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eighteenth day the pilgrims began to arrive, a scattering of fore-runners
before the full tide began to flow.
    Brother
Cadfael had watched the reliquary depart on its memorial journey with a
slightly guilty mind, for all his honest declaration that he could hardly have
done otherwise than he had done, there in the summer night in Gwytherin. So
strongly had he felt, above all, her Welshness, the feeling she must have for
the familiar tongue about her, and the tranquil flow of the seasons in her
solitude, where she had slept so long and so well in her beatitude, and worked
so many small, sweet miracles for her own people. No, he could not believe he
had made a wrong choice there. If only she would glance his way, and smile, and
say, well done!
    The
very first of the pilgrims came probing into the walled herb-garden, with
Brother Denis’s directions to guide him, in search of a colleague in his own
mystery.
    Cadfael
was busy weeding the close-planted beds of mint and thyme and sage late in the
afternoon, a tedious, meticulous labour in the ripeness of a favourable June,
after spring sun and shower had been nicely balanced, and growth was a green
battlefield. He backed out of a cleansed bed, and backed into a solid form,
rising startled from his knees to turn and face a rusty black brother shaped
very much like himself, though probably fifteen years younger. They stood at
gaze, two solid, squarely built brethren of the Order, eyeing each other in
instant recognition and acknowledgement.
    “You
must be Brother Cadfael,” said the stranger-brother in a broad, melodious bass
voice. “Brother Hospitaller told me where to find you. My name is Adam, a
brother of Reading. I have the very charge there that you bear here, and I have
heard tell of you, even as far south as my house.”
    His
eye was roving, as he spoke, towards some of Cadfael’s rarer treasures, the
eastern poppies he had brought from the Holy Land and reared here with anxious
care, the delicate fig that still contrived to thrive against the sheltering
north wall, where the sun nursed it. Cadfael warmed to him for the quickening
of his eye, and the mild greed that flushed the round, shaven face. A sturdy,
stalwart man, who moved as if confident of his body, one who might prove a man
of his hands if challenged. Well-weathered, too, a genuine outdoor man.
    “You’re
more than welcome, brother,” said Cadfael heartily. “You’ll be here for the
saint’s feast? And have they found you a place in the dortoir? There are a few
cells vacant, for any of our own who come, like you.”
    “My
abbot sent me from Reading with a mission to our daughter house of Leominster,”
said Brother Adam, probing with an experimental toe into the rich, well-fed
loam of Brother Cadfael’s bed of mint, and raising an eyebrow respectfully at
the quality he found. “I asked if I might prolong the errand to attend on the
translation of Saint Winifred, and I was given the needful permission. It’s
seldom I could hope to be sent so far north, and it would be pity to miss such
an opportunity.”
    “And
they’ve found you a brother’s bed?” Such a man, Benedictine, gardener and
herbalist, could not be wasted on a bed in the guest-hall. Cadfael coveted him,
marking the bright eye with which the newcomer singled out his best endeavours.
    “Brother
Hospitaller was so gracious. I am placed in a cell close to the novices.”
    “We
shall be near neighbours,” said Cadfael contentedly. “Now come, I’ll show you
whatever we have here to show, for the main garden is on the far side of the
Foregate, along the bank of the river. But here I keep my own herber. And if
there should be anything here that can be safely carried to Reading, you may
take cuttings most gladly before you leave us.”
    They
fell into a very pleasant and voluble discussion, perambulating all the walks
of the closed garden, and comparing experiences in cultivation and