The Devils Novice by Ellis Peters

out of him, he resumed the host with assured grace,
offered the midday meal, which was as courteously refused, and escorted his guest
out to the court.
    “A
pleasant day for your ride,” he said, “though I should be the better pleased if
you would take meat with us.”
    “I
would and thank you,” said Cadfael, “but I am pledged to return and deliver
your answer to my abbot. It is an easy journey.”
    A
groom led forth the mule. Cadfael mounted, took his leave civilly, and rode out
at the gate in the low stone wall.
    He
had gone no more than two hundred paces, just enough to carry him out of sight
of those he had left within the pale, when he was aware of two figures
sauntering without haste back towards that same gateway. They walked hand in
hand, and they had not yet perceived a rider approaching them along the pathway
between the fields, because they had eyes only for each other. They were talking
by broken snatches, as in a shared dream where precise expression was not
needed, and their voices, mellowly male and silverly female, sounded even in
the distance like brief peals of laughter. Or bridle bells, perhaps, but that
they came afoot. Two tolerant, well-trained hounds followed them at heel,
nosing up the drifted scents from either side, but keeping their homeward line
without distraction.
    So
these must surely be the lovers, returning to be fed. Even lovers must eat.
Cadfael eyed them with interest as he rode slowly towards them. They were worth
observing. As they came nearer, but far enough from him to be oblivious still,
they became more remarkable. Both were tall. The young man had his father’s
noble figure, but lissome and light-footed with youth, and the light brown hair
and ruddy, outdoor skin of the Saxon. Such a son as any man might rejoice in.
Healthy from birth, as like as not, growing and flourishing like a hearty
plant, with every promise of full harvest. A stocky dark second, following
lamely several years later, might well fail to start any such spring of
satisfied pride. One paladin is enough, besides being hard to match. And if he
strides towards manhood without ever a flaw or a check, where’s the need for a
second?
    And
the girl was his equal. Tipping his shoulder, and slender and straight as he,
she was the image of her brother, but everything that in him was comely and
attractive was in her polished into beauty. She had the same softly rounded,
oval face, but refined almost into translucence, and the same clear blue eyes,
but a shade darker and fringed with auburn lashes. And there beyond mistake was
the reddish gold hair, a thick coil of it, and curls escaping on either side of
her temples.
    Thus,
then, was Meriet explained? Frantic to escape from his frustrated love into a
world without women, perhaps also anxious to remove from his brother’s
happiness the slightest shadow of grief or reproach—did that account for him?
But he had taken the symbol of his torment into the cloister with him—was that
sensible?
    The
small sound of the mule’s neat hooves in the dry grass of the track and the
small stones had finally reached the ears of the girl. She looked up and saw
the rider approaching, and said a soft word into her companion’s ear. The young
man checked for a moment in his stride, and stared with reared head to see a
Benedictine monk in the act of riding away from the gates of Aspley. He was
very quick to connect and wonder. The light smiled faded instantly from his
face, he drew his hand from the girl’s hold, and quickened his pace with the
evident intention of accosting the departing visitor.
    They
drew together and halted by consent. The elder son, close to, loomed even
taller than his sire, and improbably good to look upon, in a world of
imperfection. With a large but shapely hand raised to the mule’s bridle, he
looked up at Cadfael with clear brown eyes rounded in concern, and gave short
greeting in his