Hermit of Eyton Forest by Ellis Peters Read Free Book Online

wanderings in search of the place of retirement appointed for him
by God. He came into the chapterhouse of the abbey with demure assurance, and
stood to be examined by all the curious brothers, not at all discomposed by
such an assault of bright, inquisitive eyes.
    From
the retired stall which he preferred, Cadfael studied the messenger with
interest. A more unlikely servitor for an anchorite and popular saint, in the
old Celtic sense that took no account of canonisation, he could not well have
imagined, though he could not have said on the instant where the incongruity
lay. A young fellow of about twenty years, in a rough tunic and hose of brown
cloth, patched and faded—nothing exceptional there. He was built on the same
light, wiry lines as Hugh Beringar, but stood a hand’s breadth taller, and he
was lean and brown and graceful as a fawn, managing his long limbs with the
same angular, animal beauty. Even his composed stillness held implications of
sudden, fierce movement, like a wild creature motionless in ambush. His running
would be swift and silent, his leaping long and lofty as that of a hare. And
his face had a similar slightly ominous composure and awareness, under a thick,
close-fitted cap of waving hair the colour of copper beeches. A long oval of a
face, tall-browed, with a long, straight nose flared at the nostrils, again
like a wild thing sensitive to every scent the breeze brought him, a supple,
crooked mouth that almost smiled even in repose, as if in secret and slightly
disturbing amusement, and long amber eyes that tilted upwards at the outer
corners, under oblique copper brows. The burning glow of those eyes he shaded,
but did not dim or conceal, beneath round-arched lids and copper lashes long
and rich as a woman’s.
    What
was an antique saint doing with an unnerving fairy thing in his employ? But the
boy, having waited a long moment to be inspected thoroughly, lifted his eyelids
and showed to Abott Radulfus a face of candid and childlike innocence, and made
him a very charming and respectful reverence. He would not speak until he was
spoken to, but waited to be questioned. “You come from the hermit of Eyton?”
asked the abbot mildly, studying the young, calm, almost smiling face
attentively.
    “Yes,
my lord. The holy Cuthred sends a message by me.” His voice was quiet and clear,
pitched a little high, so that it rang bell-like under the vault.
    “What
is your name?” Radulfus questioned.
    “Hyacinth,
my lord.”
    “I
have known a bishop of that name,” said the abbot, and briefly smiled, for the
sleek brown creature before him had certainly nothing of the bishop about him.
“Were you named for him?”
    “No,
my lord. I have never heard of him. I was told, once, that there was a youth of
that name in an old story, and two gods fell out over him, and the loser killed
him. They say flowers grew from his blood. It was a priest who told me,” said
the boy innocently, and slanted a sudden brief smile round the chapterhouse,
well aware of the slight stir of disquiet he had aroused in these cloistered
breasts, though the abbot continued unruffled. Into that old story, thought
Cadfael, studying him with pleasure and interest, you, my lad, fit far better
than into the ambit of bishops, and well you know it. Or hermits either, for
that matter. Now where in the world did he discover you, and how did he tame you?
    “May
I speak my message?” asked the boy ingenuously, golden eyes wide and clear and
fixed upon the abbot.
    “You
have learned it by heart?” enquired Radulfus, smiling.
    “I
must, my lord. There must be no word out of place.”
    “A
very faithful messenger! Yes, you may speak.”
    “I
must be my master’s voice, not my own,” said the boy by way of introduction,
and forthwith sank his voice several tones below its normal ringing lightness,
in a startling piece of mimicry that made Cadfael, at least, look at him more warily
and