Monk's Hood Read Online Free PDF

some years Brother Rhys had been considered mildly senile,
his wanderings timeless and disorganised; memory failed, fantasy burgeoned, he
drew pictures that never had existed on sea or land. But somewhere else,
perhaps? Now, with the stimulus of this youthful and vigorous presence and the
knowledge of their shared blood, he quickened into sharp remembrance again. It
might not last, but it was a princely gift while it lasted.
    “Turn
a little more to the fire—there, is that the spot?” Rhys wriggled and purred
like a stroked cat, and the young man laughed, and plied deep into the flesh,
smoothing out knots with a firmness that both hurt and gratified.
    “This
is no new skill with you,” said Brother Cadfael, observing with approval.
    “I’ve
worked mostly with horses, and they get their troubles with swellings and
injuries, like men. You learn to see with your fingers, where to find what’s
bound, and loose it again.”
    “But
he’s a carpenter now,” Brother Rhys said proudly, “and working here in
Shrewsbury.”
    “And
we’re making a lectern for your Lady Chapel,” said Meurig, “and when it’s
done—and it soon will be—I’ll be bringing it down to the abbey myself. And I’ll
come and see you again while I’m here.”
    “And
rub my shoulder again? It gets winterly now, towards Christmas, the cold gets
in my bones.”
    “I
will so. But that’s enough for now, I’ll be making you too sore. Have up your
gown again, uncle—there, and keep the warmth in. Does it burn?”
    “For
a while it prickled like nettles, now there’s a fine, easy glow. I don’t feel
any pain there now. But I’m tired…”
    He
would be, tired and drowsy after the manipulation of his flesh and the reviving
of his ancient mind. “That’s right, that’s well. Now you should lie down and
have a sleep.”
    Meurig
looked to Cadfael to support him. “Isn’t that best, brother?”
    “The
very best thing. That’s hard exercise you’ve been taking, you should rest after
it.”
    Rhys
was well content to be settled on his bed and left to the sleep that was
already overtaking him. His drowsy farewells followed them towards the door, to
fade into silence before they reached it. “Take my greetings to your mother,
Meurig. And ask her to come and see me… when they bring the wool to Shrewsbury
market… I’m fain to see her again…”
    “He
set great store by your mother, it seems,” said Cadfael, watching as Meurig
washed his hands where Brother Edmund had shown him, and making sure that he
was thorough about it. “Is there a hope that he may see her again?”
    Meurig’s
face, seen in profile as he wrung and scrubbed at his hands, had a gravity and
brooding thoughtfulness thatbelied the indulgent gaiety he had
put on for this old man. After a moment he said: “Not in this world.” He turned
to reach for the coarse towel, and looked Cadfael in the eyes fully and
steadily. “My mother has been dead for eleven years this Michaelmas past. He
knows it—or he knew it—as well as I. But if she’s alive to him again in his
dotage, why should I remind him? Let him keep that thought and any other that
can pleasure him.”
    They
went out together in silence, into the chilly air of the great court, and there
separated, Meurig striking across briskly towards the gatehouse, Cadfael making
for the church, where the Vesper bell could be only a few minutes delayed.
    “God
speed!” said Cadfael in parting. “You gave the old man back a piece of his youth
today. The elders of your kinship, I think, are fortunate in their sons.”
    “My
kinship,” said Meurig, halting in mid-stride to stare back with great black
eyes, “is my mother’s kinship, I go with my own. My father was not a Welshman.”
    He
went, lengthening a lusty stride, the square shape of his shoulders cleaving
the dusk. And Cadfael wondered about him, as he had wondered about the villein
Aelfric, as far as the