A/N : A few format problems edited. Thanks to Rosemary For Remembrance for pointing it out, and for the nice reviews. And thanks to everyone who reviewed.

Chapter 7

Hugh regained consciousness slowly. First, he felt something hard against his back - a mattress, it seemed. It was too soft to be the ground, and not cold enough either. For some reason, it felt surprising. Why was he not on the ground? His thoughts were sluggish and scrambled, or so it felt, but apart from that, things were not too bad. He was pleasantly warm. There was just this stabbing pain in his left side, that left him gasping when he tried to move, but when he did not it was tolerable, more or less. Eyes still closed, he waited to remember what had happened; then it came back to him. He had been accused of having killed FitzJohn, which he was quite sure he had not done. After that, he had fled, and... Godith!

Hugh's eyes snapped open when he remembered her, and he looked around him, almost expecting to see her nearby. But no. He was alone, in a room that looked like a storehouse, or an old barn, or stables. Actually, it was probably one of the aforementioned three, although he could not be sure which. There was a smell of straw, and vague remnants of the odour of horses, but it seemed the building had not been used in a long time. It was not in a very good state, either. Light went through the wall planks, along with a chilling wind, although Hugh hardly felt the cold, thanks to the thick blankets thrown over him.

He had been stripped to the waist, and his wound had been dressed with strips of cloth, previously white and now stained red. His blood, he realized with an odd detachment. Without the bandage, he might have bled to death - he owed Godith his life. An ironic smile came to his lips at the idea - not that he minded the thought, but he had never imagined he would find himself in this position.

By his bedside, he noticed some food, probably left there for him. He was hungry, but the mere idea of eating made him feel sick, so he did not touch it. Instead, he tried to get to his feet, although the pain made him hiss more than once. The whole town was probably looking for him, and if he was found here... the building probably belonged to Godith, or her family, and he could not afford to have her accused of sheltering him. He would not allow that - he had once sworn to protect her, and even though he was no longer her fiancé, he still felt bound by the oath he had taken.

Amusingly, he had never quite realized how pleasant walking without pain was. He managed to stand, but his legs wobbled, and each step was a struggle of will. Well, at least he was moving. He found his tunic and bliaud folded near the bed. They were a sorry mess, stained with blood, torn, most likely unsalvageable, but he had nothing else, so he put them on - it would at least keep him reasonably warm. He cast a mournful glance at the blankets on the bed, but he could not go out with these if he wanted to escape notice. Not that he would really melt into the crowd anyway, the state he was in, but no need to make it worse. Finally, he fastened his belt around his waist - in the name of God, had his sword ever felt so heavy? - and headed for the door, as swiftly as he managed - that is to say, not very fast. But when he reached the threshold, the door opened to let someone through. A man in his mid-twenties entered and stared at the deputy sheriff of Shropshire, eyes wide as he saw him about to leave.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing!?"

Startled by this sudden entrance, Hugh took a step back, looking at the newcomer hard, as he tried to make out his features. He knew this voice, even though he had met the man only once previously... He recognized him. Torold Blund. How could he forget him, when he had taken Hugh's ex-fiancée away - with Beringar's blessing?

"I have to go," he said, although he knew that probably would not convince the young squire, after he had taken so much trouble to help him. Yet, if he had done so only for Godith...

"You're not going anywhere," Torold replied with a snort. "Besides, you couldn't walk three steps before you collapsed."

"My presence here puts you in danger," Hugh argued, not as strongly as he would have liked. Then again, he had felt better and the bed was shamefully appealing.

"I know," Torold said simply. "But you, Master Beringar, risked your neck and gave up whatever the King had promised you for Godith, not to mention FitzAlan's treasure. We haven't forgotten what we owe to you and Brother Cadfael."

"But I'm wanted in the whole town. If I was to be found, at least you shouldn't be involved, or charged with sheltering a murderer."

Torold's features hardened slightly. "Did you kill FitzJohn?"

Well, the question would probably have been asked sooner or later. Hugh's dark eyes met the squire's light grey. "I did not."

The other man shrugged. "Well, good enough for me."

"I am still a spy," Hugh said, feeling increasingly frustrated. Did Blund not realize how dangerous this was?

"I was FitzAlan's squire, trying to smuggle out a treasure worth thousands of pounds from right under King Stephen's nose," Torold shrugged. "No, Master Beringar, you won't get rid of us that easily."

Having reached his limits after staying up that long, Hugh reeled slightly, and he might have fallen, had Torold not held him up. That left the squire the winner of the argument, since Beringar obviously could not take another step on his own. All Hugh could do was surrender, and he let Torold take him back to the bed, lost in a haze of pain. The squire gently helped him to lie down, and Beringar could not help but let out a sigh of relief when he was finally able to relax, and the tension on his wound lessened. It was not the first time he had been injured, far from it, but one did not get used to the pain that easily.

"You've started to bleed again," Torold muttered unhappily. "Stop moving." Hugh had been trying to raise his head and see how bad it was, but the squire pressed a firm hand on his chest. "Be easy now. Godith will be here soon - by the way, did you know we married last year?"

Hugh shook his head weakly. He had not known. "Congratulations," he said sincerely.

"Thank you. Anyway, I'm afraid neither of us knows much about the fine art of healing, but Godith will bring Brother Cadfael and he'll know what to do..."

"What?" Suddenly much more awake, Hugh tried to sit up, but Torold was still firmly holding him back. "Brother Cadfael? How did you know...?" Beringar was quite certain he had not given his friend away, even unwillingly, but how could Godith and her husband know about the monk's presence in Gloucester?

"Oh, please," Torold sniggered. "The two of you are inseparable. We heard about you from Olivier de Bretagne, after he brought back the two Hugonin children, and the tale he told us was quite entertaining, really."

"Does Olivier know I'm here?" Hugh trusted Godith and Torold, but he was not so sure about Olivier. After all, it would be the knight's duty to inform the Empress and her half brother. Then again, if he was a friend of Torold and Godith, he probably would not put them in danger, but that did not mean he would not give Hugh away.

"No, as far as I know," Torold shrugged. "We haven't seen him recently, truth to tell."

Beringar leant back in relief. "Good. It's better that way." Suddenly, he felt very weak and sick, and he closed his eyes tightly to fight off the pain. A cool hand touched his forehead lightly and brushed away a few strands of hair.

"Don't worry," said a faraway voice. "Brother Cadfael will be here soon."

It was after the end of Terce, two days after FitzJohn's death, that Cadfael saw Olivier once again, waiting for him outside the chapel. Judging from his son's grim face, there was no good news. Which did not mean there was any bad news, either. Well, hopefully not, at any rate...

They both headed for the garden, discreetly, and pointedly ignored each other, as though it was merely by chance that they were going the same way. They turned at the corner of the chapel, and Cadfael sat on a stone bench, resting his stiff legs with a soft groan. They were now out of sight, and they would see anyone coming near them long before the intruder was in hearing range, so they were safe enough.

"Anything new?" Olivier asked immediately.

Cadfael shook his head ruefully. "Not really, no. But inside the cloister, I'm afraid there aren't that many clues to be found."

"What about the theft of the dagger?" Olivier suggested.

"Yes, that's my next step. I'll question the porter, see who came in here the day FitzJohn was murdered. What did you find out?" The monk glanced at his son hopefully.

"Beringar is nowhere to be found, so far," the knight said with a shake of his head. "Which is better news than him being prisoner in Gloucester's jail."

"Yes, I suppose," Cadfael sighed gloomily. "But I'd like to know at least whether he's dead or alive."

"We'll find him, sooner or later," Olivier said in an attempt to cheer him up. "At any rate, I've been delving into Dellingher's past, and I've found nothing of interest, nothing that could motivate a murder. But, it seems that Alan left him a nice amount of money."

The monk pricked up his ears at this interesting piece of news. "Really? Did Dellingher know about it? And when did FitzJohn include him in his will?"

"I have no idea," his son admitted. "I'll try to find out."

"Is that all?" Cadfael enquired. "What about FitzJohn?"

"Well..." Olivier hesitated. "He was very secretive about himself. I talked with a few of his friends - the subject wasn't hard to find." He smiled bitterly, but went on. "I tried to find out who'd benefit from his death. But he didn't have many enemies."

"Yet he did have some?"

"Who doesn't have any enemies? Not even you I'd wager."

"True enough," Cadfael had to admit mournfully. "But did they hate him enough to kill him?"

"That's the problem," Olivier conceded. "They had a lot to lose, and little to gain, from a murder attempt. It would require a very deep hatred to act in spite of that."

"But implicating Hugh nearly grants them immunity, doesn't it?"

"If he's proven guilty."

"So far, the Empress seems rather convinced of his guilt."

"Well, perhaps," the younger man granted reluctantly. "But still, I doubt anyone hated Alan enough to kill him, not to mention do so right under the nose of the Empress and Gloucester. Besides, why now?"

Cadfael absent-mindedly drummed on the bench. "Does he have any family?"

"I can tell you he wasn't married, and he didn't have any children. Or if he did, it wasn't common knowledge. It's strange. I tried to find out who his father was, but I was unable to. No one appears to know, or if they do, they don't tell. If I didn't know better, I'd believe he didn't have any parents."

"But you do know better," Cadfael said fondly. "It might be important, you should keep looking."

"I shall," his son nodded.

"And - I thought about it during Terce..."

"Brother!" Olivier protested in mock indignation. "What of prayers, psalms and higher thoughts?"

Cadfael chuckled wryly. "I shall do penance. Or perhaps I should give Hugh penance, since he was the reason for my lack of concentration."

"Give me penance?" Olivier opened his eyes wide.

"Not you, Hu..." The monk trailed off as the young knight sniggered, giving himself away. "Oh, you're impossible! Anyway, we need to question Dellingher. He was remarkably terse when he explained the circumstances of his discovery of his master's corpse. For instance, was the body still warm? Was the blood already clotting?"

The knight choked. "Brother, I'm afraid these are not the kind of details a man pays attention to when he finds the dead body of his master."

"It might be important," Cadfael insisted. "It would allow us to know with relative certainty the time of the death. And even if Dellingher didn't pay close attention, he might remember those details when asked."

"If he's guilty, he might as well lie."

"He might," the monk admitted. "And we should be wary of anything he tells us, but his answers ought to be revealing in either case."

"Fine, fine! You win, Brother," Olivier relented, rolling his eyes. "I will ask him. But if I make an enemy of him and a fool of myself, I shall hold you responsible."

Cadfael smiled, laughter underlying his voice. "You certainly may, my son." His heart swelled with pride when he was able to call Olivier his son, even if the younger man did not know how true it was.

By mutual consent they rose from the cold stone bench, having said all they needed to, and headed for the gates of the abbey, in silence. They did not dare to speak to each other too much in front of everyone, even though the courtyard appeared to be nearly deserted. When Olivier left, he did not say goodbye, nor looked behind him, but he strode away determinedly. Cadfael looked at the porter as he closed the gates behind the young knight. Now was as good a time as any to question the man.

The brother porter was an elderly man, known as Brother Harold. He always stayed in his small room, near the gates, except of course during the offices. His position required it, but he did not seem to mind the loneliness. However, this seclusion also meant he did not talk much to anyone, and welcomed any occasion to speak and gossip with a patient listener full of goodwill, such as Cadfael. After a few minutes of pleasant chatter, Cadfael brought the conversation where he wanted.

"Being the porter, you must know everything about the people who come in and out of the abbey," he said offhandedly.

"Oh, yes," Brother Harold said and straightened, trying to look as well-informed as Cadfael suggested he was. "Nothing escapes me!"

"Actually, I was wondering - and I'm sure you are the only one who would be able to inform me..." a little flattery could do no harm, "...two days ago, did any stranger come in here?"

"Two days ago, eh?" Harold repeated. "No, I don't think so. No one entered, except for our brothers who had duties outside the cloister."

Cadfael was disappointed. "I see," he said slowly. It now seemed likely that the thief, whoever he was, had not entered through the gates. But how then? Over the walls, without being seen?

"There was someone else who went out, though," the porter added, as though moved by a second thought.

"Who?" the monk asked eagerly.

"The Bishop of Winchester was called by the Empress and Earl Robert. He stayed out for over three hours," Harold said, proud of the accuracy of his information.

Cadfael restrained a jump and an exclamation with difficulty. Bishop Henry of Winchester!? He tried to picture the Bishop stealing the dagger, but his mind failed to provide him with a suitable image. He had never spoken with Winchester, but he felt with certainty he could not be the thief. He was too... lordly? You're speaking of a man who changed side nearly three times in this war, already!

Yet, all questions of the Bishop's likeliness to have stolen the dagger or not set aside, one thing remained certain; he did not have any reason to kill FitzJohn. Unless it was a matter of politics? But even in this case, Cadfael could not believe Winchester capable of committing murder to achieve his ends. Lie, use tricks, even plot, but murder? He was the Holy Pope's legate!

Then, another thought came to the monk's mind. Winchester had not necessarily stolen the dagger himself. He could have carried it without knowing it. But that meant there must have been an accomplice, for the dagger could not have hidden itself on Winchester's person of its own free will! Cadfael pictured the absurdity of the dagger on two little feet, concealing itself in the Bishop's clothes, then shook his head to dismiss the surreal thought. Really, he was much too imaginative for his own good, as Prior Robert often told him.

"But the Bishop didn't go out on his own, yes?" Cadfael asked the porter for good measure. "He had an escort?"

"Earl Robert sent one for him," Harold replied.

That was it then. The only one who had gone out and was not from the cloister was definitely the Bishop. Yes, Cadfael would have to talk with him. And most likely, it would not prove easy... The monk was about to take his leave when suddenly, someone pounded at the door. Harold hurried to open, and a young lady with long brown hair and beautiful blue eyes entered. Cadfael recognized her immediately - how could he forget his apprentice, the one apprentice who was not as clumsy as Oswin? She had changed a little, but he had seen her as a novice, then as a lady. He would always recognize her. She recognized him as well, and her features brightened. Only then did Cadfael realize how dangerous this encounter was for both of them. But Godith did not leave him time to react.

"Brother!" she exclaimed. "I have been told there is a new herbalist here - we are in need of his services. Can you tell me where he is?"

"I assume you're referring to me," Cadfael said cautiously. "How may I be of help, child?"

They were both all too aware of Brother Harold's open curiosity, and acted their roles just as in a carefully rehearsed play.

"Someone is in need of your services, Brother," Godith said respectfully, looking down as was proper for a woman in an abbey, although Cadfael knew how much it went against her strong spirit and will. "There is no time, please hurry - I'll explain later."

"Of course," the monk nodded immediately, happy to have a good excuse to leave the abbey without asking the Abbot's authorization. "I'll just go to my cell and get my medicines, then we can go."

She nodded, and he hurried back to his room, where he had left his herbs, balms and potions. Better to take them for appearances' sake, he thought, since this supposed need for his knowledge as an herbalist was probably just a way for Godith to speak with him in private. Having gathered everything he needed, he came back to the gates, ignoring his protesting back.

"I'm ready now," he said, a little out of breath.

He followed Godith out of the cloister, and they heard the sound of the gates closing behind them. At this hour, there were quite a lot of people in the streets, but the anonymity of the crowd was in a way safer for them. No one was paying attention to an elderly Benedictine and the young lady beside him.

"Godric! I mean, Godith," Cadfael exclaimed warmly. "You have grown!"

"Everybody tells me that," she smiled. "Father says it's because of my marriage."

"Marriage?" the monk marveled.

She poked him. "Don't pretend you didn't expect it! Now my name is Godith Blund."

"I did have a feeling this might happen," Cadfael admitted with a fatherly smile. "Congratulations! Any children yet?"

"Not yet," she replied with detachment, and the monk thought she did not seem very eager to have them. Then again, she was still very young, and in any case it was probably better for her health, and the babies', that she should not be pregnant for some time yet.

"Give my name to the eldest," he suggested teasingly.

She glared at him. "Poor child, if we did."

He tried to pretend he was offended, but he did not quite manage. Besides, there were more serious matters they needed to speak of. "How did you know I would be here?" he asked.

Godith shrugged. "Frankly, it was an easy guess."

"Not too easy, I hope!" the monk exclaimed in alarm.

The young lady shook her head with a reassuring smile. "That's because we know you too well, Brother. When we heard about Hugh Beringar..." she frowned as she said his name, as though remembering something unpleasant she had set aside for a moment. "Speaking of that, Brother..."

"...I suppose you had good reasons to take the risk to come to the abbey," Cadfael finished for her. "I'm listening, daughter."

"We know where Hugh Beringar is," she said gravely, her voice so low that the monk had to strain his ears to hear.

His eyes widened as he breathed in sharply, worry and relief flooding through him. "Where!?"

"I'm taking you there now," Godith said soothingly. "Don't worry, he's alive, although he'll probably have need of your acrid potions and stinking herbs."

"What kind of language is that, young lady!" Cadfael protested in mock indignation.

"Forgive me, Brother," she said, totally unrepentant. "But you can't deny you are among those who believe that the more unpleasant the remedy, the more efficient it is."

Knowing he could not win that argument, the monk settled for a dignified silence and a reproachful look. It would probably have been more convincing, however, had he not been smiling. At the very least, it allowed him to hide the tight worry he still felt deep inside. For Hugh, for Godith, for Olivier... all three were in danger, because of the mysterious man or woman who had orchestrated the murder of FitzJohn. Three excellent reasons to find said murderer and deliver him to the justice.

They walked for another ten to fifteen minutes before they reached the place Godith was taking Cadfael to. It was an old wooden building, not in a very good shape, located in a sparsely populated alley. It had probably been a barn or a stable at some point, but now it was no longer used, except perhaps when it was so cold outside that beggars would seek a shelter for the night. For the moment, though, it seemed to be uninhabited.

"This barn was built right behind our house," Godith murmured beside Cadfael. "There's a door inside that leads to our dining room. The main entrance of the house is on a street parallel to this lane. It was used formerly as a stable for the previous owner, and the servants slept there, too, but now it's abandoned."

"You hid him here?" the monk asked in surprise. "In your own house, so to speak? What if he was found!?"

She gave him a half smile. "Who would look for him there? I'm the daughter of the man who accused him and called him a murderer in front of the whole court!"

"I didn't know that."

"My father never quite forgave him for choosing the King's side, when he had been betrothed to me since childhood. But I don't think my father really understands that his friend's son has grown into a man now. Fulke Adeney knew the young Hugh Beringar, but he was never acquainted with Hugh Beringar of Maesbury, deputy sheriff of Shropshire, I'm afraid." There was disillusionment in Godith's voice when she mentioned her father.

Cadfael shook his head. "Well, let's not waste time."

He followed his guide inside the old barn. It was bare, save for some old straw -bundles that no one had bothered to get rid of when the barn was no longer used, and for a makeshift bed. Near the bed, Cadfael easily recognized Torold Blund - the squire had not changed much over time, and his eyes lit up when he saw the monk. When he moved, Cadfael saw the figure of his closest friend, pale, and his eyes closed.

"Brother!" Torold said warmly. "It's a pleasure to see you again, although the circumstances are not as pleasant as I would have wished."

"Yes, unfortunately," Cadfael sighed. "But I would be happy to see you anywhere, Master Blund. Now - we can talk later. How is he?" the monk glanced at Beringar's still form.

"He woke up a moment ago," Torold said. "You'll never guess - he tried to leave."

"He did?" Cadfael glared at Hugh, to little avail, since Beringar was not aware of it.

"Said his presence put us in danger," the squire shrugged. "Which is true. But the fool was in no state to walk anyway."

While Torold was talking, Cadfael had knelt beside his friend. He pushed the blankets away and removed the makeshift bandage Torold and Godith had clumsily wrapped around the wound to get a better look at it. It was deep, with black clotted blood and the first symptoms of an infection. It might be avoided, however, with a bit of luck.

"I'll need a bucket of hot water," the monk said absent-mindedly.

"I know," Godith said. "I have one ready, I'll fetch it."

She was back a moment later, with not only the requested bucket but also some clean rags. Cadfael nodded his thanks, and used the rags to clean the wound. It started to bleed afresh, and the monk frowned, for he had a feeling Hugh had lost enough blood as it was, but it soon stopped after he applied pressure around the injury. Then, he selected one of his most efficient balms against infection, glad to have really taken his remedies when Godith had called for him, and applied it generously. The wound looked actually worse with the sickly green mixture, but the balm's efficiency had been proven times and times again. Finally, the monk applied a new, clean bandage, discarding the old and bloodstained one. During all his ministrations, Godith and Torold stood silent, letting him focus on the task at hand.

"That's all I can do," Cadfael muttered. He lay his hand on Hugh's forehead. It was a bit warm, but that was to be expected. "He has a slight fever, nothing to worry about for now. If it gets worse, use this." The monk showed the couple a middle-sized glass vial, full of a brownish liquid.

Godith grimaced when she eyed it. "I'm glad I don't have to drink it."

Torold grinned as he remembered the time when Cadfael had been taking care of him, and he had had to drink the very same potion to ease his fever. It had been a long time ago, but he felt he would never really forget the foul aftertaste.

At this moment, Hugh stirred, then opened his eyes.