Hermit of Eyton Forest by Ellis Peters

had indicated
to him, asking peremptorily of the villagers in Wroxeter for confirmation that
he was on the best road to the cell of the hermit Cuthred. It seemed that the
holy man was held in the kind of unofficial reverence common to the old Celtic
eremites, for more than one of those questioned spoke of him as Saint Cuthred.
    Drogo
entered the forest close to where Eaton land, as the shepherd in the field
informed him, bordered Eyton land, and a narrow ride brought him after almost a
mile of forest to a small, level clearing ringed round with thick woodland. The
stone hut in the centre was stoutly built but small and low-roofed, and showed
signs of recent repair after being neglected for years. There was a little
square garden enclosure round it, fenced in with a low pale, and part of the
ground within had been cleared and planted. Drogo dismounted at the edge of the
clearing and advanced to the fence, leading his horse by the bridle. The
evening silence was profound, there might have been no living being within a
mile of the place.
    But
the door of the hut stood open, and from deep within a steady gleam of light
showed. Drogo tethered his horse, and strode in through the garden and up to
the door, and still hearing no sound, went in. The room into which he stepped
was small and dim, and contained little but a pallet bed against the wall, a
small table and a bench. The light burned within, in a second room, and through
the open doorway, for there was no door between, he saw that this was a chapel.
The lamp burned upon a stone altar, before a small silver cross set up on a
carved wooden casket reliquary, and on the altar before the cross lay a slender
and elegant breviary in a gilded binding. Two silver candlesticks, surely the
gifts of the hermit’s patroness, flanked the cross, one on either side. Before
this altar a man was kneeling motionless, a tall man in a rough black habit,
with the cowl raised to cover his head. Against the small, steady light the
dark figure was impressive, the long, erect back straight as a lance, the head
not bowed but raised, the very image of sanctity. Even Drogo held his tongue
for a moment, but no longer. His own needs and desires were paramount, a
hermit’s prayers could and must yield to them. Evening was rapidly deepening
into night, and he had no time to waste.
    “You
are Cuthred?” he demanded firmly. “They told me at the abbey how to find you.”
    The
dignified figure did not move, unless he unfolded his unseen hands. But he said
in a measured and unstartled voice: “Yes, I am Cuthred. What do you need from
me? Come in and speak freely.”
    “You
have a boy who runs your errands. Where is he? I want to see him. You may well
have been cozened into keeping a rogue about you unawares.” And at that the
habited figure did turn, the cowled head reared to face the stranger, and the
sidelong light from the altar lamp showed a lean, deep-eyed, bearded face, a
long, straight, aristocratic nose, a fell of dark hair within the hood, as
Drogo Bosiet and the hermit of Eyton forest looked long and steadily at each
other.
     
    Brother
Cadfael was sitting by Eilmund’s couch, supping on bread and cheese and apples,
since like Richard he had missed his usual supper, and well content with a very
discontented patient, when Annet came back from feeding the hens and shutting
them in, and milking the one cow she kept for their own use. She had been an
unconscionable time about it, and so her disgruntled father told her. All trace
of fever had left him, his colour was good, and he was in no great discomfort,
but he was in a glum fury with his own helplessness, and impatient to be out
and about his business again, distrusting the abbot’s willing but untutored
substitutes to take proper care of his forest. The very shortness of his temper
was testimony to his sound health. And the offending leg was straight and gave
no great pain. Cadfael was well