billowing like wings in the wind of
his going.
“A man abstemious, rigidly upright, inflexibly honest,
ferociously chaste,” said Radulfus in private to Prior Robert. “A man with
every virtue, except humility and human kindness. That is what I have brought
upon the Foregate, Robert. And now what are we to do about him?”
Dame Diota Hammet came on the twenty-second day of
December to the gatehouse of the abbey with a covered basket, and asked meekly
for her nephew Benet, for whom she had brought a cake for his Christmas, and a
few honey buns from her festival baking. The porter, knowing her for the parish
priest’s housekeeper, directed her through to the garden, where Benet was busy
clipping the last straggly growth from the box hedges.
Hearing their voices, Cadfael looked out from his
workshop, and divining who this matronly woman must be, was about to return to
his mortar when he was caught by some delicate shade in their greeting. A
matter-of-fact affection, easy-going and undemonstrative, was natural between
aunt and nephew, and what he beheld here hardly went beyond that, but for all
that there was a gloss of tenderness and almost deference in the woman’s
bearing towards her young kinsman, and an unexpected, childish grace in the
warmth with which he embraced her. True, he was already known for a young man
who did nothing by halves, but here were certainly aunt and nephew who did not
take each other for granted.
Cadfael withdrew to his work again and left them their
privacy. A comely, well-kept woman was Mistress Hammet, with decent black
clothing befitting a priest’s housekeeper, and a dark shawl over her neat,
greying hair. Her oval face, mildly sad in repose, brightened vividly in
greeting the boy, and then she looked no more than forty years old, and
perhaps, indeed, she was no more. Benet’s mother’s sister? wondered Cadfael. If
so, he took after his father, for there was very little resemblance here. Well,
it was none of his business!
Benet came bounding into the workshop to empty the
basket of its good things, spreading them out on the wooden bench. “We’re in
luck, Brother Cadfael, for she’s as good a cook as you’d find in the King’s own
kitchen. You and I can eat like princes.”
And he was off again as blithely to restore the empty
basket. Cadfael looked out after him through the open door, and saw him hand
over, besides the basket, some small thing he drew from the breast of his
cotte. She took it, nodding earnestly, unsmiling, and the boy stooped and
kissed her cheek. She smiled then. He had a way with him, no question. She
turned and went away, and left him looking after her for a long moment, before
he also turned, and came back to the workshop. The engaging grin came back
readily to his face.
“ ‘On no account’,” quoted Cadfael, straight-faced, “
‘may a monk accept small presents of any kind, from his parents or anyone else,
without the abbot’s permission’. That, sweet son, is in the Rule.”
“Lucky you, then, and lucky I,” said the boy gaily,
“that I’ve taken no vows. She makes the best honey cakes ever I tasted.” And he
sank even white teeth into one of them, and reached to offer another to
Cadfael.
“ ‘… nor may the brethren exchange them, one with
another,” said Cadfael, and accepted the offering. “Lucky, indeed! Though I
transgress in accepting, you go sinless in offering. Have you quite abandoned
your inclination to the cloistered life, then?”
“Me?” said the youth, startled out of his busy
munching, and open-mouthed. “When did I ever profess any?”
“Not you, lad, but your sponsor on your account, when
he asked work for you here.”
“Did he say that of me?”
“He did. Not positively promising it, mark you, but
holding out the hope that you might settle to it one day. I grant you I’ve
never seen much sign of it.”
Benet thought that over for a moment, while he
his going.
“A man abstemious, rigidly upright, inflexibly honest,
ferociously chaste,” said Radulfus in private to Prior Robert. “A man with
every virtue, except humility and human kindness. That is what I have brought
upon the Foregate, Robert. And now what are we to do about him?”
Dame Diota Hammet came on the twenty-second day of
December to the gatehouse of the abbey with a covered basket, and asked meekly
for her nephew Benet, for whom she had brought a cake for his Christmas, and a
few honey buns from her festival baking. The porter, knowing her for the parish
priest’s housekeeper, directed her through to the garden, where Benet was busy
clipping the last straggly growth from the box hedges.
Hearing their voices, Cadfael looked out from his
workshop, and divining who this matronly woman must be, was about to return to
his mortar when he was caught by some delicate shade in their greeting. A
matter-of-fact affection, easy-going and undemonstrative, was natural between
aunt and nephew, and what he beheld here hardly went beyond that, but for all
that there was a gloss of tenderness and almost deference in the woman’s
bearing towards her young kinsman, and an unexpected, childish grace in the
warmth with which he embraced her. True, he was already known for a young man
who did nothing by halves, but here were certainly aunt and nephew who did not
take each other for granted.
Cadfael withdrew to his work again and left them their
privacy. A comely, well-kept woman was Mistress Hammet, with decent black
clothing befitting a priest’s housekeeper, and a dark shawl over her neat,
greying hair. Her oval face, mildly sad in repose, brightened vividly in
greeting the boy, and then she looked no more than forty years old, and
perhaps, indeed, she was no more. Benet’s mother’s sister? wondered Cadfael. If
so, he took after his father, for there was very little resemblance here. Well,
it was none of his business!
Benet came bounding into the workshop to empty the
basket of its good things, spreading them out on the wooden bench. “We’re in
luck, Brother Cadfael, for she’s as good a cook as you’d find in the King’s own
kitchen. You and I can eat like princes.”
And he was off again as blithely to restore the empty
basket. Cadfael looked out after him through the open door, and saw him hand
over, besides the basket, some small thing he drew from the breast of his
cotte. She took it, nodding earnestly, unsmiling, and the boy stooped and
kissed her cheek. She smiled then. He had a way with him, no question. She
turned and went away, and left him looking after her for a long moment, before
he also turned, and came back to the workshop. The engaging grin came back
readily to his face.
“ ‘On no account’,” quoted Cadfael, straight-faced, “
‘may a monk accept small presents of any kind, from his parents or anyone else,
without the abbot’s permission’. That, sweet son, is in the Rule.”
“Lucky you, then, and lucky I,” said the boy gaily,
“that I’ve taken no vows. She makes the best honey cakes ever I tasted.” And he
sank even white teeth into one of them, and reached to offer another to
Cadfael.
“ ‘… nor may the brethren exchange them, one with
another,” said Cadfael, and accepted the offering. “Lucky, indeed! Though I
transgress in accepting, you go sinless in offering. Have you quite abandoned
your inclination to the cloistered life, then?”
“Me?” said the youth, startled out of his busy
munching, and open-mouthed. “When did I ever profess any?”
“Not you, lad, but your sponsor on your account, when
he asked work for you here.”
“Did he say that of me?”
“He did. Not positively promising it, mark you, but
holding out the hope that you might settle to it one day. I grant you I’ve
never seen much sign of it.”
Benet thought that over for a moment, while he
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