“But what,” wondered Cadfael, “is a minstrelfrom the heart of Provence doing here in the heart of England? Andplainly no mere jongleur, but a genuine troubadour. He’swandered far from home, surely?”

And yet, he thought, why not? The patrons on whom such artistsdepend are becoming now as much English as French, or Norman, orBreton, or Angevin. They have estates both here and oversea, aswell seek them here as there. And the very nature of thetroubadour, after all, is to wander and venture, as the Galicianword trobar, from which they take their name, though ithas come to signify to create poetry and music, literally means tofind. Those who find—seek and find out the poetryand the music both, these are the troubadours. And if their art isuniversal, why should they not be found everywhere?

“He’s heading for Chester,” said Anselm.“So his man says—Bénezet, he’s called. Itmay be he hopes to get a place in the earl’s household. Buthe’s in no haste, and plainly in no want of money. Three goodriding horses and two servants in his following is prettycomfortable traveling.”

“Now I wonder,” said Cadfael, musing darkly,“why he left his last service? Made himself too agreeable tohis lord’s lady, perhaps? Something serious, to make itnecessary to cross the sea.”

“I am more interested,” said Anselm, undisturbed bysuch a cynical view of troubadours in general, “in where hegot the girl. For she is not French, not Breton, not from Provence.She speaks the English of these borders, and some Welsh. It wouldseem she is one property he got this side the ocean. The groom,Bénezet, he’s a southerner like his master.”

The trio had vanished into the guesthall by then, theirentangled lives still as mysterious as when they had first entered