“Why, Haluin has. He was in their service before he took the cowl. It seems he feels he has left unpaid some debt he still owes in that direction. It came to mind when he made what he took to be his deathbed confession. In something he feels he offended, and has it on his conscience still.”
That was all that could be told, even to Hugh, the confessional being sacred, and if nothing more was offered, Hugh would ask for nothing more, however he might speculate on what had not been said.
“He’s set on making the journey to set the account straight, when he’s fit to undertake it. I was wondering if this Bertrand’s widow is no longer in the land of the living, either, as well Haluin should know it at once, and put it out of his mind.”
Hugh was eyeing his friend with steady interest and a tolerant smile. “And you want him to have nothing to trouble about, body or mind, but getting back into the way of living as soon as may be. I’m no help, Cadfael. The widow’s living still. She’s there at Hales, she paid her dues last Michaelmas. Her son’s married to a Staffordshire wife, and has a young son to succeed him, and from all accounts his mother is not of a nature to share another woman’s household without meddling. Hales is her favorite home, she keeps there from choice and leaves her son to rule his own roost, while she makes sure of ruling hers. No doubt it suits them both very well. I should not be even so well informed, ” he said by way of explanation, “if we had not ridden some miles of the way from Winchester with a company of de Clary’s men, dispersing from the siege of Oxford. The man himself I never saw, he was still delayed at court when we left. He’ll be on his way home by now, unless Stephen keeps him for whatever move he has next in mind.”
Cadfael received this news philosophically but without pleasure. So she was still living, this woman who had sought to help her daughter to an abortion, and succeeded only in helping her to her death. Not the first nor the last to come by such a death. But what must the mother’s despair and guilt have been then, and what bitter memories must remain even now, beneath the ashes of eighteen years? Better, surely, to let them lie buried still. But Haluin’s self-torturing conscience and salvation-hungry soul had their rights, too. And after all, he had been just eighteen years old! The woman who had forbidden him any aspiration to her daughter’s affection must have been double his age. She might, thought Cadfael almost indignantly, have had the wisdom to see how things began to be between those two, and taken steps to separate them in time.
“Did you ever feel, Hugh, that it might be better to let even ill alone,” wondered Cadfael ruefully, “rather than let loose worse? Ah, well! He has not even tried his crutches yet. Who knows what changes a few weeks may bring?”
They lifted Brother Haluin out of his bed in the middle of January, found him a corner near the infirmary fire, since he could not move about freely like the others to combat the cold, and treated his body, stiff from long lying, with oil and massage to get the sinews working again. To occupy his hands and mind they brought him his colors and a little desk to work on, and gave him a simpler page to adorn until his fingers should regain their deftness and steadiness. His mangled feet had healed and fused into misshapen forms, and there was no question as yet of letting him attempt to stand on them, but Cadfael allowed him to try the crutches Brother Luke had made for him, with support on either side, to get accustomed to the heft and balance of them, and the shaped and padded props under his armpits. If neither foot could ever be brought to support him again, even the crutches would not be of any use, but both Cadfael and Edmund agreed that there was every hope of the right foot being restored to use in time, and even the left might eventually provide a grain of assistance, with a little ingenuity in shoeing the invalid.
To that end Cadfael called in, at the end of the month, young Philip Corviser, the provost’s son, and they put their heads together over the problem, and between them produced a pair of boots as ill-matched in appearance as were the feet for which they were intended, but adapted as best they could devise to give strong support. They were of thick felt with a leather sole, built up well above the ankles and laced close with leather thongs to support and protect the damaged flesh and make full use of the shinbones, which were intact. Philip was pleased with his work, but wary of praise until the boots were tried on, and found to be wearable without pain, and blessedly warm in this wintry weather.
And all that was done for him Brother Haluin accepted gratefully and humbly, and went on doggedly refreshing eye and hand with his reds and blues and delicately laid gold. But as often as the hours of leisure came round he would be precariously hoisting himself out of his corner bench with shoulders braced upon his crutches, poised to reach for the support of wall or bench if his balance was shaken. It took some time for the sinews to recover their toughness in his wasted legs, but early in February he could set his right foot firmly to the ground, and even stand on it briefly without other support, and from that time on he began to use his crutches in earnest, and to master them. He was seen again, dutiful and punctual, in his stall at chapel, and in the choir at every office. By the end of February he could even set the blocked toe of his left boot to the ground, to help hold him steady and secure on his crutches, though never again would that foot be able to support his weight, light though he was.
In one thing he was fortunate, that the winter, once that first early snowfall had thawed and vanished, was not a hard one. There were occasional spells of frost, but none that lasted long, and after January such snow showers as there were, were fitful and slight, and did not lie long. When he had his balance and was used to his new gait he could exercise his skills outdoors as well as in, and grew expert, fearful only of the cobbles of the court when they were glazed with frost.
At the beginning of March, with the days lengthening, and the first cautious and reluctant signs of spring in the air, Brother Haluin rose in chapter, when all the urgent business of the day was over, and meekly but resolutely made a plea which only Abbot Radulfus and Brother Cadfael could fully understand.
“Father,” he said, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on the abbot’s face, “you know that in my trouble I conceived a desire to make a certain pilgrimage, if I should by God’s grace be restored. Great mercy has been shown to me, and if you will give me leave, I wish now to register my vow in heaven. I beg your sanction and the prayers of my brothers that I may fulfill what I promise, and return in peace.”
Radulfus regarded the petitioner in silence for a disturbingly long time, his face revealing neither approval nor disapproval, though the fixity of his gaze brought a surge of blood into Haluin’s hollow cheeks.
“Come to me after chapter,” said the abbot then, “and I will hear what you intend, and judge whether you are yet fit to undertake it.”
In the abbot’s parlor Haluin repeated his request in open terms, as to men before whom his spirit was naked and known. Cadfael knew why he himself had been summoned to attend. Two reasons, indeed, stood clear: he was the only other witness of Haluin’s confession, and might therefore be admitted into his counsels; and he could speak as to Haluin’s fitness to set out on such a journey. He had not yet guessed at a third reason, but he was not quite easy in his mind as he listened.
“I must not and will not hold you back,” said the abbot, “from what is needful for your soul’s health. But I think you ask too soon. You cannot yet have regained your strength. And it is not yet spring, however well we happen to have fared these last weeks. There may still be bitter weather to come. Think how recently you have been close to death, and spare putting yourself in such hardship until you are fitter to bear it.”