Chapter Six

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N o question, Heledd was gone. No hostess here,with duties and status, but perhaps the least among the arrivingguests, she had held herself aloof from the princess’swaiting-woman, keeping her own counsel and, as it seemed, waitingher own chance. No more reconciled to the prospect of marriage withthe unknown bridegroom from Anglesey than to a conventual cellamong strangers in England, Heledd had slipped through the gates ofAber before they closed at night, and gone to look for some futureof her own choosing. But how had she abstracted also a horse,saddled and bridled, and a choice and fleet horse into thebargain?

The last that anyone had seen of her was when she left the hallwith an empty pitcher, barely halfway through the prince’sfeast, leaving all the nobility busy at table, and her father stillblackly scowling after her as she swung the screen curtain closedbehind her. Perhaps she had truly intended to refill the pitcherand return to resume replenishing the Welsh drinking horns, if onlyto vex Canon Meirion. But no one had seen her since that moment.And when the first light came, and the prince’s force beganto muster in the wards, and the bustle and clamour, howeverpurposeful and moderate, would certainly bring out all thehousehold, who was to tell the good canon that his daughter hadtaken flight in the darkness from the cloister, from marriage, andfrom her sire’s very imperfect love and care for her?

Such an unavoidable task Owain chose not to delegate. When thelight from the east tipped the outer wall of the maenol, and theward began to fill with horse and groom and man-at-arms and archerroused and ready, he sent to summon the two canons of Saint Asaphto the gatehouse, where he waited with one shrewd eye on the ranksmustering and mounting, and one on a sky and light that promisedgood weather for riding. No one had forestalled him with the badnews; so much was plain from Canon Meirion’s serene, assuredface as he strode across the ward with a civil good-morning alreadyforming on his lips, and a gracious benediction ready to follow itas soon as the prince should mount and ride. At his back,shorter-legged and more portly and selfconscious of bearing, CanonMorgant hugged his ponderous dignity about him, and kept anoncommittal countenance.

It was not Owain’s way to beat about bushes. Time wasshort, business urgent, and what mattered was to make suchprovision as was now possible to repair what had gone awry, bothwith threats from an obdurate brother and peril to a lostdaughter.

“There is news in the night,” said the princebriskly, as soon as the two clerics drew close, “that willnot please your reverences, and does not please me.”

Cadfael, watching from beside the gate, could detect no disquietin Canon Meirion’s face at this opening. No doubt he thoughtit referred only to the threat of the Danish fleet, and possiblythe flight of Bledri ap Rhys, for the two clerics had gone to theirbeds before that supposed flight changed to a death. But eitherwould come rather as a relief and satisfaction to him, seeing thatBledri and Heledd between them had given him cause to tremble forhis future career, with Canon Morgant storing up behind his austereforehead every unbecoming look and wanton word to report back tohis bishop. By his present bearing, Meirion knew of nothing worse,nothing in the world to disturb his complacency now, if Bledri waseither fled or dead. “My lord,” he began benignly,“we were present to hear of the threat to your coast. It willsurely be put off without harm…”

“Not that!” said Owain bluntly. “This concernsyourself. Sir, your daughter has fled in the night. Sorry I am tosay it, and to leave you to deal with the case in my absence, butthere’s no help. I have given orders to the captain of mygarrison here to give you every aid in searching for her. Stay aslong as you need to stay, make use of my men and my stables as bestserves. I and all who ride with me will be keeping a watch andasking news of her westward direct to Carnarvon. So, I trust, willDeacon Mark and Brother Cadfael on their ride to Bangor. Between uswe should cover the country to westward. You ask and search roundAber and eastward, and south if need be, though I think she wouldnot venture the mountains alone. I will return to the search assoon as I may.”

He had proceeded thus far uninterrupted only because CanonMeirion had been struck mute and amazed at the very firstutterance, and stood staring with round eyes and parted lips,paling until the peaks of his sharp cheekbones stood out whiteunder the straining skin. Utter consternation stopped the breath inhis throat.

“My daughter!” he repeated slowly at last, the wordsshaped almost without sound. And then in a hoarse wheeze:“Gone? My daughter loose alone, and these sea-raiders abroadin the land?”

At least, thought brother Cadfael approvingly, if she could behere to hear it, she would know that he has some real care for her.His first outcry is for her safety, for once his own advancement isforgotten. If only for a moment!

“Half the width of Wales from here,” said Owainstoutly, “and I’ll see to it they come no nearer. Sheheard the messenger, she knows better than to ride into their arms.This girl you bred is no fool.”

“But headstrong!” Meirion lamented, his voicerecovered and loud with anguish. “Who knows what risk shemight not venture? And if she has fled me now, she will still hidefrom me. This I never foresaw, that she could feel so driven and sobeset.”

“I say again,” said Owain firmly, “use mygarrison, my stables, my men as you will, send out after news ofher, for surely she cannot be far. As for the ways to westward, wewill watch for her as we go. But go we must. You well know theneed.”

Meirion drew himself back a little, erect at his tallest, andshook his broad shoulders.

“Go with God, my lord, you can do no other. Mygirl’s life is but one, and many depend upon you. She shallbe my care. I dread I have not served her turn lately as well as Ihave served my own, or she would never have left me so.”

And he turned, with a hasty reverence, and strode away towardsthe hall, so precipitately that Cadfael could see him clamberingfiercely into his boots and marching down to the stable to saddlehis horse, and away to question everyone in the village outside thewalls, in search of the dark daughter he had gone to some pains todispatch into distance, and now was all afire to recover. And afterhim, still silent, stonily expressionless, potentiallydisapproving, went Canon Morgant, a black recording angel.

They were more than a mile along the coastal tracktowards Bangor before Brother Mark broke his deep and thoughtfulsilence. They had parted from the prince’s force on leavingAber, Owain bearing south-west to take the most direct road toCarnarvon, while Cadfael and Mark kept to the shore, with theshining, pallid plain of the shallows over Lavan Sands reflectingthe morning light on their right hand, and the peaks of Fryrisoaring one above another on their left, beyond the narrow greenlowlands of the coast. Over the deep channel beyond the sands, theshores of Anglesey were bright in sunlight.

“Did he know,” Mark wondered aloud suddenly,“that the man was dead?”

“He? Meirion? Who can tell? He was there among the rest ofus when the groom cried out that a horse was missing, and Bledriwas held to have taken him and made off to his master. So much heknew. He was not with us when we looked for and found the man dead,nor present in the prince’s counsel. If the pair of them weresafe in their beds they cannot have heard the news until thismorning. Does it signify? Dead or fled, the man was out ofMeirion’s way, and could scandalize Morgant no longer. Smallwonder he took it so calmly.”

“That is not what I meant,” said Mark. “Did heknow of his own knowledge? Before ever another soul knew it?”And as Cadfael was silent, he pursued hesitantly: “You hadnot considered it?”

“It had crossed my mind,” Cadfael admitted.“You think him capable of killing?”

“Not in cool blood, not by stealth. But his blood is notcool, but all too readily heated. There are some who bluster andbellow, and rid their bile that way. Not he! He contains it, and itboils within him. It is likelier far to burst forth in action thanin noise. Yes, I think him capable of killing. And if he didconfront Bledri ap Rhys, he would meet only with provocation anddisdain there. Enough to make for a violent end.”

“And could he go from that ending straight to his bed, insuch unnerving company, and keep his countenance? Evensleep?”

“Who says that he slept? He had only to be still andquiet. There was nothing to keep Canon Morgant wakeful.”

“I return you another question,” said Cadfael.“Would Cuhelyn lie? He was not ashamed of his purpose. Why,then, should he lie about it when it came to light?”

“The prince believes him,” said Mark, thoughtfullyfrowning.

“And you?”

“Any man may lie, not even for very grave reason. EvenCuhelyn may. But I do not think he would lie to Owain. Or to Hywel.He has given his second fealty, as absolute as the first. But thereis another question to be asked concerning Cuhelyn. No, there aretwo. Had he told anyone what he knew about Bledri ap Rhys? And ifhe would not lie to Hywel, who had salved him and brought him to anhonorable service, would he lie for him? For if he didtell anyone that he recognized Bledri as one among hisprince’s murderers, it would be Hywel. Who had no betterreason to love the perpetrators of that ambush than had Cuhelynhimself.”

“Or any man who went with Hywel to drive Cadwaladr out ofCeredigion for Anarawd’s sake,” agreed Cadfaelresignedly, “or any who took bitter offence at hearing Bledriso insolent on Cadwaladr’s behalf in hall that night,spitting his threats into Owain’s face. True, a man is deadwho was well-hated, living, and took no keep to be anything betterthan hated. In a crowded court where his very presence was anaffront, is it any wonder if he came by a short ending? But theprince will not let it rest.”

“And we can do nothing,” said Mark, and sighed.“We cannot even look for the girl until I have discharged myerrand.”

“We can ask,” said Cadfael.

And ask they did, at every hamlet and dwelling along the way,whether a young woman had not ridden past by this road, a darkWelsh girl on a young roan, all of one colour. A horse from theprince’s stables would not go unremarked, especially with alone girl in the saddle. But the day wore on, and the sky cloudedgently and cleared again, and they drew into Bangor bymid-afternoon; but no one could give them word of Heledd,Meirion’s daughter.

Bishop Meurig of Bangor received them as soon asthey had threaded their way through the streets of the town to hiscathedral enclave, and announced themselves to his archdeacon. Itseemed that here everything was to be done briskly and briefly,with small respect to the planned and public ceremony BishopGilbert had preferred. For here they were by many miles nearer tothe threat of Danish raiders, and very sensibly taking suchprecautions as were possible to cope with them if they shouldpenetrate so far. Moreover, Meurig was native Welsh, at home here,and had no need of the cautious dispositions Gilbert felt necessaryto secure his position. It might be true that he had proved atfirst a disappointment to his prince, by succumbing to Normanpressure and submitting to Canterbury, but stoutly Welsh heremained, and his resistance, if diverted, must still be proceedingby more subtle ways. At least he did not seem to Cadfael, when theywere admitted to his presence in private, the kind of man tocompromise his Welshness and his adherence to the ways of theCeltic Church without a long and doughty rearguard action.

The bishop was not at all like his fellow of Saint Asaph.Instead of the tall, dignified Gilbert, self-consciously patricianand austere without, and uneasily insecure within, here was asmall, round, bustling cleric in his forties, voluble of speech butvery much to the point, rapid of movement and a little disheveledand shaggy, with a sharp eye and a cheerfully bouncing manner, likea boisterous but businesslike hound on a scent. His pleasure in thevery fact of their coming on such an errand was made very plain,and outweighed even his delight in the breviary Mark had broughthim, though clearly he had an eye for a handsome script, and turnedthe leaves with lovingly delicate movements of thick, strongfingers.

“You will have heard already, Brothers, of the threat toour shores, so you will understand that here we are looking to ourdefenses. God grant the Norsemen never get ashore, or no furtherthan the shore, but if they should, we have a town to keep, andchurchmen must turn to like the rest. For that reason we observe atpresent little state or ceremony, but I trust you will be my guestsfor a day or two before you need return with my letters andcompliments to your bishop.”

It was for Mark to respond to this invitation, which was offeredwarmly enough, but with a vaguely preoccupied look in thebishop’s shrewd eyes. At least a part of his mind was awayscanning the waterfront of his town, where the brief mudflatbetween the tides gave place to the narrowing neck of the strait.Fifteen miles or more to the western end at Abermenai, but thesmaller shallow-draught ships, oared by twenty rowers, could coverthat distance rapidly. A pity the Welsh had never really taken tothe seas! And Bishop Meurig had his flock to consider, and noamenable temper to let them suffer anything his vigor couldprevent. He would not be sorry to pack his visitors from Englandoff back to Lichfield, and have his hands free. Hands that lookedquite capable of turning to the sword or the bow whenever the needarose.

“My lord,” said Brother Mark, after a briefthoughtful hesitation, “I think we should leave tomorrow, ifthat does not cause you too much inconvenience. Much as I wouldlike to linger, I have pledged myself to a prompt return. And evenbeyond that, the party with which we rode from Saint Asaph includeda young woman who should have come here to Bangor with us, underOwain Gwynedd’s protection, but now, bereft of thatprotection, since the prince perforce has hurried on to Carnarvon,she has unwisely ridden out from Aber alone, and somewhere has losther way. They are seeking for her from Aber. But since we have comeas far as Bangor, if I may justify the delay even of one day, ortwo, I should like to spend them searching for her in these partsalso. If you will grant me leave to make use of so short a delay,we will spend it for the lady’s benefit, and you, I know,will be making use of every moment for the better keep of your ownpeople.”

A good speech, Cadfael approved, one that gives nothing away ofwhat lies behind Heledd’s flight, thereby sparing herreputation and this good prelate’s very proper concern. Heinterpreted it carefully, improvising a little where memoryfaltered, since Mark had allowed him no pause between the lines.The bishop nodded instant comprehension, and demanded practically:“Did the lady know of this threat from Dublin?”

“No,” said Mark, “the messenger from Carnarvoncame only later. She cannot have known.”

“And she is somewhere abroad between Aber and here, andalone? I wish I had more men to send out after her,” saidMeurig, frowning, “but we have already sent on to Carnarvonall the fighting men who can be spared, to join the prince there.Such as are left we may need here.”

“We do not know,” Cadfael said, “which way sherode. She may be well behind us to the east, for all we know, andsafe enough. But if we can do no more, we can divide on the rideback, and enquire everywhere after her.”

“And if she has by now heard of the peril,” Markadded eagerly, “and very wisely looks for safe shelter, arethere in these regions any houses of religious women, where shemight take refuge?”

This also Cadfael translated, though he could have given ageneral answer to it himself, without troubling the bishop. TheChurch in Wales had never run to nunneries, as even conventual lifefor men had never been on the same monastic pattern as in England.Instead of the orderly, well-regulated house of sisters, with arecognized authority and a rule, here there might arise, in themost remote and solitary wilderness, a small wattled oratory, witha single, simple saint living within it, a saint in the olddispensation, without benefit of Pope or canonization, who grew afew vegetables and herbs for her food, and gathered berries andwild fruit, and came to loving terms with the small beasts of thewarren, so that they ran to hide in her skirts when they werehunted, and neither huntsmen nor horn could urge on the hounds todo the lady affront, or her little visitors harm. Though Cadfaelhad to admit, on reflection, that the Dublin Danes might notobserve a proper respect to such unaccustomed evidences ofsanctity.

The bishop shook his head. “Our holy women do not gatherin communities, like yours, but set up their cells in the wilds,alone. Such anchoresses would not settle near a town. More likelyfar to withdraw into the mountains. There is one we know of here,who has her hermitage by this same Menai water, some miles westfrom here, beyond the narrows. But as soon as we heard of thisthreat from the sea I sent to warn her, and bring her in here toshelter. And she had the good sense to come, and make no demurabout it. God is the first and best defense of lone women, but Isee no virtue in leaving all to him. I want no martyrs within mydomain, and sanctity is small protection.”

“Then her cell is left empty,” said Mark, andsighed. “But if this girl should have ridden so far, andfailed to find a friend at need, where next might sheturn?”

“Inland, surely, into the cover of woodland. I know of nodefensible holding close by, but these raiders, if they land, wouldnot go far from their ships. Any house in Arfon would take a girlin. Though the nearest and themselves most at risk,” he addedsimply, “may well have drawn off into the hills themselves.Your fellow here knows how lightly we can vanish atneed.”

“I doubt she can have gone far ahead of us,” saidCadfael, pondering possibilities. “And for all we know shemay have her own plans, and know very well where to run. At leastwe can ask wherever we touch on the way back.” There wasalways the chance, too, that Canon Meirion had already found hisdaughter, closer to the royal seat at Aber.

“I can have prayers said for her safety,” said thebishop briskly, “but I have sheep of my own to fold, andcannot, however willingly I would, go searching after one stray. Atleast, Brothers, rest this night over, before you take to the roadsagain, and may you ride safely and get good word of the young womanyou seek.”

Bishop Meurig might be preoccupied with guardinghis extended household, but he did not let that interfere with hishospitality. His table was well-supplied, his meat and mead ampleand well-prepared, and he did not let his guests depart nextmorning without rising at dawn to see them off. It was a limpid,moist morning, after some fitful showers in the night, and the suncame up glistening and radiant, gilding the shallows toeastward.

“Go with God!” said the bishop, solid and square inthe gateway of his precinct, as though he would hold itsingle-handed against all comers. His complimentary letters werealready bestowed in Mark’s saddle-roll, together with a smallflask of gilded glass filled with the cordial he made from his ownhoney, and Cadfael carried before him a basket with a day’ssupply of food for six men rather than two. “Come safely backto your bishop, on whom be God’s blessing, and to yourconvent, Brother Cadfael, where his grace surely prevails. I trustsome day we may meet again.”

Of the peril now threatening he certainly went in no awe. Whenthey looked back from the street he was bustling purposefullyacross the open court, head foremost and lowered, like a small,determined bull not yet belligerent but certainly not to be trifledwith.

They had emerged from the edges of the town on tothe highroad, when Mark reined in, and sat his horse mute andthoughtful, looking first back along the road towards Aber, andthen westward towards the invisible sinuous curves of the narrowstrait that separated Anglesey from Arfon. Cadfael drew in besidehim, and waited, knowing what was on his friend’s mind.

“Could she have passed beyond this point? Ought we not togo on westward? She left Aber hours before us. How long, I wonder,before she got word of the coming of the Danes?”

“If she rode through the night,” said Cadfael,“she was not likely to hear of it until morning, there wouldbe no one abroad to warn her. By morning she could be well to thewest, and if she intended by her flight to evade her marriage, shewould not come near Bangor, for there she was to meet her husband.Yes, you are right, she might by this be well to westward, and intodanger. Nor am I sure she would turn back even if she knew ofit.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” demanded Marksimply, and turned his horse towards the west.

At the church of Saint Deiniol, several miles south-west fromBangor and perhaps two miles from the strait, they got word of herat last. She must have kept to the old, direct road, the same Owainand his host would take, but hours ahead of them. The only puzzlewas why it had taken her so long to reach that point, for when theyenquired of the priest there was no hesitation, but yes, she hadlighted down here to ask directions only late the previous evening,about Vespers.

“A young woman on a light roan, and all alone. She askedher way to the cell of Nonna. Due west from here it lies, in thetrees near the water. I offered her shelter for the night, but shesaid she would go to the holy woman.”

“She would find the cell deserted,” said Cadfael.“Bishop Meurig feared for the anchoress, and sent to bringher into Bangor. From which direction did the girl ridein?”

“Down out of the forests, from the south. I did notknow,” said the priest, distressed, “that she wouldfind the place empty. I wonder, poor child, what she would do?There would still be time enough for her to find refuge inBangor.”

“That I doubt she would do,” said Cadfael. “Ifshe came to the cell only so late, she might well bide the nightover there, rather than risk moving by darkness.” He lookedat Mark, in no doubt already what that young man would be thinking.On this journey Mark had the governance, not for the world wouldCadfael have robbed him of it by word or act.

“We will go and look for her at the hermitage,” saidMark firmly, “and if she is not there, we will separate andtry whatever tracks seem most likely to offer her refuge. In theselowland pastures there must be homesteads she may havetried.”

“Many will have taken advice,” the priest suggested,shaking his head dubiously. “In a few weeks they would havebeen moving their herds and flocks into the uplands, even withoutthis threat. Some may have moved early, rather than risk beingplundered.”

“We can but make the assay,” said Mark stoutly.“If need be, we’ll take to the hills ourselves insearch of her.”

And forthwith he made a brisk reverence to their informant, andwheeled his horse and set off due west, straight as an arrow. Thepriest of Saint Deiniol looked after him with raised brows and anexpression half amused and half solicitous, and shook his headdoubtfully.

“Would that young man be seeking the girl out of thegoodness of his heart? Or for himself?”

“Even for that young man,” Cadfael said cautiously,“I would not presume to say anything is impossible. But itcomes as near as makes no matter. Any creature in peril of death orharm, be it man, woman, plough horse, or Saint Melangell’share, could draw him through moss or quicksand. I knew I shouldnever get him back to Shrewsbury while Heledd wasastray.”

“You are turning back here yourself?” the priestdemanded drily.

“Small chance! If he is bound to her, fellow-voyager tohis fellow, so am I to him. I’ll get him home!”

“Well, even if his concern for her is purer thandew,” said the priest with conviction, “he had besttake heed to his vows when he does find her. For she’s abonny black maid as ever I saw. I was glad of my evening years whenI dared bid her shelter the night over in my house. And thankfulwhen she would not. And that lad is at the best of the morning,tonsure or no tonsure.”

“The more reason I should go after him,” agreedCadfael. “And my thanks to you for the good word. For all thegood words! I’ll see them strictly delivered when I overtakehim.”

“Saint Nonna,” said Cadfael didactically, threadingthe woodland belt that spread more than a mile inland from thestrait, “was the mother of Saint David. She has many sacredwells about the country, that give healing, especially to the eyes,even to curing blindness. This holy woman must have chosen to nameherself after the saint.”

Brother Mark pursued his determined way along the narrow ride,and said nothing. On either hand the trees glittered in moistsunlight after the early morning showers, mixed woodlandsufficiently open to let in the radiance of early afternoon,sufficiently close to be ridden in single file, and all just cominginto the first full leaf, young and fresh and full of birds. Everyspring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment. It bursts upona man every year, thought Cadfael, contemplating it with delight inspite of all anxieties, as though it had never happened before, buthad just been shown by God how to do it, and tried, and found theimpossible possible.

Ahead of him in the worn grass of the ride Mark had halted,staring ahead. Between the trees, here thinning, open light shonebefore them, at a little distance still, but now not very far, andshimmering with reflected gleams from water. They were nearing thestrait. And on Mark’s left hand a narrow footway twined inamong the trees to a low-roofed hut some yards aside from thepath.

“This is the place.”

“And she was here,” said Cadfael. The wet grass,unshaken on either side by any wind, had retained the soft dew ofrain that dimmed its new green to a silver grey, but through it ahorse had certainly passed, leaving his darker trail, and brushingbefore him the tips of new growth, for the passage to the cell wasvery narrow. The ride in which they had halted was in regular use,they had not thought to examine it as they rode. But here betweenthe encroaching bushes a horse had certainly passed since the rain.And not inward, but outward. A few young shoots had been broken atthe tip, leaning towards the open ride, and the longer grassesdarkened by hooves clearly showed the direction in which they hadbeen brushed in passing. “And is gone,” said Cadfael,“since the morning.”

They dismounted, and approached the cell on foot. Built littleand low, and one room only, for a woman who had almost no needs atall, beyond her small stone-built altar against one wall, and herplain straw pallet against another, and her small cleared space ofgarden behind for vegetables and herbs. Her door was drawn to, buthad no lock to be seen without, and no bar within, only a latchthat any wayfarer could lift and enter. The place was empty now.Nonna had obeyed the bishop’s expressed wish, and allowedherself to be escorted into shelter in Bangor, how willingly therewas no knowing. If she had had a guest here in her absence, theguest too was gone. But in a patch of clear turf between the treesthe grass had been grazed, and hooves had ranged on a long tether,leaving their traces before the rain fell, for drops still hung onthe grasses, unshaken. And in one place the beast had left hisdroppings, fresh and moist still, but already cold.

“She passed the night here,” said Cadfael,“and with the morning she left. After the rain she left.Which way, who knows! She came to Llandeiniolen from inland, out ofthe hills and through the forest, so the priest said. Had she someplace of refuge in mind up there, some kinsman of Meirion’swho might take her in? And did she find that place, too, alreadydeserted, and think of the anchoress as her next hope? It wouldaccount for why it took her so long to get here. But as for whereshe is gone now, how can we tell?”

“She knows by now of the danger from the sea,” saidMark. “Surely she would not go on westward into such a peril?But back towards Bangor and her marriage? She has already riskedmuch to evade it. Would she make her way back to Aber, and herfather? That would not deliver her from this marriage, if she is soset against it.”

“She would not do it,” said Cadfael, “in anycase. Strange as it may be, she loves her father as much as shehates him. The one is the reflection of the other. She hates himbecause her love is far stronger than any love he has for her,because he is so ready and willing to give her up, to put her awayby any means possible, so that she may no longer cast a cloud overhis reputation and his advancement. Very clearly she declaredherself once, as I remember.”

“As I remember also,” said Mark.

“Nevertheless, she will do nothing to harm him. The veilshe refused. This marriage she accepted only for his sake, as thelesser evil. But when chance offered, she fled that, too, and choserather to remove herself from blocking his light than to let othersscheme to remove her. She has taken her own life into her ownhands, prepared to face her own risks and pay her own debts,leaving him free. She will not now go back on thatresolve.”

“But he is not free,” said Mark, putting a fingerregretfully on the centre of the convoluted core of pain in thisseemingly simple relationship of sire and daughter. “He isaware of her now in absence as he never was when she waited on himdutifully every day, present and visible. He will have no peaceuntil he knows she is safe.”

“So,” said Cadfael, “we had better set aboutfinding her.”

Out on the ride, Cadfael looked back through thescreen of trees towards the sparks of quivering water beyond whichlay the Anglesey shore. A slight breeze had arisen, and flutteredthe bright green leaves into a scintillating curtain, but still thefleeting reflections of water flashed brighter still through thefolds. And something else, something that appeared and vanished asthe branches revealed and hid it again, but remained constant inthe same place, only seeming to rock up and down as if afloat andundulating with a tide. A fragment of bright colour, vermilion,changing shape with the movement of its frame of leaves.

“Wait!” said Cadfael, halting. “What isthat?” Not a red that was to be found in nature, certainlynot in the late spring, when the earth indulges itself only withdelicate tones of pale gold and faint purple and white against thevirgin green. This red had a hard, impenetrable solidity about it.Cadfael dismounted, and turned back towards it, threading the treesin cover until he came to a raised spot where he could lie warilyinvisible himself, but see clear through the edge of the woodlandthree hundred paces or more down to the strait. A green level ofpasture and a few fields, one dwelling, no doubt forsaken now, andthen the silver-blue glitter of the water, here almost at itsnarrowest, but still half a mile wide. And beyond, the rich,fertile plain of Anglesey, the cornfield of Wales. The tide wasflowing, the stretch of shingle and sand under the opposite coasthalf exposed. And riding to anchor, close inshore below the bank oftrees in which Cadfael stood, a long, lean boat, dragon-headed foreand aft, dipped and rose gently on the tide, central sail lowered,oars shipped, a cluster of vermilion shields draped along its lowflank. A lithe serpent of a ship, its mast lowered aft from itssteppings, clearing the gaunt body for action, while it swayedgently to its mooring like a sleeping lizard, graceful andharmless. Two of its crew, big, fair-headed, one with plaitedbraids either side his neck, idled on its narrow rear deck, abovethe oarsmen’s benches. One, naked, swam lazily in mid-strait.But Cadfael counted what he took to be oar-ports in the thirdstrake of the hull, twelve of them in this steerboard side. Twelvepairs of oars, twenty-four rowers, and more crew beside these threeleft on guard. The rest could not be far.

Brother Mark had tethered the horses, and made his way down toCadfael’s shoulder. He saw what Cadfael had seen, and askedno questions.

“That,” said Cadfael, low-voiced, “is a Danishkeel from Dublin!”

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