“If there’s water left,” besought the young man meekly, “I should like to wash my hands and face. I’m foul!”
Godith kneeled beside him, moistened a piece of linen in the pitcher, and instead of putting it into his hand, very earnestly and thoroughly did it for, him, putting back the matted hair from his forehead, which was wide and candid, even teasing out some of the knots with solicitous fingers. After the first surprise he lay quietly and submissively under her ministering touch, but his eyes, cleansed of the soiled shadows, watched her face as she bent over him, and grew larger and larger in respectful wonder. And all this while she had hardly said a word.
The young man was almost too worn out to eat at all, and flagged very soon. He lay for a few moments with lids drooping, peering at his rescuers in silent thought. Then he said, his tongue stumbling sleepily: “I owe you a name, after all you’ve done for me… .”
“Tomorrow,” said Cadfael firmly. “You’re in the best case to sleep sound, and here I believe you may. Now drink this down-it helps keep wounds from festering, and eases the heart.” It was a strong cordial of his own brewing, he tucked away the empty vial in his gown. “And here’s a little flask of wine to bear you company if you wake. In the morning I’ll be with you early.”
“We!” said Godith, low but firmly.
“Wait, one more thing!” Cadfael had remembered it at the last moment. “You’ve no weapon on you — yet I think you did wear a sword.”
“I shed it,” mumbled the boy drowsily, “in the river. I had too much weight to keep afloat — and they were shooting. It was in the water I got this clout … I had the wit to go down, I hope they believe I stayed down … God knows it was touch and go!”
“Yes, well, tomorrow will do. And we must find you a weapon. Now, good night!”
He was asleep before ever they put out the candle, and drew the door closed. They walked wordlessly through the rustling stubble for some minutes, the sky over them an arch of dark and vivid blue paling at the edges into a fringe of sea-green. Godith asked abruptly: “Brother Cadfael, who was Ganymede?”
“A beautiful youth who was cup-bearer to Jove, and much loved by him.”
“Oh!” said Godith, uncertain whether to be delighted or rueful, this success being wholly due to her boyishness.
“But some say that it’s also another name for Hebe,” said Cadfael.
“Oh! And who is Hebe?”
“Cup-bearer to Jove, and much loved by him — but a beautiful maiden.”
“Ah!” said Godith profoundly. And as they reached the road and crossed towards the abbey, she said seriously:
“You know who he must be, don’t you?”
“Jove? The most god-like of all the pagan gods …”
“He!” she said severely, and caught and shook Brother Cadfael’s arm in her solemnity. “A Saxon name, and Saxon hair, and on the run from the king’s men… . He’s Torold Blund, who set out with Nicholas to save FitzAlan’s treasury for the empress. And of course he had nothing to do with poor Nicholas’s death. I don’t believe he ever did a shabby thing in his whole life!”
“That,” said Cadfael, “I hesitate to say of any man, least of all myself. But I give you my word, child, this one most shabby thing he certainly did not do. You may sleep in peace!”
It was nothing out of the ordinary for Brother Cadfael, that devoted gardener and apothecary, to rise long before it was necessary for Prime, and have an hour’s work done before he joined his brothers at the first service; so no one thought anything of it when he dressed and went out early on that particular morning, and no one even knew that he also roused his boy, as he had promised. They went out with more medicaments and food, and a cotte and hose that Brother Cadfael had filched from the charity offerings that came in to the almoner. Godith had taken away with her the young man’s bloodstained shirt, which was of fine linen and not to be wasted, had washed it before she slept, and mended it on rising, where the arrow-head had sliced the threads asunder. On such a warm August night, spread out carefully on the bushes in the garden, it had dried well.
Their patient was sitting up in his bed of sacks, munching bread with appetite, and seemed to have total mist in them, for he made no move to seek cover when the door began to open. He had draped his torn and stained cotte round his shoulders, but for the rest was naked under his blanket, and the bared, smooth chest and narrow flanks were elegantly formed. Body and eyes still showed blue bruises, but he was certainly much restored alter one long night of rest.
“Now,” said Cadfael with satisfaction, “you may talk as much as you like, my friend, while I dress this wound of yours. The leg will do very well until we have more time, but this shoulder is a tricky thing. Godric, see to him on the other side while I uncover it, it may well stick. You steady bandage and arm while I unbind. Now, sir …” And he added, for fair exchange: “They call me Brother Cadfael, I’m as Welsh as Dewi Sant, and I’ve been about the world, as you may have guessed. And this boy of mine is Godric, as you’ve heard, and brought me to you. Trust us both, or neither.”
“I trust both,” said the boy. He had more colour this morning, or it was the flush of dawn reflected, his eyes were bright and hazel, more green than brown. “I owe you more than mist can pay, but show me more I can do, and I’ll do it. My name is Torold Blund, I come from a hamlet by Oswestry, and I’m FitzAlan’s man from head to foot.” The bandage stuck then, and Godith felt him flinch, and locked the fold until she could ease it free, by delicate touches. “If that puts you in peril,” said Torold, suppressing the pain,
“I do believe I’m fit to go, and go I will. I would not for the world shrug off my danger upon you.”
“You’ll go when you’re let,” said Godith, and for revenge snatched off the last fold of bandage, but very circumspectly, and holding the anointed pad in place. “And it won’t be today.”
“Hush, let him talk, time’s short,” said Cadfael. “Go to it, lad. We’re not in the business of selling Maud’s men to Stephen, or Stephen’s men to Maud. How did you come here in this pass?”
Torold took a deep breath, and talked to some purpose. “I came to the castle here with Nicholas Faintree, who was also FitzAlan’s man, from the next manor to my father’s, we joined the garrison only a week before it fell. The evening before the assault there was a council — we were not there, we were small fry — and they resolved to get the FitzAlan treasury away the very next day for the use of the empress, not knowing then it would be the last day. Nicholas and I were told off to be the messengers because we were new to Shrewsbury, and not known, and might get through well enough where others senior to us might be known and cut down at sight. The goods — they were not too bulky, thank God, not much plate, more coin, and most of all in jewellery — were hidden somewhere no one knew but our lord and his agent who had them in guard. We had to ride to him when the word was given, take them from where he would show us, and get clear by night for Wales. FitzAlan had an accord with Owain Gwynedd — not that he’s for either party here, he’s for Wales, but civil war here suits him well, and he and FitzAlan are friends. Before it was well dawn they attacked, and it was plain we could not hold. So we were sent off on our errand — it was to a shop in the town …” He wavered, uneasy at giving any clue.