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,