Brother Cadfael 10: The Pilgrim of Hate

she, poor lass, and left her two children orphan, and nobody to care for them but me. And me with my own husband dead, and all his craft fallen to me to manage, and never a chick of my own to be my comfort. Not but what I can do very well with the work and the journeymen, for I've learned these twenty years what was what in the weaving trade, but still I could have done with a son of my own. But it was not to be, and a sister's son is dearly welcome, so he is, whether he has his health or no, for he's the dearest lad ever you saw. And it's the pain, you see, brother. I don't like to see him in pain, though he doesn't complain. So I'm come to you."
    Cadfael made haste to wedge a toe into this first chink in her volubility, and insert a few words of his own into the gap.
    "Come within, mistress, and welcome. Tell me what's the nature of your lad's pain, and what I can do for you and him I'll do. But best I should see him and speak with him, for he best knows where he hurts. Sit down and be easy, and tell me about him."
    She came in confidently enough, and settled herself with a determined spreading of ample skirts on the bench against the wall. Her gaze went round the laden shelves, the stored herbs dangling, the brazier and the pots and flasks, interested and curious, but in no way awed by Cadfael or his mysteries.
    "I'm from the cloth country down by Campden, brother, Weaver by name and by trade was my man, and his father and grandfather before him, and Alice Weaver is my name, and I keep up the work just as he did. But this young sister of mine, she went off with a Welshman, and the pair of them are dead now, and the children I sent for to live with me. The girl is eighteen years old now, a good, hard-working maid, and I daresay we shall contrive to find a decent match for her in the end, though I shall miss her help, for she's grown very handy, and is strong and healthy, not like the lad. Named for some outlandish Welsh saint, she is, Melangell, if ever you heard the like!"
    "I'm Welsh myself," said Cadfael cheerfully. "Our Welsh names do come hard on your English tongues, I know."
    "Ah well, the boy brought a name with him that's short and simple enough. Rhun, they named him. Sixteen he is now, two years younger than his sister, but wants her heartiness, poor soul. He's well-grown enough, and very comely, but from a child something went wrong with his right leg, it's twisted and feebled so he can put but the very toe of it to the ground at all, and even that turned on one side, and can lay no weight on it, but barely touch. He goes on two crutches. And I've brought him here in the hope good Saint Winifred will do something for him. But it's cost him dear to make the walk, even though we started out three weeks ago, and have taken it by easy shifts."
    "He's walked the whole way?" asked Cadfael, dismayed.
    "I'm not so prosperous I can afford a horse, more than the one they need for the business at home. Twice on the way a kind carter did give him a ride as far as he was bound, but the rest he's hobbled on his crutches. Many another at this feast, brother, will have done as much, in as bad case or worse. But he's here now, safe in the guest-hall, and if my prayers can do anything for him, he'll walk home again on two sound legs as ever held up a hale and hearty man. But now for these few days he suffers as bad as before."
    "You should have brought him here with you," said Cadfael. "What's the nature of his pain? Is it in moving, or when he lies still? Is it the bones of the leg that ache?"
    "It's worst in his bed at night. At home I've often heard him weeping for pain in the night, though he tries to keep it so silent we need not be disturbed. Often he gets little or no sleep. His bones do ache, that's truth, but also the sinews of his calf knot into such cramps it makes him groan."
    "There can be something done about that," said Cadfael, considering. "At least we may try. And there are draughts can dull the pain and help him to a night's sleep, at any rate."
    "It isn't that I don't trust to the saint," explained Mistress Weaver anxiously. "But while he waits for her, let him be at rest if he can, that's what I say. Why should not a suffering lad seek help from ordinary decent mortals, too, good men like you who have faith and knowledge both?"
    "Why not, indeed!" agreed Cadfael. "The least of us may be an instrument of grace, though not by his own deserving. Better let the boy come to me here, where we can be private