“No,” said Cadfael, “or Father Abbot wouldhave told you. He goes south by forced rides tomorrow to thelegate’s council in Westminster, and this presentation mustwait his return, but he’s promised haste. He knows the need.You may well get Brother Jerome now and again until the abbotreturns, but never doubt that Radulfus has the parish very much atheart.”

To that Cynric nodded silent assent, for the relations betweencloister and parish here had been harmonious under three abbots insuccession, all the years of Father Adam’s incumbency,whereas in some churches thus shared, as everyone knew, there wasconstant friction, the monastics grudging the commonalty room intheir enclave and entry to their privileged buildings, and thesecular priest putting up a fight for his rights to avoid beingelbowed out. Not so here. Perhaps it was the modest goodness ofFather Adam that had done the lion’s share in keeping thepeace, and making the relationship easy.

“He liked a sup now and again,” said Cadfaelmeditatively. “I still have some of a wine heliked—distilled with herbs, good for the blood and heart.Come and take a cup with me in the garden, some afternoon, Cynric,and we’ll drink to him.”

“I will so,” said Cynric, and relaxed for one momentinto his rare, indulgent smile, the same by which children and dogsfound him out and approached him with confidence.

They crossed the chill tiles of the nave together, and Cynricwent out by the north porch, and up to his little dark room above.Cadfael looked after him until the door had closed between. Allthese years they had been within arm’s reach of each other,and on the best of terms, yet never familiar. Who had ever beenfamiliar with Cynric? Since the ties with his mother loosened, andhe turned his back on home, whatever and wherever that home hadbeen, perhaps only Father Adam had truly drawn near to him. Twosolitaries together make a very special matched pair, two in one.Yes, of all the mourners for Father Adam, and they must be many,Cynric must now be the most painfully bereaved.