was likely to raise an exorbitant sum for the purchase of a younggentleman in arms, as yet of no particular distinction. One or twoof the ambitious young partisans of the empress might be leftlanguishing unfathered and without patron in obscure dungeons,unless this projected conference at Coventry produced some sensibleagreement that must, among its details, spare a thought to insiston their liberation.

At the end of the scroll, after many names that were strange tohim, Hugh came to one that he knew.

“Known to have been among thoseoverpowered and disarmed, not known who holds him, or where. Hasnot been offered for ransom. Laurence d’Angers has beenenquiring for him without result: Olivier de Bretagne.”

Hugh went down through the town with his news, to confer withAbbot Radulfus over this suddenly presented opportunity to put anend to eight years of civil strife. Whether the bishops would allowan equal voice to the monastic clergy only time would tell;relations between the two arms of the Church were not invariablycordial, though Roger de Clinton certainly valued the abbot ofShrewsbury. But whether invited to the conference or not, when thetime came, Radulfus would need to be prepared for either success orfailure, and ready to act accordingly. And there was also anotherperson at the abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul who had everyright to be told the content of Robert Beaumont’s letter.

Brother Cadfael was standing in the middle of his walledherb-garden, looking pensively about him at the autumnal visage ofhis pleasance, where all things grew gaunt, wiry and sombre. Mostof the leaves were fallen, the stems dark and clenched likefleshless fingers holding fast to the remnant of the summer, allthe fragrances gathered into one scent of age and decline, stillsweet, but with the damp, rotting sweetness of harvest over anddecay setting in. It was not yet very cold, the mild melancholy ofNovember still had lingering gold in it, in falling leaves andslanting amber light. All the apples were in the loft, all the cornmilled, the hay long stacked, the sheep turned into the stubblefields. A time to pause, to look round, to make sure nothing hadbeen neglected, no fence unrepaired, against the winter.