Cadfael was of the same mind. The field they had parted with,distant beyond Haughton, had been best left under stock; here theycould very well take a crop of wheat or barley, and turn the stockfrom the lower pasture into the stubble afterwards, to manure theland for the next year. The place pleased him, and yet had anundefined sadness about it. The remnants of the garden fence, whenthey reached it, the tangled growth in which herb and weedcontended for root and light and space, the doorless doorway andshutterless window, all sounded a note of humanity departed andhuman occupation abandoned. Without the remnants this would havebeen a scene wholly placid, gentle and content. But it wasimpossible to look at the deserted croft without reflecting thattwo lives had been lived there for fifteen years, joined in achildless marriage, and that of all the thoughts and feelings theyhad shared not a trace now remained here. Nor to note the bare,levelled site from which every stone had been plundered, withoutrecalling that a craftsman had labored here at loading his kiln andfiring it, where now the hearth was barren and cold. There mustsurely have been human happiness here, satisfaction of the mind,fulfilment of the hands. There had certainly been grief, bitternessand rage, but only the detritus of that past life clung about thespot now, coldly, indifferently melancholy.
Cadfael turned his back upon the corner which had once beeninhabited, and there before him lay the sweep of meadow, gentlysteaming as the sun drew off the morning mist and dew, and thesharp, small colors of the flowers brightened among the seedinggrasses. Birds skimmed the bushes of the headland and flickeredamong the trees of the crest, and the uneasy memory of man was gonefrom the Potter’s Field.