Brother Cadfael 19: The Holy Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

English of these borders, and some Welsh. It would seem she is one property he got this side the ocean. The groom, B�zet, he's a southerner like his master."
    The trio had vanished into the guesthall by then, their entangled lives still as mysterious as when they had first entered the enclave. And in some few days, if the roads stayed passable and the lame horse mended, they would depart just as enigmatically, like so many who took refuge under that hospitable roof a day, a week, and then passed, leaving nothing of themselves behind. Cadfael shook himself free of vain wondering about souls that passed by as strangers, and sighed, and went back into the church to say a brief word into Saint Winifred's ear before going to his work in the garden.
    Someone was before him in needing Saint Winifred's attention, it seemed. Tutilo had something to ask of the saint, for he was kneeling on the lowest step of her altar, sharply outlined against the candle-light. He was so intent upon his prayer that he did not hear Cadfael's steps on the tiles. His face was lifted to the light, eager and vehement, and his lips were moving rapidly and silently in voluble appeal, and by his wide-open eyes and flushed cheeks with every confidence of being heard and having his plea granted. What Tutilo did, he did with his might. For him a simple request to heaven, through the intercession of a kindly disposed saint, was equal to wrestling with angels, and out-arguing doctors of divinity. And when he rose from his knees it was with an exultant spring in his step and tilt to his chin, as though he knew he had carried his point.
    When he did sense another presence, and turn to face the newcomer, it was with the most demure and modest front, abating his brightness and exuberance as smoothly as he had diverted his love song into liturgical piety for Herluin's benefit in Donata's bedchamber. True, when he recognized Cadfael his devout gravity mellowed a little, and a subdued gleam came back cautiously into his amber eyes.
    "I was praying her aid for our mission," he said. "Today Father Herluin preaches at the High Cross in the town. If Saint Winifred lends us aid we cannot fail."
    His eyes turned again to the reliquary on the altar, and lingered lovingly, wide with wonder.
    "She has done miraculous things. Brother Rhun told me how she healed him and took him to be her true servant. And other such marvels... many... When the day of her translation comes round, every year, there are hundreds of pilgrims, Brother Jerome says so. I have been asking him about all the treasury of relics your house has gathered here. But she is the chief, and incomparable."
    Brother Cadfael certainly had nothing to object to that. Indeed there were some among the treasury of relics amassed by obedientiaries here over the years about which he felt somewhat dubious. Stones from Calvary and the Mount of Olives, well, stones are stones, every hill has a scattering of them, there is only the word of the purveyor as to the origin of any particular specimen. Fragments of bones from saints and martyrs, a drop of the Virgin's milk, a shred of her robe, a little flask of the sweat of Saint John the Baptist, a tress from the red hair of Saint Mary Magdalen... all easily portable, and no doubt some of the returning pilgrims from the Holy Land were genuine, and believed in the genuineness of what they offered, but in some cases Cadfael wondered whether they had ever been nearer Acre than Eastcheap. But Saint Winifred he knew well, he had lifted her out of the Welsh earth with his own hands, and with his own hands laid her reverently back into it, and drawn the sweet soil of Gwytherin over her rest. What she had bequeathed to Shrewsbury and to him in absence was the sheltering shadow of her right hand, and a half-guilty, half-sacred memory of an affection and kindness almost personal. When he appealed, she listened. He tried to present her with only reasonable requests. But no doubt she would