An Excellent Mystery (5 page)

It
was the first time Cadfael had seen that face so clearly, in sunlight, the cowl
slung back. Rhun, it seemed, was one creature at least who found no difficulty
in drawing near to the mute brother, but spoke out to him merrily and found no
strangeness in his silence. Rhun leaned down laughing, and Fidelis looked up,
smiling, one face reflecting the other. Their hands touched on the handle of
the basket as Rhun dangled it at the full stretch of his arm while Fidelis
plucked a cluster of low-growing fruit pointed out to him from above.

After
all, thought Cadfael, it was to be expected that valiant innocence would stride
in boldly where most of us hesitate to set foot. And besides, Rhun has gone
most of his life with a cruel flaw that set him apart, and taken no bitterness
from it, naturally he would advance without fear into another man’s isolation.
And thank God for him, and for the valour of the children!

He
went back to his weeding very thoughtfully, recalling that eased and sunlit
glimpse of one who habitually withdrew into shadow. An oval face, firm-featured
and by nature grave, with a lofty forehead and strong cheekbones, and clear
ivory skin, smooth and youthful. There in the orchard he looked scarcely older
than Rhun, though there must surely be a few years between them. The halo of
curling hair round his tonsure was an autumn brown, almost fiery-bright, yet
not red, and his wide-set eyes, under strong, level brows, were of a luminous
grey, at least in that full light. A very comely young man, like a veiled
reflection of Rhun’s sunlit beauty. Noonday and twilight met together.

The
fruit-pickers were still at work, though with most of their harvest already
gleaned, when Cadfael put away his hoe and watering-can and went to prepare for
Vespers. In the great court there was the usual late-afternoon bustle, brothers
returning from their work along the Gaye, the stir of arrival in guest-hall and
stable-yard, and in the cloister the sound of Brother Anselm’s little portative
organ testing out a new chant. The illuminators and copiers would be putting
the finishing touches to their afternoon’s work, and cleaning their pens and brushes.
Brother Humilis must be alone in his carrel, having sent Fidelis out to the
joyous labour in the garden, for nothing less would have induced the boy to
leave him. Cadfael had intended crossing the open garth to the precentor’s
workshop, to sit down comfortably with Anselm for a quarter of an hour, until
the Vesper bell, and talk and perhaps argue about music. But the memory of the
dumb youth, so kindly sent out to his brief pleasure in the orchard among his
peers, stirred in him as he entered the cloister, and the gaunt visage of
Brother Humilis rose before him, self-contained, uncomplaining, proudly
solitary. Or should it be, rather, humbly solitary? That was the quality he had
claimed for himself and by which he desired to be accepted. A large claim, for
one so celebrated. There was not a soul within here now who did not know his
reputation. If he longed to escape it, and be as mute as his servitor, he had
been cruelly thwarted.

Cadfael
veered from his intent, and turned instead along the north walk of the
cloister, where the carrels of the scrip scriptorium basked in the sun, even at
this hour. Humilis had been given a study midway, where the light would fall
earliest and linger longest. It was quiet there, the soft tones of Anselm’s
organetto seemed very distant and hushed. The grass of the open garth was
blanched and dry, in spite of daily watering.

“Brother
Humilis…” said Cadfael softly, at the opening of the carrel.

The
leaf of parchment was pushed askew on the desk, a small pot of gold had spilled
drops along the paving as it rolled. Brother Humilis lay forward over his desk
with his right arm flung up to hold by the wood, and his left hand gripped hard
into his groin, the wrist braced to press hard into his side. His head lay with
the left cheek on his work, smeared with the blue and the scarlet, and his eyes
were shut, but clenched shut, upon the controlled awareness of pain. He had not
uttered a sound. If he had, those close by would have heard him. What he had,
he had contained. So he would still.

Cadfael
took him gently about the body, pinning the sustaining arm where it rested. The
blue-veined eyelids lifted in their high vaults, and eyes brilliant and
intelligent behind their veils of pain peered up into his face. “Brother
Cadfael…?”

“Lie
still a moment yet,” said Cadfael. I’ll fetch Edmund-Brother Infirmarer…”

“No!
Brother, get me hence… to my bed… This will pass… it is not new. Only softly,
softly help me away! I would not be a show…”

It
was quicker and more private to help him up the night stairs from the church to
his own cell in the dortoir, rather than across the great court to the
infimary, and that was what he earnestly desired, that there might be no
general alarm and fuss about him. He rose more by strength of will than any
physical force, and with Cadfael’s sturdy arm about him, and his own arm
leaning heavily round Cadfael’s shoulders, they passed unnoticed into the cool
gloom of the church and slowly climbed the staircase. Stretched on his own bed,
Humilis submitted himself with a bleakly patient smile to Cadfael’s care, and
made no ado when Cadfael stripped him of his habit, and uncovered the oblique
stain of mingled blood and pus that slanted across the left hip of his linen
drawers and down into the groin.

“It
breaks,” said the calm thread of a voice from the pillow. “Now and then it
suppurates — I know. The long ride… Pardon brother! I know the stench offends…”

“I
must bring Edmund,” said Cadfael, unloosing the drawstring and freeing the
shirt. He did not yet uncover what lay beneath. “Brother Infirmarer must know.”

“Yes…
But no other! What need for more?”

“Except
Brother Fidelis? Does he know all?”

“Yes,
all!” said Humilis, and faintly and fondly smiled. “We need not fear him, even
if he could speak he would not, but there’s nothing of what ails me he does not
know. Let him rest until Vespers is over.”

Cadfael
left him lying with closed eyes, a little eased, for the lines of his face had
relaxed from their tight grimace of pain, and went down to find Brother Edmund,
just in time to draw him away from Vespers. The filled baskets of plums lay by
the garden hedge, awaiting disposal after the office, and the gatherers were
surely already within the church, after hasty ablutions. Just as well! Brother
Fidelis might at first be disposed to resent any other undertaking the care of
his master. Let him find him recovered and well doctored, and he would accept
what had been done. As good a way to his confidence as any.

“I
knew we should be needed before long,” said Edmund, leading the way vigorously
up the day stairs. “Old wounds, you think? Your skills will avail more than
mine, you have ploughed that field yourself.”

The
bell had fallen silent. They heard the first notes of the evening office raised
faintly from within the church as they entered the sick man’s cell. He opened
slow, heavy lids and smiled at them.

“Brothers,
I grieve to be a trouble to you…”

The
deep eyes were hooded again, but he was aware of all, and submitted meekly to
all.

They
drew down the linen that hid him from the waist, and uncovered the ruin of his
body. A great misshapen map of scar tissue stretched from the left hip, where
the bone had survived by miracle, slantwise across his belly and deep, deep
into the groin. Its colouration was of limestone pallor and striation below,
where he was half disembowelled but stonily healed. But towards the upper part
it was reddened and empurpled, the inflamed belly burst into a wet-lipped wound
that oozed a foul jelly and a faint smear of blood.

Godfrid
Marsecot’s crusade had left him maimed beyond repair, yet not beyond survival.
The faceless, fingerless lepers who crawl into Saint Giles, thought Cadfael,
have not worse to bear. Here ends his line, in a noble plant incapable of seed.
But what worth is manhood, if this is not a man?

Chapter Three

EDMUND
RAN FOR SOFT CLOTHS AND WARM WATER, Cadfael for draughts and ointments and
decoctions from his workshop. Tomorrow he would pick the fresh, juicy water
betony, and wintergreen and woundwort, more effective than the creams and waxes
he made from them to keep in store. But for tonight these must do… Sanicle,
ragwort, moneywort, adder’s tongue, all cleansing and astringent, good for old,
ulcerated wounds, were all to be found around the hedgerows and the meadows
close by, and along the banks of the Meole Brook.

They
cleaned the broken wound of its exudations with a lotion of woundwort and
sanicle, and dressed it with a paste of the same herbs with betony and the
chickweed wintergreen, covered it with clean linen, and swathed the patient’s
wasted trunk with bandages to keep the dressing in place. Cadfael had brought
also a draught to soothe the pain, a syrup of woundwort and Saint John’s wort
in wine, with a little of the poppy syrup added. Brother Humilis lay passive
under their hands, and let them do with him what they would.

“Tomorrow,”
said Cadfael, “I’ll gather the same herbs fresh, and bruise them for a green
plaster, it works more strongly, it will draw out the evil. This has happened
many times since you got the injury?”

“Not
many times. But if I’m overworn, yes — it happens,” said the bluish lips,
without complaint.

“Then
you must not be allowed to overwear. But it has also healed before, and will
again. This woundwort got its name by good right. Be ruled now, and lie still
here for two days, or three, until it closes clean, for if you stand and go it
will be longer in healing.”

“He
should by rights be in the infirmary,” said Edmund anxiously “where he could be
undisturbed as long as is needful.”

“So
he should,” agreed Cadfael “but that he’s now well bedded here, and the less he
stirs the better. How do you feel yourself now, Brother?”

“At
ease,” said Brother Humilis, and faintly smiled.

“In
less pain?”

“Scarcely
any. Vespers will be over,” said the faint voice, and the high-arched lids
rolled back from fixed eyes. “Don’t let Fidelis fret for me… He has seen worse
— let him come.”

“I’ll
fetch him to you,” said Cadfael, and went at once to do it, for in this
concession to the stoic mind there was more value than in anything further he
could do here for the ravaged body. Brother Edmund followed him down the stair,
anxious at his shoulder.

“Will
it heal? Marvel he ever lived for it to heal at all. Did you ever see a man so
torn apart, and live?”

“It
happens,” said Cadfael, “though seldom. Yes, it will close again. And open
again at the least strain.” Not a word was said between them to enjoin or
promise secrecy. The covering Godfrid Marescot had chosen for his ruin was
sacred, and would be respected.

Fidelis
was standing in the archway of the cloister, watching the brothers as they
emerged, and looking with increasing concern for one who did not come.

Late
from the orchard, the fruit-gatherers had been in haste for the evening office,
and he had not looked then for Humilis, supposing him to be already in the
church. But he was looking for him now. The straight, strong brows were drawn
together, the long lips taut in anxiety. Cadfael approached him as the last of
the brothers passed by, and the young man was turning to watch them go, almost
in disbelief.

“Fidelis…”
The boy’s cowled head swung round to him in quick hope and understanding. It
was not good news he was expecting, but any was better than none. It was to be
seen in the set of his face. He had experienced all this more than once before.

“Fidelis,
Brother Humilis is in his own bed in the dortoir. No call for alarm now, he’s
resting, his trouble is tended. He’s asking for you. Go to him.”

The
boy looked quickly from Cadfael to Edmund, and back again, uncertain where
authority lay, and already braced to go striding away. If he could ask nothing
with his tongue, his eyes were eloquent enough, and Edmund understood them.

“He’s
easy, and he’ll mend. You may go and come as you will in his service, and I
will see that you are excused other duties until we’re satisfied he does well,
and can be left. I will make that good with Prior Robert. Fetch, carry, ask,
according to need — if he has a wish, write it and it shall be fulfilled. But
as for his dressings, Brother Cadfael will attend to them.”

There
was yet a question, more truly a demand, in the ardent eyes. Cadfael answered
it in quick reassurance. “No one else has been witness. No one else need be,
but for Father Abbot, who has a right to know what ails all his sons. You may
be content with that as Brother Humilis is content.”

Fidelis
flushed and brightened for an instant, bowed his head, made that small open
gesture of his hands in submission and acceptance, and went from them swift and
silent, to climb the day stairs. How many times had he done quiet service at
the same sick-bed, alone and unaided? For if he had not grudged them being the
first on the scene this time, he had surely lamented it, and been uncertain at
first of their discretion.