Work Text:
The interior of his workshop was somnolent, the late autumn sun peering in through gaps where the wood had stretched and warped. Something must be done about that before winter exhaled its first breath, Cadfael thought. He had too many precious herbs gathered here, too many tinctures and decoctions and soothing oils that brought benefit and relief to so many in Shrewsbury, to risk them being spoilt by cold.
He turned back to the potion bubbling over a gentle heat. One of the novices was suffering from stomach pains, and it fell to him to provide a cure. In time perhaps the blend of wormwood, mint and lemon balm stirred with honey and lavender would heal the lad. But to help the herbs do their work...
Cadfael leaned over the potion, breathing in the scented steam. He closed his eyes for a moment and, lips moving almost soundlessly, whispered a prayer to Saint Winifred. Then, his gaze on the surface of the brew, he murmured a spell, one he’d learned in the Holy Land word for word, and felt its power tingle through his fingertips. The potion shimmered, so briefly it could have been a trick of the light, and the magic was done.
A sound from outside: the scuff of a boot, the whisper of cloth. Cadfael looked up sharply and saw an eye, bright as a blackbird’s, pressed to a gap in the wood. The eye widened when it saw him looking, and was gone—but Cadfael could move quickly when he had need, and he flung open the door of the hut to face down the spy.
“Hugh!” His voice held astonishment, for he did not expect to see his friend skulking amongst the hellebores.
Hugh Beringar stared, a leaf in his hair and lichen smeared onto the wool of his tunic, his expression caught between surprise and disbelief. “So it’s true, what they say. You’re a witch.”
Cadfael sighed. “Some may call me that, certainly. But it is God’s work I do here, nothing evil. I use magic only to enhance the beneficial properties within the plants. The spell you saw promotes healing and restoration.”
The shock was fading, Hugh’s lively curiosity coming to the fore. “I saw you pray before you intoned the spell. Are the two not in conflict?”
“Not at all. Faith is a large part of magic.”
Hugh moved closer, fingers yearning towards the potion. “I saw it shine. Just for a moment. And I thought—I thought you had magic in you. That you were pouring it into the flask—your essence, that is—and I felt—I wanted...”
The young sheriff closed his hand in frustration and shook his head, dark hair tumbling about his brow.
“I am but a conduit,” Cadfael said placidly.
Hugh reached out again, and this time he touched Cadfael’s hand. “Will you teach me?”
A tremor ran through them both, a spark of magic catching and burning.
Cadfael looked down at their joined hands and smiled. “I have always wanted an apprentice.”