Free A Rare Benedictine by Ellis Peters

easily forgotten, not in a year, not in many
years. “And if he is utterly glad of you, and loves you still?”
    “Then,”
she said, gravely smiling, “if he is of the same mind as I, I have made a vow
to Our Lady, who lent me her semblance in the old man’s eyes, that we will sell
these candlesticks where they may fetch their proper price, and that price
shall be delivered to your almoner to feed the hungry. And that will be our
gift, Alard’s and mine, though no one will ever know it.”
    “Our
Lady will know it,” said Cadfael, “and so shall I. Now, how were you planning
to get out of this enclave and into Shrewsbury? Both our gates and the town
gates are closed until morning.”
    She
lifted eloquent shoulders. “The parish doors are not barred. And even if I
leave tracks, will it matter, provided I find a safe hiding-place inside the
town?”
    “And
wait in the cold of the night? You would freeze before morning. No, let me
think. We can do better for you than that.”
    Her
lips shaped: “We?” in silence, wondering, but quick to understand. She did not
question his decisions, as he had not questioned hers. He thought he would long
remember the slow, deepening smile, the glow of warmth mantling her cheeks.
“You believe me!” she said.
    “Every
word! Here, give me the candlesticks, let me wrap them, and do you put up your
hair again in net and hood. We’ve had no fresh snow since morning, the path to
the parish door is well trodden, no one will know your tracks among the many.
And, girl, when you come to the town end of the bridge there’s a little house
off to the left, under the wall, close to the town gate. Knock there and ask
for shelter over the night till the gates open, and say that Brother Cadfael
sent you. They know me, I doctored their son when he was sick. They’ll give you
a warm corner and a place to lie, for kindness’ sake, and ask no questions, and
answer none from others, either. And likely they’ll know where to find the
silversmiths of the town, to set you on your way.”
    She
bound up her pale, bright hair and covered her head, wrapping the cloak about
her, and was again the maidservant in homespun. She obeyed without question his
every word, moved silently at his back round the great court by way of the
shadows, halting when he halted, and so he brought her to the church, and let
her out by the parish door into the public street, still a good hour before
Matins. At the last moment she said, close at his shoulder within the half-open
door. “I shall be grateful always. Some day I shall send you word.”
    “No
need for words,” said Brother Cadfael, “if you send me the sign I shall be
waiting for. Go now, quickly, there’s not a soul stirring.”
    She
was gone, lightly and silently, flitting past the abbey gatehouse like a tall
shadow, towards the bridge and the town. Cadfael closed the door softly, and
went back up the night stairs to the dortoir, too late to sleep, but in good
time to rise at the sound of the bell, and return in procession to celebrate
Matins.
    There
was, of course, the resultant uproar to face next morning, and he could not
afford to avoid it, there was too much at stake. Lady FitzHamon naturally
expected her maid to be in attendance as soon as she opened her eyes, and
raised a petulant outcry when there was no submissive shadow waiting to dress
her and do her hair. Calling failed to summon and search to find Elfgiva, but
it was an hour or more before it dawned on the lady that she had lost her
accomplished maid for good. Furiously she made her own toilet, unassisted, and
raged out to complain to her husband, who had risen before her, and was waiting
for her to accompany him to Mass. At her angry declaration that Elfgiva was
nowhere to be found, and must have run away during the night, he first scoffed,
for why should a sane girl take herself off into a killing frost when she had
warmth and shelter and