Brother Cadfael 20: Brother Cadfael's Penance

guessing.
    "Not changed, no." And yet Philip watched him with a new, intense interest, searching for the subtle elements of those two disparate creatures who had brought this arrogant excellence into being. "I have a guest in my hall, Olivier, who has come on your behalf. I am learning things about you that I think you do not know. It may be high time that you did."
    Olivier looked back at him with a fixed and hostile face, and said never a word. It was no surprise that he should be sought, he knew he had his value, and there would be those anxious to retrieve him. That any of those well disposed to him should by reason or luck have tracked him down to this place was more surprising. If Laurence d'Angers had indeed sent here to ask after his lost squire, it was a bow drawn at a venture. And the arrow would not hit the mark.
    "In truth," said Philip, "I had here two equally concerned for your fate. One of them I have sent away empty-handed, but he says he will be back for you in arms. I have no cause to doubt he'll keep his word. A young kinsman of yours, Yves Hugonin."
    "Yves?" Olivier stiffened, bristling. "Yves has been here? How could that be? What brought him here?"
    "He was invited. Somewhat roughly, I fear. But never fret, he's away again as whole as he came, and in Gloucester by this time, raising an army to come and drag you out of hold. I thought for a time," said Philip consideringly, "that I had a quarrel with him, but I find I was in error. And even if I had not been, it turned out the cause was valueless."
    "You swear it? He's unharmed, and back to his own people? No, I take that back," said Olivier fiercely. "I know you do not lie."
    "Never, at any rate, to you. He is safe and well, and heartily hating me for your sake. And the other, I told you there were two, the other is a monk of the Benedictines of Shrewsbury, and he is still here in La Musarderie, of his own will. His name is Cadfael."
    Olivier stood utterly confounded. His lips moved, repeating the familiar but most unexpected name. When he found a voice at last, he was less than coherent.
    "How can he be here? A cloistered brother, no, they go nowhere, unless ordered, his vows would not allow, And why here? For me ...? No, impossible!"
    "So you do know of him? His vows, yes, he declares himself recusant, he is absent and unblessed. For cause. For you. Do me justice, it was you said I do not lie. I saw this brother at Coventry. He was there seeking news of you, like the young one. By what arts he traced you here I am not wholly sure, but so he did, and came to redeem you. I thought that you should know."
    "He is a man I revere," said Olivier. "Twice I have met with him and been thankful. But he owes me nothing, nothing at all."
    "So I thought and said," agreed Philip. "But he knows better. He came to me openly, asking for what he wanted. You. He said there were those who would be glad to buy you free; and when I asked, at whatever price?... He said, name it, and he would see it paid."
    "This is out of my grasp," said Olivier, lost. "I do not understand."
    "And I said to him: "A life, perhaps." And he said: "Take mine!"
    Olivier sat down slowly on the rugs of the bed, astray between the present wintry reality and memories that crowded back upon him fresh as Spring. A brother of the Benedictines, habited and cowled, who had used him like a son. They were together waiting for midnight and Matins in the priory of Bromfield, drawing plans upon the floor to show the way by which Olivier could best be sure of getting his charges safely away out of Stephen's territory and back to Gloucester. They were under the rustling, fragrant bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters of Cadfael's workshop, that last time, when, without even giving it a thought, Olivier before departing had stooped his cheek for the kiss proper between close kin, and blithely returned it.
    "And then I asked him: 'Why should you offer me your old bones to moulder in his place? What is Olivier de Bretagne to you?' And he said: 'He is my son.' "
    After long silence, the dying candle suddenly sputtered and flowed into molten wax, and the wick lolled sidewise into the pool and subsided into a last spreading, bluish flame. Philip tilted the new one to pick up the fading spark out of the enclosing darkness, and blew out the last remnant, anchoring the renewed light upon the congealing remains of the old. Olivier's face, briefly withdrawn into twilight, burned slowly bright again as the flame