The earlier sown of the two pease fields that sloped down fromthe rim of the garden to the Meole brook had already ripened andbeen harvested, ten days of sun bringing on the pods very quickly.Brother Winfrid, a hefty, blue-eyed young giant, was busy diggingin the roots to feed the soil, while the haulms, cropped withsickles, lay piled at the edge of the field, drying for fodder andbedding. The hands that wielded the spade were huge and brown, andlooked as if they should have been clumsy, but in fact were as deftand delicate in handling Cadfael’s precious glass vessels andbrittle dried herbs as they were powerful and effective withmattock and spade.

Within the walled herb garden the drowning sweetness hung heavy,spiced and warm. Weeds can enjoy good growing weather no less thanthe herbs on which they encroach, and there was always work to bedone at this season. Cadfael tucked up his habit and set to work onhis knees, close to the warm earth, with the heady fragrancedisturbed and quivering round him like invisible wings, and the suncaressing his back.

He was still at it, though in a happy languor that made nohaste, rather luxuriating in the touch of leaf and root and soil,when Hugh Beringar came looking for him two hours later. Cadfaelheard the light, springy step on the gravel, and sat back on hisheels to watch his friend’s approach. Hugh smiled at seeinghim on his knees.

“Am I in your prayers?”

“Constantly,” said Cadfael gravely. “A man hasto work at it in so stubborn a case.”

He crumbled a handful of warm, dark earth between his hands,dusted his palms, and Hugh gave him a hand to help him rise. Therewas a good deal more steel in the young sheriff’s slight bodyand slender wrist than anyone would suppose. Cadfael had known himfor five years only, but drawn nearer to him than to many he hadrubbed shoulders with all the twenty-three years of his monasticlife. “And what are you doing here?” he demandedbriskly. “I thought you were north among your own lands,getting in the hay.”