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Frost rimed the courtyard underfoot as Cadfael stepped quietly out of the dortoir and into the clear night. The gleam of moonlight on delicate ice crystals matched the bright array of stars overhead. It was cold as anything, the kind of cold that stole through layers of wool robes and reached right down into a person's skin, but he didn't have far to go. His workshop was near enough, and he'd left the little fire in the brazier banked and warm.
The cold brought a breathtaking clarity to the stars above. They seemed more and brighter than he could ever recall seeing, so immense in their populace that even his dear friend Polaris and her bears were nearly lost among the crowd. Having found familiar constellations at last, Cadfael turned his attention to the gleaming ground underfoot. There were few traces of any passage. The other denizens of the abbey kept by the rules, and were inside the stone walls before the frost arrived. Cadfael was one of the few with an exemption.
There were the tracks to and from the guest hall, as all were fed before turning in for the night. A brother's soft steps crossed to the abbot's lodging on an errand. Some he couldn't place easily— a man's prints, fairly close together, scuffed a bit— someone walking quickly, but not striding. A puzzle for another time.
He moved briskly on, along the abbey pools frozen over and stark white against the shadows. He was seized with a sudden temptation to test the surface, toss a heavy stone and feel the thrill of all the ice shattering and releasing, or holding fast against the blow, as if he were a child again. He smiled and shook his head at the thought. Across the foot bridge now, and to the pease fields.
The fields stretched down to Meole Brook, quiet and lined with ice. The water in the center still flowed, black against the silvery glow of the landscape. The whole land seemed transformed, exposed when it would have been shrouded in the soft robe of darkness. Shadows took unfamiliar and enchanting forms, the barren winter humps of the fields shone like crystal, and his own soft footsteps seemed to ring forth like hoofbeats.
He was cold through, but there was the herb garden, workshop tucked within. And here, at last, the tracks he had been looking for. They hugged the edge of the garden, wary, before crossing to the workshop at its most shadowed corner. He could picture the approach, hunched, slinking, afraid but desperate enough to take the risk.
The tracks led to the bowl he'd left out before vespers. It was empty, licked clean. His visitor had eaten and departed, as they had each night this week.
Cadfael sighed and let himself in to the dark warmth of his workshop. The familiar smell rose up to wrap around him like a blanket, spiced and pungent, herbs and wine and woodsmoke. Enough light came through to make his way to the brazier and coax the fire back to a cheerful glow.
He sat and let the heat reach his bones, and spared a thought for the warmth of the sun in Greece. He could conjure it up still, the way it soaked all the way through his body until he felt he must glow himself. Kinder on old men, maybe, but all the same he wouldn't trade this night for those days.
When the cold in his hands was banished enough for dexterity, Cadfael filled a small pot from the cask of spiced wine he had put up for just such an occasion. He set it to warm on the fire, and soon the workshop was full of its sweet and heady scent. While it heated he looked to the calendula salve.
Brothers Gaufrid and Hamon suffered from rheum in the winter, when their careful work was lit by candles and lamps. He was nearly out of the ointment he'd prepared in advance, the fastest they'd ever gone through it. Neither of them would appreciate slowing down, but all the same it might be time for younger eyes to start learning the careful copy work.
You old busybody, Cadfael— stick to the problem at hand. Neither Gaufrid or Hamon would appreciate him putting his nose in, and Brother Edmund the infirmarer already knew about the ointment.
The wine warmed him deep, and with the inner warmth came the recognition that his skin was still chilled through. It was a rare cold this night, the kind he could only remember a handful of times in his life. He thought of his bed in the dortoir and the good woolen blankets.
The fastest route back to bed was to finish this night's work, not while away the hours by the fire. Cadfael sighed and drained the rest of his wine, banked the fire again, gave the calendula ointment another stir, and set off to follow the footprints in the frost.
Outside his breath seemed to freeze on his face, his eyelashes, eyebrows and fringe all gone crystal. He hoped this errand would be a quick one.
The tracks left the garden, braving the open land towards the mill. Cadfael followed, feeling the cold in every footstep. Mercifully, the prints followed the path itself, step by step, all the way to the mill itself.
A poorly latched door, cracked ajar, showed deep shadows within where the moonlight had yet to reach.
Cadfael swung the door open, and the light followed.
"There you are," he said.
She lifted her head, the barest gesture. She was so cold she'd stopped shivering, and he felt the first spike of fear. Had he left it too late?
He knelt beside her makeshift nest of flour sacks. In the moonlight she could have been brown or grey. She didn't bother baring her teeth. Certainly a dog, and yet living, though barely. She needed warmth as soon as possible.
The dog was small enough to carry, but heavier than she looked. He tucked her close against his chest and pulled his sheepskin cloak back across her lax form. He felt her sigh, the slight shift of rib bones. Whatever heat he had left, he'd share.
Every noise seemed sharper on his way back to the workshop: the crack of ice along the brook and mill race, the cut of wings as an owl sought her meal, the crush of frost underfoot, hoofbeats in the northwest. Whether it was the cold itself that bent sound closer to the ear, or the ear stretching to make up for the lack of color and life in the moonlit world, he could not say.
His free hand fumbled at the door of the workshop, stiff and clumsy from cold. All these years of practice, he could have opened it in his sleep, and now, with warmth mere feet away, he could not work the latch. Cadfael would not set the dog down; the icy ground might steal the last of her life. He curled his fingers into a fist and pawed at the door, trapping the latchstring against the wood, dragging downward, dropping his shoulder hard against the frame as the latch moved.
They stumbled inside.
Now he could lower his burden, here, in a basket of rags he'd prepared by the fire. He turned and closed the door again. Back up with the fire, another log, hands extended to the heat. His fingers were swollen up like sausages, hard and burning, but they had movement in them yet and no signs of frostbite.
He turned his attention to the dog. She sighed again, curled up small. Her breathing was deep and even, and she slept. He sat on his bench by the brazier and picked through his scrap basket until he found the bits of leather lacing he remembered. The fire should burn hot for a good while before he banked it low, and handiwork would be the best thing to ease his stiff fingers. The light was dim and dancing, but he could plait by feel.
Cadfael woke the next morning, still in dark, stiff and sore from sleeping on the bench in the workshop. He folded away the blankets, fed the fire another log, and observed his charge. She was awake now, diligently licking her paws. They were likely half-frozen still. He'd take a look with better light, and see if she'd let him wrap them with salve.
He had enough time to warm a pot of water for her drink, and ventured a scratch of her small head as he placed it beside her. "I'll be back when I can. Stay here and warm yourself through, and be so kind as to leave my stores intact."
At lauds the monks' breath hung in the air like clouds. Prior Robert and Brother Jerome gave him hard stares. Cadfael's absence from matins would have been noted, of course, complaints prepared, quotations from Saint Benedict himself ready to burst from eager tongues.
Cadfael examined his conscience and found it clear. He slipped away again, stepping behind a pillar and out of sight as soon as the service concluded. Robert and Jerome could warm themselves for hours with their bottled up recriminations; he had more yet to do before returning to studious reflection.
Dawn's rays painted the abbey, setting the brick aglow in soft and rosy light. The land shone pink and gold in sun, soft purple and blue in shadow. Wisps of fog rose from the river and hung suspended. A cock crowed across the way, and the sound bounced and carried through the waking world.
His charge greeted him with two brief wags of her tail and a low whine. He could see now she was a warm and lovely brown, her coat curled, ears alert, eyes bright and intelligent. There were no clues in her appearance as to her origins; she did not have the look of a noblewoman's gentle pet, nor the swift lines of a greyhound, nor the stature of a guardian. A dog, purely and simply, and a mystery unto herself.
"I've no food to share beyond a bit of bread, I'm afraid." There wouldn't be pottage in the abbey for hours yet. "Bear on bravely, and we'll see you fed and settled before the morning's through. Will you allow me to tend your paws?"
They were rough indeed, as he had feared, cracked open from the cold. He held a pot of salve for her inspection. "Lanolin. If you insist on licking it off, it will do you no harm." She whined again as he swept a generous layer across each pad, but kept her mouth politely closed. "A brave and stalwart soul. Now then, if you'll permit me another liberty, we'll be off."
He draped a scrap of sheepskin across the basket, leaving her head free, and hoisted it up to his chest. She peered out, tilting her head at him curiously, and gave the fleece a testing lick.
Out through the abbey foregate now, following the sound of whoops and crashes to the English Bridge. A trio of Shrewsbury boys stood with a bundle of stones, tossing each rock over the edge and hollering with glee as the fragile ice shattered below. Soon enough it might be frozen solid and safe for sliding about.
The shouts and joy of the boys carried through into town, where all was abustle. Cadfael kept his basket close, but the little dog showed no fear. They hurried along the busy Wyle, past St. Alkmunds, up the Dogpole to the High Cross.
"Now we put our theory to the test," Cadfael told the dog, and proceeded to the castle gate. "Is the Sheriff in?"
The guard gave him a hard look. "He rode in in the middle of the night, and has seen no one yet. You'll find him at breakfast, like enough."
"Cadfael!" Hugh Beringar hailed. "Come through, and join me. I've just come in from Maesbury to hear a petition. What brings you by?"
"A lady in distress," Cadfael confided. "I've done all I can for her, and now she needs a good meal, a warm bed, and a home. She's uncommonly bright and brave."
"And knowing how I admire such qualities, you thought I'd better meet her, is that it?"
"Indeed."
"Let's see her then," Hugh said, and reached confidently into the basket. He and the dog regarded each other gravely, and Cadfael watched his friend soften. "Does she have a name?"
"None to my knowledge."
"I shall call her Anne." He tucked her against his chest where she could observe the courtyard, and she rested her head against his shoulder. The lines of care in Hugh's face eased as he looked down and stroked her fur. His was a heavy duty, so often away from those dearest to him, and Cadfael had long thought a companion would do him good.
"Will you stay and join us for breakfast?"
Cadfael shook his head. "I regret I cannot— I've been away too long fetching her to you. But it is good to see you, Hugh. All is well with you?"
"All is well." Hugh grinned at him, then back at Anne. Though Cadfael's toes were nearly numb in his boots, the whole walk back to the abbey was lit by sunshine and the glow of a deed well done.