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 Mérian—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?”
“God be good to you, Friar, I might be and, as it happens, I am,” replied the young man with a smile. “And who, so long as we’re asking, are you to be blessing my horses?”
“I am as you see me,” replied Tuck, “a humble friar. Brother Aethelfrith is my name.”
“A Saxon, then.”
“I am, and that proud of it.”
“Now I know you must be a Christian,” replied Garran lightly, “for you speak the language of