By the time he joined his assistant in the rustling field of bleachedpea-stems, the boy was red in the face and sweating, and puffing audibly withthe strokes of the sickle, but had not relaxed his efforts. Cadfael swept anarmful of cut haulms to the edge of the field, and said earnestly: “Noneed to make a penance of it, lad. Strip off to the waist and becomfortable” And he slid his own frock, already kilted to the knee, downfrom powerful brown shoulders, and let the folds hang at his middle.

The effect was complex, but by no means decisive. The boy checkedmomentarily in his stroke, said: “I’m well enough as I am!”with admirable composure, but several tones above the gruff, young-mannishlevel of his earlier utterances, and went on resolutely with his labours, atthe same time as a distinct wave of red arose from his collar to engulf hisslender neck and the curve of his cheek. Did that necessarily mean what itseemed to mean? He might have lied about his age, his voice might be but newlybroken and still unstable. And perhaps he wore no shirt beneath the cotte, andwas ashamed to reveal his lacks to a new acquaintance. Ah, well, there wereother tests. Better make sure at once. If what Cadfael suspected was true, thematter was going to require very serious thought.

“There’s that heron that robs our hatcheries, again!” hecried suddenly, pointing across the Meole brook, where the unsuspecting birdwaded, just folding immense wings. “Toss a stone across at him, boy,you’re nearer than I!” The heron was an innocent stranger, but ifCadfael was right he was unlikely to come to any harm.