Brother Cadfael 03: Monk's Hood

answerable. There is a whole world to reach on horseback, where a true penitent can make his way step by step through a long life towards grace. Were I you, I should cross the hills as far west as you may before daylight, and then bear north into Gwynedd, where you are not known. But you know these hills better than I."
    "I know them well," said Meurig, and now his face had lost its anguish in open and childlike wonder. "And this is all? All you ask of me?"
    "You will find it heavy enough," said Brother Cadfael. "But yes, there is one thing more. When you are well clear, make your confession to a priest, ask him to write it down and have it sent to the sheriff at Shrewsbury. What has passed today in Llansilin will release Edwin, but I would not have any doubt or shadow left upon him when you are gone."
    "Neither would I," said Meurig. "It shall be done."
    "Come, then, you have a long pilgrimage to go. Take up your knife again." And he smiled. "You will need it to cut your bread and hunt your meat."
    It was ending strangely. Meurig rose like one in a dream, both spent and renewed, as though some rainfall from heaven had washed him out of his agony and out of his wits, to revive, a man half-drowned and wholly transformed. Cadfael had to lead him by the hand, once they had put out the lantern. Outside, the night was very still and starlit, on the edge of frost. In the stable Cadfael himself saddled the horse.
    "Rest him when you safely may. He's carried me today, but that was no great journey. I'd give you the mule, for he's fresh, but he'd be slower, and more questionable under a Welshman. There, mount and go. Go with God!"
    Meurig shivered at that, but the pale, fixed brightness of his face did not change. With a foot already in the stirrup, he said with sudden inexpressibly grave and burdened humility:
    "Give me your blessing! For I am bound by you while I live."
    He was gone, up the slope above the folds, by ways he knew better than did the man who had set him free to ride them, back into the world of the living. Cadfael looked after him for only a moment, before turning down towards the house. He thought as he went: Well, if I have loosed you on the world unchanged and perilous, if this cleansing wears off once you are safe, then on me be the guilt. But he found he could not feel greatly afraid; the more he reviewed the course he had taken, the more profound became his soul's tranquillity.
    "You were a long time, brother," said Simon, welcoming him with pleasure into the evening warmth within the house. "We were wondering about you."
    "I was tempted to stay and meditate among the ewes," said Brother Cadfael. "They are so calming. And it is a beautiful night."
    Chapter Eleven
    It was a good Christmas; he had never known one more firelit and serene. The simple outdoor labour was bliss after stress, he would not have exchanged it for the ceremonial and comparative luxury of the abbey. The news that came in from the town, before the first snow discouraged travel, made a kind of shrill overtone to the homely Christmas music they made between them, with three willing but unskilled voices and three contented and fulfilled hearts. Hugh Beringar sent word, not only that he had received the record of the Llansilin court, but also that Edwin's well-meant conciliatory gift had been cast up in the shallows near Atcham, in considerable disarray, but still recognisable. The boy was restored to his doting mother, and the Bonel household could breathe freely again, now that the culprit was known. The apologetic report that the horse belonging to the Rhyd y croesau sheepfolds had gone missing, due to Brother Cadfael's reprehensible failure to bar the stable door securely, had been noted with appropriate displeasure by the chapter of the abbey, and repayment in some form awaited him on his return.
    As for the fugitive Meurig, cried through Powys for murder, the hunt had never set eyes on him since, and the trail was growing cold. Even the report of his voluntary confession, sent by a priest from a hermitage in Penllyn, did not revive the scent, for the man was long gone, and no one knew where. Nor was Owain Gwynedd likely to welcome incursions on his territory in pursuit of criminals against whom he had no complaint, and who should never have been allowed to slip through authority's fingers in the first place.
    In fact, all was very well. Cadfael was entirely happy among the sheep, turning a deaf ear to the outer world. He felt he