“I would have gone with him with better heart,” he saidlater, when they were leaning on the rail together, watching the lowblue line of the English shore rise out of a placid sea, “if hehad been taking a more westerly road.”

“Why that?” asked Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd. “Haveyou kin in the west?”

“I had once. I have not now.”

“Dead?”

“I am the one who died.” Alard heaved lean shoulders in ahelpless shrug, and grinned. “Fifty-seven brothers I had, andnow I’m brotherless. I begin to miss my kin, now I’m pastforty. I never valued them when I was young.” He slanted arueful glance at his companion and shook his head. “I was amonk of Evesham, an oblatus,given to God by my father when I was five years old. When I wasfifteen I could no longer abide to live my life in one place, and Iran. Stability is one of the vows we take—to be content in onestay, and go abroad only when ordered. That was not for me, not then.My sort they call vagus—frivolousminds that must wander. Well, I’ve wandered far enough, Godknows, in my time. I begin to fear I can never stand still again.”

The Welshman drew his cloak about him against the chill of the wind.“Are you hankering for a return?”

“Even you seamen must drop anchor somewhere at last,”said Alard. “They’d have my hide if I went back, that Iknow. But there’s this about penance, it pays all debts, andleaves the record clear. They’d find a place for me, once I’dpaid. But I don’t know… I don’t know… Thevagus is still inme. I’m torn two ways.”

“After twenty-five years,” said Cadfael, “a monthor two more for quiet thinking can do no harm. Copy his papers forhim and take your case until his business is settled.”

They were much of an age, though the renegade monk looked the elder