A Rare Benedictine Read Online Free PDF

evening meal was over in Mauduit’s lodging.
No one was paying any heed to him by that time of day. All Roger had to do was
hold his tongue and keep his wits about him for three days, and the disputed
manor would still be adjudged to him. Everything was beautifully in hand, after
all.
    Two
of the men-at-arms and one groom had been left behind at the hunting-lodge.
Cadfael doubted if the man they guarded was to be found in the house itself,
for unless he was blindfolded he would be able to gather far too much knowledge
of his surroundings, and the fable of the masterless men would be tossed into
the rubbish-heap. No, he would be held in darkness, or dim light at best, even
during the day, in straw or the rush flooring of a common hut, fed adequately
but plainly and roughly, as wild men might keep a prisoner they were too
cautious to kill, or too superstitious, until they turned him loose in some
remote place, stripped of everything he had of value. On the other hand, he
must be somewhere securely inside the boundary fence, otherwise there would be
too high a risk of his being found. Between the gate and the house there were
trees enough to obscure the large holding of a man of consequence. Somewhere
among the stables and barns, or the now empty kennels, there he must be held.
    Cadfael
tethered his horse in cover well aside from the lodge and found himself a perch
in a tall oak tree, from which vantage point he could see over the fence into
the courtyard.
    He
was in luck. The three within fed themselves at leisure before they fed their
prisoner, preferring to wait for dark. By the time the groom emerged from the
hall with a pitcher and a bowl in his hands, Cadfael had his night eyes. They
were quite easy about their charge, expecting no interference from any man. The
groom vanished momentarily between the trees within the enclosure, but appeared
again at one of the low buildings tucked under the fence, set down his pitcher
for a moment while he hoisted clear a heavy wooden bar that held the door fast
shut, and vanished within. The door thudded to after him, as though he had
slammed it shut with his back braced against it, taking no chances even with an
elderly monastic. In a few minutes he emerged again empty-handed, hauled the
bar into place again, and returned, whistling, to the hall and the enjoyment of
Mauduit’s ale.
    Not
the stables nor the kennels, but a small, stout hay-store built on short wooden
piles raised from the ground. At least the prior would have fairly snug lying.
    Cadfael
let the last of the light fade before he made a move. The wooden wall was stout
and high, but more than one of the old trees outside leaned a branch over it,
and it was no great labour to climb without and drop into the deep grass
within. He made first for the gate, and quietly unbarred the narrow wicket set
into it. Faint threads of torchlight filtered through the chinks in the hall
shutters, but nothing else stirred. Cadfael laid hold of the heavy bar of the
storehouse door, and eased it silently out of its socket, opening the door by
cautious inches, and whispering through the chink: “Father...?”
    There
was a sharp rustling of hay within, but no immediate reply.
    “Father
Prior, is it you? Softly... Are you bound?”
    A
hesitant and slightly timorous voice said: “No.” And in a moment, with better
assurance: “My son, you are not one of these sinful men?”
    “Sinful
man I am, but not of their company. Hush, quietly now! I have a horse close by.
I came from Woodstock to find you. Reach me your hand, Father, and come forth.”
    A
hand came wavering out of the hay-scented darkness to clutch convulsively at
Cadfael’s hand. The pale patch of a tonsured crown gleamed faintly, and a small,
rounded figure crept forth and stepped into the thick grass. He had the wit to
waste no breath then on questions, but stood docile and silent while Cadfael
re-barred the door on emptiness,