Cross of Vengeance Read Online Free PDF

king will be sorry that he has missed this feast,’ she said to Blad, knowing that the slightest word from Turlough would have been more welcome to the man than a bagful of gold. ‘What a shame that there are not more pilgrims here today,’ she went on.
    He nodded resignedly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and these few will be leaving as soon as the meal is over. Their luggage is all corded and ready for the packhorses and they will be on the boats to Aran within a couple of hours from now.’
    Even as he said the words, Hans Kaufmann rapidly swallowed what was left on his platter and got to his feet decisively.
    ‘I must see to my luggage,’ he said and strode from the room. The noise of his boots sounded on the courtyard outside. Blad’s eyes followed him with a disappointed expression. The magnificent meal which he had provided had not been appreciated by the German pilgrim. Mara could see him worrying whether a poor account of the inn would be carried to other Germans. In fact, she thought, I can never remember a pilgrim from Germany coming before now.
    ‘Well, perhaps things will pick up,’ she said consolingly. ‘This Martin Luther business of speaking out against the worship of relics might be just a flash in the pan. Fashions come and go in pilgrimages.’
    ‘Canterbury is not as popular as it was, but of course, Rome will always be the most important destination,’ said Brother Cosimo smugly.
    ‘The numbers of pilgrims at the shrine of the Blessed St James at Santiago has continued to rise,’ said Father Miguel assertively. ‘By the way, Master Innkeeper, perhaps you might hand some of these out to future pilgrims.’ He dug deep into a leather bag by his side, producing first the small candle lantern that most travellers carried and then a rolled up bunch of small sheets of parchment. He unrolled one and showed it to Mara. It was written in Latin so as to be comprehensible to all travellers and it invited the pilgrim to see for himself, or herself, the huge spiritual benefits to be gained by visits to the shrine of St James at Santiago. There were even neat little pictures of the relics on show which were painted around the margins of the sheet. Blad accepted one glumly.
    ‘We could do some splendid ones like that for you, Blad,’ said Mara enthusiastically. ‘It could show the church here with the two-armed cross in the gable and then the round tower with the relic. Finbar would do the drawings – he is very good at that. Cormac,’ she looked severely at her son, ‘needs to practise his script so he could write a few every evening for you.’ She beckoned to the two boys to come up to the table and they obeyed, Finbar rather nervously, and Cormac stuffing a tasty chunk of venison into his mouth before he left his plate. They leaned over the scroll and admired the small pictures – at least Finbar did, and Cormac wisely confined himself to some vigorous nods as he chewed rapidly.
    ‘And here’s one for Walsingham Priory – I carry some of theirs and they carry some of mine.’ Father Miguel delved into his pouch again and placed another leaf of vellum in front of her.
    ‘The house of Mary, Mother of Jesus?’ queried Mara. ‘I thought that Walsingham was in England …’ She stopped. After all, in the world of miracles, all was possible. Houses could be moved from Jerusalem to Norfolk in the east of England.
    ‘And they have a small vial full of her breast milk there as well,’ said Father Miguel. There was a note of sheer envy in his voice. This shrine business was competitive, not just for the innkeepers but for the priests and monks themselves. Soon the prioress would be weighing in with the account of St Winifred’s miraculous bones at Holywell in Wales.
    ‘Milk?’ queried Cormac in a puzzled tone, and then saw Finbar blush to the roots of his fair hair and his jaw dropped and his lips formed the letter ‘B’. Mara glared at Cormac, daring him to say anything more.
    ‘Yes,’ she said