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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 the high-arched lids rolled back from fixed eyes. 'Don't let Fidelis fret for me…He has seen worse - let him come.'
    'I'll fetch him to you,' said Cadfael, and went at once to do it, for in this concession to the stoic mind there was more value than in anything further he could do here for the ravaged body. Brother Edmund followed him down the stair, anxious at his shoulder.
    'Will it heal? Marvel he ever lived for it to heal at all. Did you ever see a man so torn apart, and live?'
    'It happens,' said Cadfael, 'though seldom. Yes, it will close again. And open again at the least strain.' Not a word was said between them to enjoin or promise secrecy. The covering Godfrid Marescot had chosen for his ruin was sacred, and would be respected.
    Fidelis was standing in the archway of the cloister, watching the brothers as they emerged, and looking with increasing concern for one who did not come.
    Late from the orchard, the fruit-gatherers had been in haste for the evening office, and he had not looked then for Humilis, supposing him to be already in the church. But he was looking for him now. The straight, strong brows were drawn together, the long lips taut in anxiety. Cadfael approached him as the last of the brothers passed by, and the young man was turning to watch them go, almost in disbelief.
    'Fidelis…' The boy's cowled head swung round to him in quick hope and understanding. It was not good news he was expecting, but any was better than none. It was to be seen in the set of his face. He had experienced all this more than once before.
    'Fidelis, Brother Humilis is in his own bed in the dortoir. No call for alarm now, he's resting, his trouble is tended. He's asking for you. Go to him.'
    The boy looked quickly from Cadfael to Edmund, and back again, uncertain where authority lay, and already braced to go