"Then why do I feel like Daniel sent into the lions' lair?"
He made to urge his mount forward, but Bran took hold of the bridle strap and pulled him up. "On foot."
"I have to walk?"
"Wandering mendicant priests do not ride fine horses."
"Fine horses, my fat arse." Tuck rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. "You call these plodders we ride 'fine'?" Complaining, he squirmed down from his mount, landing hard on the path below.
"That grove of beeches," said Bran, pointing a little way down the track the way they had come. "We'll wait for you there."
"What do you want me to tell Cadwgan?" Tuck asked, untying the loop that held his staff alongside the saddle.
"Tell him anything you like," said Bran. "Only find out if it is safe for me to come up there and speak to him. And find out what has become of Merian."
Tuck beetled off on his bowed legs while Bran and Will rode back to wait in the grove. Upon reaching the foot of the fortress mound, Tuck worked his way along the rising, switchback path towards the entrance. The thought-the fervent hope-of cool dark ale awaiting him in a welcome cup sprang up, bringing the water to his thirsty mouth. By the time he reached the gate atop the long ramp, he was panting with anticipation. A word with the gatekeeper brought the desired result, and he was quickly admitted and directed to the cookhouse.
"Bless you, my son," said Tuck. "May God be good to you."
At the cookhouse, he begged a bite to eat and a cup of something to drink, and found the kitchener most obliging. "Come in, Friar, and be welcome," said the woman who served the king and his household as master cook. "Sit you down, and I'll soon set a dish or two before you."
"And if you have a little ale," suggested Tuck lightly, "I would dearly love to wash the dust of the road from my mouth."
"That you shall have," replied the cook-so amiably that Tuck remembered all over again how well he was so often received in the houses of the great lords. For however high and mighty the lord might be-with his own priests or those nearby to attend him as he pleased-his vassals and servants were usually more than glad to receive a priest of their own class. She busied herself in the next room and returned with a leather cannikin dripping with foam. "Here," she said, passing the vessel to Tuck, "get some of this inside you and slay the nasty dragon o' thirst."
Tuck seized the container with both hands and brought it to his face. He drank deep, savouring the cool, sweet liquid as it filled his mouth and flowed over his tongue and down his chin. "Bless you," he sighed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I was that parched."
"Now, then," said the master cook, "just enjoy your cup. I won't be a moment."
The cook left the kitchen for the larder, and Tuck sat on his stool, elbows on the board, sipping the good dark ale. In a moment, a young woman came in with a wedge of cheese on a wooden plate. "Cook said to give you this while you wait," said the serving maid.
"Thank you, my child," replied Tuck, taking the plate from her hand.
"If you please, Friar," she said, "I have a sore foot." She looked at him doubtfully. "Would you know of a cure or blessing?"
"Let me see," he said, glancing down at her feet. "Which foot is it?"
She slipped off her shoe-a wooden clog with a leather top-and held the foot up slightly. Tuck saw a red welt at the base of her big toe that looked to him like the beginning of a bunion.
"Ah, yes," he said. "I have seen this before." He gently lifted the young woman's foot and touched the raw, red bulge. "I think you are fortunate to catch this before it has become incurable."
She winced, drawing in her breath sharply. "Can you fix it?"
"I think so. Can you get a little mayweed hereabouts?"
"For a certainty," she replied. "We use it all the time."
"Then you'll know how to make a tisane, do you not?"
The girl nodded.
"Good-make one and drink it down. Then take the wet leaves from the bowl and apply them to the sore. Do this three times a day, every day for five days, and you'll soon feel better. Oh, yes, put off your shoes for a few days."
The girl made a sour face. "My lady does not like us to go barefoot," she said. "Leastwise, not in the house."
"Not to worry," said Tuck. "When you go in the house, just put some willow bark shavings in your shoe. But take off your shoes whenever you can. Oh, yes-find some larger shoes if you can. The ones you are wearing are too small for you, and that, no doubt, is what has caused this ailment." He laid a finger to his lips. "Now, then, I think Saint Birinius is the one to seek on this one," he said. "Bow your head, child."
The young woman did as she was told, and Tuck held his hand over her and sought the blessing of Birinius, whose feet were held in the fire by one of the old Mercian kings as a test of his faith and thus was one who knew the pain associated with various foot ailments. The young lady thanked the friar and left-only to be replaced by another woman bringing a small woollen cloak she had just finished making. "If it is not too much trouble, Friar," she said politely, "I would ask a blessing for this cloak, as I've made it for my sister's baby that's due to come any day now."
"May God be good to you for your thoughtfulness," said Tuck. "It is no trouble at all." And he blessed the soft square of delicate cloth.
When he finished, the cook returned and began placing bowls of minted beans and new greens and a plate of cold duck before him. The woman with the infant's cloak thanked him and said, "My man is outside with a horse he'd like you to see when you've finished your meal."
"Tell him I will attend directly," replied Tuck, reaching for a wooden spoon. He ate and drank and worked out what he wanted to say to Lord Cadwgan. When the cook returned to see how he fared, Tuck asked, "The lord of this place-is he well?"
"Oh, indeed, Friar. Never better."
"Good," replied Tuck. "I am glad to hear it."
"How could it be otherwise? A new-married man and his bride-why, birds in a nest, those two."
This caught Tuck on the hop. "Lord Cadwgan… newly married, you say?"
"Lord have mercy, no!" laughed the cook. "It's Garran I'm talking about. He's king now, and lord of this place."
"Oh, is he? But that must mean-"
The cook was already nodding in reply. "The old king died last year, and Garran has taken his father's place on the throne, may God keep him."
"Of course," replied Tuck. He finished his meal wondering whether this revelation made his task easier or more difficult. Knowing little about Cadwgan, and nothing at all about Garran, there was no way to tell, he decided, until he met the young king in the flesh. He finished his meal and thanked the cook for extending the hospitality of her lord to him, then went out into the yard to see the horse. The stablehand was waiting patiently, and Tuck greeted him and asked what he could do. "The mare's with foal," the man told him, "as you can see. I would have a blessing on her that the birth will be easy and the young 'un healthy."
"Consider it done," replied the friar. Placing his hand on the broad forehead of the animal, Tuck said a prayer and blessed the beast, asking for the aid of Saint Eligius for the animal and, for good measure, Saint Monica as well. While he was praying he became aware that there were others looking on. On concluding, he turned to see that he was being watched by a young man who, despite his fair hair, looked that much like Merian-the same large dark eyes, the same full mouth and high, noble forehead-that Tuck decided the fellow had to be her brother. "I do beg your pardon, my lord," Tuck said, offering a slight bow, "but mightn't you be Rhi Garran?"