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wiseheartWhat you can find behind the tag is just a rough draft. The first three pages of the first chapter, actually. I'm still trying to find a tone that would match the original to a certain extent - I know I'm still light years away. Still, I'd like to hear what those of you who've read the books think. Please forgive me the absence of sensible English grammar - as I said, I'm trying to find my footing here.
There are going to be quite a number of original characters later, as the events will take place mostly in the two nunneries: the cell at Godrick's Ford and the Priory of Farewell. Those characters are based on real nuns (and a monk) I used to know in my years in the convent. But the main event the whole thing is based on - the donation of a certain estate to Farewell by Bishop de Clinton - is an historical fact.
So, enough babbled, let's go on with the fragment.
****************
Title: Vox Angelica (working title)
Author: Soledad
Fandom: Brother Cadfael
Genre: Medieval mystery
Rating: General
CHAPTER ONE
It was early autumn in the 1143rd year of Our Lord when the sad but not entirely unexpected news of Mother Mariana’s parting reached the Abbey of St. Peter and Paul in Shrewsbury. The elderly prioress of the Benedictine cell at Godric’s Ford had finally succumbed to her long, patiently-endured illness and closed her weary eyes on this world to open them on a better one.
Her parting had been a quiet and peaceful one. She had already suffered enough in the years before, thus God, in his unfathomable mercy, spared her a painful agony on the end of her long road. The sisters accepted her death with detached sorrow. They felt the loss keenly but knew she would be in a better place – and without pain – from now on, and for that, they were grateful.
“They shall miss her, but not terribly so,” said Abbot Radulfus in chapter, after his secretary, Brother Vitalis, had read the note from Godric’s Ford to the entire community. “After all, ‘tis Sister Magdalen who has held all strings in her capable hands for quite a few years by now. They will barely feel the official shift of power at all.”
Prior Robert Pennant, one of the few people who were actually aware of Sister Magdalen’s rather… colourful past, wrinkled his fine, patrician nose in distaste.
“Do you truly believe, Father, that she will be elected as Mother Mariana’s successor?” he asked, clearly not liking the thought of all. He was a bit inflexible in his ways and didn’t like events steer away what he thought to be the right order of things.
Brother Cadfael, on the other hand, also privy to such details, hoped that it would be so. Such a small house would greatly benefit from the leadership of a resolute woman, past or no past. Besides, was it not so that crossing the threshold of a cloister erased one’s past, leaving naught else left but the future in devout service? He of all people should know it… although he also knew that things were never quite that easy. Yet even though he also knew that Sister Magdalen’s motivation had been slightly… different than his own, who was he to judge others? This was a thing between her and God, and no-one else was entitled to interfere.
Abbot Radulfus, himself a rather world-wise man for a monk, must have had similar thoughts, for he did not react to Prior Robert’s apparent disapproval of such a likely choice.
“Succession will likely be negotiated between the sisters at Godric’s Ford and the mother house in Polesworth,” he said neutrally. “And I assume that Bishop de Clinton, as one of the chief supporters of both Polesworth and its filialia, will have a word to say in the matter.”
That seemed likely indeed. After all, Roger de Clinton had been the driving force behind the foundation of the cell at Godric’s Ford as well as that of the priory at Farewell, a fledgling house barely four years old. He seemed particularly fond of the latter, making generous grants to the nuns, and urging others to do the same. If the sisters at Godric’s Ford wanted to stay in the bishop’s good graces, they couldn’t afford to make any important decisions without consulting him first.
Of course, Sister Magdalen would know that, thought Cadfael contently. She was a supremely practical woman, and whatever her motivation to take the veil might have been, no-one could deny that the cell had flourished under her unofficial leadership in those last years. She had a very good chance to get the office, in fact.
That must have been Prior Robert’s opinion as well, because he kept pressing on the topic, like a dog that cannot part with a bone.
“But she does have a good chance, doesn’t she?” he insisted.
“Indeed, she does,” said the abbot placidly. “And why shouldn’t she? She has proved her ability to serve the interest of her cell repeatedly. Wasn’t she the one organizing their successful defence against the raiding party of Powys, just a few years ago? And that without any outside help?”
That, again, was unquestionably true, but such small matters would not change Prior Robert’s opinion about a woman with such questionable past. He was a man of strong principles who preferred to judge and to punish first and spare forgiveness for a later time, when the sinner had already done proper penance. Abbot Radulfus – also a man of strong principles but more lent to understanding all-too-human weakness – was sometimes worried by such inflexibility. He admired perfection, too, in a detached manner, but did not expect it from mere flesh and blood.
“In any case,” continued the abbot, “the burial rites will be performed in four days’ time, and the sisters, considering the good contacts between our two houses, are asking that we send representatives to the burial. I think 'tis a request that we should respect.”
“If you wish me to go, Father, I shall do so,” offered Prior Robert, torn between benevolent willingness to strengthen those poor nuns by his august presence and reluctance to be on the beck and call of that woman. But the abbot shook his head.
“Nay, I believe 'tis better if I go myself,” he said. “I was told that Bishop de Clinton would be attending personally – Mother Mariana’s family used to be a faithful vassal of the de Clintons – and I’d like to use to opportunity for a… an informal meeting.”
Given the current political situation it was a reasonable choice, for what could seem less suspicious than attending to the last rites of a nun who had been suffering like a saint in the last years of her life and finally found peace with God? Of course, Prior Robert did have his objections.
“But surely, Father Abbot, you cannot go all the way without an escort?” he protested, more agitated by the rejection of his generous offer than by the concern about the abbot’s welfare. Even though he truly had the best reason for concern, with footpads abroad all over the country, utilizing the general unrest caused by the civil war.
“Of course not,” agreed the abbot placidly. “Nor do I intend to ride alone. I shall need Brother Vitalis in any case, should we come to any official agreements with Bishop de Clinton about the delegating of Brother Adrianus as the confessor of the sisters at Farewell; and since Brother Cadfael is already acquaintanted with the sisters there, it seems only proper to take him along as well.”
That did not bode particularly well with Prior Robert, who had always begrudged Cadfael the liberties given by both Abbot Radulfus and his predecessor, Heribert. But Radulfus had not asked for his opinion, so he had no other choice than accept the decision.
Cadfael bowed his head obediently, his broad face not revealing any of the joy he felt at that moment. Content as he was in his current home, the vagus still reawakened in him sometimes, and he always embraced every chance to travel. Especially in the company of Abbot Radulfus, whose measured wisdom he greatly respected.
Besides, he truly had found memories of that little cell and its inhabitants, some of whom he had known from early childhood. So he was looking forward to see them again, even if the circumstances were less than joyous this time.
“Also,” continued the abbot, “Bishop de Clinton asked for our help in behalf of the priory at Farwell. As you might know, he’s founded that house a mere two years ago, thus the building is still going on. Bishop Roger asked us to lend the sisters Brother Conradin, who’s well known beyond these walls as a skilled stone-mason. And he mentioned that the cloister needs a decent herb garden.” He looked at Cadfael in askance. “Can you afford to leave for a week or two? This might take some time.”
Cadfael nodded contentedly. “We are almost done with the last of the harvest, Father Abbot, and what remains of it, Brother Winfrid will manage without me. I shall bring ample supplies to both the Infirmary and to St. Giles, just to be on the safe side, but I don’t doubt that Brother Oswin and Brother Edmund will do just fine in my absence.”
“Can you also spare seeds and samples for the sisters?” asked Radulfus.
“Gladly,” said Cadfael. “We have enough for both, so that we won’t feel the loss. Their Sister Benedicta is a good gardener. I saw her flower garden when we rested with Brother Haluin in their house last winter – it was a thing of beauty. I’m certain that once shown how to do it, she’ll do well with the herbs, too.”
Abbot Radulfus, who – alone from the rest of the convent – knew all too well who Sister Benedicta had once been, shot Brother Haluin a sharp glance. But Haluin’s serene face mirrored naught but a kind of peace few people could ever achieve, not even in a cloister.
“Very well, then,” said the abbot. “See that you leave the medicine cupboards well-filled and your assistant well-instructed. ‘Tis a long way to Lichfield and back; more so as we need to go to Godric’s Ford first.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With Chapter adjourned, Cadfael went to the infirmary first, to check the medicine cupboard and ask Brother Edmund what he might need for his regulars in the following week or two. Some of the older brothers were too frail in body or mind –or both – to remain in the dortoir, so they were given beds in a large, empty room, adjoining to the private chapel where they might pray the offices as well as their constitutions allowed. Those still able to leave their beds sat by the log fire, needing to warm their old bones even on a day as bright and warm as the current one. There they sat and talked between meals and offices and welcome diversions.
But not everyone was so lucky. There was Brother Reginald, old and so deformed in the joints that he could not rise on his own anymore. Every oh-so-slight movement caused him great pain, so that he would need small doses of poppy syrup to be able to sleep at all during his long torturous nights.
Then there was Brother Rhys, Welsh like Cadfael himself, plagued by the usual tearing in his joints and cracks and aches in his ancient bones as well as by the meanderings of his mind. Fortunately, his bed neighbour, Brother Athanasius, was deaf and half-senile and thus not bothered by Rhys’ frequent – and quite loud – complaints. And Dafydd and Maurice and Adam and Everard and a few others who all had the heavy burden of aging body and weakening mind to bear. They all had their needs, and Cadfael discussed it as some length with the infirmarer and his helper, Brother Wilfred – a good-natured, soft-speaking man who walked with a sick, being lame from the years of his youth – what and when and in which dosage to give these faithful ancient souls to make the last few yards of their way on this earth as peaceful and painless as possible. As this lasted longer than they would had thought, they prayed Terce together in the little chapel, knowing that their field of work would excuse for their absence from the office in the abbey church.
Accompanied by Brother Wilfred who was to carry additional remedies to the infirmary, Cadfael then returned to the enclosed herb-garden that – as well as the manufactory derived from it – he had supervised for nearly twenty years by now. As always in early September, the days were still warm like in high summer, with many hours of sunshine a day, and thus the heavy fragrance of the herbs lay all over the surrounding lands like a warm blanket, making one’s eyelids want to fall closed. Under the eaves of the small timber hut that served as Cadfael’s workshop, bunches of drying herbs were dangling and rustling in the barely perceivable, warm breeze, all but sweeping their heads when they entered. It seemed as if the hut itself, dressed with oil against cracking, would breathe out scented warmth.
Not a frequent visitor to this secluded place, Brother Wilfred looked around with great interest, taking in the shelves full of jars, flasks, bottles, small boxes, clay pots and a dozen other things the purpose of which remained a mystery for him, while Cadfael selected the salves and pills and lozenges and whatever else Brother Edmund had requested. Placing everything in Wilfred’s scrip, he sent the good brother back to Edmund, turning his attention to the list Brother Oswin had sent from Saint Giles the day before.
Putting together those medicines had taken even longer, for the needs of the hospice – frequented by the rootless people who lived on the road and had no other place to go – were habitually greater than those of the infirmary. Salves and lotions were needed for the various sores, tinctures and poultices for wounds and bruises, herb wines to strengthen wasted bodies driven beyond their strength. Cadfael spent the better half of the morning with this work, attended to Sext dutifully, and thus it was well beyond noon when he finally left the abbey grounds to cross the Foregate for Saint Giles.
The hospice lay more than half a mile away, along the Foregate, at the eastern rim of the suburb. For some time now, Brother Oswin had been in charge, under the nominal supervision of an appointed layman by the name of Fulke Reynold. As the lay supervisor rarely came over from his own house in the Foregate to visit, Brother Oswin could pretty much do what he wanted, though, as long as his books were in order. And while he had not been as good with his numbers as Brother Mark had been, he and Reynold had an amiable relationship, based on the practice that neither of them bothered the other unnecessarily.
Outside the precinct wall, the highway led by the horse-fair, still green, albeit beginning to bleach out with the coming of autumn. The houses here were thinning out, giving room to the fields and woods that almost reached the road on some places. Walking on the wayside, Cadfael soon came to a large, lordly house, encircled by a strong stone wall, with a garden and an orchard behind it. The house lay halfway to Saint Giles and belonged to no lesser person than Roger de Clinton himself, the bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, though he rarely used it himself.
This was one of those rare occasions, it seemed. The front gates of the courtyard stood open, and a true bustle of activity could be seen within. Servants and grooms were running back and forth between house and stables, wearing liveries in the colours of the de Clintons. Apparently, the bishop had already arrived and planned to continue his way from here to Godric’s Ford, after a short rest.
Perchance he, too, is planning to meet Father Radulfus and hold council with him quietly, thought Cadfael, rounding the bishop’s house, behind which he road opened between trees.
He had already left the town well behind and was now approaching the hospice, visible at the fork of roads a bow-shot ahead, behind the wattled fence of its enclosure. The roof of the church, with its small, squat turret, barely rose above the fence. A modest little church it was, with a graveyard behind it – a sad necessity for a shelter like this, as the carven stone cross in the middle reminded everyone who cared to look. Both church and hospice were set discreetly, far enough from both roads leading to the town, as if to spare the sensitivities of those who did not want to be reminded of the existence of need, illness and death.
Entering the courtyard of the hospice, the first person Cadfael saw was Brother Oswin, coming out to the porch to welcome him in his usual exuberant good mood. He had grown into his office admirably, Cadfael admitted, turning into a surprisingly good caretaker, after his first time as a well-meaning but clumsy helper in the herb-garden. Truth be told, those large, helpful hands served better in lifting and poulticing and bandaging and restraining the patients than in the delicate work of rolling pills or filling small vials and flasks.
Greeting Cadfael with honest joy – he was always glad to see his former mentor, which happened every second or third week – Brother Oswin led him directly to the medicine cupboard. They re-checked the remedies still there and filled up what was needed.
Tell me what you think. :)
There are going to be quite a number of original characters later, as the events will take place mostly in the two nunneries: the cell at Godrick's Ford and the Priory of Farewell. Those characters are based on real nuns (and a monk) I used to know in my years in the convent. But the main event the whole thing is based on - the donation of a certain estate to Farewell by Bishop de Clinton - is an historical fact.
So, enough babbled, let's go on with the fragment.
****************
Title: Vox Angelica (working title)
Author: Soledad
Fandom: Brother Cadfael
Genre: Medieval mystery
Rating: General
CHAPTER ONE
It was early autumn in the 1143rd year of Our Lord when the sad but not entirely unexpected news of Mother Mariana’s parting reached the Abbey of St. Peter and Paul in Shrewsbury. The elderly prioress of the Benedictine cell at Godric’s Ford had finally succumbed to her long, patiently-endured illness and closed her weary eyes on this world to open them on a better one.
Her parting had been a quiet and peaceful one. She had already suffered enough in the years before, thus God, in his unfathomable mercy, spared her a painful agony on the end of her long road. The sisters accepted her death with detached sorrow. They felt the loss keenly but knew she would be in a better place – and without pain – from now on, and for that, they were grateful.
“They shall miss her, but not terribly so,” said Abbot Radulfus in chapter, after his secretary, Brother Vitalis, had read the note from Godric’s Ford to the entire community. “After all, ‘tis Sister Magdalen who has held all strings in her capable hands for quite a few years by now. They will barely feel the official shift of power at all.”
Prior Robert Pennant, one of the few people who were actually aware of Sister Magdalen’s rather… colourful past, wrinkled his fine, patrician nose in distaste.
“Do you truly believe, Father, that she will be elected as Mother Mariana’s successor?” he asked, clearly not liking the thought of all. He was a bit inflexible in his ways and didn’t like events steer away what he thought to be the right order of things.
Brother Cadfael, on the other hand, also privy to such details, hoped that it would be so. Such a small house would greatly benefit from the leadership of a resolute woman, past or no past. Besides, was it not so that crossing the threshold of a cloister erased one’s past, leaving naught else left but the future in devout service? He of all people should know it… although he also knew that things were never quite that easy. Yet even though he also knew that Sister Magdalen’s motivation had been slightly… different than his own, who was he to judge others? This was a thing between her and God, and no-one else was entitled to interfere.
Abbot Radulfus, himself a rather world-wise man for a monk, must have had similar thoughts, for he did not react to Prior Robert’s apparent disapproval of such a likely choice.
“Succession will likely be negotiated between the sisters at Godric’s Ford and the mother house in Polesworth,” he said neutrally. “And I assume that Bishop de Clinton, as one of the chief supporters of both Polesworth and its filialia, will have a word to say in the matter.”
That seemed likely indeed. After all, Roger de Clinton had been the driving force behind the foundation of the cell at Godric’s Ford as well as that of the priory at Farewell, a fledgling house barely four years old. He seemed particularly fond of the latter, making generous grants to the nuns, and urging others to do the same. If the sisters at Godric’s Ford wanted to stay in the bishop’s good graces, they couldn’t afford to make any important decisions without consulting him first.
Of course, Sister Magdalen would know that, thought Cadfael contently. She was a supremely practical woman, and whatever her motivation to take the veil might have been, no-one could deny that the cell had flourished under her unofficial leadership in those last years. She had a very good chance to get the office, in fact.
That must have been Prior Robert’s opinion as well, because he kept pressing on the topic, like a dog that cannot part with a bone.
“But she does have a good chance, doesn’t she?” he insisted.
“Indeed, she does,” said the abbot placidly. “And why shouldn’t she? She has proved her ability to serve the interest of her cell repeatedly. Wasn’t she the one organizing their successful defence against the raiding party of Powys, just a few years ago? And that without any outside help?”
That, again, was unquestionably true, but such small matters would not change Prior Robert’s opinion about a woman with such questionable past. He was a man of strong principles who preferred to judge and to punish first and spare forgiveness for a later time, when the sinner had already done proper penance. Abbot Radulfus – also a man of strong principles but more lent to understanding all-too-human weakness – was sometimes worried by such inflexibility. He admired perfection, too, in a detached manner, but did not expect it from mere flesh and blood.
“In any case,” continued the abbot, “the burial rites will be performed in four days’ time, and the sisters, considering the good contacts between our two houses, are asking that we send representatives to the burial. I think 'tis a request that we should respect.”
“If you wish me to go, Father, I shall do so,” offered Prior Robert, torn between benevolent willingness to strengthen those poor nuns by his august presence and reluctance to be on the beck and call of that woman. But the abbot shook his head.
“Nay, I believe 'tis better if I go myself,” he said. “I was told that Bishop de Clinton would be attending personally – Mother Mariana’s family used to be a faithful vassal of the de Clintons – and I’d like to use to opportunity for a… an informal meeting.”
Given the current political situation it was a reasonable choice, for what could seem less suspicious than attending to the last rites of a nun who had been suffering like a saint in the last years of her life and finally found peace with God? Of course, Prior Robert did have his objections.
“But surely, Father Abbot, you cannot go all the way without an escort?” he protested, more agitated by the rejection of his generous offer than by the concern about the abbot’s welfare. Even though he truly had the best reason for concern, with footpads abroad all over the country, utilizing the general unrest caused by the civil war.
“Of course not,” agreed the abbot placidly. “Nor do I intend to ride alone. I shall need Brother Vitalis in any case, should we come to any official agreements with Bishop de Clinton about the delegating of Brother Adrianus as the confessor of the sisters at Farewell; and since Brother Cadfael is already acquaintanted with the sisters there, it seems only proper to take him along as well.”
That did not bode particularly well with Prior Robert, who had always begrudged Cadfael the liberties given by both Abbot Radulfus and his predecessor, Heribert. But Radulfus had not asked for his opinion, so he had no other choice than accept the decision.
Cadfael bowed his head obediently, his broad face not revealing any of the joy he felt at that moment. Content as he was in his current home, the vagus still reawakened in him sometimes, and he always embraced every chance to travel. Especially in the company of Abbot Radulfus, whose measured wisdom he greatly respected.
Besides, he truly had found memories of that little cell and its inhabitants, some of whom he had known from early childhood. So he was looking forward to see them again, even if the circumstances were less than joyous this time.
“Also,” continued the abbot, “Bishop de Clinton asked for our help in behalf of the priory at Farwell. As you might know, he’s founded that house a mere two years ago, thus the building is still going on. Bishop Roger asked us to lend the sisters Brother Conradin, who’s well known beyond these walls as a skilled stone-mason. And he mentioned that the cloister needs a decent herb garden.” He looked at Cadfael in askance. “Can you afford to leave for a week or two? This might take some time.”
Cadfael nodded contentedly. “We are almost done with the last of the harvest, Father Abbot, and what remains of it, Brother Winfrid will manage without me. I shall bring ample supplies to both the Infirmary and to St. Giles, just to be on the safe side, but I don’t doubt that Brother Oswin and Brother Edmund will do just fine in my absence.”
“Can you also spare seeds and samples for the sisters?” asked Radulfus.
“Gladly,” said Cadfael. “We have enough for both, so that we won’t feel the loss. Their Sister Benedicta is a good gardener. I saw her flower garden when we rested with Brother Haluin in their house last winter – it was a thing of beauty. I’m certain that once shown how to do it, she’ll do well with the herbs, too.”
Abbot Radulfus, who – alone from the rest of the convent – knew all too well who Sister Benedicta had once been, shot Brother Haluin a sharp glance. But Haluin’s serene face mirrored naught but a kind of peace few people could ever achieve, not even in a cloister.
“Very well, then,” said the abbot. “See that you leave the medicine cupboards well-filled and your assistant well-instructed. ‘Tis a long way to Lichfield and back; more so as we need to go to Godric’s Ford first.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With Chapter adjourned, Cadfael went to the infirmary first, to check the medicine cupboard and ask Brother Edmund what he might need for his regulars in the following week or two. Some of the older brothers were too frail in body or mind –or both – to remain in the dortoir, so they were given beds in a large, empty room, adjoining to the private chapel where they might pray the offices as well as their constitutions allowed. Those still able to leave their beds sat by the log fire, needing to warm their old bones even on a day as bright and warm as the current one. There they sat and talked between meals and offices and welcome diversions.
But not everyone was so lucky. There was Brother Reginald, old and so deformed in the joints that he could not rise on his own anymore. Every oh-so-slight movement caused him great pain, so that he would need small doses of poppy syrup to be able to sleep at all during his long torturous nights.
Then there was Brother Rhys, Welsh like Cadfael himself, plagued by the usual tearing in his joints and cracks and aches in his ancient bones as well as by the meanderings of his mind. Fortunately, his bed neighbour, Brother Athanasius, was deaf and half-senile and thus not bothered by Rhys’ frequent – and quite loud – complaints. And Dafydd and Maurice and Adam and Everard and a few others who all had the heavy burden of aging body and weakening mind to bear. They all had their needs, and Cadfael discussed it as some length with the infirmarer and his helper, Brother Wilfred – a good-natured, soft-speaking man who walked with a sick, being lame from the years of his youth – what and when and in which dosage to give these faithful ancient souls to make the last few yards of their way on this earth as peaceful and painless as possible. As this lasted longer than they would had thought, they prayed Terce together in the little chapel, knowing that their field of work would excuse for their absence from the office in the abbey church.
Accompanied by Brother Wilfred who was to carry additional remedies to the infirmary, Cadfael then returned to the enclosed herb-garden that – as well as the manufactory derived from it – he had supervised for nearly twenty years by now. As always in early September, the days were still warm like in high summer, with many hours of sunshine a day, and thus the heavy fragrance of the herbs lay all over the surrounding lands like a warm blanket, making one’s eyelids want to fall closed. Under the eaves of the small timber hut that served as Cadfael’s workshop, bunches of drying herbs were dangling and rustling in the barely perceivable, warm breeze, all but sweeping their heads when they entered. It seemed as if the hut itself, dressed with oil against cracking, would breathe out scented warmth.
Not a frequent visitor to this secluded place, Brother Wilfred looked around with great interest, taking in the shelves full of jars, flasks, bottles, small boxes, clay pots and a dozen other things the purpose of which remained a mystery for him, while Cadfael selected the salves and pills and lozenges and whatever else Brother Edmund had requested. Placing everything in Wilfred’s scrip, he sent the good brother back to Edmund, turning his attention to the list Brother Oswin had sent from Saint Giles the day before.
Putting together those medicines had taken even longer, for the needs of the hospice – frequented by the rootless people who lived on the road and had no other place to go – were habitually greater than those of the infirmary. Salves and lotions were needed for the various sores, tinctures and poultices for wounds and bruises, herb wines to strengthen wasted bodies driven beyond their strength. Cadfael spent the better half of the morning with this work, attended to Sext dutifully, and thus it was well beyond noon when he finally left the abbey grounds to cross the Foregate for Saint Giles.
The hospice lay more than half a mile away, along the Foregate, at the eastern rim of the suburb. For some time now, Brother Oswin had been in charge, under the nominal supervision of an appointed layman by the name of Fulke Reynold. As the lay supervisor rarely came over from his own house in the Foregate to visit, Brother Oswin could pretty much do what he wanted, though, as long as his books were in order. And while he had not been as good with his numbers as Brother Mark had been, he and Reynold had an amiable relationship, based on the practice that neither of them bothered the other unnecessarily.
Outside the precinct wall, the highway led by the horse-fair, still green, albeit beginning to bleach out with the coming of autumn. The houses here were thinning out, giving room to the fields and woods that almost reached the road on some places. Walking on the wayside, Cadfael soon came to a large, lordly house, encircled by a strong stone wall, with a garden and an orchard behind it. The house lay halfway to Saint Giles and belonged to no lesser person than Roger de Clinton himself, the bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, though he rarely used it himself.
This was one of those rare occasions, it seemed. The front gates of the courtyard stood open, and a true bustle of activity could be seen within. Servants and grooms were running back and forth between house and stables, wearing liveries in the colours of the de Clintons. Apparently, the bishop had already arrived and planned to continue his way from here to Godric’s Ford, after a short rest.
Perchance he, too, is planning to meet Father Radulfus and hold council with him quietly, thought Cadfael, rounding the bishop’s house, behind which he road opened between trees.
He had already left the town well behind and was now approaching the hospice, visible at the fork of roads a bow-shot ahead, behind the wattled fence of its enclosure. The roof of the church, with its small, squat turret, barely rose above the fence. A modest little church it was, with a graveyard behind it – a sad necessity for a shelter like this, as the carven stone cross in the middle reminded everyone who cared to look. Both church and hospice were set discreetly, far enough from both roads leading to the town, as if to spare the sensitivities of those who did not want to be reminded of the existence of need, illness and death.
Entering the courtyard of the hospice, the first person Cadfael saw was Brother Oswin, coming out to the porch to welcome him in his usual exuberant good mood. He had grown into his office admirably, Cadfael admitted, turning into a surprisingly good caretaker, after his first time as a well-meaning but clumsy helper in the herb-garden. Truth be told, those large, helpful hands served better in lifting and poulticing and bandaging and restraining the patients than in the delicate work of rolling pills or filling small vials and flasks.
Greeting Cadfael with honest joy – he was always glad to see his former mentor, which happened every second or third week – Brother Oswin led him directly to the medicine cupboard. They re-checked the remedies still there and filled up what was needed.
Tell me what you think. :)
