The Confession of Brother Haluin (26 page)

From
the narrow unshuttered window in the loft he looked out westward into a night
full of stars. Nearer to Shrewsbury, where the hills began to heave their
fleeces towards the mountains of Wales, earth and sky balanced in harmony, but
here the vault above looked immense, and the earth of men suppressed and
shadowy. The brilliance of the stars, the blackness of the space between, spoke
of a touch of frost in the air, but promised a fine day for the morrow.

“And
you never feel,” said Cadfael quietly, “any desire to look back over your
shoulder?”

“No,”
said Haluin tranquilly. “No need. There behind me all is well. All is very
well. There is nothing now for me to do there, everything where I am bound. We
are sister and brother now. We ask nothing more, we want nothing more. Now I can
bring a whole heart to God. I’m glad beyond measure that he cast me down, to
raise me renewed to his service.”

There
was a long, untroubled silence, while he continued to stare out into the clear
night with a kind of bright hunger in his face. “I left a leaf half finished
when we set out for Hales,” he said meditatively. “I thought to be back to
complete it long before this. I hope Anselm has not given it to someone else.
It was a capital N for the Nunc Dimittis, still wanting half of the colors.”

“It
will be waiting for you,” Cadfael assured him.

“Aelfric
is good, but he doesn’t know my intent, he might overdo the gold.” His voice
was soft and practical and young.

“Leave
fretting,” said Cadfael. “Possess your soul three days more in patience, and
you’ll have brush and pen in hand again, and get back to work. And so must I to
my herbs, for the medicine cupboards will be running low by this time. Lie
down, lad, and get your rest. There are more miles waiting for you tomorrow.”

A
soft wind from the west blew in through the open window, and Haluin lifted his
head and sniffed the air like a high-bred horse scenting his stable.

“How
good it is,” he said, “to be going home!”

About
the Author

ELLIS PETERS is
the
nom-de-crime
of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of
books under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award,
conferred by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted
Edgar, awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well
known as a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded
the Gold Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for
her services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at
home in her beloved Shropshire.