glad! Is the thief taken, then?”
“Melangell!” he said. “You’re early abroad, too? Yes, you see I am blessed, after all,! have it again. The lord abbot restored it to me only some minutes ago. But no, the thief is not caught, he and some fellow-rogues are fled into the woods, it seems. But I can go forth again without fear now.”
His dark eyes, deep-set under thick brows, opened wide upon her, smiling, holding her charmed in the abrupt discovery that he was, despite his disease, a young and comely man, who should have been in the fulness of his powers. Either she was imagining it, or he stood a little straighter, a little taller, than she had ever yet seen him, and the burning intensity of his face had mellowed into a brighter, more human ardour, as if some foreglow of the day’s spiritual radiance had given him new hope.
“Melangell,” he said in a soft, vehement rush of words, “you can’t guess how glad I am of this meeting, it was God sent you here to me. I’ve long wanted to speak to you alone. Never think that because I myself am doomed, I can’t see what’s before my eyes concerning others who are dear to me. I have something to ask of you, to beg of you, most earnestly. Don’t tell Matthew that I have my ring again!”
“Does he not know?” she asked, astray.
“No, he was not by when the abbot sent for me. He must not know! Keep my secret, if you love him-if you have some pity, at least for me. I have told no one, and you must not. The lord abbot is not likely to speak of it to any other, why should he? That he would leave to me. If you and I keep silent, there’s no need for anyone else to find out.”
Melangell was lost. She saw him through a rainbow of starting tears, for very pity of his long face hollowed in shade, his eyes glowing like the quiet, living heart of a banked fire.
“But why? Why do you want to keep it from him?”
“For his sake and yours-yes, and mine! Do you think I have not understood long ago that he loves you?-that you feel as much also for him? Only I stand in the way! It’s bitter to know it, and I would have it changed. My one wish now is that you and he should be happy together. If he loves me so faithfully, may not I also love him? You know him! He will sacrifice himself, and you, and all things beside, to finish what he has undertaken, and see me safe into Aberdaron. I don’t accept his sacrifice, I won’t endure it! Why should you both be wretched, when my one wish is to go to my rest in peace of mind and leave my friend happy? Now, while he feels secure that I dare not set out without the ring, for God’s sake, girl, leave him in innocence. And I will go, and leave you both my blessing.”
Melangell stood quivering, like a leaf shaken by the soft, vehement wind of his words, uncertain even of her own heart. “Then what must I do? What is it you want of me?”
“Keep my secret,” said Ciaran, “and go with Matthew in this holy procession. Oh, he’ll go with you, and be glad. He won’t wonder that I should stay behind and wait the saint’s coming here within the pale. And while you’re gone, I’ll go on my way. My feet are almost healed, I have my ring again, I shall reach my haven. You need not be afraid for me. Only keep him happy as long as you may, and even when my going is known, then use your arts, keep him, hold him fast. That’s all I shall ever ask of you.”
“But he’ll know,” she said, alert to dangers. “The porter will tell him you’re gone, as soon as he looks for you and asks.”
“No, for I shall go by this way, across the brook and out to the west, for Wales. The porter will not see me go. See, it’s barely ankle-deep in this season. I have kinsmen in Wales, the first miles are nothing. And among so great a throng, if he does look for me, he’ll hardly wonder at not finding me. Not for hours need he so much as think of me, if you do your part. You take care of Matthew, I will absolve both you and him of all care of me, for I shall do well enough. All the better for knowing I leave him safe with you. For you do love him,” said Ciaran softly.
“Yes,” said Melangell in a long sigh.
“Then take and hold him, and my blessing on you both. You may tell him-but well afterwards!-that it is what I designed and intended,” he said, and suddenly and briefly smiled at some unspoken thought he did not wish to share with her.
“You will really do this for him and for me? You mean it? You would go on alone for his sake… Oh, you are good!” she said passionately, and caught at his hand and pressed it to her heart for an instant, for he was giving her the whole world at his own sorrowful cost, and for selfless love of his friend, and there might never be any time but this one moment even to thank him. I’ll never forget your goodness. All my life long I shall pray for you.”
“No,” said Ciaran, the same dark smile plucking at his lips as she released his hand, “forget me, and help him to forget me. That is the best gift you can make me. And better you should not speak to me again. Go and find him. That’s your part, and I depend on you.”
She drew back from him a few paces, her eyes still fixed on him in gratitude and worship, made him a strange little reverence with head and hands, and turned obediently to climb the field into the garden. By the time she reached level ground and began to thread the beds of the rose garden she was breaking into a joyous run.
They gathered in the great court as soon as everyone, monk, lay servant, guest and townsman, had broken his fast. Seldom had the court seen such a crowd, and outside the walls the Foregate was loud with voices, as the guildsmen of Shrewsbury, provost, elders and all, assembled to join the solemn procession that would set out for Saint Giles. Half of the choir monks, led by Prior Robert, were to go in procession to fetch home the reliquary, while the abbot and the remaining brothers waited to greet them with music and candles and flowers on their return. As for the devout of town and Foregate, and the pilgrims within the walls, they might form and follow Prior Robert, such of them as were able-bodied and eager, while the lame and feeble might wait with the abbot, and prove their devotion by labouring out at least a little way to welcome the saint on her return.
“I should so much like to go with them all the way,” said Melangell, flushed and excited among the chattering, elbowing crowd in the court. “It is not far. But too far for Rhun-he could not keep pace.”
He was there beside her, very silent, very white, very fair, as though even his flaxen hair had turned paler at the immensity of this experience. He leaned on his crutches between his sister and Dame Alice, and his crystal eyes were very wide, and looked very far, as though he was not even aware of their solicitude hemming him in on either side. Yet he answered simply enough, “I should like to go a little way, at least, until they leave me behind. But you need not wait for me.”
“As though I would leave you!” said Mistress Weaver, comfortably clucking. “You and I will keep together and see the pilgrimage out to the best we can, and heaven will be content with that. But the girl has her legs, she may go all the way, and put up a few prayers for you going and returning, and we’ll none of us be the worse for it.”
She leaned to twitch the neck of his shirt and the collar of his coat into immaculate neatness, and to fuss over his extreme pallor, afraid he was coming down with illness from over-excitement, though he seemed tranquil as ivory, and serenely absent in spirit, gone somewhere she could not follow. Her hand, rough-fingered from weaving,
