Brother Cadfael 06: A Virgin In The Ice

yourself, child. There, sit back and fear nothing. This same morning, on my life, Yves was live and vigourous, and tomorrow we shall bring him back, if man can do it."
    The hand with which she had gripped his sleeve released him slowly. She let her head rest back against the wall, and spread her feet to the fire. She had on the peasant gown in which she had entered at the gate, and her feet were bare.
    "Girl dear, why are you not long ago asleep? Can you not leave anything to us, and beyond us to God?"
    "It was God let her die," said Ermina, and shuddered. "They are hers - I know, I saw! The wimple and the gown, they are Hilaria's. What was God doing when she was befouled and murdered?"
    "God was taking note of all," said Cadfael, "and making place beside him for a little saint without spot. Would you wish her back from thence?"
    He sat down beside her, not touching, very considerate of her grief and remorse. Who had more to answer for? And who needed more gentle usage and guidance, in respect for her self-destroying rage?
    "They are hers, are they not? I could not sleep, I came to see if anyone had news, and I heard your voices there. I was not listening, I only opened the door, and saw."
    "You did no harm," he said mildly. "And I will tell you all I know, as you deserve. Only I warn you again, you may not take to yourself the guilt of the evil another has done. Your own, yes, that you may. But this death, at whosoever's door it lights, comes not near you. Now, will you hear?"
    "Yes," she said, at once docile and uncompromising in the dark. "But if I may not arrogate blame, I am noble, and I will demand vengeance."
    "That also belongs to God, so we are taught."
    "It is also a duty of my blood, for so I was taught."
    It was every bit as legitimate a discipline as his own, and she was just as dedicated. He was not even sure, sitting beside her and feeling her passionate commitment, that he did not share her aim. If there was a severance, yet they did not go so far apart. What they had in common, he reasoned, was a thirst for justice, which she, bred into another estate, called vengeance. Cadfael said nothing. A devotion so fierce might burn long enough to carry all before it, or it might soften and concede some degree of its ferocity. Let her find her own way, after eighteen her spirit might abate its fury as it saddened and became reconciled to the human condition.
    "Will you show me?" she said almost humbly. "I would like to handle her habit, I know you have it there." Yes, almost humbly, she was feeling her way to some end of her own. Humility in her would always be a means to an end. But of her whole-hearted affection for the lost friend there could be no doubt at all.
    "It is here," said Cadfael, and unrolled the bundle on the bench between them, putting aside the cloak that belonged to Brother Elyas. The wisp of creamy mane drifted out of the folds and lay at her foot, stirring like a living thing in the draught along the floor. She picked it up and sat gazing down at it from under drawn brows for some moments, before she looked up questioningly at Cadfael.
    "And this?"
    "A horse stood tethered under the eaves of that hut for some time, and left his droppings in the snow, and this rubbed off from his mane against the rough boards."
    "That night?" she said.
    "Who can be sure? But the droppings were well buried, not new. It could have been that night."
    "The place where you found her," said Ermina, "was not close?"
    "Not so close that a man would willingly carry a body there, even to hide the circumstances of his guilt - unless he had a horse to bear the burden."
    "Yes," she said, "that was my thought, also." She put the pale strands from her gently, and took the habit into her hands. He watched her drape it over her knees, and run her hands softly over the folds. Her fingers found the stiffened places, halted over the patch on the right breast, traced the folded creases that ran from it, and returned to the source.
    "This is blood?" she questioned, wondering. "But she did not bleed. You told me how she died."
    "That is true. This blood cannot be hers. But blood it is. There were faint traces on her body, where there was no wound."
    "Faint traces!" said Ermina, lifting to his face one flash of her dark eyes. She spread her palm upon the patch that stiffened the breast of the gown, opening her fingers wide to span the clotted stain that was more than a faint trace. A stain from without, then, not from within. "His