“You once made me an ointment, Brother Cadfael, if youremember. For a rash on the hands. There’s one of my cardersbreaks out in little pustules, handling the new fleeces. But notevery season—that’s strange too. This year she hastrouble with it again.”

“I remember it,” said Cadfael. “It was threeyears ago. Yes, I know the receipt. I can make some fresh for youin a matter of minutes, if you’ve leisure to wait?”

It seemed that she had. She sat down on the wooden bench againstthe timber wall, and drew her dark skirts close about her feet,very erect and still in the corner of the hut, as Cadfael reachedfor pestle and mortar, and the little scale with its brassweights.

“And how are you faring now?” he asked, busy withhog’s fat and herbal oils. “Up there in thetown?”

“Well enough,” she said composedly. “Thebusiness gives me plenty to do, and the wool clip has turned outbetter than I feared. I can’t complain. Isn’t itstrange,” she went on, warming, “that wool should bringup this rash for Branwen, when you use the fat from wool to doctorskin diseases for many people?”

“Such contrary cases do happen,” he said.“There are plants some people cannot handle without coming togrief. No one knows the reason. We learn by observing. You had goodresults with this salve, I remember.”

“Oh, yes, her hands healed very quickly. But I thinkperhaps I should keep her from carding, and teach her weaving. Whenthe wool is washed and dyed and spun, perhaps she could handle itmore safely. She’s a good girl, she would soonlearn.”

It seemed to Cadfael, working away with his back turned to her,that she was talking to fill the silence while she thought, andthought of something far removed from what she was saying. It was