be in his shoes, for I think the charge against him will be made good. His life is hardly worth the purchase.'

    

He had not turned until then. The boy was sitting very still, his eyes steady upon Cadfael's countenance. In a voice of detached pity, not greatly moved, he said: 'Poor wretch! I daresay he never meant to kill her. What did you say her name was, this tumbler girl?'

    

'Gunnild. They called her Gunnild.'

    

'A hard life that must be, tramping the roads,' said Sulien reflectively, 'especially for a woman. Not so ill in the summer, perhaps, but what must they do in the winter?'

    

'What all the jongleurs do,' said Cadfael, practically. 'About this time of year they begin thinking of what manor is most likely to take them in for their singing and playing, over the worst of the weather. And with the Spring they'll be off again.'

    

'Yes, I suppose a corner by the fire and a dinner at the lowest table must be more than welcome once the snow falls,' Sulien agreed indifferently, and rose to accept the small flask Cadfael had stoppered for him. 'I'll be getting back now, Eudo can do with a hand about the stable. And I do thank you, Cadfael. For this and for everything.'

    

Chapter Eight

    

It was three days later that a groom came riding in at the gatehouse of the castle, with a woman pillion behind him, and set her down in the outer court to speak with the guards. Modestly but with every confidence she asked for the lord sheriff, and made it known that her business was important, and would be considered so by the personage she sought.

    

Hugh came up from the armoury in his shirt-sleeves and a leather jerkin, with the flush and smokiness of the smith's furnace about him. The woman looked at him with as much curiosity as he was feeling about her, so young and so unexpected was his appearance. She had never seen the sheriff of the shore before, and had looked for someone older and more defensive of his own dignity than this neat, lightly built young fellow in his twenties still, black-haired and black-browed, who looked more like one of the apprentice armourers than the king's officer.

    

'You asked to speak with me, mistress?' said Hugh. 'Come within, and tell me what you need of me.'

    

She followed him composedly into the small anteroom in the gatehouse, but hesitated for a moment when he invited her to be seated, as though her business must first be declared and accounted for, before she could be at ease.

    

'My lord, I think it is you who have need of me, if what I have heard is true.' Her voice had the cadences of the countrywoman, and a slight roughness and rawness, as though in its time it had been abused by over-use or use under strain. And she was not as young as he had first thought her, perhaps around thirty-five years old, but handsome and erect of carriage, and moved with decorous grace. She wore a good dark gown, matronly and sober, and her hair was drawn back and hidden under a white wimple. The perfect image of a decent burgess's wife, or a gentlewoman's attendant. Hugh could not immediately guess where and how she fitted into his present preoccupations, but was willing to wait for enlightenment.

    

'And what is it you have heard?' he asked.

    

'They are saying about the market that you have taken a man called Britric into hold, a pedlar, for killing a woman who kept company with him for some while last year. Is it true?'

    

'True enough,' said Hugh. 'You have something to say to the matter?'

    

'I have, my lord!' Her eyes she kept half-veiled by heavy, long lashes, looking up directly into his face only rarely and briefly. 'I bear Britric no particular goodwill, for reasons enough, but no ill will, either. He was a good companion for a while, and even if we did fall out, I don't want him hung for a murder that was never committed. So here I am in the flesh, to prove I'm well alive. And my name is Gunnild.'

    

'And, by God, so it proved!' said Hugh, pouring out the whole unlikely story some hours later, in the leisure hour of the monastic afternoon in Cadfael's workshop. 'No question, Gunnild she is. You should have seen the pedlar's face when I brought her into his cell, and he took one long look at the decent, respectable shape of her, and then at her face closely, and his mouth fell open, he found her so hard to believe. But: "Gunnild!" he screeches, as soon as he gets his breath back. Oh, she's the same woman, not