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tunics rather
than into the baskets, provided the depredations were reasonable Cadfael turned
a blind eye.
    It
was too much to expect silence in such fine weather and such a holiday
occupation. The voices of the boys rang merrily in Cadfael’s ears as he
decanted wine in his workshop, and went back and forth among his plants along
the shadowed wall, weeding and watering. A pleasant sound! He could pick out
known voices, the children’s shrill and light, their elders in a whole range of
tones. That warm, clear call, that was Brother Rhun, the youngest of the
novices, sixteen years old, only two months since received into probation, and
not yet tonsured, lest he should think better of his impulsive resolve to quit
a world he had scarcely seen. But Rhun would not repent of his choice. He had
come to the abbey for Saint Winifred’s festival, a cripple and in pain, and by
her grace now he went straight and tall and agile, radiating delight upon
everyone who came near him. As now, surely, on whoever was his partner at the
nearest of the plum-trees. Cadfael went to the edge of the orchard to see, and
there was the sometime lame boy up among the branches, secure and joyous, his
slim, deft hands nursing the fruit so lightly his fingers scarcely blurred the
bloom, and leaning down to lay them in the basket held up to him by a tall
brother whose back was turned, and whose figure was not immediately
recognisable, until he moved round, the better to follow Rhun’s movements, and
showed the face of Brother Fidelis.
    It
was the first time Cadfael had seen that face so clearly, in sunlight, the cowl
slung back. Rhun, it seemed, was one creature at least who found no difficulty
in drawing near to the mute brother, but spoke out to him merrily and found no
strangeness in his silence. Rhun leaned down laughing, and Fidelis looked up,
smiling, one face reflecting the other. Their hands touched on the handle of
the basket as Rhun dangled it at the full stretch of his arm while Fidelis
plucked a cluster of low-growing fruit pointed out to him from above.
    After
all, thought Cadfael, it was to be expected that valiant innocence would stride
in boldly where most of us hesitate to set foot. And besides, Rhun has gone
most of his life with a cruel flaw that set him apart, and taken no bitterness
from it, naturally he would advance without fear into another man’s isolation.
And thank God for him, and for the valour of the children!
    He
went back to his weeding very thoughtfully, recalling that eased and sunlit
glimpse of one who habitually withdrew into shadow. An oval face, firm-featured
and by nature grave, with a lofty forehead and strong cheekbones, and clear
ivory skin, smooth and youthful. There in the orchard he looked scarcely older
than Rhun, though there must surely be a few years between them. The halo of
curling hair round his tonsure was an autumn brown, almost fiery-bright, yet
not red, and his wide-set eyes, under strong, level brows, were of a luminous
grey, at least in that full light. A very comely young man, like a veiled
reflection of Rhun’s sunlit beauty. Noonday and twilight met together.
    The
fruit-pickers were still at work, though with most of their harvest already
gleaned, when Cadfael put away his hoe and watering-can and went to prepare for
Vespers. In the great court there was the usual late-afternoon bustle, brothers
returning from their work along the Gaye, the stir of arrival in guest-hall and
stable-yard, and in the cloister the sound of Brother Anselm’s little portative
organ testing out a new chant. The illuminators and copiers would be putting
the finishing touches to their afternoon’s work, and cleaning their pens and brushes.
Brother Humilis must be alone in his carrel, having sent Fidelis out to the
joyous labour in the garden, for nothing less would have induced the boy to
leave him. Cadfael had intended crossing the open garth to the precentor’s