“Far enough,” he said with a thin, dark smile,“but today only from Brigge.”

“And bound further? Or will you stay with us for a while?You’ll be heartily welcome visitors, you and the youngbrother here.”

The younger rider hovered silently, a little apart, as a servantmight have done in dutiful attendance on his master. He was surelyscarcely past twenty, lissome and tall, though his companion wouldtop him by a head if they stood together. He had the oval, smooth,boy’s face of his years, but formed and firm for all itssuave planes. His cowl was drawn forward over his face, perhapsagainst the sun’s glare. Large, shadowed eyes gazed out fromthe hood, fixed steadily upon his elder. The one glance theyflashed at Cadfael was as quickly averted.

“We look to stay here for some time, if the lord abbotwill give us refuge,” said the older man, “for we havelost one roof, and must beg admittance under another.”

They had begun to move on at a leisurely walk, the dust of theForegate powder-fine under the hooves of the mules. The young manfell in meekly behind, and let them lead. To the civil greetingsthat saluted them along the way, where Cadfael was well known, andthese his companions matter for friendly curiosity, the older manmade quiet, courteous response. The younger said never a word.

The gatehouse and the church loomed, ahead on their left, thehigh wall beside them reflected heat from its stones. The rider letthe reins hang loose on his mule’s neck, folded veined hands,long-fingered and brown, and fetched a long sigh. Cadfael held hispeace.

“Forgive me that I answer almost churlishly, brother, itis not meant so. After the habit and the daily company of silence,speech comes laboriously. And after a holocaust, and the fires ofdestruction, the throat is too dry to manage many words. You askedif we had come far. We have been some days on the road, for Icannot ride hard these days. We are come like beggars from thesouth…”