Brother Cadfael 08: The Devil's Novice

hall, and said: 'Bring him within.' There was a good fire in there, and a bench to sit on. 'Take off his chains,' said Hugh, after one look at the wreck of a big man, 'and let him sit by the fire. You may keep by him, but I doubt if he'll give you any trouble.'
    The prisoner could have been an imposing figure, if he had still had flesh and sinew on his long, large bones, but he was shrunken by starvation, and with nothing but rags on him in this onset of winter. He could not be old, his eyes and his shock of pale hair were those of a young man, his bones, however starting from his flesh, moved with the live vigour of youth. Close to the fire, warmed after intense cold, he flushed and dilated into something nearer approaching his proper growth. But his face, blue-eyed, hollow-cheeked, stared in mute terror upon Hugh. He was like a wild thing in a trap, braced taut, waiting for a bolthole. Ceaselessly he rubbed at his wrists, just loosed from the heavy chains.
    'What is your name?' asked Hugh, so mildly that the creature stared and froze, afraid to understand such a tone.
    'What do men call you?' repeated Hugh patiently.
    'Harald, my lord. I'm named Harald.' The large frame produced a skeletal sound, deep but dry and remote. He had a cough that perforated his speech uneasily, and a name that had once belonged to a king, and that within the memory of old men still living, men of his own fair colouring.
    'Tell me how you came by this thing, Harald. For it's a rich man's weapon, as you must know. See the craftsmanship of it, and the jeweller's work. Where did you find such a thing?'
    'I didn't steal it,' said the wretch, trembling. 'I swear I didn't! It was thrown away, no one wanted it ... '
    'Where did you find it?' demanded Hugh more sharply.
    'In the forest, my lord. There's a place where they burn charcoal.' He described it, stammering and blinking, voluble to hold off blame. 'There was a dead fire there, I took fuel from it sometimes, but I was afraid to stay so near the road. The knife was lying in the ashes, lost or thrown away. Nobody wanted it. And I needed a knife ... ' He shook, watching Hugh's impassive face with frightened blue eyes. 'It was not stealing ... I never stole but to keep alive, my lord, I swear it.' He had not been a very successful thief, even so, for he had barely kept body and soul together. Hugh regarded him with detached interest, and no particular severity.
    'How long have you been living wild?'
    'Four months it must be, my lord. But I never did violence, nor stole anything but food. I needed a knife for my hunting ... '
    Ah, well, thought Hugh, the king can afford a deer here and there. This poor devil needs it more than Stephen does, and Stephen in his truest mood would give it to him freely. Aloud he said: 'A hard life for a man, come wintertime. You'll do better indoors with us for a while, Harald, and feed regularly, if not on venison.' He turned to the sergeant, who was standing warily by. 'Lock him away. Let him have blankets to wrap him. And see to it he eats - but none too much to start with or he'll gorge and die on us.' He had known it happen among the wretched creatures in flight the previous winter from the storming of Worcester, starving on the road and eating themselves to death when they came to shelter. 'And use him well!' said Hugh sharply as the sergeant hauled up his prisoner. 'He'll not stand rough handling, and I want him. Understood?'
    The sergeant understood it as meaning this was the wanted murderer, and must live to stand his trial and take his ceremonial death. He grinned, and abated his hold on the bony shoulder he gripped. 'I take your meaning, my lord.' They were gone, captor and captive, off to a securely locked cell where the outlaw Harald, almost certainly a runaway villein, and probably with good reason, could at least be warmer than out in the woods, and get his meals, rough as they might be, brought to him without hunting.
    Hugh completed his daily business about the castle, and then went off to find Brother Cadfael in his workshop, brewing some aromatic mixture to soothe ageing throats through the first chills of the winter. Hugh sat back on the familiar bench against the timber wall, and accepted a cup of one of Cadfael's better wines, kept for his better acquaintances.
    'Well, we have our murderer safely under lock and key,' he announced, straight-faced, and recounted what had emerged. Cadfael listened attentively, for all he seemed to have his whole