He said nothing regarding his thoughts, though, but set about welcoming them to the village, and telling them he would find comfortable lodging for them in the cloisters of the old nunnery. There were other pilgrims stopping by, for this was a known stop on the way to the many places of prayer and salvation to be found in England. The language most frequently spoken here was the French used at court, or the English of the Saxons, though the Gaelic of the Celts was known as well.
“Father MacKinley has asked that I provide you with mounts,” Father Padraic said, reading the rolled scroll MacKinley had sent in John’s care. He studied them again, dark eyes upon Igrainia. “I will do the best I can. Meanwhile, take your ease in our parish home, a poor place by many standards, but a wayside for faithful travelers. Gregory!” he called suddenly in a loud tone. “Where is that lad? Ah, there you are, my boy. Show these good people to the rectory house, and see that they receive something to eat.”
Gregory, a lad of about sixteen with green eyes and wild red hair, nodded to them and smiled broadly. “The lad is deaf as stone, but a good boy,” Father Padraic said. “He’ll escort you, and I’ll see what arrangements can be made for horses.”
“Thank you,” Igrainia said, speaking at last.
Father Padraic nodded, watched her closely once again, then turned away.
The rectory was little more than a large hovel made of wood and sod, the main room a large hall with battered benches and tables. At one sat a group of nuns who nodded when they entered. An ancient priest sat alone at another, and two other tables seemed to be filled with bands of pilgrims. They were seated at the table next to one group that seemed to be comprised of three couples. The other group might have been young men aspiring to be squires so that they might go on to be knights; they were young, and seemed hardy and in robust health and energy. As Igrainia sat across from John, she noted that the elderly priest, sitting alone, was casting disapproving glances toward the young men, who were imbibing heavily from the pitcher of ale that sat upon their table.
A young woman with a jagged scar down her check brought them ale, bread and a haunch of tough meat.
“Poor lass! I wonder what befell her!” Merry murmured as the girl moved about, serving them.
“War—soldiers with no mercy,” John replied briefly. “Don’t stare at her so, wife.”
Igrainia watched the girl work with tremendous sympathy; like Merry, she couldn’t help but wonder how she had sustained the terrible wound. She felt sorry for the girl, and when John gave her a small coin in payment, Igrainia called her back softly, adding to the payment they had made.
“Take care, my lady!” John warned.
“No one saw me, and if so . . . we are in a religious house.”
“And you think all men who profess to be of God are naturally saints?” John said.
“She needs the coin,” Igrainia said.
John crossed himself. “My lady, your welfare is in my hands.”
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “My life is in my own hands, John, and you and Merry are dear to be with me.”
“ ’Tis no hardship, being with you, m’lady,” Merry murmured, sawing away at her food. “But this meat! What on earth might it be?”
“We might well be better off not knowing,” John warned.
“The bread is very good,” Igrainia told Merry.
“Ah, indeed, fresh and filling,” Merry said, finding happiness in the warm loaf and the sweet butter served with it.
“Hello, welcome!” a woman called from across the table.
“Hello,” Igrainia said, noting then that John gave her a stern warning.
She decided to ignore him.
“Where are you traveling?” she asked the woman.
“Canterbury,” the woman said. “I’m Anne, and that’s Joseph, my husband. We’re late of Berwick. Gannet is our brother, and Jacob is married to my sister there, Lizzie, and Beth . . . Beth is a dear, but we’ve never found a husband for her.”
“I’ve not really been looking!” Beth, the youngest of the three, an attractive woman with a quick smile, said with an indignant sigh. “Anne thinks all women must be married, or they have no value in life.”
“Well, it is the way of things!” Anne reproached.
“I have a trade,” Beth told them.
“A trade?” Igrainia inquired.
Beth smiled. “I am a poet, and I play the harp.”
“She needs a husband. There weren’t many paying for a woman to play and sing in Berwick!” Anne said.
“I will make my own way,” Beth said.
“I’m quite sure you will,” Igrainia said. “Perhaps there are hard times many places here, in the Borders, in the cities so often crossed by the armies. But in London . . .”
“Oh, child! You mustn’t encourage her!” Anne protested. “She needs to find a husband, a good husband, though it won’t be easy at her age. Most probably, we’ll have to find her a widower in need of a good woman to watch over his children.”
“Anne, we’ve barely met these people,” Beth protested. “And I’m not interested in meeting a man who is looking for a cook and housekeeper.”
“All men are looking for an able woman to cook and keep house,” Anne said impatiently.
“There’s always a nunnery,” Beth murmured. She winked at Igrainia. Anne didn’t seem to notice the irony in her sister’s tone.
“Yes, there’s that, of course, but . . .”
“But it doesn’t fit my nature,” Beth said.
“Not at all,” Anne agreed. “She has an atrocious temper, you see. And a way of speaking her mind . . .”
“She makes it very, very difficult, you see,” Lizzie finished.
“Lizzie!” Beth remonstrated.
“Lizzie, Beth, really, both of you might want to be a bit more discreet,” the women’s brother, Gannet, said in a soft, amused drawl.
He appeared to be younger than any of the women. Though the independent Beth seemed to be in her mid-twenties, Gannet was younger still, probably a year or two behind Beth, but very obviously her kin with blue eyes, shoulder length, curling blond hair and a pleasant face.
“Indeed,” said Jacob, a man as slim as his wife, Lizzie, but with a sinewy, tough-looking strength to his leanness, “we’ve not even really met these good people!”
“Aye, and we’ve barely let them say a word!” Joseph said.
Then the three couples all stared at Igrainia’s table, waiting for the trio there to speak.
“I’m—” Igrainia began, but John stepped in quickly, interrupting her before she could give a name. “I’m John of Annandale, and this is my wife, Merry. We’re taking our niece, Isabel, south to worship at Canterbury as well, and hoping to see her wed to the son of an old friend outside of London, a fine fellow, a blacksmith’s boy, with a fine future ahead.”
“Well, then! We are travelers of a like mind!” Joseph said. He had a pleasant, weathered