The Pilgram of Hate (6 page)

She
vanished briskly into the guest-hall, and he caught but a glimpse of her, but
she was positive enough to stay with him through the offices and duties of the
morning, and as the worshippers left the church after Mass he caught sight of
her again, arms spread like a hen-wife driving her birds, marshalling two
chicks, it seemed, before her, both largely concealed beyond her ample width
and bountiful skirts. Indeed she had a general largeness about her, her
head-dress surely taller and broader than need, her hips bolstered by
petticoats, the aura of bustle and command she bore about with her equally
generous and ebullient. He felt a wave of warmth go out to her for her energy
and vigour, while he spared a morsel of sympathy for the chicks she mothered,
stowed thus away beneath such ample, smothering wings.

In
the afternoon, busy about his small kingdom and putting together the
medicaments he must take along the Foregate to Saint Giles in the morning, to
be sure they had provision enough over the feast, he was not thinking of her,
nor of any of the inhabitants of the guest-hall, since none had as yet had
occasion to call for his aid. He was packing lozenges into a small box,
soothing tablets for scoured, dry throats, when a bulky shadow blocked the open
door of his workshop, and a brisk, light voice said, “Pray your pardon,
brother, but Brother Denis advised me to come to you, and sent me here.”

And
there she stood, filling the doorway, shoulders squared, hands folded at her
waist, head braced and face full forward. Her eyes, wide and wide-set, were
bright blue but meagrely supplied with pale lashes, yet very firm and fixed in
their regard.

“It’s
my young nephew, you see, brother,” she went on confidently, “my sister’s son,
that was fool enough to go off and marry a roving Welshman from Builth, and now
her man’s gone, and so is she, poor lass, and left her two children orphan, and
nobody to care for them but me. And me with my own husband dead, and all his
craft fallen to me to manage, and never a chick of my own to be my comfort. Not
but what I can do very well with the work and the journeymen, for I’ve learned
these twenty years what was what in the weaving trade, but still I could have
done with a son of my own. But it was not to be, and a sister’s son is dearly
welcome, so he is, whether he has his health or no, for he’s the dearest lad
ever you saw. And it’s the pain, you see, brother. I don’t like to see him in
pain, though he doesn’t complain. So I’m come to you.”

Cadfael
made haste to wedge a toe into this first chink in her volubility, and insert a
few words of his own into the gap.

“Come
within, mistress, and welcome. Tell me what’s the nature of your lad’s pain,
and what I can do for you and him I’ll do. But best I should see him and speak
with him, for he best knows where he hurts. Sit down and be easy, and tell me
about him.”

She
came in confidently enough, and settled herself with a determined spreading of
ample skirts on the bench against the wall. Her gaze went round the laden
shelves, the stored herbs dangling, the brazier and the pots and flasks,
interested and curious, but in no way awed by Cadfael or his mysteries.

“I’m
from the cloth country down by Campden, brother, Weaver by name and by trade
was my man, and his father and grandfather before him, and Alice Weaver is my
name, and I keep up the work just as he did. But this young sister of mine, she
went off with a Welshman, and the pair of them are dead now, and the children I
sent for to live with me. The girl is eighteen years old now, a good,
hard-working maid, and I daresay we shall contrive to find a decent match for
her in the end, though I shall miss her help, for she’s grown very handy, and
is strong and healthy, not like the lad. Named for some outlandish Welsh saint,
she is, Melangell, if ever you heard the like!”

“I’m
Welsh myself,” said Cadfael cheerfully. “Our Welsh names do come hard on your
English tongues, I know.”

“Ah
well, the boy brought a name with him that’s short and simple enough. Rhun,
they named him. Sixteen he is now, two years younger than his sister, but wants
her heartiness, poor soul. He’s well-grown enough, and very comely, but from a
child something went wrong with his right leg, it’s twisted and feebled so he
can put but the very toe of it to the ground at all, and even that turned on
one side, and can lay no weight on it, but barely touch. He goes on two
crutches. And I’ve brought him here in the hope good Saint Winifred will do
something for him. But it’s cost him dear to make the walk, even though we
started out three weeks ago, and have taken it by easy shifts.”

“He’s
walked the whole way?” asked Cadfael, dismayed.

“I’m
not so prosperous I can afford a horse, more than the one they need for the
business at home. Twice on the way a kind carter did give him a ride as far as
he was bound, but the rest he’s hobbled on his crutches. Many another at this
feast, brother, will have done as much, in as bad case or worse. But he’s here
now, safe in the guest-hall, and if my prayers can do anything for him, he’ll
walk home again on two sound legs as ever held up a hale and hearty man. But
now for these few days he suffers as bad as before.”

“You
should have brought him here with you,” said Cadfael. “What’s the nature of his
pain? Is it in moving, or when he lies still? Is it the bones of the leg that
ache?”

“It’s
worst in his bed at night. At home I’ve often heard him weeping for pain in the
night, though he tries to keep it so silent we need not be disturbed. Often he
gets little or no sleep. His bones do ache, that’s truth, but also the sinews
of his calf knot into such cramps it makes him groan.”

“There
can be something done about that,” said Cadfael, considering. “At least we may
try. And there are draughts can dull the pain and help him to a night’s sleep,
at any rate.”

“It
isn’t that I don’t trust to the saint,” explained Mistress Weaver anxiously.
“But while he waits for her, let him be at rest if he can, that’s what I say.
Why should not a suffering lad seek help from ordinary decent mortals, too,
good men like you who have faith and knowledge both?”

“Why
not, indeed!” agreed Cadfael. “The least of us may be an instrument of grace,
though not by his own deserving. Better let the boy come to me here, where we
can be private together. The guest-hall will be busy and noisy, here we shall
have quiet.”

She
rose, satisfied, to take her leave, but she had plenty yet to say even in
departing of the long, slow journey, the small kindnesses they had met with on
the way, and the fellow pilgrims, some of whom had passed them and arrived here
before them.

“There’s
more than one in there,” said she, wagging her head towards the lofty rear wall
of the guest-hall, “will be needing your help, besides my Rhun. There were two
young fellows we came along with the last days, we could keep pace with them,
for they were slowed much as we were. Oh, the one of them was hale and lusty
enough, but would not stir a step ahead of his friend, and that poor soul had
come barefoot more miles even than Rhun had come crippled, and his feet a sight
for pity, but would he so much as bind them with rags? Not he! He said he was
under vow to go unshod to his journey’s end. And a great heavy cross on a
string round his neck, too, and he rubbed raw with the chafing of it, but that
was part of his vow, too. I see no reason why a fine young fellow should choose
such a torment of his own will, but there, folk do strange things, I daresay he
hopes to win some great mercy for himself with his austerities. Still, I should
think he might at least get some balm for his feet, while he’s here at rest?
Shall I bid him come to you? I’d gladly do a small service for that pair. The
other one, Matthew, the sturdy one, he hefted my girl safe out of the way of
harm when some mad horsemen in a hurry all but rode us down into the ditch, and
he carried our bundles for her after, for she was well loaded, I being busy
helping Rhun along. Truth to tell, I think the young man was taken with our
Melangell, for he was very attentive to her once we joined company. More than
to his friend, though indeed he never stirred a step away from him. A vow is a
vow, I suppose, and if a man’s taken all that suffering on himself of his own
will, what can another do to prevent it? No more than bear him company, and
that the lad is doing, faithfully, for he never leaves him.”

She
was out of the door and spreading appreciative nostrils for the scent of the
sunlit herbs, when she looked back to add: “There’s others among them may call
themselves pilgrims as loud and often as they will, but I wouldn’t trust one or
two of them as far as I could throw them. I suppose rogues will make their way
everywhere, even among the saints.”

“As
long as the saints have money in their purses, or anything about them worth
stealing,” agreed Cadfael wryly, “rogues will never be far away.”

Whether
Mistress Weaver did speak to her strange travelling companion or not, it was he
who arrived at Cadfael’s workshop within half an hour, before ever the boy Rhun
showed his face. Cadfael was back at his weeding when he heard them come, or
heard, rather, the slow, patient footsteps of the sturdy one stirring the
gravel of his pathways. The other made no sound in walking, for he stepped
tenderly and carefully in the grass border, which was cool and kind to his
misused feet. If there was any sound to betray his coming it was the long,
effortful sighing of his breath, the faint, indrawn hiss of pain. As soon as
Cadfael straightened his back and turned his head, he knew who came.

They
were much of an age, and even somewhat alike in build and colouring, above
middle height but that the one stooped in his laboured progress, brown-haired
and dark of eye, and perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Yet not so
like that they could have been brothers or close kin. The hale one had the
darker complexion, as though he had been more in the air and the sun, and
broader bones of cheek and jaw, a stubborn, proud, secret face, disconcertingly
still, confiding nothing. The sufferer’s face was long, mobile and passionate,
with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks beneath them, and a mouth tight-drawn,
either with present pain or constant passion. Anger might be one of his
customary companions, burning ardour another. The young man Matthew stalked at
his heels mute and jealously watchful in attendance on him.

Mindful
of Mistress Weaver’s loquacious confidences, Cadfael looked from the scarred
and swollen feet to the chafed neck. Within the collar of his plain dark coat
the votary had wound a length of linen cloth, to alleviate the rubbing of the
thin cord from which a heavy cross of iron, chaced in a leaf pattern with what
looked like gold, hung down upon his breast. By the look of the seam of red
that marked the linen, either this padding was new, or else it had not been
effective. The cord was mercilessly thin, the cross certainly heavy. To what
desperate end could a young man choose so to torture himself? And what pleasure
did he think it could give to God or Saint Winifred to contemplate his
discomfort?

Eyes
feverishly bright scanned him. A low voice asked: “You are Brother Cadfael?
That is the name Brother Hospitaller gave me. He said you would have ointments
and salves that could be of help to me. So far,” he added, eyeing Cadfael with
glittering fixity, “as there is any help anywhere for me.”

Cadfael
gave him a considering look for that, but asked nothing until he had marshalled
the pair of them into his workshop and sat the sufferer down to be inspected
with due care. The young man Matthew took up his stand beside the open door,
careful to avoid blocking the light, but would not come further within.

“You’ve
come a fairish step unshod,” said Cadfael, on his knees to examine the damage.
“Was such cruelty needful?”

“It
was. I do not hate myself so much as to bear this to no purpose.” The silent
youth by the door stirred slightly, but said no word. “I am under vow,” said
his companion, “and will not break it.” It seemed that he felt a need to
account for himself, forestalling questioning. “My name is Ciaran, I am of a
Welsh mother, and I am going back to where I was born, there to end my life as
I began it. You see the wounds on my feet, brother, but what most ails me does
not show anywhere upon me. I have a fell disease, no threat to any other, but
it must shortly end me.”

And
it could be true, thought Cadfael, busy with a cleansing oil on the swollen
soles, and the toes cut by gravel and stones. The feverish fire of the deep-set
eyes might well mean an even fiercer fire within. True, the young body, now
eased in repose, was well-made and had not lost flesh, but that was no sure
proof of health. Ciaran’s voice remained low, level and firm. If he knew he had
his death, he had come to terms with it.

“So
I am returning in penitential pilgrimage, for my soul’s health, which is of
greater import. Barefoot and burdened I shall walk to the house of canons at
Aberdaron, so that after my death I may be buried on the holy isle of Ynys
Enlli, where the soil is made up of the bones and dust of thousands upon
thousands of saints.”

“I
should have thought,” said Cadfael mildly, “that such a privilege could be
earned by going there shod and tranquil and humble, like any other man.” But
for all that, it was an understandable ambition for a devout man of Welsh
extraction, knowing his end near. Aberdaron, at the tip of the Lleyn peninsula,
fronting the wild sea and the holiest island of the Welsh church, had been the
last resting place of many, and the hospitality of the canons of the house was
never refused to any man. “I would not cast doubt on your sacrifice, but
self-imposed suffering seems to me a kind of arrogance, and not humility.”