The Devils Novice Read Free

and a grimly proud set to his mouth and jaw, but his manner to porter and
groom, as he dismounted, was gravely courteous. No easy man, probably no easy
parent to please. Did he approve his son’s resolve, or was he accepting it only
under protest and with displeasure? Cadfael judged him to be in the
mid-fifties, and thought of him, in all innocence, as an old man, forgetting
that his own age, to which he never gave much thought, was past sixty.
    He
gave rather closer attention to the young man who had followed decorously a few
respectful yards behind his father, and lighted down from his black pony
quickly to hold his father’s stirrup. Almost excessively dutiful, and yet there
was something in his bearing reminiscent of the older man’s stiff
self-awareness, like sire, like son. Meriet Aspley, nineteen years old, was
almost a head shorter than Leoric when they stood together on the ground; a
well-made, neat, compact young man, with almost nothing to remark about him at
first sight. Dark-haired, with his forelocks plastered to his wet forehead, and
rain streaking his smooth cheeks like tears. He stood a little apart, his head
submissively bent, his eyelids lowered, attentive like a servant awaiting his
lord’s orders; and when they moved away into the shelter of the gatehouse he
followed at heel like a well-trained hound. And yet there was something about
him complete, solitary and very much his own, as though he paid observance to
these formalities without giving away anything more, an outward and scrupulous
observance that touched no part of what he carried within. And such distant
glimpses as Cadfael had caught of his face had shown it set and composed as
austerely as his sire’s and deep, firm hollows at the corners of a mouth at
first sight full-lipped and passionate.
    No,
thought Cadfael, those two are not in harmony, that’s certain. And the only way
he could account satisfactorily for the chill and stiffness was by returning to
his first notion, that the father did not approve his son’s decision, probably
had tried to turn him from it, and held it against him grievously that he would
not be deterred. Obstinacy on the one hand and frustration and disappointment
on the other held them apart. Not the best of beginnings for a vocation, to
have to resist a father’s will. But those who have been blinded by too great a
light do not see, cannot afford to see, the pain they cause. It was not the way
Cadfael had come into the cloister, but he had known it happen to one or two,
and understood its compulsion.
    They
were gone, into the gatehouse to await Brother Paul, and their formal reception
by the abbot. The groom who had ridden in at their heels on a shaggy forest
pony trotted down with their mounts to the stables, and the great court was
empty again under the steady rain. Brother Cadfael tucked up his habit and ran
for the shelter of the cloister, there to shake off the water from his sleeves
and cowl, and make himself comfortable to continue his reading in the
scriptorium. Within minutes he was absorbed in the problem of whether the
“dittanders” of Aelfric was, or was not, the same as his own “dittany”. He gave
no more thought then to Meriet Aspley, who was so immovably bent on becoming a
monk.
    The
young man was introduced at chapter next day, to make his formal profession and
be made welcome by those who were to be his brothers. During their probation
novices took no part in the discussions in chapter, but might be admitted to
listen and learn on occasions, and Abbot Radulfus held that they were entitled
to be received with brotherly courtesy from their entry.
    In
the habit, newly donned, Meriet moved a little awkwardly, and looked strangely
smaller than in his own secular clothes, Cadfael reflected, watching him
thoughtfully. There was no father beside him now to freeze him into hostility,
and no need to be wary of those who were glad to accept him