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like folded wings. So young and yet so formed a face, east and west at
home in it, shaven clean like a Norman, olive-skinned like a Syrian, all his
memories of the Holy Land in one human countenance. The favourite squire of
Laurence d’Angers, come home with him from the Crusade. Olivier de Bretagne.
    If
his lord was there in the south with his following, in the empress’s retinue,
where else would Olivier be? The abbot might even have rubbed shoulders with
him, unbeknown, or seen him ride past at his lord’s elbow, and for one absent
moment admired his beauty. Few such faces blaze out of the humble mass of our
ordinariness, thought Cadfael, the finger of God cannot choose but mark them
out for notice, and his officers here will be the first to recognise and own
them.
    And
this Rainald Bossard who is dead, an honourable man doing right by an
honourable opponent, was Olivier’s comrade, owning the same lord and pledged to
the same service. His death will be grief to Olivier. Grief to Olivier is grief
to me, a wrong done to Olivier is a wrong done to me. As far away as Winchester
may be, here am I left mourning in that dark street where a man died for a
generous act, in which, by the same token, he did not fail, for the clerk Christian
lived on to return to his lady, the queen, with his errand faithfully done.
    The
gentle rustlings and stirrings of the dortoir sighed into silence outside the
frail partitions of Cadfael’s cell long before he rose from his knees, and
shook off his sandals. The little lamp by the night stairs cast only the
faintest gleam across the beams of the roof, a ceiling of pearly grey above the
darkness of his cell, his home now for—was it eighteen years or nineteen?—he
had difficulty in recalling. It was as if a part of him, heart, mind, soul,
whatever that essence might be, had not so much retired as come home to take
seisin of a heritage here, his from his birth. And yet he remembered and
acknowledged with gratitude and joy the years of his sojourning in the world,
the lusty childhood and venturous youth, the taking of the Cross and the
passion of the Crusade, the women he had known and loved, the years of his
sea-faring off the coast of the Holy Kingdom of Jerusalem, all that pilgrimage
that had led him here at last to his chosen retreat. None of it wasted, however
foolish and amiss, nothing lost, nothing vain, all of it somehow fitting him to
the narrow niche where now he served and rested. God had given him a sign, he
had no need to regret anything, only to lay all open and own it his. For God’s
viewing, not for man’s.
    He
lay quiet in the darkness, straight and still like a man coffined, but easy,
with his arms lax at his sides, and his half-closed eyes dreaming on the vault
above him, where the faint light played among the beams.
    There
was no lightning that night, only a consort of steady rolls of thunder both
before and after Matins and Lauds, so unalarming that many among the brothers
failed to notice them. Cadfael heard them as he rose, and as he returned to his
rest. They seemed to him a reminder and a reassurance that Winchester had
indeed moved nearer to Shrewsbury, and consoled him that his grievance was not
overlooked, but noted in heaven, and he might look to have his part yet in
collecting the debt due to Rainald Bossard. Upon which warranty, he fell
asleep.

 
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
    ON
THE SEVENTEENTH DAY of June Saint Winifred’s elaborate oak coffin,
silver-ornamented and lined with lead behind all its immaculate seals, was
removed from its place of honour and carried with grave and subdued ceremony
back to its temporary resting-place in the chapel of the hospital of Saint
Giles, there to wait, as once before, for the auspicious day, the twenty-second
of June. The weather was fair, sunny and still, barely a cloud in the sky, and
yet cool enough for travelling, the best of weather for pilgrims. And by the