“From Winchester!” said Cadfael with certainty,recalling the foreboding, the cloud and the fire.

“From what is left of Winchester.” The worn butmuscular hands were quite still, leaving it to Cadfael to lead themule round the west end of the church and in at the arch of thegatehouse. It was not grief or passion that made it hard for theman to speak, he had surely seen worse in his time than he was nowrecalling. The chords of his voice creaked from under-use, andslowed upon the grating echo. A beautiful voice it must have beenin its heyday, before the velvet frayed. “Is itpossible,” he said wonderingly, “that we come thefirst? I had thought word would have flown thus far north almost aweek ago, but true, escape this way would have been no simplematter. Have we to bring the news, then? The great ones fell outover us. Who am I to complain, who have had my part in the like,elsewhere? The empress laid siege to the bishop in his castle ofWolvesey, in the city, and the bishop rained fire-arrows down uponthe roofs rather than upon his enemies. The town is laid waste. Anunnery burned to the ground, churches razed, and my priory of HydeMead, that Bishop Henry so desired to take into his own hands, isgone forever, brought down in flames. We are here, we two, homelessand asking shelter. The brothers are scattered through all theBenedictine houses of the land, wherever they have ties of blood orfriendship. There will never be any going home to Hyde.”

So it was true. The finger of God had pointed one poor devil outof the trap, and let him look back from a hill to see the scarletand the black of fire and smoke devour a city. Bishop Henry’sown city, to which his own hand had set light.