Holy Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

English as French, or Norman, or Breton, or Angevin. They have
estates both here and oversea, as well seek them here as there. And the very
nature of the troubadour, after all, is to wander and venture, as the Galician
word trobar, from which they take their name, though it has come to signify to
create poetry and music, literally means to find. Those who find, seek and find
out the poetry and the music both, these are the troubadours. And if their art
is universal, why should they not be found everywhere?
    “He’s
heading for Chester,” said Anselm. “So his man says, Bénezet, he’s called. It
may be he hopes to get a place in the earl’s household. But he’s in no haste,
and plainly in no want of money. Three good riding horses and two servants in
his following is pretty comfortable travelling.”
    “Now
I wonder,” said Cadfael, musing darkly, “why he left his last service? Made
himself too agreeable to his lord’s lady, perhaps? Something serious, to make
it necessary to cross the sea.”
    “I
am more interested,” said Anselm, undisturbed by such a cynical view of
troubadours in general, “in where he got the girl. For she is not French, not
Breton, not from Provence. She speaks the English of these borders, and some
Welsh. It would seem she is one property he got this side the ocean. The groom,
Bénezet, 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