The Confession of Brother Haluin Read Free Page A

reflected back
dazzlingly from the crystalline whiteness. “Who are those two up there now? Is
that Brother Urien? The dark fellow? Who’s the other one?”
    “Brother
Haluin.” The thin, alert figure was all but obscured by the jut of the
scaffolding, but Cadfael had seen the pair climb the ladders barely an hour
earlier.
    “What,
Anselm’s best illuminator? How comes it you allow such abuse of an artist?
He’ll ruin his hands in this bitter cold. Small chance of him handling a fine
brush for the next week or two, after grappling with slates.”
    “Anselm
would have begged him off,” Cadfael admitted, “but Haluin would have none of
it. No one would have grudged him the mercy, seeing how valuable his work is,
but if there’s a hair shirt anywhere within reach Haluin will claim it and wear
it. A lifelong penitent, that lad, God knows for what imagined sins, for I
never knew him so much as break a rule, since he entered as a novice, and
seeing he was no more than eighteen when he took his first vows, I doubt if
he’d had time to do the world much harm up to then. But there are some born to
do penance by nature. Maybe they, lift the load for some of us who take it
quite comfortably that we’re humankind, and not angels. If the overflow from
Haluin’s penitence and piety washes off a few of my shortcomings, may it
redound to him for credit in the accounting. And I shan’t complain.”
    It
was too cold to linger very long in the deep snow, watching the cautious
activities on the guest hall roof. They resumed their passage through the
gardens, skirting the frozen pools where Brother Simeon had chopped jagged
holes to let in air to the fish below, and crossing the mill leat that fed the
ponds by the narrow plank bridge glazed over with a thin and treacherous crust
of ice. Closer now, the piers of the scaffolding jutted from the south wall of
the guest hall across the drainage channel, and the workers on the roof were
hidden from sight.
    “I
had him with me among the herbs as a novice, long ago,” said Cadfael as they
threaded the snowy beds of the upper garden and emerged into the great court.
“Haluin, I mean. It was not long after I ended my own novitiate. I came in at
past forty, and he barely turned eighteen. They sent him to me because he was
lettered and had the Latin at his finger ends, and after three or four years I
was still learning. He comes of a landed family, and would have inherited a
good manor if he hadn’t chosen the cloister. A cousin has it now. The boy had
been put out to a noble household, as the custom is, and was clerk to his
lord’s estate, being uncommonly bright at learning and figuring. I often
wondered why he changed course, but as every man within here knows, there’s no
questioning a vocation. It comes when it will, and there’s no refusal.”
    “It
would have been simpler to plant the lad straight into the scriptorium, if he
came in with so much learning,” said Hugh practically. “I’ve seen some of his
work, he’d be wasted on any other labor.”
    “Ah,
but his conscience would have him pass through every stage of the common
apprenticeship before he came to rest. I had him for three years among the
herbs, then he did two years more at the hospital of Saint Giles, among the
sick and crippled, and two more laboring in the gardens at the Gaye, and
helping with the sheep out at Rhydycroesau, before he’d settle to do what we
found he could do best. Even now, as you saw, he’ll have no privilege because
he has a delicate hand with the brushes and pens. If others must slither
perilously on a snowy roof, so will he. A good fault, mind you,” admitted
Cadfael, “but he takes it to extremes, and the Rule disapproves extremes.”
    They
crossed the great court towards the gatehouse, where Hugh’s horse was tethered,
the tall, rawboned grey that was always his favorite mount, and could have
carried twice or three times his