submitted wearily, knitting his brows in the effort to remember. "I came from the house, along the passage towards Saint Mary's, above the water-gate. The door of the tanner's yard was standing open, I know I'd passed it... But I never heard a step behind me. As if the wall had fallen on me! I recall nothing after, except sudden cold, deadly cold... Who brought me back, then, that I'm snug here?"
They told him, and he shook his head helplessly over the great blank between.
"You think the fellow must have been hiding behind that yard-door, lying in wait?"
"So it seems."
"And you caught never a glimpse? Never had time to turn your head? You can tell us nothing to trace him? Not even a guess at his build? His age?"
Nothing. Simply, there had been early dusk before him, his own steps the only sound, no man in sight between the high walls of gardens, yards and warehouses going down to the river, and then the shock of the blow, and abrupt darkness. He was growing tired again, but his mind was clear enough. There would be no more to get from him.
Brother Edmund came in, eyed his patient, and silently nodded the visitors out at the door, to leave him in peace. Eddi kissed his father's dangling hand, but brusquely, rather as though he would as lief have bitten it, and marched out to blink at the sunlight in the great court. With a face grimly defiant he waited for the sergeant's dismissal.
"I left him as I told you, I went to the butts, and played into a wager there, and shot well. You'll want names from me. I can give them. And I'm still short the half of my fine, for what that's worth. I knew nothing of this until I went home, and that was late, after your messenger had been there. Can I go home? I'm at your disposal."
"You can," granted the sergeant, so readily that it was clear the young man would not be unwatched on the way, or on arrival. "And there stay, for I shall want more from you than merely names. I'm away to take their tales from the lay brothers who were working late at the Gaye yesterday, but I'll not be long after you in the town."
The workers were already assembling in the court and moving off to their day's labour. The sergeant strode forth to find his men, and left Eddi glowering after him, and Cadfael mildly observing the wary play of thought in the dark young face. Not a bad-looking lad, if he would wear a sunnier visage; but perhaps at this moment he had little cause.
"He will truly be a hale man again?" he asked suddenly, turning his black gaze on Cadfael.
"As whole and hearty as ever he was."
"And you'll take good care of him?"
"So we will," agreed Cadfael innocently, "even though he may be a cantankerous worrit and a plague."
"I 'm sure none of you here have any call to say so," flashed the young man with abrupt ferocity. "The abbey has had loyal and solid service from him all these years, and owes him more thanks than abuse." And he turned his back and stalked away out of the great court, leaving Cadfael looking after him with a thoughtful face and the mere trace of a smile.
He was careful to wipe off the smile before he went back to Master William, who was in no mood to take himself, his son and his troubles anything but seriously. He lay trying to blink and frown away his headache, and fulminating about his offspring in a glum undertone.
"You see what I have to complain of, who should be able to look for comfort and support at home. A wild, unbiddable good-for-nothing, and insolent into the bargain..."
"So he is," agreed Cadfael sympathetically, wooden-faced. "No wonder you mean to let him pay for his follies in prison, and small blame to you."
He got an acid glare as reward. "I shall do no such thing!" snapped Master William sharply. "The boy's no worse than you or I at his age, I daresay. Nothing wrong with him that time won't cure."
Master William's disaster, it seemed, had shaken the serenity of the abbey from choir to guest-hall. The enquiries were many and assiduous. Young Jacob had
They told him, and he shook his head helplessly over the great blank between.
"You think the fellow must have been hiding behind that yard-door, lying in wait?"
"So it seems."
"And you caught never a glimpse? Never had time to turn your head? You can tell us nothing to trace him? Not even a guess at his build? His age?"
Nothing. Simply, there had been early dusk before him, his own steps the only sound, no man in sight between the high walls of gardens, yards and warehouses going down to the river, and then the shock of the blow, and abrupt darkness. He was growing tired again, but his mind was clear enough. There would be no more to get from him.
Brother Edmund came in, eyed his patient, and silently nodded the visitors out at the door, to leave him in peace. Eddi kissed his father's dangling hand, but brusquely, rather as though he would as lief have bitten it, and marched out to blink at the sunlight in the great court. With a face grimly defiant he waited for the sergeant's dismissal.
"I left him as I told you, I went to the butts, and played into a wager there, and shot well. You'll want names from me. I can give them. And I'm still short the half of my fine, for what that's worth. I knew nothing of this until I went home, and that was late, after your messenger had been there. Can I go home? I'm at your disposal."
"You can," granted the sergeant, so readily that it was clear the young man would not be unwatched on the way, or on arrival. "And there stay, for I shall want more from you than merely names. I'm away to take their tales from the lay brothers who were working late at the Gaye yesterday, but I'll not be long after you in the town."
The workers were already assembling in the court and moving off to their day's labour. The sergeant strode forth to find his men, and left Eddi glowering after him, and Cadfael mildly observing the wary play of thought in the dark young face. Not a bad-looking lad, if he would wear a sunnier visage; but perhaps at this moment he had little cause.
"He will truly be a hale man again?" he asked suddenly, turning his black gaze on Cadfael.
"As whole and hearty as ever he was."
"And you'll take good care of him?"
"So we will," agreed Cadfael innocently, "even though he may be a cantankerous worrit and a plague."
"I 'm sure none of you here have any call to say so," flashed the young man with abrupt ferocity. "The abbey has had loyal and solid service from him all these years, and owes him more thanks than abuse." And he turned his back and stalked away out of the great court, leaving Cadfael looking after him with a thoughtful face and the mere trace of a smile.
He was careful to wipe off the smile before he went back to Master William, who was in no mood to take himself, his son and his troubles anything but seriously. He lay trying to blink and frown away his headache, and fulminating about his offspring in a glum undertone.
"You see what I have to complain of, who should be able to look for comfort and support at home. A wild, unbiddable good-for-nothing, and insolent into the bargain..."
"So he is," agreed Cadfael sympathetically, wooden-faced. "No wonder you mean to let him pay for his follies in prison, and small blame to you."
He got an acid glare as reward. "I shall do no such thing!" snapped Master William sharply. "The boy's no worse than you or I at his age, I daresay. Nothing wrong with him that time won't cure."
Master William's disaster, it seemed, had shaken the serenity of the abbey from choir to guest-hall. The enquiries were many and assiduous. Young Jacob had
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