Ellis Peters - Brother Cadfael's Penance

The abbot checked and stood at gaze for a long moment, and then advanced to stand above the prone man and look down at him with a still and sombre face. The brown hair round the tonsure had grown longer than was quite seemly. There might even, he thought, be more grey in it than when last he had looked upon the face now so resolutely hidden from him.

“You,” he said, not exclaiming, simply acknowledging the recognition, without implications of either acceptance or rejection. And after a moment: “You come late. News has been before you. The world is still changing.”

Cadfael turned his head, his cheek against the stone, and said only: “Father!” asking nothing, promising nothing, repenting nothing.

“Some who rode a day or so before you,” said Radulfus reflectively, “must have had better weather, and changes of horses at will along the way. Such word as comes to the castle Hugh brings also to me. The Earl of Gloucester and his younger son are reconciled. There have been fighting men at risk who have been spared. If we cannot yet have peace, at least every such mercy is an earnest of grace.” His voice was low, measured and thoughtful. Cadfael had not looked up, to see his face. “Philip FitzRobert on his sickbed,” said Radulfus, “has abjured the quarrels of kings and empresses, and taken the cross.”

Cadfael drew breath and remembered. A way to go, when he despaired of princes. Though he would still find the princes of this world handling and mishandling the cause of Christendom as they mishandled the cause of England. All the more to be desired was this order and tranquillity within the pale, where the battle of heaven and hell was fought without bloodshed, with the weapons of the mind and the soul.

“It is enough!” said Abbot Radulfus. “Get up now, and come with your brothers into the choir.”