Brother Cadfael 17: The Potter's Field

truckle bed installed in the most draught-proof corner, and was sitting hunched upon his straw pallet like a roosting bird, shaggy grey head sunk into once massive shoulders. By the malignant scowl with which he greeted his visitors, there had been no great change in the foulness of his temper. His face was shrunken and lined into a mask of suspicion and despite, and out of the pitted scars of half-healed sores small, malevolent, knowing eyes glittered up at them. The gown they had put on him was over-large for a body diminishing with age, and had been deliberately chosen, Cadfael thought, to lie loosely and avoid friction upon the sores that continued down his wrinkled throat and shoulders. A piece of linen cloth had been laid between to ease the touch of wool.

    

'The infection is somewhat improved,' said Oswin softly into Cadfael's ear. And to the old man, as they approached: 'Well, uncle, how do you feel this fine morning?'

    

The sharp old eyes looked up at them sidelong, lingering upon Cadfael. 'None the better,' said a voice unexpectedly full and robust to emerge from such a tattered shell, 'for seeing two of you instead of one.' He shifted closer on the edge of his bed, peering curiously. 'I know you,' he said, and grinned as though the realisation gave him, perhaps not pleasure, but an advantage over a possible opponent.

    

'Now you suggest it,' agreed Cadfael, viewing the raised face with equal attention, 'I think I also should recall seeing you somewhere. But if so, it was in better case. Turn your face to the light here, so!' It was the outbreak of sores he was studying, but he took in perforce the lines of the face, and the man's eyes, yellowish and bright in their nests of wrinkles, watched him steadily all the while he was examining the broken rash. Round the edges of the infection showed the faint, deformed crust of sores newly healed. 'Why do you complain of us, when you are warm and fed here, and Brother Oswin has done nobly for you? Your case is getting better, and well you know it. If you have patience for two or three weeks more, you can be rid of this trouble.'

    

'And then you'll throw me out of here,' grumbled the vigorous voice bitterly. 'I know the way of it! That's my lot in this world. Mend me and then cast me out to fester and rot again. Wherever I go it's the same. If I find a bit of a roof to shelter me through the night, some wretch comes and kicks me out of it to take it for himself.'

    

'They can hardly do that here,' Cadfael pointed out placidly, restoring the protective linen to its place round the scrawny neck. 'Brother Oswin will see to that. You let him cure you, and give no thought to where you'll lie or what you'll eat until you're clean. After that it will be time to think on such matters.'

    

'Fine talk, but it will end the same. I never have any luck. All very well for you,' he muttered, glowering up at Cadfael, 'handing out crumbs in alms at your gatehouse, when you have plenty, and a sound roof over you, and good dry beds, and then telling God how pious you are. Much you care where us poor souls lay our heads that same night.'

    

'So that's where I saw you,' said Cadfael, enlightened. 'On the eve of the fair.'

    

'And where I saw you, too. And what did I get out of it? Bread and broth and a farthing to spend.'

    

'And spent it on ale,' Cadfael guessed mildly, and smiled. 'And where did you lay your head that night? And all the nights of the fair? We had as poor as you snug enough in one of our barns.'

    

'I'd as soon not lie inside your walls. Besides,' he said grudgingly, 'I knew of a place, not too far, a cottage, nobody living in it. I was there the last year, until that red-baked devil of a pedlar came with his wench and kicked me out of it. And where did I end? Under a hedge in the next field. Would he let me have even a corner by the kiln? Not he, he wanted the place to himself for his own cantrips with his wench. And then they fought like wild cats most nights, for I heard them at it.' He subsided into morose mutterings, oblivious of Cadfael's sudden intent silence. 'But I got it this year. For what it was worth! Small use it will be now, falling to pieces as it is. Whatever I touch rots.'

    

'This cottage,' said Cadfael slowly, 'that had also a kiln - where is it?'

    

'Across the river from here, close by Longner. There's no one working there now. Wrack and ruin!'

    

'And you spent the nights of the