Brother Cadfael 10: The Pilgrim of Hate

mounted. And then, I had my abbot's mission to Leominster, which took me out of the direct way. No, I saw no more of them, never until now. But they can hardly be mistaken, once seen."
    "In what sort of case were they at Abingdon?" asked Cadfael, his eyes following the two inseparable figures until they vanished into the cloister. "Would you say they had been long on the road before that night's halt? The man is pledged to go barefoot to Aberdaron, it would not take many miles to leave the mark on him."
    "He was going somewhat lamely, even then. They had both the dust of the roads on them. It might have been their first day's walking that ended there, but I doubt it."
    "He came to me to have his feet tended, yesterday," said Cadfael, "and I must see him again before evening. Two or three days of rest will set him up for the next stage of his walk. From more than a day's going south of Abingdon to the remotest tip of Wales, a long, long walk. A strange, even a mistaken, piety it seems to me, to take upon oneself ostentatious pains, when there are poor fellows enough in the world who are born to pain they have not chosen, and carry it with humility."
    "The simple believe it brings merit," said Brother Adam tolerantly. "It may be he has no other claim upon outstanding virtue, and clutches at this."
    "But he's no simple soul," said Cadfael with conviction, "whatever he may be. He has, he tells me, a mortal disease, and is going to end his days in blessedness and peace at Aberdaron, and have his bones laid in Ynys Enlli, which is a noble ambition in a man of Welsh blood. The voluntary assumption of pain beyond his doom may even be a pennon of defiance, a wag of the hand against death. That I could understand. But I would not approve it."
    "It's very natural you should frown on it," agreed Adam, smiling indulgence upon his companion and himself alike, "seeing you are schooled to the alleviation of pain, and feel it to be a violator and an enemy. By the very virtue of these plants we have learned to use." He patted the leather scrip at his girdle, and the soft rustle of seeds within answered him. They had been sorting over Cadfael's clay saucers of new seed from this freshly ripening year, and he had helped himself to two or three not native in his own herbarium. "It is as good a dragon to fight as any in this world, pain."
    They had gone some yards more towards the stone steps that led up to the main door of the guest-hall, in no hurry, and taking pleasure in the contemplation of so much bustle and motion, when Brother Adam checked abruptly and stood at gaze.
    "Well, well, I think you may have got some of our southern sinners, as well as our would-be saints!"
    Cadfael, surprised, followed where Adam was gazing, and stood to hear what further he would have to say, for the individual in question was the least remarkable of men at first glance. He stood close to the gatehouse, one of a small group constantly on hand there to watch the new arrivals and the general commerce of the day. A big man, but so neatly and squarely built that his size was not wholly apparent, he stood with his thumbs in the belt of his plain but ample gown, which was nicely cut and fashioned to show him no nobleman, and no commoner, either, but a solid, respectable, comfortably provided fellow of the middle kind, merchant or tradesman. One of those who form the backbone of many a township in England, and can afford the occasional pilgrimage by way of a well-earned holiday. He gazed benignly upon the activity around him from a plump, shrewd, well-shaven face, favouring the whole creation with a broad, contented smile.
    "That," said Cadfael, eyeing his companion with bright enquiry, "is, or so I am informed, one Simeon Poer, a merchant of Guildford, come on pilgrimage for his soul's sake, and because the summer chances to be very fine and inviting. And why not? Do you know of a reason?"
    "Simeon Poer may well be his name," said Brother Adam, "or he may have half a dozen more ready to trot forward at need. I never knew a name for him, but his face and form I do know. Father Abbot uses me a good deal on his business outside the cloister and I have occasion to know most of the fairs and markets in our shire and beyond. I've seen that fellow - not gowned like a provost, as he is now, I grant you, but by the look of him he's been doing well lately - round every fairground, cultivating the company of those young, green roisterers who frequent every such