The Pilgrim of Hate

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THEY WERE TOGETHER in Brother Cadfael’s hut in the herbarium, in the afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of May, and the talk was of high matters of state, of kings and empresses, and the unbalanced fortunes that plagued the irreconcilable contenders for thrones.

“Well, the lady is not crowned yet!” said Hugh Beringar, almost as firmly as if he saw a way of preventing it.

“She is not even in London yet,” agreed Cadfael, stirring carefully round the pot embedded in the coals of his brazier, to keep the brew from boiling up against the sides and burning. “She cannot well be crowned until they let her in to Westminster. Which it seems, from all I gather, they are in no hurry to do.”

“Where the sun shines,” said Hugh ruefully, “there whoever’s felt the cold will gather. My cause, old friend, is out of the sun. When Henry of Blois shifts, all men shift with him, like starvelings huddled in one bed. He heaves the coverlet, and they go with him, clinging by the hems.”

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