They had a healthy respect for their prisoner’s strength, wit and ingenuity, and had him in a windowless cell, though decently provided. Cadfael went in to him alone, and heard the door locked upon them. There was a lamp, a floating wick in a saucer of oil, sufficient for seeing, since the pale stone of the walls reflected the light from all sides. The prisoner looked askance at the Benedictine habit, unsure what this visit predicted. In answer to what was clearly a civil greeting in English, he replied as courteously in Welsh, but in answer to everything else he shook his dark head apologetically, and professed not to understand a word of it. He responded readily enough, however, when Cadfael unpacked his scrip and laid out his salves and cleansing lotions and dressings. Perhaps he had found good reason in the night to be glad of having submitted his wound to tending, for this time he stripped willingly, and let Cadfael renew the dressing. He had aggravated his hurt with riding, but rest would soon heal it. He had pure, spare flesh, lissome and firm. Under the skin the ripple of muscles was smooth as cream.
“You were foolish to bear this,” said Cadfael in casual English, “when you could have had it healed and forgotten by now. Are you a fool? In your situation you’ll have to learn discretion.”
“From the English,” said the boy in Welsh, and still shaking his head to show he understood no word of this, “I have nothing to learn. And no, I am not a fool, or I should be as talkative as you, old shaven-head.”
“They would have given you good nursing at Godric’s Ford,” went on Cadfael innocently. “You wasted your few days there.”
“A parcel of silly women,” said the boy, brazen-faced, “and old and ugly into the bargain.”
That was more than enough. “A parcel of women,” said Cadfael in loud and indignant Welsh, “who pulled you out of the flood and squeezed your lordship dry, and pummelled the breath back into you. And if you cannot find a civil word of thanks to them, in a language they’ll understand, you are the most ungrateful brat who ever disgraced Wales. And that you may know it, my fine paladin, there’s nothing older nor uglier than ingratitude. Nor sillier, either, seeing I’m minded to rip that dressing off you and let you burn for the graceless limb you are.” The young man was bolt upright on his stone bench by this time, his mouth fallen open, his half-formed, comely face stricken into childishness. He stared and swallowed, and slowly flushed from breast to brow.
“Three times as Welsh as you, idiot child,” said Cadfael, cooling, “being three times your age, as I judge. Now get your breath and speak, and speak English, for I swear if you ever speak Welsh to me again, short of extremes, I’ll off and leave you to your own folly, and you’ll find that cold company. Now, have we understood each other?” The boy hovered for an instant on the brink of humiliation and rage, being unaccustomed to such falls, and then as abruptly redeemed himself by throwing back his head and bursting into a peal of laughter, both rueful for his own folly and appreciative of the trap into which he had stepped so blithely. Blessedly, he had the native good-nature that prevented his being quite spoiled.
“That’s better,” said Cadfael disarmed. “Fair enough to whistle and swagger to keep up your courage, but why pretend you knew no English? So close to the border, how long before you were bound to be smoked out?”
“Even a day or two more,” sighed the young man resignedly, “and I might have found out what’s in store for me.” His command of English was fluent enough, once he had consented to use it. “I’m new to this. I wanted to get my bearings.”
“And the impudence was to stiffen your sinews, I suppose. Shame to miscall the holy women who saved your saucy life for you.”
“No one was meant to hear and understand,” protested the prisoner, and in the next breath owned magnanimously: “But I’m not proud of it, either. A bird in a net, pecking every way, as much for spite as for escape. And then I didn’t want to give away any word of myself until I had my captor’s measure.”
“Or to admit to your value,” Cadfael hazarded shrewdly, “for fear you should be held against a high ransom. No name, no rank, no way of putting a price on you?” The black head nodded. He eyed Cadfael, and visibly debated within himself how much to concede, even now he was found out, and then as impulsively flung open the floodgates and let the words come hurtling out. “To tell truth, long before ever we made that assault on the nunnery I’d grown very uneasy about the whole wild affair. Owain Gwynedd knew nothing of his brother’s muster, and he’ll be displeased with us all, and when Owain’s displeased I mind my walking very carefully. Which is what I did not do when I went with Cadwaladr. I wish heartily that I had, and kept out of it. I never wanted to do harm to your ladies, but how could I draw back once I was in? And then to let myself be taken! By a handful of old women and peasants! I shall be in black displeasure at home, if not a laughingstock.” He sounded disgusted rather than downcast, and shrugged and grinned good-naturedly at the thought of being laughed at, but for all that, the prospect was painful. “And if I’m to cost Owain high, there’s another black stroke against me. He’s not the man to take delight in paying out gold to buy back idiots.” Certainly this young man improved upon acquaintance. He turned honestly and manfully from wanting to kick everyone else to acknowledging that he ought to be kicking himself. Cadfael warmed to him.
“Let me drop a word in your ear. The higher your value, the more welcome will you be to Hugh Beringar, who holds you here. And not for gold, either. There’s a lord, the sheriff of this shire, who is most likely prisoner in Wales as you are here, and Hugh Beringar wants him back. If you can balance him, and he is found to be there alive, you may well be on your way home. At no cost to Owain Gwynedd, who never wanted to dip his fingers into that trough, and will be glad to show it by giving Gilbert Prestcote back to us.”
“You mean it?” The boy had brightened and flushed, wide, eyed. “Then I should speak? I’m in a fair way to get my release and please both Welsh and English? That would be better deliverance than ever I expected.”
“Or deserved!” said Cadfael roundly, and watched the smooth brown neck stiffen in offence, and then suddenly relax again, as the black curls tossed and the ready grin appeared. “Ah, well, you’ll do! Tell your tale now, while I’m here, for I’m mightily curious, but tell it once. Let me fetch in Hugh Beringar, and let’s all come to terms. Why lie here on stone and all but in the dark, when you could be stretching your legs about the castle wards?”
“I’m won!” said the boy, hopefully shining. “Bring me to confession, and I’ll hold nothing back.”
Once his mind was made up he spoke up cheerfully and volubly, an outward soul by nature, and very poorly given to silence. His abstention must have cost him prodigies of self-control. Hugh listened to him with an unrevealing face, but Cadfael knew by now how to read every least twitch of those lean, live brows and every glint in the black eyes.
“My name is Elis ap Cynan, my mother was cousin to Owain Gwynedd. He is my overlord, and he has over-watched me in the fosterage where he placed me when my father died. That is, with my uncle Griffith ap Meilyr, where I grew up with my cousin Eliud as brothers. Griffith’s wife is also distant kin to the prince, and Griffith ranks high among his officers. Owain values us. He will not willingly leave me in captivity,” said the young man sturdily.
“Even though you hared off after his brother to a battle in which he wanted no part?” said Hugh, unsmiling but mild of voice.
“Even so,” persisted Elis firmly. “Though if truth must out, I wish I never had, and am like to wish it even more earnestly when I must go back and face him. He’ll have my hide, as like as not.” But he did not sound particularly depressed at the thought, and his sudden grin, tentative here in Hugh’s untested presence, nevertheless would out for a moment. “I was a fool. Not for the first time, and I daresay not the last. Eliud had more sense. He’s grave and deep, he thinks like Owain. It was the first time we ever went different ways. I wish now I’d listened to him. I never knew him to be wrong when it came to it. But I was greedy to see action, and pig-headed, and I went.”