Monk's Hood (3 page)
Authors: Ellis Peters
Cadfael
could well imagine it. Brother Petrus was the abbot’s cook, old in his service,
and a black-haired, fiery-eyed barbarian from near the Scottish border, at
that, given to tempestuous and immoderate declarations, none of them to be
taken too seriously; but the puzzle was where exactly to draw the line.
“Brother
Petrus says many things he might do well not to say, but he never means harm,
as you well know. And he’s a prime cook, and will continue to feed the abbot’s
table nobly, whoever sits at the head of it, because he can do no other.”
“But
not happily,” said Brother Mark with conviction.
No
question but the even course of the day had been gravely shaken; yet so well
regulated was the regime within these walls that every brother, happy or not,
would pursue his duties as conscientiously as ever.
“When
Abbot Heribert returns, confirmed in office,” said Mark, firmly counting wishes
as horses, “Prior Robert’s nose will be out of joint.” And the thought of that
august organ bent aside like the misused beak of an old soldier so consoled him
that he found heart to laugh again, while Cadfael could not find the heart to
scold him, since even for him the picture had its appeal.
“All
the lads need is a few days in the warm, and they’ll cure themselves well
enough,” said Cadfael, stirring and pouring a large flask into a smaller one, a
brown mixture that smelled hot and aromatic and sweet. “But no need to endure
discomfort, even for a few days. Let them drink a dose of this, two or three
times in the day and at night, as much as will fill a small spoon, and they’ll
be the easier for it.”
“What
is it?” asked Brother Edmund curiously. Many of Brother Cadfael’s preparations
he already knew, but there were constantly new developments. Sometimes he
wondered if Cadfael tried them all out on himself.
“There’s
rosemary, and horehound, and saxifrage, mashed into a little oil pressed from flax
seeds, and the body is a red wine I made from cherries and their stones. You’ll
find they’ll do well on it, any that have the rheum in their eyes or heads, and
even for the cough it serves, too.” He stoppered the large bottle carefully,
and wiped the neck. “Is there anything more you’ll be wanting? For the old
fellows? They must be in a taking at all these changes we’re seeing. Past the
three score men don’t take kindly to change.”
“Not,
at all events, to this change,” owned Brother Edmund ruefully. “Heribert never
knew how he was liked, until they began to feel his loss.”
“You
think we have lost him?”
“I
fear it’s all too likely. Not that Stephen himself bears grudges too long, but
what the legate wants, Stephen will let
him have, to keep the
pope sweet. And do you think a brisk, reforming spirit, let loose here in our
realm with powers to fashion the church he wants, will find our abbot very
impressive? Stephen cast the doubt, while he was still angry, but it’s Alberic
of Ostia who will weigh up our good little abbot, and discard him for too soft
in grain,” said Brother Edmund regretfully. “I could do with another pot of
that salve of yours for bed-sores. Brother Adrian can’t be much longer for this
penance, poor soul.”
“It
must be pain now, just shifting him for the anointing,” said Cadfael with
sympathy.
“Skin
and bone, mere skin and bone. Getting food down him at al is labour enough. He
withers like a leaf.”
“If
ever you want an extra hand to lift him, send for me, I’m here to be used.
Here’s what you want. I think I have it better than before, with more of Our
Lady’s mantle in it.”
Brother
Edmund laid bottle and pot in his scrip, and considered on other needs,
scouring his pointed chin between thumb and forefinger. The sudden chill that
blew in through the doorway made them both turn their heads, so sharply that
the young man who had opened the door a wary inch or two hung his head in
instant apology and dismay.
“Close
the door, lad,” said Cadfael, hunching his shoulders.
A
hasty, submissive voice called: “Pardon, brother! I’ll wait your leisure.” And
the door began to close upon a thin, dark, apprehensively sullen face.
“No,
no,” said Cadfael with cheerful impatience, “I never meant it so. Come into the
warm, and close the door on that wicked wind. It makes the brazier smoke. Come
in, I’ll be with you very shortly, when Brother Infirmarer has all his needs.”
The
door opened just wide enough to allow a lean young man to slide in through the
aperture, which he thereupon very hastily closed, and flattened his thin person
against the door in mute withdrawal, willing to be invisible and inaudible,
though his eyes were wide in wonder and curiosity at the
storehouse
of rustling, dangling, odorous herbs that hung about the place, and the benches
and shelves of pots and bottles that hoarded the summer’s secret harvest.
“Ah,
yes,” said Brother Edmund, recollecting, “there was one more thing. Brother
Rhys is groaning with creaks and pains in his shoulders and back. He gets about
very little now, and it does pain him, I’ve seen it make him jerk and start.
You have an oil that gave him ease before.”
“I
have. Wait, now, let me find a flask to fill for you.” Cadfael hoisted from its
place on a low bench a large stone bottle, and rummaged along the shelves for a
smaller one of cloudy glass. Carefully he unstoppered and poured a viscous dark
oil that gave off a strong, sharp odour. He replaced the wooden stopper firmly,
bedding it in with a wisp of linen, and with another torn shred scrupulously
wiped the lips of both containers, and dropped the rag into the small brazier
beside which he had a stoneware pot simmering gently. “This will answer, all
the more if you get someone with good strong fingers to work it well into his
joints. But keep it carefully, Edmund, never let it near your lips. Wash your
hands well after using it, and make sure any other who handles it does the
same. It’s good for a man’s outside, but bad indeed for his inside. And don’t
use it where there’s any scratch or wound, any break in the skin, either. It’s
powerful stuff.”
“So
perilous? What is it made from?” asked Edmund curiously, turning the bottle in
his hand to see the sluggish way the oils moved against the glass.
“The
ground root of monk’s-hood, chiefly, in mustard oil and oil from flax seeds.
It’s powerfully poisonous if swallowed, a very small draught of this could
kill, so keep it safe and remember to cleanse your hands well. But it works
wonders for creaking old joints. He’ll notice a tingling warmth when it’s rubbed
well in, and then the pain is dulled, and he’ll be quite easy. There, is that
all you need? I’ll come over myself presently, and do the anointing, if you
wish? I know where to find the aches, and it needs to be worked in deep.”
“He’ll
remember any who have the Welsh tongue,” said Cadfael simply. “He goes back to
his childhood, as old men do.”
Brother
Edmund took up his bag and turned to the door. The thin young man, all eyes,
slipped aside and opened it for him civilly, and again closed it upon his
smiling thanks. Not such a meagre young man, after all, inches above Cadfael’s
square, solid bulk, and erect and supple of movement, but lean and wary, with a
suggestion of wild alertness in his every motion. He had a shock of light-brown
hair, unkempt from the rising wind outside, and the trimmed lines of a fair
beard about lips and chin, pointing the hungry austerity of a thin,
hawk-featured face. The large, bright-blue eyes, glittering with intelligence
and defensive as levelled spears, turned their attention upon Cadfael, and
sustained the glance unwavering, lances in rest.
“Well,
friend,” said Cadfael comfortably, shifting his pot a shade further from the
direct heat, “what is it I can do for you?” And he turned and viewed the
stranger candidly, from head to foot. “I don’t know you, lad,” he said
placidly, “but you’re welcome. What’s your need?”
“I’m
sent by Mistress Bonel,” said the young man, in a voice low-pitched and
pleasant to hear, if it had not been so tight and wary, “to ask you for some
kitchen-herbs she needs. Brother Hospitaller told her you would be willing to
supply her when her own stocks fail. My master has today moved into a house in
the Foregate, as guest of the abbey.”
“Ah,
yes,” said Cadfael, remembering the manor of Mallilie, gifted to the abbey in
return for the means of life to the giver. “So they are safely in, are they?
God give them joy
of it! And you are the manservant who will
carry their meals back and forth—yes, you’ll need to find your way about the
place. You’ve been to the abbot’s kitchen?”
“Yes,
master.”
“No
man’s master,” said Cadfael mildly, “every man’s brother, if you will. And
what’s your name, friend? For we shall be seeing something of each other in the
days to come, we may as well be acquainted.”
“My
name is Aelfric,” said the young man. He had come forward from the doorway, and
stood looking round him with open interest. His eyes lingered with awe on the
large bottle that held the oil of monk’s-hood. “Is that truly so deadly? Even a
little of it can kill a man?”
“So
can many things,” said Cadfael, “used wrongly, or used in excess. Even wine, if
you take enough of it. Even wholesome food, if you devour it beyond reason. And
are your household content with their dwelling?”
“It’s
early yet to say,” said the young man guardedly.
What
age would he be? Twenty-five years or so? Hardly more. He bristled like an
urchin at a touch, alert against all the world. Unfree, thought Cadfael,
sympathetic; and of quick and vulnerable mind. Servant to someone less feeling
than himself? It might well be.
“How
many are you in the house?”
“My
master and mistress, and I. And a maid.” A maid! No more, and his long, mobile
mouth shut fast even on that.
“Well,
Aelfric, you’re welcome to make your way here when you will, and what I can
supply for your lady, that I will. What is it I can send her this time?”
“She
asks for some sage, and some basil, if you have such. She brought a dish with
her to warm for the evening,” said Aelfric, thawing a little, “and has it on a
hob there, but it wants for sage. She was out. It’s a curious time, moving
house here, she’ll have left a mort of things behind.”
“What’s
in my way she may send here for, and welcome. Here you are, Aelfric, lad,
here’s a bunch of either. Is she a good mistress, your lady?”
“She’s
that!” said the youth, and closed upon it, as he had
upon
mention of the maid. He brooded, frowning into mixed and confused thoughts.
“She was a widow when she wed him.” He took the bunches of herbs, fingers
gripping hard on the stems. On a throat? Whose, then, since he melted at
mention of his mistress? “I thank you kindly, brother.”
He
drew back, lissome and silent. The door opening and closing took but a moment.
Cadfael was left gazing after him very thoughtfully. There was still an hour
before Vespers. He might well go over to the infirmary, and pour the sweet
sound of Welsh into Brother Rhys’s old, dulled ears, and dig the monk’s-hood oil
deep into his aching joints. It would be a decent deed.
But
that wild young thing, caged with his grievances, hurts and hatreds, what was
to be done for him? A villein, if Cadfael knew one when he saw one, with
abilities above his station, and some private anguish, maybe more than one. He
remembered that mention of the maid, bitten off jealousy between set teeth.
Well,
they were but newly come, all four of them. Let the time work for good. Cadfael
washed his hands, with all the thoroughness he recommended to his patrons,
reviewed his sleeping kingdom, and went to visit the infirmary.
Old
Brother Rhys was sitting up beside his neatly made bed, not far from the fire,
nodding his ancient, grey-tonsured head. He looked proudly complacent, as one
who has got his due against all the odds, stubbly chin jutting, thick old
eyebrows bristling in all directions, and the small, sharp eyes beneath almost
colourless in their grey pallor, but triumphantly bright. For he had a young,
vigorous, dark-haired fellow sitting on a stool beside him, waiting on him
good-humouredly and pouring voluble Welsh into his ears like a mountain spring.
The old man’s gown was stripped down from his bony shoulders, and his attendant
was busily massaging oil into the joints with probing fingers, drawing grunts
of pleasure from his patient.
