Free The Summer of the Danes by Ellis Peters Page A

to observe the
standards due to their hospitality.” Meirion was stiff as a lance, and his
voice thinned and steely as a sword-blade. Within his well-schooled person
there was a ferocious Welsh temper under arduous control. “If you do not, you
will rue it. Whatever my own situation, I will see to that. Do not approach my
daughter, or attempt to have any further ado with her. Your courtesies are
unwelcome.”
    “Not,
I think, to the lady,” said Bledri, with the most complacent of smiles implicit
in the very tone of his voice. “She has a tongue, and a palm, and I fancy would
have been ready enough to use both if I had caused her any displeasure. I like
a lass of spirit. If she grants me occasion, I shall tell her so. Why should she
not enjoy the admiration she is entitled to, these few hours on the road to her
marriage?”
    The
brief silence fell like a stone between them; Cadfael felt the air quiver with
the tension of their stillness. Then Canon Meirion said, through gritted teeth
and from a throat constricted with the effort to contain his rage: “My lord, do
not think this cloth I wear will prove any protection to you if you affront my
honour, or my daughter’s good name. Be warned, and keep away from her, or you
shall have excellent cause to regret it. Though perhaps,” he ended, even lower
and more malevolently, “too brief time!”
    “Time
enough,” said Bledri, not noticeably disturbed by the palpable threat, “for all
the regretting I’m likely to do. It’s something I’ve had small practice in.
Goodnight to your reverence!” And he passed by Meirion so close their sleeves
brushed, perhaps intentionally, and began to climb the steps to the hall door.
And the canon, wrenching himself out of his paralysis of rage with an effort,
composed his dignity about him as best he could, and stalked away towards his
own door.
    Cadfael
returned to his own quarters very thoughtfully, and recounted the whole of this
small incident to Brother Mark, who was lying wakeful and wide-eyed after his
prayers, by some private and peculiar sensitivity of his own already aware of
turbulent cross-currents trembling on the night air. He listened, unsurprised.
    “How
much, would you say, Cadfael, is his concern only for his own advancement, how
much truly for his daughter? For he does feel guilt towards her. Guilt that he
resents her as a burden to his prospects, guilt at loving her less than she
loves him. A guilt that makes him all the more anxious to put her out of sight,
far away, another man’s charge.”
    “Who
can decypher any man’s motives?” said Cadfael resignedly. “Much less a woman’s.
But I tell you this, she would do well not to drive him too far. The man has a
core of violence in him. I would not like to see it let loose. It could be a
killing force.”
    “And
against which of them,” wondered Mark, staring into the dark of the roof above
him, “would the lightning be launched, if ever the storm broke?”

 
     
     
    Chapter Four
     
    THE
PRINCE’S CORTEGE MUSTERED IN THE DAWN, in a morning hesitant between sullenness
and smiles. There was the moisture of a brief shower on the grasses as Cadfael
and Mark crossed to the church for prayer before saddling up, but the sun was
shimmering on the fine drops, and the sky above was the palest and clearest of
blues, but for a few wisps of cloud to eastward, embracing the rising orb of
light with stroking fingers. When they emerged again into the courtyard it was
already full of bustle and sound, the baggage horses being loaded, the brave
city of tents along the hillside above folded and on the move, and even the
frail feathers of cloud dissolved into moist and scintillating radiance.
    Mark
stood gazing before him with pleasure at the preparations for departure, his
face flushed and bright, a child embarking on an adventure. Until this moment,
Cadfael thought, he had not fully realised the possibilities, the