Prior Robert’s livid countenance was taking on a shade of green, and under his careful eyelids his eyes sparkled emerald jealousy. How dare that obscure village, bereft of its saint, outdo the small prodigies of rain that held off from falling, and superficial wounds that healed with commendable but hardly miraculous speed, and even the slightly suspicious numbers of lame who brought their crutches and left them before the altar, and walked away unsupported?
“There was a child of three who went into a fit,” pursued Bened with gusto, “stiff as a board in his mother’s arms, and stopped breathing, and she ran with him all the way from the far fields, fording the river, and carried him to Winifred’s grave, and laid him down in the grass there dead. And when he touched the chill of the earth, he breathed and cried out, and she picked him up living, and took him home joyfully, and he is live and well to this day.”
“What, even the dead raised?” croaked Prior Robert, almost speechless with envy.
“Father Prior,” said Brother Cadfael soothingly, “surely this is but another proof, the strongest possible, of the surpassing merit and potency of Saint Winifred. Even the soil that once held her bones works wonders, and every wonder must redound to the credit and glory of that place which houses the very body that blessed the earth still blesses others.”
And Abbot Heribert, oblivious of the chagrin that was consuming his prior, benignly agreed that it was so, and that universal grace, whether it manifested itself in Wales, or England, or the Holy Land, or wheresoever, was to be hailed with universal gratitude.
“Was that innocence or mischief?” demanded Cadfael, when he saw Bened off from the gatehouse afterwards.
“Work it out for yourself! The great thing is, Cadfael, it was truth! These things happened, and are happening yet.”
Brother Cadfael stood looking after him as he took the road towards Lilleshall, until the stocky figure with its long, easy strides dwindled to child-size, and vanished at the curve of the wall. Then he turned back towards his garden, where a new young novice, barely sixteen and homesick, was waiting earnestly for his orders, having finished planting out lettuces to follow in succession. A silent lad as yet. Maybe once he had taken Brother Cadfael’s measure his tongue would begin to wag, and then there’d be no stopping it. He knew nothing, but was quick to learn, and though he was still near enough to childhood to attract any available moist soil to his own person, things grew for him. On the whole, Cadfael was well content.
I don’t see, he thought, reviewing the whole business again from this peaceful distance, how I could have done much better. The little Welsh saint’s back where she always wanted to be, bless her, and showing her pleasure by taking good care of her own, it seems. And we’ve got what belonged to us in the first place, all we have a right to, and probably all we deserve, too, and by and large it seems to be thought satisfactory. Evidently the body of a calculating murderer does almost as well as the real thing, given faith enough. Almost, but never quite! Knowing what they all know by now, those good people up there in Gwytherin may well look forward to great things. And if a little of their thanks and gratitude rubs off on Rhisiart, well, why not? He earned it, and it’s a sign she’s made him welcome. She may even be glad of his company. He’s no threat to her virginity now, and if he is trespassing, that’s no fault of his. His bed-fellow won’t grudge him a leaf or two from her garland!