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good Welsh, and Welsh of the north, and he’s certainly from Gwynedd, one of Cadwaladr’s boys—though you may as well make the lad comfortable while you’re about it. We speak English to him, and he shakes his head and answers with nothing but Welsh, but for all that, there’s a saucy look in his eye that tells me he understands very well, and is having a game with us. So come and speak English to him, and trip the bold young sprig headlong when he thinks his Welsh insults can pass for civilities.”
    “He’d have had short shrift from Sister Magdalen,” said Cadfael thoughtfully, “if she’d known of his hurt. All his blushes wouldn’t have saved him.” And he went off willingly enough to see Brother Oswin properly instructed as to what needed attention in the workshop, before setting out with Hugh to the castle. A fair share of curiosity, and a little over-measure, was one of the regular items in his confessions. And after all, he was a Welshman; somewhere in the tangled genealogies of his nation, this obdurate boy might be his distant kin.
     
    They had a healthy respect for their prisoner’s strength, wit and ingenuity, and had him in a windowless cell, though decently provided. Cadfael went in to him alone, and heard the door locked upon them. There was a lamp, a floating wick in a saucer of oil, sufficient for seeing, since the pale stone of the walls reflected the light from all sides. The prisoner looked askance at the Benedictine habit, unsure what this visit predicted. In answer to what was clearly a civil greeting in English, he replied as courteously in Welsh, but in answer to everything else he shook his dark head apologetically, and professed not to understand a word of it. He responded readily enough, however, when Cadfael unpacked his scrip and laid out his salves and cleansing lotions and dressings. Perhaps he had found good reason in the night to be glad of having submitted his wound to tending, for this time he stripped willingly, and let Cadfael renew the dressing. He had aggravated his hurt with riding, but rest would soon heal it. He had pure, spare flesh, lissome and firm. Under the skin the ripple of muscles was smooth as cream.
    “You were foolish to bear this,” said Cadfael in casual English, “when you could have had it healed and forgotten by now. Are you a fool? In your situation you’ll have to learn discretion.”
    “From the English,” said the boy in Welsh, and still shaking his head to show he understood no word of this, “I have nothing to learn. And no, I am not a fool, or I should be as talkative as you, old shaven-head.”
    “They would have given you good nursing at Godric’s Ford,” went on Cadfael innocently. “You wasted your few days there.”
    “A parcel of silly women,” said the boy, brazen-faced, “and old and ugly into the bargain.”
    That was more than enough. “A parcel of women,” said Cadfael in loud and indignant Welsh, “who pulled you out of the flood and squeezed your lordship dry, and pummelled the breath back into you. And if you cannot find a civil word of thanks to them, in a language they’ll understand, you are the most ungrateful brat who ever disgraced Wales. And that you may know it, my fine paladin, there’s nothing older nor uglier than ingratitude. Nor sillier, either, seeing I’m minded to rip that dressing off you and let you burn for the graceless limb you are.” The young man was bolt upright on his stone bench by this time, his mouth fallen open, his half-formed, comely face stricken into childishness. He stared and swallowed, and slowly flushed from breast to brow.
    “Three times as Welsh as you, idiot child,” said Cadfael, cooling, “being three times your age, as I judge. Now get your breath and speak, and speak English, for I swear if you ever speak Welsh to me again, short of extremes, I’ll off and leave you to your own folly, and you’ll find that cold company. Now, have we understood each other?” The