should be no further resistance in Ceredigion. Most of them have been released now, having sworn not to bear arms against Hywel’s rule or offer service again to Cadwaladr, unless at some time to come he should pledge reparation and be restored. There’s one still left captive in Aber, Gwion. He’s given his parole not to attempt escape, but he refuses to forswear his allegiance to Cadwaladr or promise peace to Hywel. A decent enough fellow,” said Cuhelyn tolerantly, “but still devoted to his lord. Can I hold that against a man? But such a lord! He deserves better for his worship.”
“You bear no hatred against him?”
“None, there is no reason. He had no part in the ambush, he is too young and too clean to be taken into such a villainy. After a fashion, I like him as he likes me. We are two of a kind. Could I blame him for holding fast to his allegiance as I hold fast to mine? If he would kill for Cadwaladr’s sake, so would I have done, so I did, for Anarawd. But not by stealth, in double force against light-armed men expecting no danger. Honestly, in open field, that’s another matter.”
The long meal was almost at its end, only the wine and mead still circling, and the hum of voices had mellowed into a low, contented buzzing like a hive of bees drunken and happy among summer meadows. In the centre of the high table Bishop Gilbert had taken up the fine scroll of his letter and broken the seal, and was on his feet with the vellum leaf unrolled in his hands. Roger de Clinton’s salutation was meant to be declaimed in public for its full effect, and had been carefully worded to impress the laity no less than the Celtic clergy, who might be most in need of a cautionary word. Gilbert’s sonorous voice made the most of it. Cadfael, listening, thought that Archbishop Theobald would be highly content with the result of his embassage.
“And now, my lord Owain,” Gilbert pursued, seizing the mellowed moment for which he must have been waiting throughout the feast, “I ask your leave to introduce a petitioner, who comes asking your indulgence for a plea on behalf of another. My appointment here gives me some right, by virtue of my office, to speak for peace, between individual men as between peoples. It is not good that there should be anger between brothers. Just cause there may have been at the outset, but there should be a term to every outlawry, every quarrel. I ask an audience for an ambassador who speaks on behalf of your brother Cadwaladr, that you may be reconciled with him as is fitting, and restore him to his lost place in your favour. May I admit Bledri ap Rhys?”
There was a brief, sharp silence, in which every eye turned upon the prince’s face. Cadfael felt the young man beside him stiffen and quiver in bitter resentment of such a breach of hospitality, for clearly this had been planned deliberately without a word of warning to the prince, without any prior consultation, taking an unfair advantage of the courtesy such a man would undoubtedly show towards the host at whose table he was seated. Even had this audience been sought in private, Cuhelyn would have found it deeply offensive. To precipitate it thus publicly, in hall before the entire household, was a breach of courtesy only possible to an insensitive Norman set up in authority among a people of whom he had no understanding. But if the liberty was as displeasing to Owain as it was to Cuhelyn, he did not allow it to appear. He let the silence lie just long enough to leave the issue in doubt, and perhaps shake Gilbert’s valiant self-assurance, and then he said clearly:
“At your wish, my lord bishop, I will certainly hear Bledri ap Rhys. Every man has the right to ask and to be heard. Without prejudice to the outcome!”
It was plain, as soon as the bishop’s steward brought the petitioner into the hall, that he had not come straight from travel to ask for this audience. Somewhere about the bishop’s enclave he had been waiting at ease for his entry here, and had prepared himself carefully, very fine and impressive in his dress and in his person, every grain of dust from the roads polished away. A tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man, black-haired and black-moustached, with an arrogant beak of a nose, and a bearing truculent rather than conciliatory. He swept with long strides into the centre of the open space fronting the dais, and made an elaborate obeisance in the general direction of prince and bishop. The gesture seemed to Cadfael to tend rather to the performer’s own aggrandisement than to any particular reverence for those saluted. He had everyone’s attention, and meant to retain it.
“My lord prince—my lord bishop, your devout servant! I come as a petitioner here before you.” He did not look the part, nor was his full, confident voice expressive of any such role.
“So I have heard,” said Owain. “You have something to ask of us. Ask it freely.”
“My lord, I was and am in fealty to your brother Cadwaladr, and I dare venture to speak for his right, in that he goes deprived of his lands, and made a stranger and disinherited in his own country. Whatever you may hold him guilty of, I dare to plead that such a penalty is more than he has deserved, and such as brother should not visit upon brother. And I ask of you that measure of generosity and forgiveness that should restore him his own again. He has endured this despoiling a year already, let that be enough, and set him up again in his lands of Ceredigion. The lord bishop will add his voice to mine for reconciliation.”
“The lord bishop has been before you,” said Owain drily, “and equally eloquent. I am not, and never have been, adamant against my brother, whatever follies he has committed, but murder is worse than folly, and requires a measure of penitence before forgiveness is due. The two, separated, are of no value, and where the one is not, I will not waste the other. Did Cadwaladr send you on this errand?”
“No, my lord, and knows nothing of my coming. It is he who suffers deprivation, and I who appeal for his right to be restored. If he has done ill in the past, is that good reason for shutting him out from the possibility of doing well in the future? And what has been done to him is extreme, for he has been made an exile in his own country, without a toehold on his own soil. Is that fair dealing?”
“It is less extreme,” said Owain coldly, “than what was done to Anarawd. Lands can be restored, if restoration is deserved. Life once lost is past restoration.”
“True, my lord, but even homicide may be compounded for a blood-price. To be stripped of all, and for life, is another kind of death.”
“We are not concerned with mere homicide, but with murder,” said Owain, “as well you know.”
At Cadfael’s left hand Cuhelyn sat stiff and motionless in his place, his eyes fixed upon Bledri, their glance lengthened to pierce through him and beyond. His face was white, and his single hand clenched tightly upon the edge of the board, the knuckles sharp and pale as ice. He said no word and made no sound, but his bleak stare never wavered.
“Too harsh a name,” said Bledri fiercely, “for a deed done in heat. Nor did your lordship wait to hear my prince’s side of the quarrel.”
“For a deed done in heat,” said Owain with immovable composure, “this was well planned. Eight men do not lie in wait in cover for four travellers unsuspecting and unarmed, in hot blood. You do your lord’s cause no favour by defending his crime. You said you came to plead. My mind is not closed against reconciliation, civilly sought. It is proof against threats.”
“Yet, Owain,” cried Bledri, flaring like a resinous torch, “it behoves even you to weigh what consequences may follow if you are obdurate. A wise man would know when to unbend, before his own brand burns back into his face.”
Cuhelyn started out of his stillness, quivering, and was half rising to his feet when he regained control, and sank back in his place, again mute and motionless. Hywel had not moved, nor had his face changed. He had his father’s formidable composure. And Owain’s unshaken and unshakable calm subdued in a moment the uneasy stir and murmur that had passed round the high table and started louder echoes down in the floor of the hall.
“Am I to take that as threat, or promise, or a forecast of a doom from heaven?” asked Owain, in the most amiable of voices, but none the less with a razor edge to the tone that gave it piercing sweetness, and caused Bledri to draw back his head a little as if from a possible blow, and for a moment veil the smouldering fire of his black eyes, and abate the savage tightness of his lips. Somewhat more cautiously he responded at last:
“I meant only that enmity and hatred between brothers is unseemly among men, and cannot but be displeasing to God. It cannot bear any but disastrous fruit. I beg you, restore your brother his rights.”
“That,” said Owain thoughtfully, and eyeing the petitioner with a stare that measured and probed beyond the words offered, “I am not yet ready to concede. But perhaps we should consider of this matter at more leisure. Tomorrow morning I and my people set out for Aber and Bangor, together with some of the lord bishop’s household and these visitors from Lichfield. It is in my mind, Bledri ap Rhys, that you should ride with us and be our guest at Aber, and on the way, and there at home in my llys, you may better develop your argument, and I better consider on those consequences of which you make mention. I should not like,” said Owain in tones of honey, “to invite disaster for want of forethought. Say yes to my hospitality, and sit down with us at our host’s table.”
It was entirely plain to Cadfael, as to many another within the hall, that by this time Bledri had small choice in the matter. Owain’s men of the guard had fully understood the nature of the invitation. By his tight smile, so had Bledri, though he accepted it with every evidence of pleasure and satisfaction. No doubt it suited him to continue in the prince’s company, whether as guest or prisoner, and to keep his eyes and ears open on the ride to Aber. All the more if his hint of dire consequences meant more than the foreshadowing of divine disapproval of enmity between brothers. He had said a little too much to be taken at his face value. And as a guest, free or under guard, his own safety was assured. He took the place that was cleared for him at the bishop’s table, and drank to the prince with a discreet countenance and easy smile.
The bishop visibly drew deep breath, relieved that his well-meaning effort at peace-making had at least survived the first skirmish. Whether he had understood the vibrating undertones of what had passed was doubtful. The subtleties of the Welsh were probably wasted on a forthright and devout Norman, Cadfael reflected. The better for him, he could speed his departing guests, thus augmented by one, and console himself that he had done all a man could do to bring about reconciliation. What followed, whatever it might be, was no responsibility of his.
The mead went round amicably, and the prince’s harper sang the greatness and virtues of Owain’s line and the beauty of Gwynedd. And after him, to Cadfael’s respectful surprise, Hywel ab Owain rose and took the harp, and improvised mellifluously on the women of the north. Poet and bard as well as warrior, this was undoubtedly an admirable shoot from that admirable stem. He knew what he was doing with his music. All the tensions of the evening dissolved into amity and song. Or if they survived, at least the bishop, comforted and relaxed, lost all awareness of them.
*
In the privacy of their own lodging, with the night still drowsily astir outside the half-open door, Brother Mark sat mute and thoughtful on the edge of his bed for some moments, pondering all that had passed, until at last he said, with the conviction of one who has reviewed all circumstances and come to a firm conclusion: “He meant nothing but good. He is a good man.”
“But not a wise one,” said Cadfael from the doorway. The night without was dark, without a moon, but the stars filled it with a distant, blue glimmer that showed where occasional shadows crossed from building to building, making for their rest. The babel of the day was now an almost-silence, now and then quivering to the murmur of low voices tranquilly exchanging goodnights. Rather a tremor on the air than an audible sound. There was no wind. Even the softest of movements vibrated along the cords of the senses, making silence eloquent.
“He trusts too easily,” Mark agreed with a sigh. “Integrity expects integrity.”
“And you find it missing in Bledri ap Rhys?” Cadfael asked respectfully. Brother Mark could still surprise him now and then.
“I doubt him. He comes too brazenly, knowing once received he is safe from any harm or affront. And he feels secure enough in Welsh hospitality to threaten.”
“So he did,” said Cadfael thoughtfully. “And passed it off as a reminder of heaven’s displeasure. And what did you make of that?”
“He drew in his horns,” said Mark positively, “knowing he had gone a step too far. But there was more in that than a pastoral warning. And truly I wonder where this Cadwaladr is now, and what he is up to. For I think that was a plain threat of trouble here and now if Owain refused his brother’s demands. Something is in the planning, and this Bledri knows of it.”
“I fancy,” said Cadfael placidly, “that the prince is of your opinion also, or at least has the possibility well in mind. You heard him. He has given due notice to all his men that Bledri ap Rhys is to remain in the royal retinue here, in Aber, and on the road between. If there’s mischief planned, Bledri, if he can’t be made to betray it, can be prevented from playing any part in it, or letting his master know the prince has taken the warning, and is on his guard. Now I wonder did Bledri read as much into it, and whether he’ll go to the trouble to put it to the test?”
“He did not seem to me to be put out of his stride,” said Mark doubtfully. “If he did understand it so, it did not disquiet him. Can he have provoked it purposely?”
“Who knows? It may suit him to go along with us to Aber, and keep his eyes and ears open along the way and within the llys, if he’s spying out the prince’s dispositions for his master. Or for himself!” Cadfael conceded thoughtfully, “Though what’s the advantage to him, unless it’s to put him safely out of the struggle, I confess I don’t see.” For a prisoner who enjoys officially the status of a guest can come to no harm, whatever the issue. If his own lord wins, he is delivered without reproach, and if his captor is the victor he is immune just as surely, safe from injury in the battle or reprisals after it. “But he did not strike me as a cautious man,” Cadfael owned, rejecting the option, though with some lingering reluctance.
A few threads of shadow still crossed the gathering darkness of the precinct, ripples on a nocturnal lake. The open door of the bishop’s great hall made a rectangle of faint light, most of the torches within already quenched, the fire turfed down but still glowing, distant murmurs of movement and voices a slight quiver on the silence, as the servants cleared away the remnants of the feast and the tables that had borne it.
A tall, dark figure, wide-shouldered and erect against the pale light, appeared in the doorway of the hall, paused for a long moment as though breathing in the cool of the night, and then moved leisurely down the steps, and began to pace the beaten earth of the court, slowly and sinuously, like a man flexing his muscles after being seated a while too long. Cadfael opened the door a little wider, to have the shadowy movements in view.
“Where are you going?” asked Mark at his back, anticipating with alert intelligence.
“Not far,” said Cadfael. “Just far enough to see what rises to our friend Bledri’s bait. And how he takes it!”
He stood motionless outside the door for a long moment, drawing the door to behind him, to accustom his eyes to the night, as doubtless Bledri ap Rhys was also doing as he trailed his coat to and fro, nearer and nearer to the open gate of the precinct. The earth was firm enough to make his crisp, deliberate steps audible, as plainly he meant them to be. But nothing stirred and no one took note of him, not even the few servants drifting away to their beds, until he turned deliberately and walked straight towards the open gate. Cadfael had advanced at leisure along the line of modest canonical houses and guest lodgings, to keep the event in view.
With admirable aplomb two brisk figures heaved up into the gateway from the fields without, amiably wreathed together, collided with Bledri in midpassage, and untwined themselves to embrace him between them.
“What, my lord Bledri!” boomed one blithe Welsh voice. “Is it you? Taking a breath of air before sleeping? And a fine night for it!”
“We’ll bear you company, willingly,” the second voice offered heartily. “It’s early to go to bed yet. And we’ll see you safe to your own brychan, if you lose your way in the dark.”
“I’m none so drunk as to go astray,” Bledri acknowledged without surprise or concern. “And for all the good company there is to be had in Saint Asaph tonight, I think I’ll get to my bed. You gentlemen will be needing your sleep, too, if we’re off with the morn tomorrow.” The smile in his voice was clear to be sensed. He had the answer he had looked for, and it caused him no dismay, rather a measure of amusement, perhaps even satisfaction. “Goodnight to you!” he said, and turned to saunter back towards the hall door, still dimly lighted from within.
Silence hung outside the precinct wall, though the nearest tents of Owain’s camp were not far away. The wall was not so high that it could not be climbed, though wherever a man mounted, there would be someone waiting below on the other side. But in any case Bledri ap Rhys had no intention of removing himself, he had merely been confirming his expectation that any attempt to do so would very simply and neatly be frustrated. Owain’s orders were readily understood even when obliquely stated, and would be efficiently carried out. If Bledri had been in any doubt of that, he knew better now. And as for the two convivial guards, they withdrew again into the night with an absence of pretence which was almost insulting.
And that, on the face of it, was the end of the incident. Yet Cadfael continued immobile and detachedly interested, invisible against the dark bulk of the timber buildings, as if he expected some kind of epilogue to round off the night’s entertainment.
Into the oblong of dim light at the head of the steps came the girl Heledd, unmistakable even in silhouette by the impetuous grace of her carriage and her tall slenderness. Even at the end of an evening of serving the bishop’s guests and the retainers of his household she moved like a fawn. And if Cadfael observed her appearance with impersonal pleasure, so did Bledri ap Rhys, from where he stood just aside from the foot of the steps, with a startled appreciation somewhat less impersonal, having no monastic restraints to hold it in check. He had just confirmed that he was now, willing or otherwise, a member of the prince’s retinue at least as far as Aber, and in all probability he already knew, since he was lodged in the bishop’s own house, that this promising girl was the one who would be riding with the party at dawn. The prospect offered a hope of mild pleasure along the way, to pass the time agreeably. At the very least, here was this moment, to round off an eventful and enjoyable evening. She was descending, with one of the embroidered drapings of the high table rolled up in her arms, on her way to the canonical dwellings across the precinct. Perhaps wine had been spilled on the cloth, or some of the gilt threads been snagged by a belt buckle or the rough setting of a dagger hilt or a bracelet, and she was charged with its repair. He had been about to ascend, but waited aside instead, for the pleasure of watching her at ever closer view as she came down, eyes lowered to be sure of stepping securely. He was so still and she so preoccupied that she had not observed him. And when she had reached the third step from the ground he suddenly reached out and took her by the waist between his hands, very neatly, and swung her round in a half-circle, and so held her suspended, face to face with him and close, for a long moment before he set her quite gently on her feet. He did not, however, relinquish his hold of her.
It was done quite lightly and playfully, and for all Cadfael could see, which was merely a shadow play, Heledd received it without much trace of displeasure, and certainly none of alarm, once the surprise was past. She had uttered one small, startled gasp as he plucked her aloft, but that was all, and once set down she stood looking up at him eye to eye, and made no move to break away. It is not unpleasant to any woman to be admired by a handsome man. She said something to him, the words indistinguishable but the tone light and tolerant to Cadfael’s ear, if not downright encouraging. And something he said in return to her, at the very least with no sign of discouragement. No doubt Bledri ap Rhys had a very good opinion of himself and his attractions, but it was in Cadfael’s mind that Heledd, for all she might enjoy his attentions, was also quite capable of keeping them within decorous bounds. Doubtful if she was considering letting him get very far. But from this pleasurable brush with him she could extricate herself whenever she chose. They were neither of them taking it seriously.
In the event she was not to be given the opportunity to conclude it in her own fashion. For the light from the open doorway above was suddenly darkened by the bulk of a big man’s body, and the abrupt eclipse cast the linked pair below into relative obscurity. Canon Meirion paused for a moment to adjust his vision to the night, and began to descend the steps with his usual selfconscious dignity. With the dwindling of his massive shadow renewed light fell upon Heledd’s glossy hair and the pale oval of her face, and the broad shoulders and arrogant head of Bledri ap Rhys, the pair of them closely linked in what fell little short of an embrace.
It seemed to Brother Cadfael, watching with unashamed interest from his dark corner, that both of them were very well aware of the stormcloud bearing down on them, and neither was disposed to do anything to evade or placate it. Indeed, he perceived that Heledd softened by a hair the stiffness of her stance, and allowed her head to tilt towards the descending light and glitter into a bright and brittle smile, meant rather for her father’s discomfort than for Bledri’s gratification. Let him sweat for his place and his desired advancement! She had said that she could destroy him if she so willed, it was something she would never do, but if he was so crass, and knew so little of her, as to believe her capable of bringing about his ruin, he deserved to pay for his stupidity.
The instant of intense stillness exploded into a flurry of movement, as Canon Meirion recovered his breath and came seething down the steps in a turmoil of clerical black, like a sudden thundercloud, took his daughter by the arm, and wrenched her firmly away from Bledri’s grasp. As firmly and competently she withdrew herself from this new compulsion, and brushed the very touch of his hand from her sleeve. The dagger glances that must have strained through the dimness between sire and daughter were blunted by the night. And Bledri suffered his deprivation gracefully, without stirring a step, and very softly laughed.
“Oh, pardon if I have trespassed on your rights of warren,” he said, deliberately obtuse. “I had not reckoned with a rival of your cloth. Not here in Bishop Gilbert’s household. I see I have undervalued his breadth of mind.”
He was being provocative deliberately, of course. Even if he had had no notion that this indignant elder was the girl’s father, he certainly knew that this intervention could hardly bear the interpretation he was placing upon it. But had not the impulse of mischief originated rather with Heledd? It did not please her that the canon should have so little confidence in her judgement as to suppose she would need help in dealing with a passing piece of impudence from this questionably welcome visitor. And Bledri was quite sufficiently accomplished in the study of women to catch the drift of her mild malice, and play the accomplice, for her gratification as readily as for his own amusement.
“Sir,” said Meirion with weighty and forbidding dignity, curbing his rage, “my daughter is affianced, and shortly to be married. Here in his lordship’s court you will treat her and all other women with respect.” And to Heledd he said brusquely, and with a sharp gesture of his hand towards their lodging under the far wall of the enclave: “Go in, girl! The hour is late already, you should be withindoors.”
Heledd, without haste or discomposure, gave them a slight, curt inclination of her head to share between them, and turned and walked away. The rear view of her as she went was expressive, and disdainful of men in general.
“And a very fine girl, too,” said Bledri approvingly, watching her departure.
“You may be proud of your getting, Father. I hope you are marrying her to a man who’ll appreciate beauty. The small courtesy of hefting the lass down the steps to level ground can hardly have blemished his bargain.” His clear, incisive voice had dwelt fondly on the word ‘Father’, well aware of the dual sting.
“Well, what the eye has not seen, the heart need not grieve, and I hear the bridegroom is well away in Anglesey. And no doubt you can keep a still tongue where this match is concerned.” The plain implication was there, very sweetly insinuated. No, Canon Meirion was exceedingly unlikely to make any move that could jeopardise his cleansed and celibate and promising future. Bledri ap Rhys was very quick on the uptake, and well informed about the bishop’s clerical reforms. He had even sensed Heledd’s resentment at being so ruthlessly disposed of, and her impulse to take her revenge before departing.
“Sir, you are a guest of prince and bishop, and as such are expected to observe the standards due to their hospitality.” Meirion was stiff as a lance, and his voice thinned and steely as a sword-blade. Within his well-schooled person there was a ferocious Welsh temper under arduous control. “If you do not, you will rue it. Whatever my own situation, I will see to that. Do not approach my daughter, or attempt to have any further ado with her. Your courtesies are unwelcome.”
“Not, I think, to the lady,” said Bledri, with the most complacent of smiles implicit in the very tone of his voice. “She has a tongue, and a palm, and I fancy would have been ready enough to use both if I had caused her any displeasure. I like a lass of spirit. If she grants me occasion, I shall tell her so. Why should she not enjoy the admiration she is entitled to, these few hours on the road to her marriage?”
The brief silence fell like a stone between them; Cadfael felt the air quiver with the tension of their stillness. Then Canon Meirion said, through gritted teeth and from a throat constricted with the effort to contain his rage: “My lord, do not think this cloth I wear will prove any protection to you if you affront my honour, or my daughter’s good name. Be warned, and keep away from her, or you shall have excellent cause to regret it. Though perhaps,” he ended, even lower and more malevolently, “too brief time!”
“Time enough,” said Bledri, not noticeably disturbed by the palpable threat, “for all the regretting I’m likely to do. It’s something I’ve had small practice in. Goodnight to your reverence!” And he passed by Meirion so close their sleeves brushed, perhaps intentionally, and began to climb the steps to the hall door. And the canon, wrenching himself out of his paralysis of rage with an effort, composed his dignity about him as best he could, and stalked away towards his own door.
*
Cadfael returned to his own quarters very thoughtfully, and recounted the whole of this small incident to Brother Mark, who was lying wakeful and wide-eyed after his prayers, by some private and peculiar sensitivity of his own already aware of turbulent cross-currents trembling on the night air. He listened, unsurprised.
“How much, would you say, Cadfael, is his concern only for his own advancement, how much truly for his daughter? For he does feel guilt towards her. Guilt that he resents her as a burden to his prospects, guilt at loving her less than she loves him. A guilt that makes him all the more anxious to put her out of sight, far away, another man’s charge.”
“Who can decypher any man’s motives?” said Cadfael resignedly. “Much less a woman’s. But I tell you this, she would do well not to drive him too far. The man has a core of violence in him. I would not like to see it let loose. It could be a killing force.”
“And against which of them,” wondered Mark, staring into the dark of the roof above him, “would the lightning be launched, if ever the storm broke?”