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The winter was mild that year. Although December had already arrived and dusted the fields with a powdery coating of snow, although the abbey orchards stood bare and breath rose like plumes in the cold air, still there was a trace of the summer left in the golden sunlight and the clear, sharp blue of the sky.
Brother Cadfael raised his head and breathed deeply, savouring the crispness of the early morning. It was the first time in many days that he had ventured outside; even mild, the winter weather could still be treacherous, and this time Cadfael himself had been laid low with a fever dangerous enough to make the other monks worry for his life. Thankfully, that had passed, and three days ago he had slept deeply at last, and woken up much improved. Brother Edmund had called it a miracle, and though Cadfael could think of many more worthy than himself of receiving one, who was he to say that it was not? Certainly, on that bright morning, it seemed like miracles shone in the very air.
Pleasantly in thought, the old Benedictine made his way leisurely towards his herbal kingdom. He walked with purpose, but unhurriedly; Father Abbot had given him leave to take as long as he needed, and right now – so Cadfael felt – he needed to be here, in the garden, so that he might do this fine morning justice by his enjoyment of it.
The herbarium proved to be in good state, as Cadfael had expected. Brother Winfrid had done a fine job – strong, hard-working Brother Winfrid, the latest of a number of young monks who had held the post of Cadfael's assistant. They came to him as awkward, uncertain boys, and left as – well, thought Cadfael with a quiet smile, they left as boys still, but perhaps with some measure of certainty. Mark was a priest now; Oswin tended those poorest and most in need of care; and as for Winfrid, his path was still open, but as Cadfael inspected his domain, he was certain that if need be, Winfrid would make a fine abbey herbalist. The herbs were stored just as they should be, a task which Cadfael had not finished before the illness took him, but which he was pleased to see that Winfrid had performed most admirably. There was a stock of potions and salves ready for any soul that should come asking for them. Yes, a fine herbalist indeed, if ever he were needed!
There was but one task which Winfrid had left to him, at Cadfael's own insistence. A small mountain of nuts awaited him on the table – a lucky haul from the abbey stockrooms. The nuts were too old and dry for any human, perhaps, but still good enough for the purpose Brother Cadfael had in mind. He set about cracking them, and before long, took a bowl of nutmeats outside, and scattered them on the path, some distance away from the hut. Then he retreated some paces to a bench, sat down, and waited. Though the human inhabitants of Shrewsbury were well provided for, still there were others in need of assistance.
The first to appear was a common sparrow. It hopped uncertainly on the path, its black eyes glittering with suspicion, and hesitated for a while before pecking on a piece of nut. As if that had been a signal, a veritable swarm of birds came down and set about devouring the nutmeats with much less decorum than the first. There were plump, round-bellied robins and tits, sharp-eyed, glistening crows, even a blackbird – a rare sight in the winter. Cadfael's eye was particularly drawn to one jackdaw, still in juvenile plumage, which was the loudest among this noisy, bickering lot. It scarfed down the food with unmatched gusto, and protested indignantly whenever some other bird was quick enough to take a bit of nut the jackdaw had had its eye on; eventually, clearly disgusted with the lack of table manners displayed by its fellow banqueters, it flapped away to a branch above the commotion and sat there, fluffed up like a muff and emitting complaints for all to hear. Cadfael resolved to keep an eye out for the young fellow. It looked hardly old enough to survive the hardships of even the mildest winter, but out of such inauspicious beginnings often came great ends – the old Benedictine had witnessed it often enough with humans, and he did not see why birds should be any different.
“Is this your new flock, Brother?”
The birds were startled, and some of them took to the air, in case the unexpected newcomer meant them harm. Cadfael, who had heard the light footsteps on the gravel, and recognised the gently teasing voice, only smiled with genuine pleasure.
“Welcome, Hugh. How fares the blacksmith's father?”
“Well enough, though he had had quite a fright; but he is safely back with his family now, and so all should be mended,” said Beringar, sitting down on the bench. His face was tired and drawn, and a deep scratch marred one of his cheeks, but his eyes still had a merry glitter to them. “All the troublemakers we also found, and they are now in His Majesty's care – or rather, in his dungeons. I have mentioned to Col your involvement in the matter, and he was besides himself with gratitude. Doubtlessly he will come looking for you later in the day, to properly offer his thanks for his father's safe return – but he might not find you, as I have told him to look for you in the infirmary!” He flashed Cadfael a smile of his own, though his next words were tinged with concern. “I was quite surprised to find you were out of bed, and so, it seems, was Brother Infirmarer. And even if you must be out and about already, should you really be sitting out here in the cold?”
“Hugh, I am well.”
“I'd never dare doubt it. Still...”
“The birds needed my care. Brother Winfrid had started feeding them when I was ill, and once they get used to being given food, they may not be abandoned, for they would starve, waiting for us to save them. We now have a duty to provide for them.”
Hugh laughed. “Another duty you have taken up for yourself, Brother?”
“It's one I do gladly,” Cadfael said with a smile. “As with all the duties I've been presumptuous enough to make mine.”
“And I am glad, too,” Hugh replied, with a sudden lack of levity. “For I know you are not a man who would abandon a duty once you have taken it upon you to perform it.” He touched the monk's hand briefly. “When you were–– As we waited and prayed for your life, that thought alone provided me with some measure of comfort – that you would not leave us, for there were still many who depended on you to stay.”
“Hugh,” Cadfael said gently, for his friend was visibly shaken, but it was still a truth that needed to be said, “one day the Lord shall call me, as he calls every man.”
Beringar closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his voice and manner were cheerful again. “When He does, you shall tell Him what you have just told me: that you are needed here in Shrewsbury, to take care of your winged flock, and of the rest of us poor creatures inhabiting the Lord's green earth! How could He take you, then? Tell Him this from me, Cadfael, if He asks – I do not know what I would do without my rare Benedictine.”
Cadfael shook his head, but there was still a tiny smile upon his lips. “Come, Hugh. Let's go inside and I will take a look at that wound on your face.”
“It's a trifle, Brother, hardly worth your time. But if this is the only way to get you back inside where it's warm, then so be it.” Beringar rose lightly and reached out to Cadfael to help him up.
The monk felt a deep sense of contentment as he walked back into his hut with Hugh in tow. The world was full of things to do, wrongs to right, suffering to ease – but the same world also had bright mornings, fragrant herbs and the warmth of friendship. Though the lives of men were almost as fragile and fleeting as the lives of birds, still there was beauty and purpose to be found in both. As for himself, he could ask for no more than that.