Brother Cadfael 03: Monk's Hood

he has a dispute that was put oft from the last sitting, along with some others. The judges have been viewing the impleaded lands, and the day after tomorrow they're to give judgment. They never like to let bad blood continue at the Christmas feast. Owain's holding is well beyond the town, but you'll find him at Llansilin church, sure enough. One of his neighbours moved his boundary stone, or so he claims."
    He had said more than he realised, but he was serenely innocent of the impression he had made on Brother Cadfael. One question, perhaps the most vital of all, had been answered without ever having to be asked.
    Cynfrith ap Rhys - the kinship seemed to be so full of Rhyses that in some cases it was necessary to list three generations back in order to distinguish them - was easily found, and very willing to pass the time of day even with a Benedictine monk, seeing that the monk spoke Welsh. He invited Cadfael in heartily, and the invitation was accepted with pleasure. The house was one room and a cupboard of a kitchen, a solitary man's domain, and there was no sign of any other creature here but Cynfrith and his goats and hens. A solid, thickset, prominent-boned Welshman was Cynfrith, with wiry black hair now greying round the edges and balding on the crown, and quick, twinkling eyes set in the webs of good-humoured creases common to outdoor men. Twenty years at least younger than his cousin in the infirmary at Shrewsbury. He offered bread and goat's-milk cheese, and wrinkled, sweet apples.
    "The good old soul, so he's still living! Many a time I've wondered. He's my mother's cousin in the first degree, not mine, but time was I knew him well. He'll be nearing four-score now, I suppose. And still comfortable in his cloister? I'll send him a small flask of the right liquor, brother, if you'll be so kind as to carry it. I distil it myself, it will stand him in good stead through the winter, a drop in season is good for the heart, and does the memory no harm, either. Well, well, and to think he still remembers us all! My brother? Oh, be sure I'll pass on the word to Owain when I see him. He has a good wife, and grown sons, tell the old man, the elder, His, is to marry in the spring. The day after tomorrow I shall be seeing my brother, he has a judgment coming up at the commote court at Llansilin."
    "So they told me at Mallilie," said Cadfael. "I wish him good speed with it."
    "Ah, well, he claims Hywel Fychan, who lives next him, shifted one of his boundary stones, and I daresay he did, but I wouldn't say but what Owain has done the like by Hywel in his time. It's an old sport with us ... But I needn't tell you, you being of the people yourself. They'll make it up as the court rules, they always do until the next time, and no hard feelings. They'll drink together this Christmas."
    "So should we all," said Cadfael, somewhat sententiously.
    He took his leave as soon but as graciously as he well might, truthfully claiming another errand and the shortness of the daylight, and rode on his way by the little river, both heartened and chastened by contact with open and fearless goodwill. The little flask of powerful home-distilled spirit swung in his scrip; he was glad he had left the other, the poisoned one, behind at the sheepfold.
    He came through the defile, and saw the valley of the Cynllaith open before him, and the track to the right weaving a neat line through rising grass to ford the little tributary. Half a mile beyond, woodland clothed the slope of the ridge, and in the full leaf of summer it might have been difficult to detect the low wooden house within the trees; but now, with all the leaves fallen, it stood clear behind the bare branches like a contented domestic hen in a coop. There was clear grass almost to its fence, and on one side continuing behind it, the veil of trees drawn halfway round like a curtain. Cadfael turned in towards it, and circled with the skirt of grass, seeing no door in the side that faced the track. A horse on a long tether came ambling round the gable end, placidly grazing; a horse as tall and rakish and unbeautiful as the one he rode, though probably some years older. At sight of it he pulled up short, and sat at gaze for a moment, before lighting down into the coarse grass.
    There must, of course, be many horses that would answer to the description given: a bony old piebald. This one was certainly that, very strikingly black and white in improbable patterns. But they could not all,