two supporters
he was hauled upright, and held so as the blood flowed back achingly into his
numbed legs.
“In
God’s name, man,” said the young man Roscelin impatiently, “must you use
yourself so hardly when you have already enough for any sane man to carry?”
Haluin
was too startled, and his mind still too far away, to be capable of grasping
that, much less answering it. And if Cadfael privately considered it a
perfectly sensible reaction, aloud he said practically, “Keep firm hold of him
so, while I pick up his crutches. And God bless you for appearing so aptly.
Spare to scold him, you’d be wasting your breath. He’s under vow.”
“A
foolish vow!” said the boy with the arrogant certainty of his years. “Who’s the
better for this?” But for all his disapproval he held Haluin warmly and firmly,
and looked at him sidelong with a frown at least as anxious as it was
exasperated,
“He
is,” said Cadfael, propping the crutches under Haluin’s armpits, and setting to
work to chafe life back into the cold hands that could not yet grip the staves.
“Hard to believe, but you had better credit it. There, you can let him lean on
his props now, but hold him steady. Well for you at your years, you can sleep
easy, with nothing to regret and nothing to ask pardon for. How did you come to
look in here so timely?” he asked, eyeing the young man with fresh interest,
thus at close quarters. “Were you sent?”
For
this boy seemed an unlikely instrument for Adeiais to use in shepherding her
inconvenient guests in and out of Elford—too young, too blunt, too innocent.
“No,”
said Roscelin shortly, and relented to add with better grace, “I was plain
curious.”
“Well,
that’s human,” admitted Cadfael, recognizing his own besetting sin.
“And
this morning Audemar has no immediate work for me, he’s busy with his steward.
Had we not better get this brother of yours back to his lodging, where it’s
warmer? How shall we do? I can fetch a horse for him if we can get him
mounted.”
Haluin
had come back from his distant place to find himself being discussed and
handled as if he had no mind of his own, and no awareness of his surroundings.
He stiffened instinctively against the indignity. “No,” he said, “I thank you,
but I can go now. I need not trespass on your kindness further.” And he flexed
his hands and gripped the staves of his crutches, and took the first cautious
steps away from the tomb.
They
followed closely, one at either elbow in case he faltered, Roscelin going
before up the shallow steps and through the doorway to prevent a possible
stumble, Cadfael coming close behind to support him if he reeled backward. But
Haluin had gathered to his aid a will refreshed and strengthened by
achievement, and was resolute to manage this walk alone, at whatever cost. And
there was no haste. When he felt the need he could rest on his crutches to draw
breath, and so he did three times before they reached Audemar’s courtyard,
already populous and busy about bakery and mews and wellhead. It said much for
young Roscelin’s quickness and delicacy of mind, Cadfael reflected, that he waited
without comment or impatience at every pause, and refrained from offering a
hand in help until help should be invited. So Haluin came back to the lodging
in Audemar’s courtyard as he would have wished, on his own misshapen feet, and
could feel that he had earned the ease of his bed.
Roscelin
followed them in, still curious, in no haste to go in search of whatever duties
awaited him. “Is that all, then?” he said, watching Haluin stretch out his
still-numbed limbs gratefully, and draw the brychan over them. “Then where do
you go when you leave us? And when? You’ll not set out today?”
“We
go back to Shrewsbury,” said Cadfael. “Today—that I doubt. A day’s rest would
be wisdom.” By the weary ease of Haluin’s face, and the softened gaze turned
he was hauled upright, and held so as the blood flowed back achingly into his
numbed legs.
“In
God’s name, man,” said the young man Roscelin impatiently, “must you use
yourself so hardly when you have already enough for any sane man to carry?”
Haluin
was too startled, and his mind still too far away, to be capable of grasping
that, much less answering it. And if Cadfael privately considered it a
perfectly sensible reaction, aloud he said practically, “Keep firm hold of him
so, while I pick up his crutches. And God bless you for appearing so aptly.
Spare to scold him, you’d be wasting your breath. He’s under vow.”
“A
foolish vow!” said the boy with the arrogant certainty of his years. “Who’s the
better for this?” But for all his disapproval he held Haluin warmly and firmly,
and looked at him sidelong with a frown at least as anxious as it was
exasperated,
“He
is,” said Cadfael, propping the crutches under Haluin’s armpits, and setting to
work to chafe life back into the cold hands that could not yet grip the staves.
“Hard to believe, but you had better credit it. There, you can let him lean on
his props now, but hold him steady. Well for you at your years, you can sleep
easy, with nothing to regret and nothing to ask pardon for. How did you come to
look in here so timely?” he asked, eyeing the young man with fresh interest,
thus at close quarters. “Were you sent?”
For
this boy seemed an unlikely instrument for Adeiais to use in shepherding her
inconvenient guests in and out of Elford—too young, too blunt, too innocent.
“No,”
said Roscelin shortly, and relented to add with better grace, “I was plain
curious.”
“Well,
that’s human,” admitted Cadfael, recognizing his own besetting sin.
“And
this morning Audemar has no immediate work for me, he’s busy with his steward.
Had we not better get this brother of yours back to his lodging, where it’s
warmer? How shall we do? I can fetch a horse for him if we can get him
mounted.”
Haluin
had come back from his distant place to find himself being discussed and
handled as if he had no mind of his own, and no awareness of his surroundings.
He stiffened instinctively against the indignity. “No,” he said, “I thank you,
but I can go now. I need not trespass on your kindness further.” And he flexed
his hands and gripped the staves of his crutches, and took the first cautious
steps away from the tomb.
They
followed closely, one at either elbow in case he faltered, Roscelin going
before up the shallow steps and through the doorway to prevent a possible
stumble, Cadfael coming close behind to support him if he reeled backward. But
Haluin had gathered to his aid a will refreshed and strengthened by
achievement, and was resolute to manage this walk alone, at whatever cost. And
there was no haste. When he felt the need he could rest on his crutches to draw
breath, and so he did three times before they reached Audemar’s courtyard,
already populous and busy about bakery and mews and wellhead. It said much for
young Roscelin’s quickness and delicacy of mind, Cadfael reflected, that he waited
without comment or impatience at every pause, and refrained from offering a
hand in help until help should be invited. So Haluin came back to the lodging
in Audemar’s courtyard as he would have wished, on his own misshapen feet, and
could feel that he had earned the ease of his bed.
Roscelin
followed them in, still curious, in no haste to go in search of whatever duties
awaited him. “Is that all, then?” he said, watching Haluin stretch out his
still-numbed limbs gratefully, and draw the brychan over them. “Then where do
you go when you leave us? And when? You’ll not set out today?”
“We
go back to Shrewsbury,” said Cadfael. “Today—that I doubt. A day’s rest would
be wisdom.” By the weary ease of Haluin’s face, and the softened gaze turned
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