Brother Cadfael 06: A Virgin In The Ice

and approachable, Hugh Beringar was also the law, and bound by his office. But Brother Cadfael was not the law, and would listen with an open mind and a sympathetic ear.
    Yves had finished his supper when Cadfael came, and Ermina wisely took her sewing and went away into the hall to have a better light for her work, leaving them together.
    Yves found no way of beginning but directly, a leap into the cold and terror of remembrance. "Brother Cadfael," he blurted wretchedly, "I'm frightened for Brother Elyas. I want to tell you. I don't know what we ought to do. I haven't said a word to anyone yet. He has told me things - no, he was not speaking to me, he did not tell me, but I heard. I couldn't choose but hear!"
    "There's been no time yet for you tell what happened when he led you away in the night," said Cadfael reasonably, "but you may tell it now. But first, there are things I have not yet told you. If I tell them first, it may be a help to you. I know where he led you, and I know how you left him in the hut, hoping for help, and fell into the hands of outlaws and murderers. Was it there in the hut that he spoke out these things that so trouble you?"
    "In his sleep," said Yves unhappily. "It is not fair dealing to listen to what a man says in his sleep, but I couldn't help it. I was so anxious about him, I needed to know, if there was any way of helping him ... Even before, when I was sitting by his bed ... It was because I spoke of Sister Hilaria, and told him she was dead. Nothing else had touched him, but her name ... It was terrible! It was as if he had not known till then that she was dead, and yet he blamed himself for her death. He cried out to the stones of the house to fall on him and bury him. And he got up ... I couldn't stop or hold him. I ran to find you, but everyone was at Compline."
    "And when you ran back to him," said Cadfael mildly, "he was gone. And so you went after him."
    "I had to, I was left to care for him. I thought in time he would tire, and I could turn him and lead him back, but I couldn't. So what could I do but go with him?"
    "And he led you to the hut - yes, that we understood. And there these words passed, that so torment you. Don't be afraid to speak them. All that you did was done for his sake, believe that this, too, you may be doing for his sake."
    "But he accused himself," whispered Yves, trembling at the memory. "He said - he said that it was he who killed Sister Hilaria!"
    The very quietness with which this was received shook him into despairing tears. "He was in such anguish, so torn ... How can we give him up to be branded a murderer? But how can we hide the truth? Himself he said it. And yet I am sure he is not evil, he is good. Oh, Brother Cadfael, what are we to do?"
    Cadfael leaned across the narrow trestle and took firm hold of the boy's tight-clasped hands between his own. "Look at me, Yves, and I'll tell you what we shall do. What you have to do is to put away all fears, and try to remember the very words he used. All of them, if you can. 'He said that it was he who killed Sister Hilaria!' Did he indeed say that? Or is that what you understood by what he said? Give me the man's own words and what I have to do is listen to those words, and to no others, and see what can be made of them. Now! Go back to that night in the hut. Ely as spoke in his sleep. Begin there. Take your time, there is no haste."
    Yves scrubbed a moist cheek against his shoulder, and raised doubtful but trusting eyes to Cadfael's face. He thought back dutifully, gnawed an unsteady lip, and began hesitantly: "I was asleep, I think, though I was trying not to sleep. He was lying on his face, but I could hear his voice clearly. He said: 'My sister - forgive me all my sin, my weakness. I, who have been your death!' he said. That I'm sure of, that is word for word. 'I, who have been your death'!" He shook and halted there, afraid that that alone might be enough. But Cadfael held him by the hands and nodded understanding, and waited.
    "Yes, and then?"
    "Then - do you remember how he called on Hunydd? And you said you thought she was his wife, who died? Well, next he said: 'Hunydd! She was like you, warm and trusting in my arms. After six months starving,' he said, 'such hunger. I could not bear the burning,' he said, 'body and soul' ..."
    The words were returning in full now, as if they had been carved into his memory. Until now he had wished only to forget them, now, when he consented to remember, they