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a prayer? If you call, Brother Tutilo shall come.”

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
    NO
QUESTION NOW how he got his name,” said Cadfael, lingering in Brother Anselm’s
workshop in the cloister after High Mass next morning. “Sweet as a lark.” They
had just heard the lark in full song, and had paused in the precentor’s corner
carrel to watch the worshippers disperse, the lay visitors from the guesthall among
them. For those who sought lodging here it was politic and graceful, if not
obligatory, to attend at least the main Mass of the day. February was not a
busy month for Brother Denis the hospitaller, but there were always a few
travellers in need of shelter.
    “The
lad’s immensely talented,” agreed Anselm. “A true ear and an instinct for
harmony.” And he added, after a moment’s consideration: “Not a voice for choral
work, however. Too outstanding. There’s no hiding that grain among a bushel.”
    No
need to stress the point, the justice of that verdict was already proved.
Listening to that pure, piercingly sweet thread, delivered so softly, falling
on the ear with such astonishment, no one could doubt it. There was no way of
subduing that voice into anonymity among the balanced polyphony of a choir.
Cadfael wondered if it might not be equally shortsighted to try and groom its
owner into a conforming soul in a disciplined brotherhood.
    “Brother
Denis’s Provencal guest pricked up his ears,” remarked Anselm, “when he heard
the lad. Last night he asked Herluin to let the boy join him at practice in the
hall. There they go now. I have his rebec in for restringing. I will say for
him, he cares for his instruments.”
    The
trio crossing the cloister from the south door of the church was a cause of
considerable curiosity and speculation among the novices. It was not often the
convent housed a troubador from the south of France, obviously of some wealth
and repute, for he travelled with two servants and lavish baggage. He and his
entourage had been here three days, delayed in their journey north to Chester
by a horse falling lame. Rémy of Pertuis was a man of fifty or so, of striking
appearance, a gentleman who valued himself on his looks and presentation.
Cadfael watched him cross towards the guesthall; he had not so far had occasion
to pay him much attention, but if Anselm respected him and approved his musical
conscience he might be worth studying. A fine, burnished head of russet hair
and a clipped beard. Good carriage and a body very handsomely appointed, fur
lining his cloak, gold at his belt. And two attendants following close behind
him, a tall fellow somewhere in his mid-thirties, all muted brown from head to
foot, his good but plain clothing placing him discreetly between squire and
groom, and a woman, cloaked and hooded, but by her slender figure and light
step young.
    “What’s
his need for the girl?” Cadfael wondered.
    “Ah,
that he has explained to Brother Denis,” said Anselm, and smiled.
“Meticulously! Not his kin...”
    “I
never thought it,” said Cadfael.
    “But
you may have thought, as I certainly did when first they rode in here, that he
had a very particular use for her, as indeed he has, though not as I imagined
it.” Brother Anselm, for all he had come early to the cloister, had fathomed
most of the byways that were current outside the walls, and had long ago ceased
to be either surprised or shocked by them. “It’s the girl who performs most of
his songs. She has a lovely voice, and he values her for it, and highly, but for
nothing else, so far as I can see. She’s an important part of his stock in
trade.”
    “But
what,” wondered Cadfael, “is a minstrel from the heart of Provence doing here
in the heart of England? And plainly no mere jongleur, but a genuine
troubadour. He’s wandered far from home, surely?”
    And
yet, he thought, why not? The patrons on whom such artists depend are becoming
now as much