Read Online The Pilgram of Hate by Ellis Peters - Free Book Online Page B

of them next day at High Mass, when doubtless
his mind should have been on higher things, but obstinately would not rise
above the quivering crest of Mistress Weaver’s head-cloth, and the curly dark
crown of Matthew’s thick crop of hair. Almost all the inhabitants of the
guest-halls, the gentles who had separate apartments as well as the male and
female pilgrims who shared the two common dortoirs, came in their best to this
one office of the day, whatever they did with the rest of it. Mistress Weaver
paid devout attention to every word of the office, and several times nudged
Melangell sharply in the ribs to recall her to duty, for as often as not her
head was turned sidewise, and her gaze directed rather at Matthew than at the
altar. No question but her fancy, if not her whole heart, was deeply engaged
there. As for Matthew, he stood at Ciaran’s shoulder, always within touch. But
twice at least he looked round, and his brooding eyes rested, with no change of
countenance, upon Melangell. Yet on the one occasion when their glances met, it
was Matthew who turned abruptly away.
    That
young man, thought Cadfael, aware of the broken encounter of eyes, has a thing
to do which no girl must be allowed to hinder or spoil: to get his fellow
safely to his journey’s end at Aberdaron.
    He
was already a celebrated figure in the enclave, this Ciaran. There was nothing
secret about him, he spoke freely and humbly of himself. He had been intended
for ordination, but had not yet gone beyond the first step as sub-deacon, and
had not reached, and now never would reach, the tonsure. Brother Jerome, always
a man to insinuate himself as close as might be to any sign of superlative
virtue and holiness, had cultivated and questioned him, and freely retailed
what he had learned to any of the brothers who would listen. The story of
Ciaran’s mortal sickness and penitential pilgrimage home to Aberdaron was known
to all. The austerities he practised upon himself made a great impression.
Brother Jerome held that the house was honoured in receiving such a man. And
indeed that lean, passionate face, burning-eyed beneath the uncropped brown
hair, had a vehement force and fervour.
    Rhun
could not kneel, but stood steady and stoical on his crutches throughout the
office, his eyes fixed, wide and bright, upon the altar. In this soft, dim
light within, already reflecting from every stone surface the muted brightness
of a cloudless day outside, Cadfael saw that the boy was beautiful, the planes
of his face as suave and graceful as any girl’s, the curving of his fair hair
round ears and cheeks angelically pure and chaste. If the woman with no son of
her own doted on him, and was willing to forsake her living for a matter of
weeks on the off-chance of a miracle that would heal him, who could wonder at
her?
    Since
both his attention and his eyes were straying, Cadfael gave up the struggle and
let them stray at large over all those devout heads, gathered in a close
assembly and filling the nave of the church. An important pilgrimage has much
of the atmosphere of a public fair about it, and brings along with it all the
hangers-on who frequent such occasions, the pickpockets, the plausible salesmen
of relics, sweetmeats, remedies, the fortune-tellers, the gamblers, the
swindlers and cheats of all kinds. And some of these cultivate the most
respectable of appearances, and prefer to work from within the pale rather than
set up in the Foregate as at a market. It was always worth running an eye over
the ranks within, as Hugh’s sergeants were certainly doing along the ranks
without, to mark down probable sources of trouble before ever the trouble
began.
    This
congregation certainly looked precisely what it purported to be. Nevertheless,
there were a few there worth a second glance. Three modest, unobtrusive
tradesmen who had arrived closely one after another and rapidly and openly made
acquaintance, to all