Cadfael dismounted at the gate and led his horse within, to the porter’s lodge. This ordered calm came kindly on his spirit, after the uncontrollable chances of siege and the bleak loneliness of the roads. Here all things were ordained and regulated, here everyone had a purpose and a rule, and was in no doubt of his value, and every hour and every thing had a function, essential to the functioning of the whole. So it was at home, where his heart drew him.
“I am a brother of the Benedictine abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul at Shrewsbury,” said Cadfael humbly, “and have been in these parts by reason of the fighting at Greenhamsted, where I was lodged when the castle fell under siege. May I speak with the infirmarer?”
The porter was a smooth, round elder with a cool, aloof eye, none too ready to welcome a Benedictine on first sight. He asked briskly: “Are you seeking lodging overnight, brother?”
“No,” said Cadfael. “My errand here can be short, I am on my way home to my abbey. You need make no provision for me. But I sent here, in the guardianship of another, Philip FitzRobert, badly wounded at Greenhamsted, and in danger of his life. I should be glad of a word with the infirmarer as to how he does. Or,” he said, suddenly shaken, “whether he still lives. I tended him there, I need to know.”
The name of Philip FitzRobert had opened wide the reserved, chill grey eyes that had not warmed at mention of the Benedictine Order or the abbey of Shrewsbury. Whether he was loved here or hated, or simply suffered as an unavoidable complication, his father’s hand was over him, and could open closed and guarded doors. Small blame to the house that kept a steely watch on its boundaries.
“I will call Brother Infirmarer,” said the porter, and went to set about it within.
The infirmarer came bustling, a brisk, amiable man not much past thirty. He looked Cadfael up and down in one rapid glance, and nodded informed approval. “He said you might come. The young man described you well, brother, I should have known you among many. You are welcome here. He told us of the fate of La Musarderie, and what was threatened against this guest of ours.”
“So they reached here in time,” said Cadfael, and heaved a great sigh.
“In good time. A miller’s cart brought them, but no miller drove it the last miles. A working man must see to his business and his family,” said the infirmarer, “all the more if he has just risked more, perhaps, than was due from him. It seems there were no unseemly alarms. At any rate, the cart was returned, and all was quiet then.”
“I trust it may remain so,” said Cadfael fervently. “He is a good man.”
“Thanks be to God, brother,” said the infirmarer cheerfully, “there are still, as there always have been and always will be, more good men than evil in this world, and their cause will prevail.”
“And Philip? He is alive?” He asked it with more constriction about his heart than he had expected, and held his breath.
“Alive and in his senses. Even mending, though that may be a slow recovery. But yes, he will live, he will be a whole man again. Come and see!”
Outside the partly drawn curtain that closed off one side cell from the infirmary ward sat a young canon of the order, very grave and dutiful, reading in a large book which lay open on his lap-desk. A hefty young man of mild countenance but impressive physique, whose head reared and whose eyes turned alertly at the sound of footsteps approaching. Beholding the infirmarer, with a second habited brother beside him, he immediately lowered his gaze again to his reading, his face impassive. Cadfael approved. The Augustinians were prepared to protect both their privileges and their patients.
“A mere precaution,” said the infirmarer tranquilly. “Perhaps no longer necessary, but better to be certain.”
“I doubt there’ll be any pursuit now,” said Cadfael.
“Nevertheless…” The infirmarer shrugged, and laid a hand to the curtain to draw it back. “Safe rather than sorry! Go in, brother. He is fully in his wits, he will know you.”
Cadfael entered the cell, and the folds of the curtain swung closed behind him. The single bed in the narrow room had been raised, to make attendance on the patient in his helplessness easier. Philip lay propped with pillows, turned a little sidewise, sparing his broken ribs as they mended. His face, if paler and more drawn than in health, had a total and admirable serenity, eased of all tensions. Above the bandages that swathed his head wound, the black hair coiled and curved on his pillows as he turned his head to see who had entered. His eyes in their bluish hollows showed no surprise.
“Brother Cadfael!” His voice was quite strong and clear. “Yes, almost I expected you. But you had a dearer duty. Why are you not some miles on your way home? Was I worth the delay?”
To that Cadfael made no direct reply. He drew near the bed, and looked down with the glow of gratitude and content warming him. “Now that I see you man alive, I will make for home fast enough. They tell me you will mend as good as new.”
“As good,” agreed Philip with a wry smile. “No better! Father and son alike, you may have wasted your pains. Oh, never fear, I have no objection to being snatched out of a halter, even against my will, I shall not cry out against you, as he did: “He has cheated me!” Sit by me, brother, now you are here. Some moments only. You see I shall do well enough, and your needs are elsewhere.”
Cadfael sat down on the stool beside the bed. It brought their faces close, eye to eye in intent and searching study. “I see,” said Cadfael, “that you know who brought you here.”
“Once, just once and briefly, I opened my eyes on his face. In the cart, on the highroad. I was back in the dark before a word could be said, it may be he never knew. But yes, I know. Like father, like son. Well, you have taken seisin of my life between you. Now tell me what I am to do with it.”
“It is still yours,” said Cadfael. “Spend it as you see fit. I think you have as firm a grasp of it as most men.”
“Ah, but this is not the life I had formerly. I consented to a death, you remember? What I have now is your gift, whether you like it or not, my friend. I have had time, these last days,” said Philip quite gently, “to recall all that happened before I died. It was a hopeless cast,” he said with deliberation, “to believe that turning from one nullity to the other could solve anything. Now that I have fought upon either side to no good end, I acknowledge my error. There is no salvation in either empress or king. So what have you in mind for me now, Brother Cadfael? Or what has Olivier de Bretagne in mind for me?”
“Or God, perhaps,” said Cadfael.
“God, certainly! But he has his messengers among us, no doubt there will be omens for me to read.” His smile was without irony. “I have exhausted my hopes of either side, here among princes. Where is there now for me to go?” He was not looking for an answer, not yet. Rising from this bed would be like birth to him; it would be time then to discover what to do with the gift. “Now, since there are other men in the world besides ourselves, tell me how things went, brother, after you had disposed of me.”
And Cadfael composed himself comfortably on his stool, and told him how his garrison had fared, permitted to march out with their honour and their freedom, if not with their arms, and to take their wounded with them. Philip had bought back the lives of most of his men, even if the price, after all, had never been required of him. It had been offered in good faith.
Neither of them heard the flurry of hooves in the great court, or the ringing of harness, or rapid footsteps on the cobbles; the chamber was too deep within the enfolding walls for any forewarning to reach them. Not until the corridor without echoed hollowly to the tread of boots did Cadfael rear erect and break off in mid-sentence, momentarily alarmed. But no, the guardian outside the curtained doorway had not stirred. His view was clear to the end of the passage, and what he saw bearing down upon them gave him no disquiet. He simply rose to his feet and drew aside to give place to those who were approaching.