Almost Innocent by Jane Feather

Author:Jane Feather [Feather, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-42626-0
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 1990-10-29T16:00:00+00:00

Ten

“BROTHER FELIX SHOULD be returning soon, Father Abbot.”

“And with news to put our poor son’s soul at ease, I trust.” The abbot resumed his measured pacing along the paved terrace above the abbey vegetable garden. “His strength returns, it seems, by the minute.” He gestured to the figure in the plain wool robe of a lay brother, laboring in the vegetable garden below, swinging his hoe with easy, rhythmic movements.

“He is a man of the sword, young and strong,” the monk responded. “Such bodies heal well even from such fearsome wounds as our brother suffered.”

“If God so wills, Brother Armand, if God so wills,” the abbot gently reminded. “I doubt youth and strength would have prevailed without the timely assistance of the charcoal burner and your healing skills.”

Brother Armand put aside the compliment, as was expected of him. “What skills I have, Father, are God-given.”

“Of course . . . of course,” placidly agreed the abbot. “But whatever their genesis, our son has cause to be grateful to them.” He turned toward the great gray stone building of the abbey behind them. The last wintry rays of the afternoon sun caught the delicate flat arcading on the square, unbuttressed towers standing at its four corners.

It was a sight that never failed to uplift the Father Abbot, and he let his eyes rest upon it for a minute before gathering his cloak about him. “I must talk with Brother Gareth about the pilgrims arrived from Canterbury. Our almoner had some doubts as to whether the guest hall would accommodate them all in seemly fashion.” He smiled, a knowing smile for one who lived apart from the world. “Brother Gareth is always perturbed by the presence of women pilgrims. I believe he fears some improper journeyings between the dorters if he is not very vigilant. I must reassure him that the power of prayer is sufficient to safeguard the spiritual health of our cloisters.”

The abbot moved away with deliberate steps, his robes fluttering in the February wind, rising sharply now with the setting of the feeble sun.

Brother Armand remained where he was, watching the gardener at work, his eye assessing the movement of the body, noting where there was residual stiffness, noting that the young man still stopped frequently to draw breath, resting on his hoe. It had been seven months since the charcoal burner had dragged the hurdle with its unconscious burden to the postern gate of the abbey, seeking the monks’ skills for a man so close to death it seemed impossible that he would remain in this world.

There had been nothing to identify the man. His body had been stripped by whoever had attacked him, and he wore only a shirt and hose, not even his boots left to him. Brother Armand had noticed immediately the hard muscle and sinew beneath the body’s broken surface, the calluses on his hands and the stronger muscular swell in his right arm, all signs of a man who lived by the sword. His

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