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the walled garden with aromatic odors, grown a little rank now with autumn, ready to sink into their winter sleep very soon. The best of their summer was already harvested.
    A hand reached out of an arbor in the wall to take her hand, and a voice whispered in haste: “This way, quickly! There’s a hut here in the corner… an apothecary’s shop. Come! No one will look for us in there.”
    Every time she had ever been able to draw close to him— the times had been very few and very brief—she had been startled and reassured by the very size of him, head and shoulders above her, wide in breast and shoulder, long in the arm, narrow and fleet in the flank, as though his engulfing shadow could wall her in from all threats, like a tower. But she knew it could not, and he was as unblessed and vulnerable as she. The very thought had made her even more timorous than she was for herself. Great lords, if they once take against, can quite destroy young squires, however tall and strong and well versed in arms.
    “Someone may come there,” she whispered, clinging to his hand.
    “At this time of the evening? No one will come. They’re at supper now, they’ll be in the chapterhouse afterwards.” He drew her along with him in his arm, under the eaves rustling with dried herbs, into the wood-warm interior where glass gleamed on the shelves, and the brazier, fed to burn slowly until it was needed, provided a small eye of fire in the dimness. The door he left open, just as it stood. Better move nothing, to betray the visit of unauthorized strangers. “Iveta! You did come! I was afraid… .”
    “You knew I’d come!”
    “… afraid you might be watched too closely, and every moment. Listen, for we may not have long. You shall not, you shall not be delivered over to that gross old man. Tomorrow, if you’ll trust me, if you will to go with me, come at this hour again, here… .”
    “Oh, God!” she said in a soft moan. “Why do we make believe there can be any escape?”
    “But there can, there must!” he insisted furiously. “If you truly want it… if you love me…”
    “If I love you… !”
    She was in his arms, her own slight arms embracing with all their might as much of his hard young body as they could span, when Brother Cadfael, in all innocence, his sandals silent on his well-kept grass paths, darkened the doorway and startled them apart. He was a good deal more astonished than they, and to judge by their faces, much less terrible than whatever they had momentarily taken him for. Iveta recoiled until her shoulders were brought up against the wooden wall of the hut. Joscelin stood his ground by the brazier, feet solidly spread. Both of them recovered countenance with a gallantry that was more than half desperation.
    “I cry your pardon,” said Cadfael placidly. “I did not know I had patients waiting. Brother Infirmarer will have recommended you to me, I take it. He knew I should be working here until Compline.”
    He might have been speaking Welsh to them, of course, but with luck they might pick up the hints he was hastily offering. Desperation does tend to sharpen the wits at need. And he had heard, as they had not, the brushing of garments along the path outside, the rapid, irate tread of a woman’s feet bearing down on them. He was standing by the brazier, striking flint and steel to light his little oil-lamp, when Agnes Picard appeared in the doorway, tall and chill, brows drawn together into a level, unbroken line.
    Brother Cadfael, having lit and trimmed the wick, turned to gather up into a box the troches Brother Oswin had left drying, little white cakes of carminative powder bound with gum. The act enabled him to keep his back turned serenely upon the woman in the doorway, though he was very well aware of her. Since it was plain that neither of the young people was yet capable of uttering a sensible word, he went on talking for them all.
    “It will be the tiring journey,” he said comfortably,