Brother Cadfael 19: The Holy Thief

equivocal even in the back view of the overlong curls, and the tender, youthful shaping of the nape of the neck. Ah, well! Few people are exactly what they seem on first acquaintance, and he hardly knew the boy at all.
    They sallied forth in solemn procession to the town, Prior Robert lending his dignified presence to add to the gravity of the occasion. The sheriff had notified the provost and Guild Merchant of the town, and left it to them to make sure that the whole of Shrewsbury recognized its duty, and would be present. Alms to so eminent a religious house in its persecution and need provided an infallible means of acquiring merit, and there must be many in so large a town willing to pay a modest price to buy off reprobation for minor backslidings.
    Herluin returned from his foray so clearly content with himself, and Tutilo bearing so heavy a satchel, that it was plain they had reaped a very satisfactory harvest. The following Sunday's sermon from the parish pulpit added to the spoils. The coffer Radulfus had donated to receive offerings grew heavier still. Moreover, three good craftsmen, master-carpenter and two journeyman masons, proposed to go back with the Ramsey men and seek work in the rebuilding of the gutted barns and storehouses. The mission was proceeding very successfully. Even R� of Pertuis had given good silver coin, as became a musician who had composed liturgical works in his time for two churches in Provence.
    They were scarcely out of church after the Mass when a groom came riding in from Longner, with a spare pony on a leading rein, to prefer a request from the Lady Donata. Would Sub-Prior Herluin, she entreated, permit Brother Tutilo to visit her? The day being somewhat advanced, she had sent a mount for his journey, and promised a return in time for Compline. Tutilo submitted himself to his superior's will with the utmost humility, but with shining eyes. To return unsupervised to Donata's psaltery, or the neglected harp in the hall at Longner, would be appropriate reward for piping to Herluin's tune with such devotion during the day.
    Cadfael saw him ride out from the gatehouse, the childish delight showing through plainly by then; delight at being remembered and needed, delight at riding out when he had expected only a routine evening within the walls. Cadfael could appreciate and excuse that. The indulgent smile was still on his face as he went to tend certain remedies he had working in his herbarium. And there was another creature just as shiningly young, though perhaps not as innocent, hovering at the door of his hut, waiting for him.
    "Brother Cadfael?" questioned R� of Pertuis' girl singer, surveying him with bold blue eyes just on a level with his own.
    Not tall, but above average for a woman, slender almost to leanness, and straight as a lance. "Brother Edmund sent me to you. My master has a cold, and is croaking like a frog. Brother Edmund says you can help him."
    "God willing!" said Cadfael, returning her scrutiny just as candidly. He had never seen her so close before, nor expected to, for she kept herself apart, taking no risks, perhaps, with an exacting master. Her head was uncovered now, her face, oval, thin and bright, shone lily-pale between wings of black, curling hair.
    "Come within," he said, "and tell me more of his case. His voice is certainly of importance. A workman who loses his tools has lost his living. What manner of cold is it he's taken? Has he rheumy eyes? A thick head? A stuffed nose?"
    She followed him into the workshop, which was already shadowy within, lit only by the glow of the damped-down brazier, until Cadfael lit a sulphur spill and kindled his small lamp. She looked about her with interest at the laden shelves and the herbs dangling from the beams, stirring and rustling faintly in the draught from the door. "His throat," she said indifferently. "Nothing else worries him. He's hoarse and dry. Brother Edmund says you have lozenges and draughts. He's not ill," she said with tolerant disdain. "Not hot or fevered. Anything that touches his voice sends him into a sweat. Or mine, for that matter. Another of his tools he can't afford to lose, little as he cares about the rest of me. Brother Cadfael, do you make all these pastes and potions?" She was ranging the shelves of bottles and jars with eyes respectfully rounded.
    "I do the brewing and pounding," said Cadfael, "the earth supplies the means. I'll send your lord some pastilles for his throat, and a