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just in time to draw him away from Vespers. The filled baskets of plums lay by
the garden hedge, awaiting disposal after the office, and the gatherers were
surely already within the church, after hasty ablutions. Just as well! Brother
Fidelis might at first be disposed to resent any other undertaking the care of
his master. Let him find him recovered and well doctored, and he would accept
what had been done. As good a way to his confidence as any.
    “I
knew we should be needed before long,” said Edmund, leading the way vigorously
up the day stairs. “Old wounds, you think? Your skills will avail more than
mine, you have ploughed that field yourself.”
    The
bell had fallen silent. They heard the first notes of the evening office raised
faintly from within the church as they entered the sick man’s cell. He opened
slow, heavy lids and smiled at them.
    “Brothers,
I grieve to be a trouble to you…”
    The
deep eyes were hooded again, but he was aware of all, and submitted meekly to
all.
    They
drew down the linen that hid him from the waist, and uncovered the ruin of his
body. A great misshapen map of scar tissue stretched from the left hip, where
the bone had survived by miracle, slantwise across his belly and deep, deep
into the groin. Its colouration was of limestone pallor and striation below,
where he was half disembowelled but stonily healed. But towards the upper part
it was reddened and empurpled, the inflamed belly burst into a wet-lipped wound
that oozed a foul jelly and a faint smear of blood.
    Godfrid
Marsecot’s crusade had left him maimed beyond repair, yet not beyond survival.
The faceless, fingerless lepers who crawl into Saint Giles, thought Cadfael,
have not worse to bear. Here ends his line, in a noble plant incapable of seed.
But what worth is manhood, if this is not a man?

 
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
    EDMUND
RAN FOR SOFT CLOTHS AND WARM WATER, Cadfael for draughts and ointments and
decoctions from his workshop. Tomorrow he would pick the fresh, juicy water
betony, and wintergreen and woundwort, more effective than the creams and waxes
he made from them to keep in store. But for tonight these must do… Sanicle,
ragwort, moneywort, adder’s tongue, all cleansing and astringent, good for old,
ulcerated wounds, were all to be found around the hedgerows and the meadows
close by, and along the banks of the Meole Brook.
    They
cleaned the broken wound of its exudations with a lotion of woundwort and
sanicle, and dressed it with a paste of the same herbs with betony and the
chickweed wintergreen, covered it with clean linen, and swathed the patient’s
wasted trunk with bandages to keep the dressing in place. Cadfael had brought
also a draught to soothe the pain, a syrup of woundwort and Saint John’s wort
in wine, with a little of the poppy syrup added. Brother Humilis lay passive
under their hands, and let them do with him what they would.
    “Tomorrow,”
said Cadfael, “I’ll gather the same herbs fresh, and bruise them for a green
plaster, it works more strongly, it will draw out the evil. This has happened
many times since you got the injury?”
    “Not
many times. But if I’m overworn, yes — it happens,” said the bluish lips,
without complaint.
    “Then
you must not be allowed to overwear. But it has also healed before, and will
again. This woundwort got its name by good right. Be ruled now, and lie still
here for two days, or three, until it closes clean, for if you stand and go it
will be longer in healing.”
    “He
should by rights be in the infirmary,” said Edmund anxiously “where he could be
undisturbed as long as is needful.”
    “So
he should,” agreed Cadfael “but that he’s now well bedded here, and the less he
stirs the better. How do you feel yourself now, Brother?”
    “At
ease,” said Brother Humilis, and faintly smiled.
    “In
less pain?”
    “Scarcely
any. Vespers will be over,” said the faint voice, and