Chapter 30      The Farmstead

 

 

 

The next morning, hours after the cock crowed, Geoff wiped the last of an eggs and pork breakfast from his lips, said his thanks and goodbyes, mounted his palfrey and rode off in the direction he had come.  His departure happened with great rapidity, and Thomas barely had opportunity of shaking the man's hand before he was off.

"Well," said Edward to Cadmon when the hoofbeats had faded.  "What is on for us today?"

"We move camp.  I have not felt welcome in this village for some time."  He paralleled this remark with a rueful smile.

"Yes," replied Edward in the same vein.  "It wants hospitality."

"Can Aubrey and James be moved?" asked Thomas.

Cadmon nodded.  "We will strain our welcome a bit more and borrow a wain.  If we fill it with straw and move slowly, we should make them easy transport."

"I will tend it," declared Edward, and set about his task before reply could be made.  He wore his short sword, as he had every moment since the night of the ambush.

"He may need some help," said Thomas.

"Yes," Cadmon agreed, "You had best go keep him out of trouble."

Appreciating the irony, Thomas jogged to catch up to the smith.  "I thought I would keep you company," he said, falling in beside him.

The smith grunted without breaking stride.  He aimed straight for the house which once belonged to Morkin.  Before he got there, the door opened and the broad-beamed woman who had cleared her nostrils so extravagantly their first day in Bridris met them at the door holding a decrepit house-carl's axe, a relic from the Norman invasion.  He had seen examples of the old Saxon weapon displayed as curios on the walls of great halls around the Cotswolds.  This one was in bad shape, though the woman brandishing it seemed ready to test its mettle.  Edward did not break stride, but continued unabated toward the house.  Looking down, he saw that Edward had not moved to unsheathe his sword.  His pace was brisk and purposeful.

"Lay down that axe, old woman," he bellowed in a voice which Thomas felt reverberate in his chest.  "Put it down or I will end you where you stand."

The woman glared into Edward's black coal eyes, blinked as if dust had blown in her face, and obeyed, letting the weapon drop.  Edward walked right up to her, stooped to gather the axe in his giant's grip, and went through the door.  She may as well have been a pile of dung in his path for all the notice he gave her.

Thomas surveyed the woman before bypassing her.  She seethed with hatred for the smith, and no wonder.  He had dispatched her husband as casually as most men swat a fly.  Thomas supposed even beings of her class felt humiliation, and perhaps, rudimentary bereavement.  Certainly, her winters would be more difficult.  The smith dismissed her altogether too quickly.  Thomas motioned her back before crossing the threshold into the house.

Morkin's house, like many farm houses, had its barn and stable on the ground floor, with sleeping quarters on the floor above.  The stable area smelled bad.  It smelt, not of animals, but of human urine.  Disgusted, Edward threw open the big doors with enough force to shatter them, startling the animals and flooding the interior with harsh light.

Immediately, they spied a decent wagon and two oxen.  On wall pegs hung yoke and harness.

"I wonder who he stole these from?" asked Edward.  "They are in good shape."

The old woman, who had crept in behind them under Thomas's watchful eye, exploded with protest that they were honest people and that the wagon was honestly bought and that her husband had been unlawfully murdered.

Edward turned on her.  "And I am an archbishop.  Stand in that corner and do not make so much as a whisper.  I have suffered all I will suffer from your lot."  Again, the woman assessed his eyes, then glaring to singe hair or bake bread, did as he instructed.

While Thomas watched for interlopers, Edward got the oxen out of their stall, rigged the yoke and harness, and in short order, put the team to the wain.  He threw the axe in the back, then led the team by their tethers toward the cruck barn.  The old woman, once the wagon was clear of the house, began flinging curses.

Edward grinned.  "I would have treated her with more respect if I knew she stewarded such a mouth."

Thomas tried to smile.  It struck him odd that the smith should enjoy such an encounter with a survivor of his temper.  The old woman trumpeted their progress across the green and into the barnyard.  Burke met them, saying with amusement, "What did you do to her?  She keeps giving you directions south!"

"She is going straight to Hell," said Edward, his humor suddenly soured.  He said things like that, absolute phrases that begged for explanation, but Edward never elaborated.

Burke shrugged good-naturedly, "Well, I will toss down the straw.  Stewart can bed it in."

Edward positioned the wain beneath the loft.  He stepped onto the big wheel and jumped to the ground.  "Feed the oxen," he grumbled.  "I can tell you from experience, you would not want to yoke up beside one of these beasts if the other dropped."  He moved into the shadows, his mind now set firmly on another task, totally removing himself from the wain and his enigmatic conversation.

Thomas watched after Edward a moment.  He then smiled at Burke as if to say, I know nothing more of it than you.

Stewart clambered onto the wain bed and announced he was ready to weave the straw as Burke pitched it.

"I will do it," said Alexander, bounding in beside him.  "You want a ticking that will stay firm after days of jostling, right?"

Burke and Stewart nodded.

"Can you lay a rick?" asked Alexander.

"Well, no, but I have pitched my share of hay," replied Burke.

"Let me, then.  My father taught me how to build a firm rick.  This job is not much different."

"Well, sure," said Burke.  "Welcome.  I would not want James's butt to settle through the straw onto a splinter on my account, would you, Stewart?"

Stewart laughed.  Burke suddenly lifted his hands into two huge, pouncing claws and formed his eyes into malevolent saucers.  Stewart leaped for the loft ladder, swung to a footing and scrambled up.  Burke was after him in an instant, growling with a voice somewhere between a frustrated bull and a big cat.  Stewart, his imagination running amok, nearly fell over his own feet getting out of the way of the wild beast chasing him.

The barn jostled with laughter.  It was an opportune distraction, welcomed by everyone.  Even James managed a smile.  His head ached and he could not find his balance for long, but at least the blow to his head had dislodged a recumbent sense of humor.  Aubrey feared to laugh, lest his side jolt him with pain, but he smiled broadly, nonetheless.  It felt good to laugh.

Stewart and Burke began pitching straw pell-mell.  Alexander ordered an immediate halt, instructed them how to bundle a proper sheave, then began again.  Soon, a comfortable straw-ticked bed grew atop the boards of the wain.  When complete, and after a few needless adjustments, Alexander studied his work proudly, his face reflective of fond remembrance.  Later, when the two invalids were installed on his handiwork and the wain was trundling along with Burke at the reins, he rode up and inquired after their comfort often, and received indulgent reassurance that the bed was as soft as either had ever slept in.

They left the structures and populace of Bridris without a backward look.  The road lay muddy before them, but similarly open and inviting.  They set out for Kenilworth, a wagon, a wain, and men ahorse.  They made a deep trail.

The first day passed without event, and that evening, after the sun set with winter promptness, and the camp fire had burnt low in cold, still air, Cadmon promised to read a wonderful tale to them from a book he produced from his saddle bag.  Everyone wanted to see the book, which had ornate drawings of foreign looking men and buildings.  The text had a strange, spidery look to it.  Stewart looked close.  It certainly was not French or English.  Though he could not read, he could recognize the look.  Leaning over the book an instant, Edward announced the letters were "nothing more than the chicken scratchings of those heathen Arabs."  Cadmon smiled indulgently.  Taking the book from them at last, he leafed through the pages a bit, found his place, and prepared to read.  Alexander settled into a comfortable position and held a lamp near the book for light.  Cadmon asked him if he would be comfortable there for some time.  Alexander replied he would.

Cadmon began reading, his steady voice lending strength and presence to the words.  Soon, the forest around them dissolved, and was replaced by Arabian sands.

Thomas listened and observed, vaguely analyzing how Cadmon managed the men.  His methods were unusual, honoring each of his comrades with implicit trust and respect, regardless of past merit.  But everyone responded.  He regarded James particularly.  His attitude had changed considerably since the night of the ambush.  Was it gratitude to Cadmon for saving his life, or was it due to Cadmon's not making an issue of his failed watch?  Either way, James had changed, and for the better.

The story picked up momentum, and Thomas found himself losing his thoughts to the story.  In the circle of listeners, eyes cast dreamily into the fire, as did his own presently, and a fantastic tale unfolded of a boy called Aladdin.

In the middle of a particularly exciting passage, grotesque snoring ripped the spell asunder.  Cadmon looked up without raising his head.  Locating the source of the sound was not difficult.

"Thomas, will you roll Master Edward on his side, please?" requested Cadmon.

"With pleasure."

Thomas got to his knees and wrestled the sleeping form into a position of silence.  Edward ceased his noise but did not awaken.  Thomas moved cautiously, wondering what the smith's reaction would be if startled, but fortunately, he continued sleeping, apparently understanding, even in his dreams, that the leverage performed upon him was by a friend for the common good.  It warranted no alarm.

"Thank you," said Cadmon.  "I take it he did not find Aladdin to his liking."

A ripple of laughter spread around the fire.

"Please go on," said Aubrey, sitting up against a reclined board.  "I have never heard anything like it."

Other voices agreed.

Cadmon looked appreciative and continued.

The story progressed to a fascinating conclusion.  Everyone but Edward expressed thanks and admiration, then turned to their blankets to sleep and dream, excepting the watch, of course.

Next morning found them moving again toward Kenilworth, with James determined to ride upon his own horse.  Somehow, he managed to sit the animal for some hours before succumbing to fatigue and moving to the wagon again.  When James climbed back in -- it was mid-morning -- Aubrey, lying in the deep straw of the wain, admitted he did not feel very well.  He sweated profusely and shivered.  Cadmon felt his forehead and checked his bandage.  He gave the young man an extra blanket.

"How is he?" asked Thomas when they were out of earshot.

"Not well," replied Cadmon thoughtfully.  "He has a high fever."

"His wound?"

"Closed and healing, but it is too red."

Edward pulled his horse beside the wain and wrestled briefly with the animal as it fought to grab a mouthful of straw.  After assessing Aubrey, he moved his horse forward, alongside them.  "The barn smelled awful," he said.  "An evil humor has gotten into his blood."

"Yes, I am afraid so."  Cadmon appeared trying to decide something.

"Should we stop here?" offered Thomas.  "You could ride on to Kenilworth and we could catch up as soon as Aubrey is able."

"Perhaps.  But if we ride somewhat faster, we can arrive at a farmstead I know of shortly after dark."

Aubrey opened his eyes.  He had been listening.  "I am sorry to cause this fuss," he said with contrition.  "Please go.  Do not let my illness disfavor your meeting with William Marshal.  That is most important."  His voice, though wearied, carried conviction.

"Do not worry about that," said Cadmon.  "Burke, stop the wagon a moment."

Cadmon got into the wagon and placed his open palm against Aubrey's chest and looked him in the eyes.  Aubrey visibly relaxed, then smiled weakly.

Glancing between Edward and Thomas, Cadmon said, "We must move quickly.  There is a man at the farmstead who knows far more about medicine than I.  We dare not spend another night in the open air."

"It is decided, then," said Edward.  He pulled his horse about.  "Burke," he called.

"Yes, Master Edward."  Burke sat tall in the wain seat.

"We want a fast walk, but as smooth as you can make it.  Keep your wheels on the edge and center of the road as we find rocks and bog.  It will be much smoother there."

"I will."

"Good.  Cadmon?"

Cadmon pulled his horse away and nodded agreement to Edward, who then sent Stewart's cart and Burke's wain down the road in the direction of his extended arm.  The knights and squires rode on all sides, forming a constant flow of watchfulness around the caravan.  Unsaddled horses, led by traces tied to the rear of the transports, danced at the increased pace, their fine blood rising.

Only Edward wore his hauberk and sword.  The others wore their swords bare of armor.  Only Edward could bear the weight of the metal fabric weighing two stone on his shoulders for hours on end without feeling tired.  Certainly, considered Thomas, Cadmon could wear it a fortnight and not complain, if reason demanded it, but since reason did not demand it, Cadmon did not wear his hauberk.  Cadmon was a reasonable man.  Edward's brawn and bulk carried the weight as if it were merely a serge cloak.  Therefore, it did not matter to Edward whether he was reasonable or not.  Anyway, Thomas speculated to himself, the smith rather enjoyed wearing the accoutrements of a knight again.  It was in his blood, and blood will tell.

Thomas warmed at the memory of the smith in action.  The smith's courage and skill at battle certainly remained unfaded, if his performance when the two of them reached Morkin's camp was anything to gauge it by.  He more than compensated for lack of fresh experience by the strength with which he swung a blade.  One rashly bold fellow had rushed Edward with an axe.  Edward had stood his ground and intercepted the axe blow with his long sword.  Casting the axe down, Edward had continued the motion of his blade and struck the man's head from his body with a single sweep.  This one action had sobered most of Morkin's bunch into immediate submission.

Personally, he felt as at ease with Edward defending his back as with any man he knew.  That, he decided, was the greatest compliment any man could pay another.  Feeling a need to expend some energy, he nudged his horse forward to relieve Alexander at the point position.

He started to ride past Cadmon, then reconsidered.  Instead, he brought his horse alongside the knight's horse, the first time he had dared approach Cadmon directly.  After his rendition of the Arabian tale, he somehow seemed more approachable.  He waited for Cadmon to acknowledge him.

Cadmon turned him a questioning expression.  There was, beneath his impassive visage, a sense of amusement riding about in the depths of his eyes.  Thomas felt welcome, but at the same time, under test.

Thomas said uncomfortably, "I regret broaching this, but we still have a band of assassins on our trail, unless you have had word otherwise."

"No.  Unfortunately, I have not."

Their horses moved forward smartly.

"It is, perhaps, not my place to ask this...."

Cadmon broke in.  "You have more than earned the right to ask, Thomas.  Please do so without discomfort.  You are a fine knight and an honest companion.  I will gratify your curiosity so far as I am able."

So grand an opportunity may not come again, thought Thomas.  But, restraint was in order.  He needed to demonstrate only professional interest, not a woman's gossipy curiosity.

"Do you know these men who hound us?"

"No.  I have only seen what they do."  His voice was ominously flat.

Thomas paused, let the tension die, then continued.

"How many are there?"

"At least two.  Probably three or four."

"How can you be certain of their number?"

Cadmon smiled faintly, fleetingly.  "Their's is a small band of practiced murderers, Thomas.  They must be small to move about quickly.  From past experience and the fire at Norbury, we know there must be an archer.  Further, there is a leader, probably the bold fellow who scaled the wall and sneaked into the knight's barracks disguised as a squire or a knight.  That needed nerve and cunning.  Further, there must be at least one other to act as lookout, someone to carry out an odd job at short notice.  And, if they travel quickly, they must have horses, indicating a need for someone to tend them, though this job could be handled by the third man."

Cadmon stopped his recitation. Thomas at first thought the conversation was ended, but a glance at the knight's countenance told him another question would be honored.  He followed up his inquiry.

"I understand Edward and Alexander have heard much of your past, though neither will speak of it."

Cadmon absorbed this news with a look of assessment.  Evidently, he appreciated knowing his trusted ones had demonstrated both prudence and discretion.

"That is so," said the knight.

"Is there merit in the rest of us knowing?"

"It will do you little practical good, but I can see the doubts those shadows cast."  Cadmon shifted in his saddle.  The leather creaked slightly.  "Thomas, the story you ask of me is very painful.  I will release Edward and Alexander of their secrecy.  They will explain."  This time, the knight's expression did not invite another question.

"Thank you," said Thomas.

The knight nodded slightly, his expression ascetic, his attention focused inward.  Thomas, in that brief quiet moment, sensed a wave of deep anger pass like a spreading wave.  He nudged his horse, and continued to the point position.

Alexander said thanks when he undertook the lead.  Alexander dropped back to the wain.  He studied the pale figure lying in the straw.  He spoke to Aubrey.  The forest and glades were leafless and quiet.  Their voices carried easily.  Thomas overheard.

"How are you feeling?" asked Alexander.

"Not well.  Sometimes I see things, like pieces of dreams."

"It is fever."

"I know, but they frighten me."

There was a silence, then Alexander said, "I am missing in my lessons while you are abed."

"I am sorry for that.  You must ask Thomas.  I am certain he would oblige."

Thomas strained to hear, so weak did Aubrey's voice carry.  He earnestly hoped Cadmon's friend still lived at the farmstead and knew his medicine.  Aubrey had the look of many men he had seen at one time or another, most of whom were carried off in mid nocturne.  Aubrey, he silently pledged himself, if I can thwart it, I will not let take you as it took Cyril.

Odd, he reflected, drawing upon other memories.  He had not had the dream since traveling with Cadmon.  The dream.  Annoying thing, that dream.  More, much more than that.  It seemed like the only weak spot in his curtain wall, the one area where he continually stood on unsure ground, where self-betrayal might creep out from under a shadow like a troll from beneath a bridge.  He could repair the spot, if he could find it.  Of that he was sure.  But how can you find a weak spot in a wall that looks, otherwise, impregnable?  Was it a secret door with a hidden catch, or was it like the earthen wall of an embankment which gives way during a fierce storm?  In all his confidence, there floated this one blemish of self doubt, a mote in the eye.  Blast it all!  He did not like it there.  Show yourself! he challenged inwardly.  But, it would not.  It never did.

Thomas rubbed his hand forcefully over his face.  The sensation refreshed him.  He looked at the sky.  It was becoming gray.  Indistinct shadows of branches inched their way up the trunks.  This night would not be so pleasant as the last two.  It might even rain.  Aubrey could ill afford that added to his burden.  How far to go?  The track they followed showed evidence of people recently passing, but they had seen no one all day.

They rode on and time passed.  Night accumulated around them, as it does in winter, particularly if you are deep woods.  Stewart prepared lamps to hang on the sides of the cart and the wain, hoping they would provide enough light to see by.  Cadmon, riding far point, rode silently.  Thomas could see the white sash Cadmon had lain across the cantle of his saddle for Stewart to follow, but little else.  Burke relieved him at the head of the carts, and he let his horse drift to the side of the road.

The air felt dank.  Cold rain waited in the heavens, not far above, waiting only for some rustle of wind to shake it free, as water droplets fall from saplings when shaken after a rain.  He scanned the sky for some sign of the moon, but the clouds had thickened if anything since his last survey.  He peered deep into the woods for some glimmer of a forester's cottage or the farmstead of Cadmon's man, but nothing hopeful appeared.  It grew chillier and darker.

Alexander tied his horse to the wain and climbed in to tend Aubrey, who moaned in a delirium.  Thomas rode close.  James sat in a stupor against the side of the wain, holding his head, which he had said earlier, throbbed as if it were about to explode.  Thomas wondered just how bad it really was.  James did not look up, so he could not catch his eye.  Perhaps his suffering was real.

Gently, Alexander tried to wake his friend, but could not rouse him.  Aubrey moved to visions only he could see.  His words, if they were words at all, had no meaning.

"Thomas?" asked Alexander with concern.

Thomas frowned and shook his head.  "Keep the blankets on him.  It's all we can do for now."

"Do you see any shelter about?"

Thomas scanned about for Alexander's sake, but knew ahead of time it was useless.  "Not yet," he answered.

A wind swept the tops of the trees lining the road, but little of it penetrated to the roadway.  It was a weather wind.  No doubt about it, some bad weather surged toward them.

A whistle sounded.  Thomas craned his neck.

"What is it?" whispered Burke urgently.

"I do not know.  Listen."

The whistle repeated, then ahead, a little ways beyond Cadmon's horse he saw a light.  The sash on Cadmon's saddle changed position, disappeared.  Hoofbeats.  Cadmon was riding back toward them.

"We have arrived," said Cadmon quietly when he reached the cart.  Everyone had gathered to listen.

"None too soon," said James.  "These clouds can split any second."

"Yes.  Follow me with the carts.  I will ride ahead to announce us."

Cadmon pulled his horse around and shot down a side path Thomas had not noticed until the knight alighted upon it.

"I suppose we had better follow," said Stewart.

"You heard him."

Stewart goaded his oxen and followed the knight's advancing white banner.

When they arrived at the source of the light, they saw a massive black shape built of stone, a ruin of some kind judging from the irregular outline of coal black darkness against the night sky.  Dark shapes of a small barn and several sheds formed a courtyard, but there was no defensive wall.  Immediately, a door opened and another lamp appeared, vaguely illuminating three figures, one of whom was unmistakably Cadmon.

"Ho, Edward," said Cadmon in his distance carrying voice.

"Cadmon," responded Edward.  He rode a little ahead of Thomas.  Thomas whispered for the carts to stop, first making an unseen and useless motion with his arm.

"We are welcome," said Cadmon.  "Bring Aubrey in.  Put the cart and wain in the barn, then come in.  We sleep beneath a roof tonight."

Forthwith, Alexander, Burke, Thomas and Stewart each took one corner of the blanket upon which Aubrey lay, and as a man, carried him into the shelter.

"'Roo h're," said a coarsely bundled woman in an abnormally thick voice that was quite beyond understanding.

"Through here," translated Cadmon, holding an inner door open.

The woman preceding them, they hurried down a short stone passage, and edged awkwardly through a narrow arch covered by a dun-colored drape.  The room beyond the arch proved ample, and contained three beds of better than common quality.  At the woman's silent direction, they gently placed Aubrey on the center bed, which seemed to have the best mattress, and stood back, looking around for whatever was to come next.

Burke nudged Stewart and the pair reluctantly left to finish attending the animals.  Cadmon supervised from the doorway.  He seemed intense.  Edward brought two additional lamps.

By their light, they saw four massive barrels and their supporting timbers.  Thomas reflected that the masons must have constructed the room around the vessels, as they would not have fitted through the arch.  Either that, or there must have been another entrance at one time.  Daub and grass tapestries prevented a study of the stonework surrounding them.

A shadow blocked the archway.  Everyone turned, and a peculiar man disengaged himself from the outer darkness and entered.  In spite of a slight stoop, he stood taller than average but was very thin.  His emaciated face seemed to peer from behind a hedge, secreting itself behind an untended beard below and a tangle of very long, graying hair above.  At a distance, it would have been easy to mistake him for a very old beggar, an anchorite or a holy man, for his tattered collection of clothes would mark him in almost any town.  However, his dark eyes, where they reflected the lamps, gleamed with an unnatural, fevered brilliance, and disregarding his appearance, the amazing fellow appeared no more than middle age.

The tatterdemalion shuffled with considerable self possession and a peculiar fixation of vision, looking neither right nor left, completely ignoring the strange men who stood around him wearing swords and knives, following his line of sight as would a bee, directly to the man upon the bed.

The room held the profoundest silence while he knelt and examined Aubrey.  They could clearly hear Aubrey's labored breathing.  Thomas could also hear the hollow pattering of the flames in the lamps.

The stranger felt Aubrey's forehead and neck, listened to his breathing, lifted his eyelids to see his eyes by light of a lamp he held in his other hand.  "We will need bed warmers," announced the man.

The woman squinted at attention, her mouth held tightly shut.  Thomas caught her face against the lamplight, her high cheek bones and sunken eyes, her parchmented skin and wispy hair, and imagined her twenty or thirty years before.  She may have been quite handsome.  He inclined his head toward the man and did a similar unwrapping of time, and decided, he too, may have been a stalwart looking fellow.  What had happened to them?  How did Cadmon come to know the extraordinary pair?  Truly, their esteemed knight moved in some surprising circles.

The man raised his hand and brought it down curtly.  "All leave this room," he said briskly.  "Wife, we will tend him."  His commanding, dominating voice fairly echoed in the close quarters.

The woman stepped back and held the coarse drapery aside, inviting exit.  Thomas exchanged a glance with Edward, who appeared to understand no more than he.  They started for the archway.  Cadmon stood beside the woman, waiting until everyone had moved through.  Thomas, the last out except for the knight, turned for a last look at the interior, saw Cadmon place his hand affectionately on the woman's arm and give her a gentle, reassuring squeeze.  She simply looked at him, apparently dry of emotion, but Thomas noticed a watery reflection at the corners of her eyes.  So, Cadmon knew the pair very well, indeed.  From past experience, though, he sincerely wondered if his curiosity in this area would ever be wholly satisfied.  Cadmon carried his privacy to the edge of secrecy and beyond.

Cadmon walked out and the drapery fell into place.  Before they cleared the passage into the central room, they heard a deluge of rain fall against the roof above them.  The sky had broken at last.  Minutes later, the outer door burst open, and Stewart and Burke flew through it holding blankets over their heads.  Rain fell from them in sheets.

"It is really coming down!" exclaimed Burke.  "We just got the carts inside!."

"All the animals bedded and fed?" asked Edward.

"Yes," answered Stewart soberly.  "How is Aubrey?"

All eyes turned to Cadmon.

"He is being tended by a man who was once a Templar surgeon," said Cadmon.  "The woman, his wife, was once a nun who gave service in the inns of the Temple along the pilgrim road."

Everyone took this in thoughtfully.

"But...," said Stewart and froze.  He began embarrassedly examining the floor.

Thomas followed the look and noted the floor was planked wood, not earth, a luxury unusual for poor farmers.  There were no rushes and very little straw.  But of what significance was that?  A moment later, he understood why Stewart had aborted his commentary.  His valet had always been swift of wit, and though his youth still carried voice ahead of thought at times, he had discerned a tender point.  Of course, knights of the Temple and nuns do not cohabitate and certainly do not marry.

"The man is called Gavin, the woman, Una," continued Cadmon.  The knight motioned to the larder.  "Stewart, see if you can find us something.  Do not worry.  The hospitality in this home will suffice us all."

Stewart moved to comply, glad to be in motion after his blurted words.

The understanding begun with Stewart passed around the room.  As soon as the conundrum had been universally absorbed, no one had a thing to say.  All noticed a lovingly carved wooden cross on the center of one wall, the only wall which had been whitewashed, and after due consideration, this object took on more than usual significance.  The other walls were old stone, the building evidently having been a Roman ruin of some kind.  Furniture was sparse.  No wealth had passed here for many years.

They stoked the hearth, lowered the smoke door against rain, moved stools and benches about, sat, stood, watched the passageway leading to the arch, peered out the window at the darkness, listened to the roar of water, and generally passed the time uncomfortably.  Stewart found a loaf of bread, and Cadmon gave permission for its distribution.  They ate and waited.

They heard indistinct sounds behind a daub wall next to them, but saw no one for some time.  The night lay at mid nocturnes, very late.  Finally, the man emerged, followed by his wife.  They were met with questioning stares.

"Your friend is very ill," said Gavin.  His voice sounded Northumbrian.  Thomas tried to see him as a Templar knight and failed.  A monk, perhaps, but not a knight.  "His fever is very high," continued the man.  "We will watch him through the night and bathe him to keep his brain from burning.  Pray for him, for he will need God's strength in this.  Oh, 'tis not smitting," he said as an afterthought, "The fever comes from the cut."

As if on signal, the mesnie bowed their collective heads and prayed.  Gavin and his wife, Una, did the same.  Looking up rather ahead of the others, Thomas noticed Cadmon unmoved, head unbowed, his face impassive.

In his travels, had Cadmon converted to some heathen religion?  Even so, did they not pray for their God's intersession?  It came as something of a shock to him that, perhaps, Cadmon did not believe in any god at all.  Would that not reflect ill on Aubrey?  No.  God would cure or kill Aubrey for reasons beyond even Cadmon.  Still, it made him wonder even more about the knight.  Why should Cadmon turn from God?  From a study of the knight's face, it seemed not a defiant turning, but merely a dismissal -- God, simply, no longer occupied a position of importance in Cadmon's thoughts.

If any of their troop defied God, he would have supposed it to be the smith, yet, in times of a friend's need, even Edward abandoned his feud with Heaven.  Cadmon's dismissal of God, given his exposure to the knight's method of thinking, would doubtless be based on some abstruse, incomprehensible principal, liking God to an ill-considered proposition discarded by logic.  It occurred to him that Cadmon must feel awfully alone without a God, but then again, it could be that he was as impregnable as he appeared and as satisfied as he needed to be.  His secret thoughts were the pearl in the oyster.

The prayer over, Gavin opened an inner door into a long slope-roofed shed full of manger hay.  It would be their lodging for the night.  Compared to the night outside, it was as inviting as a feather mattress.  Gavin also provided a large quantity of sacking to use as blankets.

"You have the freedom of my household," said Gavin.  His eyes shone hard and brittle, almost like he had a fever himself.  "If you want to sleep in the kitchen by the hearth, do so.  If you stay out here, mind the lamps do not catch a fire."