She came through the arch, half-smiling for pleasure in the fine morning, but still with something grave, anxious and sad in her countenance. Elis had not removed himself far enough to pass unobserved, she felt a presence close, and turned her head sharply. There was a brief moment when their eyes met, hers darkly blue as periwinkle flowers. The rhythm of her gait was broken, she checked at his gaze, and it almost seemed that she smiled at him hesitantly, as at someone recognised. Fine rose-colour mounted softly in her face, before she recollected herself, tore her gaze away, and went on more hurriedly towards the barbican.
Elis stood looking after her until she had passed through the gate and vanished from sight. His own face had flooded richly red.
“Who was that lady?” he asked, at once urgent and in awe.
“That lady,” said Cadfael, “is daughter to the sheriff, that very man we’re hoping to find somewhere alive in Welsh hold, and buy back with your captive person. Prestcote’s wife is come to Shrewsbury on that very matter, and brought her step-daughter and her little son with her, in hopes soon to greet her lord again. This is his second lady. The girl’s mother died, without bringing him a son.”
“Do you know her name? The girl?”
“Her name,” said Cadfael, “is Melicent.”
“Melicent!” the boy’s lips shaped silently. Aloud he said, to the sky and the sun rather than to Cadfaeclass="underline" “Did you ever see such hair, like spun silver, finer than gossamer! And her face all milk and rose… How old can she be?”
“Should I know? Eighteen or so by the look of her. Much the same age as your Cristina, I suppose,” said Brother Cadfael, dropping a none too gentle reminder of the reality of things. “You’ll be doing her a great service and grace if you send her father back to her. And as I know, you’re just as eager to get home yourself,” he said with emphasis.
Elis removed his gaze with an effort from the corner where Melicent Prestcote had disappeared and blinked uncomprehendingly, as though he had just been startled out of a deep sleep. “Yes,” he said uncertainly, and walked on still in a daze.
In the middle of the afternoon, while Cadfael was busy about replenishing his stock of winter cordials in his workshop in the herb-garden, Hugh came in bringing a chilly draught with him before he could close the door against the east wind. He warmed his hands over the brazier, helped himself uninvited to a beaker from Cadfael’s wine-flask, and sat down on the broad bench against the wall. He was at home in this dim, timber-scented, herb-rustling miniature world where Cadfael spent so much of his time, and did his best thinking.
“I’ve just come from the abbot,” said Hugh, “and borrowed you from him for a few days.”
“And he was willing to lend me?” asked Cadfael with interest, busy stoppering a still-warm jar.
“In a good cause and for a sound reason, yes. In the matter of finding and recovering Gilbert he’s as earnest as I am. And the sooner we know whether such an exchange is possible, the better for all.” Cadfael could not but agree with that. He was thinking, uneasily but not too anxiously as yet, about the morning’s visitation. A vision so far from everything Welsh and familiar might well dazzle young, impressionable eyes. There was a prior pledge involved, the niceties of Welsh honour, and the more bitter consideration that Gilbert Prestcote had an old and flourishing hatred against the Welsh, which certain of that race heartily reciprocated.
“I have a border to keep and a garrison to conserve,” said Hugh, nursing his beaker in both hands to warm it, “and neighbours across the border drunk on their own prowess, and all too likely to be running wild in search of more conquests. Getting word through to Owain Gwynedd is a risky business and we all know it. I would be dubious of letting a captain loose on that mission who lacks Welsh, for I might never see hide nor hair of him again. Even a well-armed party of five or six could vanish. You’re Welsh, and have your habit for a coat of mail, and once across the border you have kin everywhere. I reckon you a far better hazard than any battle party. With a small escort, in case of masterless men, and your Welsh tongue and net of kindred to tackle any regular company that crosses you. What do you say?”
“I should be ashamed, as a Welshman,” said Cadfael comfortably, “if I could not recite my pedigree back sixteen degrees, and some of my kin are here across the border of this shire, a fair enough start towards Gwynedd.”
“Ah, but there’s word that Owain may not be so far distant as the wilds of Gwynedd. With Ranulf of Chester so set up in his gains, and greedy for more, the prince has come east to keep an eye on his own. So the rumours say. There’s even a whisper he may be our side of the Berwyns, in Cynllaith or Glyn Ceiriog, keeping a close watch on Chester and Wrexham.”
“It would be like him,” agreed Cadfael. “He thinks large and forwardly. What is the commission? Let me hear it.”
“To ask of Owain Gwynedd whether he has, or can take from his brother, the person of my sheriff, taken at Lincoln. And if he has him, or can find and possess him, whether he will exchange him for this young kinsman of his, Elis ap Cynan. You know, and can report best of any, that the boy is whole and well. Owain may have whatever safeguards he requires, since all men know that he’s a man of his word, but regarding me he may not be certain of the same. He may not so much as know my name. Though he shall know me better, if he will have dealings over this. Will you go?”
“How soon?” asked Cadfael, putting his jar aside to cool, and sitting down beside his friend.
“Tomorrow, if you can delegate all here.”
“Mortal man should be able and willing to delegate at any moment,” said Cadfael soberly, “since mortal he is. Oswin is grown wonderfully deft and exact among the herbs, more than I ever hoped for when first he came to me. And Brother Edmund is master of his own realm, and well able to do without me. If Father Abbot frees me, I’m yours. What I can, I’ll do.”
“Then come up to the castle in the morning, after Prime, and you shall have a good horse under you.” He knew that would be a lure and a delight, and smiled at seeing it welcomed. “And a few picked men for your escort. The rest is in your Welsh tongue.”
“True enough,” said Cadfael complacently, “a fast word in Welsh is better than a shield. I’ll be there. But have your terms drawn up fair on a parchment. Owain has a legal mind, he likes a bill well drawn.”
After Prime in the morning—a greyer morning than the one that went before—Cadfael donned boots and cloak, and went up through the town to the castle wards, and there were the horses of his escort already saddled, and the men waiting for him. He knew them all, even to the youngster Hugh had chosen as a possible hostage for the desired prisoner, should all go well. He spared a few moments to say farewell to Elis, and found him sleepy and mildly morose at this hour in his cell.
“Wish me well, boy, for I’m away to see what can be done about this exchange for you. With a little goodwill and a morsel of luck, you may be on your way home within a couple of weeks. You’ll be mightily glad to be back in your own country and a free man.” Elis agreed that he would, since it was obviously expected of him, but it was a very lukewarm agreement. “But it’s not yet certain, is it, that your sheriff is there to be redeemed? And even if he is, it may take some time to find him and get him out of Cadwaladr’s hands.”