Free Hermit of Eyton Forest by Ellis Peters Page B

Compline.
Cadfael led him out through the gardens to the workshop in the herbarium, and
there kindled a lamp to examine the lacerated wound that marred the man’s face.
The little brazier was turfed down for the night, but not extinguished,
evidently Brother Winfrid had been careful to keep it alive in case of need. He
was learning steadily, and strangely the delicacy of touch that eluded him with
pen or brush showed signs of developing now that he came to deal with herbs and
medicines. Cadfael uncovered the fire and blew it into a glow, and put on water
to heat.
    “He’s
safe asleep, is he, your lord? Not likely to wake? Though if he did, he should
have no need of you at this hour. But I’ll be as quick as I may.” The groom sat
docile and easy under the ministering hands, turning his face obediently to the
light of the lamp. The bruised cheek was fading at the edges from black to
yellow, but the tear at the corner of his mouth oozed blood and pus. Cadfael
bathed away the encrusted exudations and cleaned the gash with a lotion of
water betony and sanicle.
    “He’s
free with his fists, your lord,” he said ruefully. “I see two blows here.”
    “He
seldom stops at one,” said the groom grimly. “He does after his kind. There are
some worse than him, God help all those who serve them. His son’s another made
to the same pattern. What else could we look for, when he’s lived so from
birth? In a day or so he’s to join us here, and if he has not got his hands on
Brand by then—God forbid!—the hunt will go on.”
    “Well,
at least if you stay a day or so I can get this gash healed for you. What’s
your name, friend?”
    “Warin.
Yours I know, Brother, from the hospitaller. That feels cool and kind.”
    “I
should have thought,” said Cadfael, “that your lord would have gone first to
the sheriff, if he had a real complaint against this runaway of his. The
guildsmen of the town would likely keep their mouths shut, even if they knew
anything, a town stands to gain by taking in a good craftsman. But the king’s
officers are bound, willing or no, to help a man to his own property.”
    “We
got here too late, as you saw, to do much in that kind until the morrow. He
knows, none so well, that Shrewsbury is a charter borough, and may cheat him of
his prey if the lad has got this far. He does intend going to the sheriff. But
since he’s lodged here, and reckons the church as well as the law ought to help
him to his own, he’s asked to put his case at chapter tomorrow, and after that
he’ll be off into the town to seek out the sheriff. There’s no stone he won’t
up-end to get at Brand’s hide.”
    Cadfael
was thinking, though he did not say it, that there might be time in between to
send word to Hugh to make himself very hard to find. “What in the world,” he
asked, “has the man done, to make your master so vindictive against him?”
    “Why,
he was for ever on the edge of trouble, being a lad that would stand up for
himself, yes, and for others, too, and that’s crime enough for Drogo. I don’t
know the rights of what happened that last day, but however it was, I saw
Bosiet’s steward, who takes his style from his master, carried into the manor
on a shutter, and he was laid up for days. Seemingly something had happened
between them, and Brand had laid him flat, for the next we knew, Brand was
nowhere, and they were hunting him along all the roads out of Northampton. But
they never caught up with him, and here we are still hot on his trail. If ever
Drogo lays hands on him he’ll flay him, but he won’t cripple him, he’s too
valuable to waste. But he’ll have every morsel of his grudge out of the lad’s
skin, and then wring every penny of profit out of his skills lifelong, and make
good sure he never gets the chance to run again.”
    “Then
he had better make a good job of it now,” agreed Cadfael wryly. “If
well-wishing can help him, he