The Confession of Brother Haluin by Ellis Peters Page A

neither welcoming nor repelling them. “I had not thought to see you
again so soon. Is there something more you have to ask of me, Haluin, that you
have followed me here? You have only to ask. I have said I forgive.”
    “Madam,”
said Haluin, shaken and quivering from the apparition of his former mistress in
this unexpected place, “we have not followed you. Indeed I never thought to
find you here. For your forbearance I’m grateful, and I would not for the world
trouble you further. I have come here only in fulfillment of a vow I made. I
thought to spend a night in prayer at Hales, believing that my lady your
daughter must be buried there. But we heard from the priest that it is not so.
It’s here at Elford she lies, in the tomb of her grandsires. So I have
continued this far. And all I have to beg of you is your leave to keep my vigil
here through this coming night, in deliverance of what I have sworn. Then we
will depart, and trouble you no more.”
    “I
will not deny,” she said, but with a softening voice, “that I shall be glad to
have you gone. No ill will! But this wound you have opened again for me I would
willingly swathe away out of sight until it heals. Your face is a contagion
that makes it open and bleed afresh. Do you think I should have taken horse and
ridden here so fast if you had not put that old grief in my mind?”
    “I
trust,” said Haluin in a low and shaken voice, “you may find, madam, as I hope
to find, the wound cleansed of all its rancors by this atonement. It is my
prayer that for you this time the healing may be sweet and wholesome.”
    “And
for you?” she said sharply, and turned a little away from him, with a motion of
her hand that forbade any answer. “Sweet and wholesome! You ask much of God,
and more of me.” In the sidelong light from the window her face was fierce and
sad. “You have learned a monk’s way with words,” she said. “Well, it is a long
time! Your voice was lighter once, so was your step. This at least I grant you,
you are here at a very heavy cost. Do not deny me the grace of offering you
rest and meat this time. I have a dwelling of my own here, within my son’s
manor pale. Come within and rest at least until Vespers, if you must punish
your flesh on the stones here through the night.”
    “Then
I may have my night of prayer?” asked Haluin hungrily.
    “Why
not? Have you not just seen me entreating God in the same cause?” she said. “I
see you broken. I would not have you forsworn. Yes, have your penitential
vigil, but take food in my house first. I’ll send my grooms to fetch you,” she
said, “when you have made your devotions here.”
    She
was almost at the door, paying no attention to Haluin’s hesitant thanks, and
affording him no opportunity to refuse her hospitality, when she suddenly
halted and swung round to them again.
    “But
say no word,” she said earnestly, “to any other about your purpose here. My
daughter’s name and fame are safe enough under the stone, let them lie quiet
there. I would not have any other reminded as I have been reminded. Let it be
only between us two, and this good brother who bears you company.”
    “Madam,”
said Haluin devoutly, “there shall be no word said to any other soul but
between us three, neither now nor at any other time, neither here nor in any
other place.”
    “You
ease my mind,” she said, and in a moment she was gone, and the door drawn
quietly to after her.
    Haluin
could not kneel without something firm before him to which to cling, and
Cadfael’s arm about him to ease his weight down gently, sharing the burden with
his companion’s one serviceable foot. They offered their dutiful prayer at the
altar side by side, and Cadfael, open-eyed as Haluin kneeled long, traced with
measured concern the worn lines of the young man’s face. He had survived the
hard journey afoot, but not without a heavy cost. The night on the stones here