Monk's Hood by Ellis Peters Read Free Book Online

for
the gatehouse.
    For
all the chill of the December day, the door of the first house beyond the
mill-pond stood wide, and for all the awed quietness that hung about it, a
quivering of agitation and confusion seemed to well out at the doorway to meet
him, an almost silent panic of fluttering movements and hushed voices. A good house,
with three rooms and the kitchen, and a small garden behind, running down to
the pond; he knew it well enough, having visited a previous inmate upon lessdesperate business. The kitchen door faced away from the pond,
towards the prospect of Shrewsbury beyond the river, and the north light at
this time of day and year made the interior dim, although the window that
looked out southwards stood unshuttered to let in light and air upon the
brazier that did duty as all the cooking facilities such pensioners needed. He
caught the grey gleam of a reflection from the water, as the wind ruffled it;
the strip of garden was narrow here, though the house stood well above the
water level.
    By
the open inner door through which the murmur of frightened voices emerged, stood
a woman, obviously watching for him, her hands gripped tightly together under
her breast, and quivering with tension. She started eagerly towards him as he
came in, and then he saw her more clearly; a woman of his own years and his own
height, very neat and quiet in her dress, her dark hair laced with silver and
braided high on her head, her oval face almost unlined except for the agreeable
grooves of good-nature and humour that wrinkled the corners of her dark-brown
eyes, and made her full mouth merry and attractive. The merriment was quenched
now, she wrung her hands and fawned on him; but attractive she was, even
beautiful. She had held her own against the years, all forty-two of them that
had come between.
    He
knew her at once. He had not seen her since they were both seventeen, and
affianced, though nobody knew it but themselves, and probably her family would
have made short work of the agreement if they had known of it. But he had taken
the Cross and sailed for the Holy Land, and for all his vows to return to claim
her, with his honours thick upon him, he had forgotten everything in the fever
and glamour and peril of a life divided impartially between soldier and sailor,
and delayed his coming far too long; and she, for all her pledges to wait for him,
had tired at last and succumbed to her parents’ urgings, and married a more
stable character, and small blame to her. And he hoped she had been happy. But
never, never had he expected to see her here. It was no Bonel, no lord of a
northern manor, she had married, but an honest craftsmanof
Shrewsbury. There was no accounting for her, and no time to wonder.
    Yet
he knew her at once. Forty-two years between, and he knew her! He had not, it
seemed, forgotten very much. The eager way she leaned to him now, the turn of
her head, the very way she coiled her hair; and the eyes, above all, large,
direct, clear as light for all their darkness.
    At
this moment she did not, thank God, know him. Why should she? He must be far
more changed than she; half a world, alien to her, had marked, manipulated,
adapted him, changed his very shape of body and mind. All she saw was the monk
who knew his herbs and remedies, and had run to fetch aids for her stricken
man.
    “Through
here, brother… he is in here. The infirmarer has got him to. bed. Oh, please
help him!”
    “If
I may, and God willing,” said Cadfael, and went by her into the next room. She
pressed after him, urging and ushering. The main room was furnished with table
and benches, and chaotically spread with the remains of a meal surely
interrupted by something more than one man’s sudden illness. In any case, he
was said to have eaten his meal and seemed well; yet there were broken dishes
lying, shards on both table and floor. But she drew him anxiously on, into the
bedchamber.
    Brother