“He said no word of any such before he went?” asked Cadfael.
“He was in haste to be off, he had a walk of four miles. I never asked him. He was very proud to take my place, he said Compline for me. It could be!” said Boniface. “Thin it may be, but it is a chance. Should we not make sure?”
“So we can,” said Cadfael heartily, “if he’s still within reach. But where should we look for him now? Four miles, you said? That’s no great way.”
“He’s nephew to Father Eadmer at Attingham, and named for his uncle. Whether he’s there still, with him, is more than I know. But he has no cure yet. I would go,” said Boniface, hesitating, “but I could hardly get back for Vespers. If I’d thought of it earlier“
“Never trouble yourself,” said Cadfael. “I’ll ask leave of Father Abbot and go myself. For such a cause he’ll give permission. It’s the welfare of a soul at stake. And in this warm weather,” he added practically, “there’s need of haste.”
It was, as it chanced, the first day for over a week to grow lightly overcast, though before night the cloud cover cleared again. To set out along the Foregate with the abbot’s blessing behind him and a four-mile walk ahead was pure pleasure, and the lingering vagus left in Cadfael breathed a little deeper when he reached the fork of the road at Saint Giles, and took the left-hand branch towards Attingham. There were times when the old wandering desire quickened again within him, and the very fact that he had been sent on an errand even beyond the limits of the shire, only three months back, in March, had rather roused than quenched the appetite. The vow of stability, however gravely undertaken, sometimes proved as hard to keep as the vow of obedience, which Cadfael had always found his chief stumbling block. He greeted this afternoon’s freedom - and justified freedom, at that, since it had sanction and purpose - as a refreshment and a holiday.
The highroad had a broad margin of turf on either side, soft green walking, the veil of cloud had tempered the sun’s heat, the meadows were green on either hand, full of flowers and vibrant with insects, and in the bushes and headlands of the fields the birds were loud and full of themselves, shrilling off rivals, their first brood already fledged and trying their wings. Cadfael rolled contentedly along the green verge, the grass stroking silken cool about his ankles. Now if the end came up to the journey, every step of the way would be repaid with double pleasure.
Before him, beyond the level of fields, rose the wooded hogback of the Wrekin, and soon the river reappeared at some distance on his left, to wind nearer as he proceeded, until it was close beside the highway, a gentle, innocent stream between flat grassy banks, incapable of menace to all appearances, though the local people knew better than to trust it. There were cattle in the pastures here, and waterfowl among the fringes of reeds. And soon he could see the square, squat tower of the parish church of Saint Eata beyond the curve of the Severn, and the low roofs of the village clustered close to it. There was a wooden bridge somewhat to the left, but Cadfael made straight for the church and the priest’s house beside it. Here the river spread out into a maze of green and golden shallows, and at this summer level could easily be forded. Cadfael tucked up his habit and splashed through, shaking the little rafts of water crowfoot until the whole languid surface quivered.
Over the years, summer by summer, so many people had waded the river here instead of turning aside to the bridge that they had worn a narrow, sandy path up the opposite bank and across the grassy level between river and church, straight to the priest’s house. Behind the mellow red stone of the church and the weathered timber of the modest dwelling in its shadow a circle of old trees gave shelter from the wind, and shaded half of the small garden. Father Eadmer had been many years in office here, and worked lovingly upon his garden. Half of it was producing vegetables for his table, and by the look of it a surplus to eke out the diet of his poorer neighbors. The other half was given over to a pretty little herber full of flowers, and the undulation of the ground had made it possible for him to shape a short bench of earth, turfed over with wild thyme, for a seat. And there sat Father Eadmer in his midsummer glory, a man lavish but solid of flesh, his breviary unopened on his knees, his considerable weight distilling around him, at every movement, a great aureole of fragrance. Before him, hatless in the sun, a younger man was busy hoeing between rows of young cabbages, and the gleam of his shaven scalp above the ebullient ring of curly hair reassured Cadfael, as he approached, that he had not had his journey for nothing. At least enquiry was possible, even if it produced disappointing answers.
“Well, well!” said the elder Eadmer, sitting up straight and almost sliding the breviary from his lap. “Is it you, off on your travels again?”
“No farther than here,” said Cadfael, “this time.”
“And how’s that unfortunate young brother you had with you in the spring?” And Eadmer called across the vegetable beds to the young man with the hoe: “Leave that, Eddi, and fetch Brother Cadfael here a beaker of ale. Bring pitcher and all!”
Young Eadmer laid aside the hoe cheerfully, and was off into the house on fine long legs. Cadfael sat down beside the priest on the green bench, and waves of spicy fragrance rose round him.
“He’s back with his pens and brushes, doing good work, and none the worse for his journey, indeed all the better in spirit. His walking improves, slowly but it improves. And how have you been? I hear this is your nephew, the young one, and newly made priest.”
“A month since. He’s waiting to see what the bishop has in mind for him. The lad was lucky enough to catch his eye, it may work out well for him.”
It was clear to Cadfael, when young Eadmer came striding out with a wooden tray of beakers and the pitcher, and served them with easy and willing grace, that the new priest was likely to catch any observant eye, for he was tall, well made, and good-looking, and blessedly unselfconscious about his assets. He dropped to the grass at their feet as soon as he had waited on them, and acknowledged his presentation to this Benedictine elder with pleasant deference, but quite without awe. One of those happy people for whose confidence and fearlessness circumstances will always rearrange themselves, and rough roads subside into level pastures. Cadfael wondered if his touch could do as much for other less fortunate souls.
Time spent sitting here with you and drinking your ale,” admitted Cadfael with mild regret, “is stolen time, I fear, however delightful. I’m on an errand that won’t wait, and once it’s done I must be off back. And my business is with your nephew here.”
“With me?” said the young man, looking up in surprise.
“You came visiting Father Boniface, did you not, for Saint Winifred’s translation? And stayed with him from past noon on the eve until after Compline on the feast day?”
“I did. We were deacons together,” said young Eadmer, stretching up to refill their beakers without stirring from his grassy seat. “Why? Did I mislay something for him when I disrobed? I’ll walk back and see him again before I leave here.”
“And he had to leave you in his place most of that day, from after the morning Mass until past Compline. Did any man come to you, during all that time, asking advice or wanting you to hear his confession?”
The straight-gazing brown eyes looked up at him thoughtfully, very grave now. Cadfael could read the answer and marvel at it even before Eadmer said: “Yes. One man did.”