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, chased 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."
"It may be so," said Ciaran remotely. "No help for it now, I am bound."
"That is true," said Matthew from his corner by the door. A measured and yet an abrupt voice, deeper than his companion's. "Fast bound! So are we both, I no less than he."
"Hardly by the same vows," said Cadfael dryly. For Matthew wore good, solid shoes, a little down at heel, but proof against the stones of the road.
"No, not the same. But no less binding. And I do not forget
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, chased 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."
"It may be so," said Ciaran remotely. "No help for it now, I am bound."
"That is true," said Matthew from his corner by the door. A measured and yet an abrupt voice, deeper than his companion's. "Fast bound! So are we both, I no less than he."
"Hardly by the same vows," said Cadfael dryly. For Matthew wore good, solid shoes, a little down at heel, but proof against the stones of the road.
"No, not the same. But no less binding. And I do not forget
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