monks took their stations around the company.
Hob heard the gates close behind them, and a moment later the clack, clack of the pawls: just ahead, the portcullis slid sideways into the rock. Soon there was before him only the open cleft in the rock, the road that ran past the monastery, and the sheer drop beyond into the gorge. There was a moment’s reluctance to step through those gates into the endless unprotected world, and then Molly clucked to the ox, and Hob grabbed the bridle rope and urged Milo forward.
They turned left, and immediately the road began to climb, winding up the side of Monastery Mount. The advance party of monks walked easily up the incline, springing on sturdy legs over rock and rut. They had brought tight-woven linen bags filled with ash from the fire trenches, and now with a motion as though sowing seed scattered ash and bits of burnt wood in handfuls on the trail ahead of the oncoming party, to assist foot and hoof and wheel in the struggle to secure purchase on the frozen ground.
The aches in Hob’s legs, which had begun to fade in the last few days, now were reawakened. The ox toiled upward, planting its vast hooves stolidly in the mix of snow and dirt and ash. The pilgrims were digging into the trail with their staves, breathing heavily, and one woman, thin, black-haired, unremarkable in appearance but with bitter beautiful eyes, racked by a near-continuous cough, was supported on either side by her two sons.
Molly called to her, offering a place on the wagon seat, but she signed a refusal. One of her sons said, in shy courteous tones, “The mam’s made a vow to walk the whole distance to the shrine, that mayhap the saint will grant a cure. She’s afflicted sore with a theft of the breath.”
The slope steepened. Molly got down from the wagon and walked by the ox, gripping the bridle by the cheek strap. She had a rope that went back to the wooden brake bar; if the wagon started to slip backdown the slope she could pull it taut and set the brake. She sent Hob back to hold the ass’s bridle, while Nemain drove; together the two youngsters would be sufficient to control the smallest of their beasts on this difficult track. Hob could see Jack, a few yards behind the small wagon, ambling along beside the mare, a hand against her neck. Jack with his powerful body seemed untroubled by the struggle against the increasing incline, though his limp grew more evident.
To their right the view opened up as the gorge widened. They were far above the tree line and the air was bitingly cold, the constant mountain wind whipping the hoods the travelers wore about their faces and making robes and cloaks stream sideways.
The snow that draped about Old Catherine’s shoulders like a shawl began to glow as the sun climbed and Catherine came out from the shadow of Monastery Mount. The golden flush of the sun-bathed snowcap was shot through with glints of light from the rivers of ice winding down Old Catherine’s eastern face; farther down a blanket of evergreens darkened the spreading flanks of the mountain. Hob had the new experience of watching two hawks from above rather than below. The birds, their broad flat wings spread like sails to catch the sun-warmed updrafts, moved in slow expansive circles through the gulf of air, peering down with grim intent at the rabbit-haunted forest glades.
The travelers toiled upward without major incident. At one point some rocks had evidently fallen from above onto the trail. Hob had to push the ass to the right to prevent the wheels’ trundling over a rock the size of his head. He had steered too far, however, and a moment later the forward wheel screeched against the monk-built parapet bordering the trail, and despite Nemain’s hauling on the reins to turn Mavourneen, the small wagon shuddered to a stop.
There was a general halt of the party. Jack and two of the monks heaved back on the wagon while Hob tried to get the ass to walk in reverse, straining backward
Hob heard the gates close behind them, and a moment later the clack, clack of the pawls: just ahead, the portcullis slid sideways into the rock. Soon there was before him only the open cleft in the rock, the road that ran past the monastery, and the sheer drop beyond into the gorge. There was a moment’s reluctance to step through those gates into the endless unprotected world, and then Molly clucked to the ox, and Hob grabbed the bridle rope and urged Milo forward.
They turned left, and immediately the road began to climb, winding up the side of Monastery Mount. The advance party of monks walked easily up the incline, springing on sturdy legs over rock and rut. They had brought tight-woven linen bags filled with ash from the fire trenches, and now with a motion as though sowing seed scattered ash and bits of burnt wood in handfuls on the trail ahead of the oncoming party, to assist foot and hoof and wheel in the struggle to secure purchase on the frozen ground.
The aches in Hob’s legs, which had begun to fade in the last few days, now were reawakened. The ox toiled upward, planting its vast hooves stolidly in the mix of snow and dirt and ash. The pilgrims were digging into the trail with their staves, breathing heavily, and one woman, thin, black-haired, unremarkable in appearance but with bitter beautiful eyes, racked by a near-continuous cough, was supported on either side by her two sons.
Molly called to her, offering a place on the wagon seat, but she signed a refusal. One of her sons said, in shy courteous tones, “The mam’s made a vow to walk the whole distance to the shrine, that mayhap the saint will grant a cure. She’s afflicted sore with a theft of the breath.”
The slope steepened. Molly got down from the wagon and walked by the ox, gripping the bridle by the cheek strap. She had a rope that went back to the wooden brake bar; if the wagon started to slip backdown the slope she could pull it taut and set the brake. She sent Hob back to hold the ass’s bridle, while Nemain drove; together the two youngsters would be sufficient to control the smallest of their beasts on this difficult track. Hob could see Jack, a few yards behind the small wagon, ambling along beside the mare, a hand against her neck. Jack with his powerful body seemed untroubled by the struggle against the increasing incline, though his limp grew more evident.
To their right the view opened up as the gorge widened. They were far above the tree line and the air was bitingly cold, the constant mountain wind whipping the hoods the travelers wore about their faces and making robes and cloaks stream sideways.
The snow that draped about Old Catherine’s shoulders like a shawl began to glow as the sun climbed and Catherine came out from the shadow of Monastery Mount. The golden flush of the sun-bathed snowcap was shot through with glints of light from the rivers of ice winding down Old Catherine’s eastern face; farther down a blanket of evergreens darkened the spreading flanks of the mountain. Hob had the new experience of watching two hawks from above rather than below. The birds, their broad flat wings spread like sails to catch the sun-warmed updrafts, moved in slow expansive circles through the gulf of air, peering down with grim intent at the rabbit-haunted forest glades.
The travelers toiled upward without major incident. At one point some rocks had evidently fallen from above onto the trail. Hob had to push the ass to the right to prevent the wheels’ trundling over a rock the size of his head. He had steered too far, however, and a moment later the forward wheel screeched against the monk-built parapet bordering the trail, and despite Nemain’s hauling on the reins to turn Mavourneen, the small wagon shuddered to a stop.
There was a general halt of the party. Jack and two of the monks heaved back on the wagon while Hob tried to get the ass to walk in reverse, straining backward
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