“We have him in a room apart, for quietness, and watched constantly. Hebreathes, but snoringly, like a man with a broken head. He has not spoken wordor opened eye since they brought him. Bruises darken on him everywhere, butthose would heal. But a knife was used on him, he has bled too much, though thewound is stanched now. Through here— the inner room is less cold…”

The infirmary stood a little apart, sheltered from the wind by the mass ofthe church. They went in, and shut the heavy door against the malice of thenight, and Leonard led the way through to the small, bare cell where a littleoil-lamp burned beside a bed. A young brother rose from his knees at their entry, and drew back from the sick man’s bedside to make room forthem.

The patient lay under piled covers, stretched on his back like a mancoffined. Certainly he breathed, with a groaning effort, but the intake ofbreath barely lifted the blanket over his breast, and the face upturned on thepillow was motionless, eyes closed, cheeks hollow and blue beneath thrustingbones. His head was bandaged, covering the tonsure, and the brow beneath thewrappings was swollen and bruised, so misshapen that one eye was sunken infolds of battered flesh. No telling how he would look in health, but Cadfaeljudged that he was well-made, and certainly not old, probably no older thanthirty-five.

“The marvel is,” whispered Leonard, “that no bones are broken. Unless,indeed, his skull… But you’ll examine him thoroughly, later…”

“No better time than now,” said Cadfael practically, and shed his cloak andwent to work, setting down his scrip on the stone floor. There was a smallbrazier burning in a corner, but for all that, when he slid his hands under thecovers and felt at flank and thigh and foot, the unresponsive flesh waseverywhere deadly cold. They had wrapped him well, but it was not enough.