Brother Cadfael 10: The Pilgrim of Hate

one with either hand, and hugged his burden to him fiercely. "Don't touch it! Let it be!"
    "Surely," said Cadfael, startled, "you may lift it off while I dress the wound it's cost you? Hardly a moment's work, why not?"
    "No!" Ciaran fastened both hands upon the cross and hugged it to his breast. "No, never for a moment, night or day! No! Let it alone!"
    "Lift it, then," said Cadfael resignedly, "and hold it while I dress this cut. No, never fear, I'll not cheat you. Only let me unwind this cloth, and see what damage you have there, hidden."
    "Yet he should doff it, and so I have prayed him constantly," said Matthew softly. "How else can he be truly rid of his pains?"
    Cadfael unwound the linen, viewed the scored line of half-dried blood, still oozing, and went to work on it with a stinging lotion first to clean it of dust and fragments of frayed skin, and then with a healing ointment of cleavers. He refolded the cloth, and wound it carefully under the cord. "There, you have not broken faith. Settle your load again. If you hold up the weight in your hands as you go, and loosen it in your bed, you'll be rid of your gash before you depart."
    It seemed to him that they were both of them in haste to leave him, for the one set his feet tenderly to ground as soon as he was released, holding up the weight of his cross obediently with both hands, and the other stepped out through the doorway into the sunlit garden, and waited on guard for his friend to emerge. The one owed no special thanks, the other offered only the merest acknowledgement.
    "But I would remind you both," said Cadfael, and with a thoughtful eye on both, "that you are now present at the feast of a saint who has worked many miracles, even to the defiance of death. One who may have life itself within her gift," he said strongly, "even for a man already condemned to death. Bear it in mind, for she may be listening now!"
    They said never a word, neither did they look at each other. They stared back at him from the scented brightness of the garden with startled, wary eyes, and then they turned abruptly as one man, and limped and strode away.
    Chapter Four.
    There was so short an interval, and so little weeding done, before the second pair appeared, that Cadfael could not choose but reason that the two couples must have met at the corner of his herber, and perhaps exchanged at least a friendly word or two, since they had travelled side by side the last miles of their road here.
    The girl walked solicitously beside her brother, giving him the smoothest part of the path, and keeping a hand supportingly under his left elbow, ready to prop him at need, but barely touching. Her face was turned constantly towards him, eager and loving. If he was the tended darling, and she the healthy beast of burden, certainly she had no quarrel with the division. Though just once she did look back over her shoulder, with a different, a more tentative smile. She was neat and plain in her homespun country dress, her hair austerely braided, but her face was vivid and glowing as a rose, and her movements, even at her brother's pace, had a spring and grace to them that spoke of a high and ardent spirit. She was fair for a Welsh girl, her hair a coppery gold, her brows darker, arched hopefully above wide blue eyes. Mistress Weaver could not be far out in supposing that a young man who had hefted this neat little woman out of harm's way in his arms might well remember the experience with pleasure, and not be averse to repeating it. If he could take his eyes from his fellow-pilgrim long enough to attempt it!
    The boy came leaning heavily on his crutches, his right leg dangling inertly, turned with the toe twisted inward, and barely brushing the ground. If he could have stood erect he would have been a hand's-breadth taller than his sister, but thus hunched he looked even shorter. Yet the young body was beautifully proportioned, Cadfael judged, watching his approach with a thoughtful eye, wide-shouldered, slim-flanked, the one good leg long, vigorous and shapely. He carried little flesh, indeed he could have done with more, but if he spent his days habitually in pain it was unlikely he had much appetite.
    Cadfael's study of him had begun at the twisted foot, and travelling upward, came last to the boy's face. He was fairer than the girl, wheat-gold of hair and brows, his thin, smooth face like ivory, and the eyes that met Cadfael's were a light, brilliant grey-blue, clear as crystal between