Brother Cadfael 13: The Rose Rent

on his way back over the bridge, but one that could not be neglected. What else had they to offer a lead? Little enough, except the inevitable and unanswerable question: Who could possibly have wanted to destroy the rose-bush? And for what conceivable reason? A question they had all voiced already, without profit, and one that would be posed all over again when Hugh arrived.
    Instead of turning in at the gatehouse Cadfael passed by and walked the length of the Foregate, along the dusty highway, past the bakery, past the forge, exchanging greetings in at doorways and over hedges as he went, to turn in at the gate of Niall's yard, and cross to the wicket which led through into the garden. It was bolted fast on the inner side. Cadfael turned instead to the shop, where Niall was at work with a small ceramic crucible and a tiny clay mould for a brooch.
    "I came to see if you'd had any further night visitors," said Cadfael, "but I see you've secured one way in, at least. A pity there's no wall ever built high enough to keep out a man determined to get in. But even stopping one hole is something. What of the bush? Will it live?"
    "Come and see. One side may die off, but it's no more than two or three branches. It may leave the tree lopsided, but a year or so, and pruning and growth will balance all."
    In the green and sunlight and tangled colour of the garden the rose-bush spread its arms firmly against the north wall, the dangling trailers pegged back to the stone with strips of cloth. Niall had wound a length of stout canvas round and round the damaged bole, binding the severed wood together, and coated the covering with a thick layer of wax and grease.
    "There's love been put into this," said Cadfael approvingly, but wisely did not say whether for the bush or the woman. The leaves on the half-severed part had wilted, and a few had fallen, but the bulk of the tree stood green and glossy, and full of half-open buds. "You've done well by it. I could use you inside the enclave, if ever you tire of bronze and the world."
    The quiet, decent man never opened his mouth to answer that. Whatever he felt for woman or rose was his business, no other man's. Cadfael respected that, and viewing the wide, wide-set, honest and yet reticent eyes, he took his leave and set off back to his proper duties feeling somewhat reproved, and curiously elated. One man at least in this sorry business kept his eyes on his own course, and would not easily be turned aside. And he, surely, looking for no gain. Somewhere in all this there was greed of gain more than enough, and little enough of love.
    It was almost noon by this time, and the sun high and hot, a true June day. Saint Winifred must have been at work coaxing the heavens to do her honour for the festival of her translation. As so often happened in a late season, the summer had all but caught up with the laggard spring, flowers which had lingered shivering and reluctant to bloom suddenly sprang into fevered haste, bursting their buds overnight into a blazing prime. The crops, slower to take risks, might still be as much as a month late, but they would be lavish and clean, half their hereditary enemies chilled to death in April and May.
    In the doorway of his lodge in the gatehouse Brother Porter was standing in earnest talk with an agitated young man. Cadfael, always vulnerable to curiosity, his prevalent sin, halted, wavered and turned aside, recognising Miles Coliar, that tidy, practical, trim young fellow a great deal less trim than usual, his hair blown and teased erect in disorder, his bright blue eyes dilated beneath drawn and anxious copper brows. Miles turned his head, hearing a new step approaching, and recognised, through a haze of worry, a brother he had seen only the previous day sitting amicably with his cousin. He swung about eagerly.
    "Brother, I remember you - you were of some comfort and help yesterday to Judith. You have not seen her today? She has not spoken again with you?"
    "She has not," said Cadfael, surprised. "Why? What is new now? She went home with you yesterday. I trust she has met with no further grief?"
    "No, none that I know of. I do know she went to her bed in good time, and I hoped she would sleep well. But now..." He cast a vague, distracted glance about him: "They tell me at home she set out to come here. But..."
    "She has not been here," said the porter positively. "I have not left my post, I should know if she had entered the gate. I know the lady from the