smiling. “I’ll bear that in mind as a promise.” And he made a small, graceful obeisance, and walked away at leisure to the courtyard.
The reapers came back in time for Vespers, sun-reddened, weary and sweat-stained, but with the corn all cut and stacked for carrying. After supper Godith slipped out of the refectory in haste, and came to pluck at Cadfael’s sleeve.
“Brother Cadfael, you must come! Something vital!” He felt the quivering excitement of her hand, and the quiet intensity of her whispering voice. “There’s time before Compline—come back to the field with me.”
“What is it?” he asked as softly, for they were within earshot of a dozen people if they had spoken aloud, and she was not the woman to fuss over nothing. “What has happened to you? What have you left down there that’s so urgent?”
“A man! A wounded man! He’s been in the river, he was hunted into it upstream and came down with the current. I dared not stay to question, but I knew he’s in need. And hungry! He’s been there a night and a day…”
“How did you find him? You alone? No one else knows?”
“No one else.” She gripped Cadfael’s sleeve more tightly, and her whisper grew gruff with shyness. “It was a long day… I went aside, and had to go far aside, into the bushes near the mill. Nobody saw…”
“Surely, child! I know!” Please God all the boys, her contemporaries, were kept hard at it, and never noticed such daintiness. Brother Athanasius would not have noticed a thunderclap right behind him. “He was there in the bushes? And is still?”
“Yes. I gave him the bread and meat I had with me, and told him I’d come back when I could. His clothes have dried on him—there’s blood on his sleeve… But I think he’ll do well, if you take care of him. We could hide him in the mill—no one goes there yet.” She had thought of all the essentials, she was towing him towards his hut in the herb garden, not directly towards the gate house. Medicines, linen, food, they would need all these.
“Of what age,” asked Cadfael, more easily now they were well away from listeners, “is this wounded man of yours?”
“A boy,” she said on a soft breath. “Hardly older than I am. And hunted! He thinks I am a boy, of course. I gave him the water from my bottle, and he called me Ganymede…”
Well, well, thought Cadfael, bustling before her into the hut, a young man of some learning, it seems! “Then, Ganymede,” he said, bundling a roll of linen, a blanket and a pot of salve into her arms, “stow these about you, while I fill this little vial and put some vittles together. Wait here a few minutes for me, and we’ll be off. And on the way you can tell me everything about this young fellow you’ve discovered, for once across the road no one is going to hear us.”
And on the way she did indeed pour out in her relief and eagerness what she could not have said so freely by daylight. It was not yet dark, but a fine neutral twilight in which they saw each other clear but without colours.
“The bushes there are thick. I heard him stir and groan, and I went to look. He looks like a young gentleman of family, someone’s squire. Yes, he talked to me, but—but told me nothing, it was like talking to a wilful child. So weak, and blood on his shoulder and arm, and making little jests… But he trusted me enough to know I wouldn’t betray him.” She skipped beside Cadfael through the tall stubble into which the abbey sheep would soon be turned to graze, and to fertilise the field with their droppings. “I gave him what I had, and told him to lie still, and I would bring help as soon as it grew dusk.”
“Now we’re near, do you lead the way. You he’ll know.” There was already starlight before the sun was gone, a lovely August light that would still last them, their eyes being accustomed, an hour or more, while veiling them from other eyes. Godith withdrew from Cadfael’s clasp the hand that had
The reapers came back in time for Vespers, sun-reddened, weary and sweat-stained, but with the corn all cut and stacked for carrying. After supper Godith slipped out of the refectory in haste, and came to pluck at Cadfael’s sleeve.
“Brother Cadfael, you must come! Something vital!” He felt the quivering excitement of her hand, and the quiet intensity of her whispering voice. “There’s time before Compline—come back to the field with me.”
“What is it?” he asked as softly, for they were within earshot of a dozen people if they had spoken aloud, and she was not the woman to fuss over nothing. “What has happened to you? What have you left down there that’s so urgent?”
“A man! A wounded man! He’s been in the river, he was hunted into it upstream and came down with the current. I dared not stay to question, but I knew he’s in need. And hungry! He’s been there a night and a day…”
“How did you find him? You alone? No one else knows?”
“No one else.” She gripped Cadfael’s sleeve more tightly, and her whisper grew gruff with shyness. “It was a long day… I went aside, and had to go far aside, into the bushes near the mill. Nobody saw…”
“Surely, child! I know!” Please God all the boys, her contemporaries, were kept hard at it, and never noticed such daintiness. Brother Athanasius would not have noticed a thunderclap right behind him. “He was there in the bushes? And is still?”
“Yes. I gave him the bread and meat I had with me, and told him I’d come back when I could. His clothes have dried on him—there’s blood on his sleeve… But I think he’ll do well, if you take care of him. We could hide him in the mill—no one goes there yet.” She had thought of all the essentials, she was towing him towards his hut in the herb garden, not directly towards the gate house. Medicines, linen, food, they would need all these.
“Of what age,” asked Cadfael, more easily now they were well away from listeners, “is this wounded man of yours?”
“A boy,” she said on a soft breath. “Hardly older than I am. And hunted! He thinks I am a boy, of course. I gave him the water from my bottle, and he called me Ganymede…”
Well, well, thought Cadfael, bustling before her into the hut, a young man of some learning, it seems! “Then, Ganymede,” he said, bundling a roll of linen, a blanket and a pot of salve into her arms, “stow these about you, while I fill this little vial and put some vittles together. Wait here a few minutes for me, and we’ll be off. And on the way you can tell me everything about this young fellow you’ve discovered, for once across the road no one is going to hear us.”
And on the way she did indeed pour out in her relief and eagerness what she could not have said so freely by daylight. It was not yet dark, but a fine neutral twilight in which they saw each other clear but without colours.
“The bushes there are thick. I heard him stir and groan, and I went to look. He looks like a young gentleman of family, someone’s squire. Yes, he talked to me, but—but told me nothing, it was like talking to a wilful child. So weak, and blood on his shoulder and arm, and making little jests… But he trusted me enough to know I wouldn’t betray him.” She skipped beside Cadfael through the tall stubble into which the abbey sheep would soon be turned to graze, and to fertilise the field with their droppings. “I gave him what I had, and told him to lie still, and I would bring help as soon as it grew dusk.”
“Now we’re near, do you lead the way. You he’ll know.” There was already starlight before the sun was gone, a lovely August light that would still last them, their eyes being accustomed, an hour or more, while veiling them from other eyes. Godith withdrew from Cadfael’s clasp the hand that had
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