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Chapter 20

The rain began just before dawn. I felt the first drops on my face and awoke. Our cozy fire had burned down to embers and we had used all the firewood Addas had collected, and rain was leaking through holes in the roof of the hut. I wormed my way deeper under my cloak, trying to avoid or, failing that, ignore the annoying drip. I tried to sleep a little more, but the rain grew more intense, spattering the remains of our fire and removing any chance of lighting it again.

Addas, feeling the rain now too, woke up and looked around. Seeing me, he smiled and said, “Wet day ahead, I think.”

“I expect.”

“We best be on our way.” He climbed to his feet, shook out his cloak and wrapped himself in it head-to-heel like a true traveler. I did likewise. He kicked the hissing embers around to make sure they were well and truly extinguished and we opened the door and peered out into a gray, wet and unwelcoming day.

“How much further?” I asked.

He frowned and looked at the sky as if reading the answer there. “In this? We’ll be fortunate to reach Caer Gwyn before dusk,” he decided.

“Sooner there, sooner dry.” I started off.

Dry? I was drenched to the bone the moment we left the spinney and long before we reached the road—which was already a trickling stream of running water by the time we started up the long slope leading to the next rise. These streams would become muddy torrents as the day wore on.

Our way made miserable by the rain, made us thoroughly miserable in ourselves as well, and misery curtailed all talk save grunts, mutters, and moans. We slopped our way up the steep trackways, stepping from stone to stone or slogging through water to our ankles. Tedious and tiring work it was, and cold. My good wool cloak offered what little warmth there was to be had on the windy heights, but that was little enough—heavy with rain it felt as if I was carrying a dead sheep over my shoulders.

By the time the last valley came into view, with the settlement of Caer Gwyn nestled in the crux where two main roads met, my feet were numb twice over, my toes no longer worked, my jaw hurt from clenching my teeth, and I could no longer feel my fingers.

Across the way, on a near hilltop overlooking the little town and guarding the crossroads, stood the old stone fort. Whatever whitening it had once enjoyed had long ago worn away, for it looked as gray and cold and bleak as the fast-fading day. Addas, despite his best efforts to keep his cheery inner flame aglow, appeared just as drearily wretched as I—like some drowned half-human creature cast up from the sea by a tempest. He put forth a hand and declared, “Behold! Our destination shines glorious before us!” I could not help but notice that hand was shivering.

Stumbling stiff-legged down the hillside track, we slithered into the town. There were few folk about and those few could not be persuaded to pause and talk to strangers in the street. Who could blame them?

We continued further down the single main street. “The church is just there,” he told me, pointing some way along the muddy track. It, like many another of the town’s dwellings was built outside the protecting walls of the old garrison—though close enough that folk could flee to the safety of those strong walls in times of trouble. And like the church at Aberdyfi, it was a small, square building of uncut local stone with a single low doorway and high-pitched roof. A priest’s house had been attached to the south end and, after trying the door of the church—which was locked—we went around the back where Addas pulled the bolt and lifted the latch. He turned to me, his hair in snaking tendrils—each one a rivulet—rain dripping off his nose. “After . . .” he sneezed, “ . . . you.”

Just like the shepherd’s hut we had left that morning, the priest’s house was a single room, spare of any furniture save a three-legged table, a chair, and a stool. Dark, with only a small slit wind hole high in the wall, it was at least blessedly dry. And, Lord be praised, there in one corner was a hearth with a full box of firewood and a bundle of kindling waiting beside it. I suppose that Heddwyn, or whatever itinerant cleric came to serve the church was, like us, often cold and wet, so the local congregation made certain he could at least warm himself on arrival. And this is exactly what we did.

Before I had even removed my sopping cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall, Addas was on his knees arranging kindling and twigs into a little pyre. Much as the night before, he soon had a red spark glowing in the raw wool provided, and we spent the next few moments willing the flames to catch and thrive. As soon as the fire was properly alight, the young curate sat back on his heels and offered a prayer of thanks for our safe arrival and the gift of fire to warm and cheer us, to which I offered my heart-felt “Amen.”

That done, I began stripping off my mantle, girdle, and tunic.

Addas, taken aback by my brazen immodesty, tried to cover his embarrassment, saying, “Not one to spare a fellow’s tender feelings, I see.”

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable sharing the room with my frozen gray corpse,” I told him. “I’ve got to get out of these wet things while I can still move. You should, too.”

“But I’m a curate. I cannot—” His argument died before he could find words to speak it.

“You needn’t fear for your honor or position,” I told him. “I will remain in my under shift until my cloak is dry. So, go on—get out of your wet things.”

He looked down, ashamed. “I have not under clothes,” he confessed.

Ah, well that was a problem easily solved. I made light of it, saying, “Whatever have I done to make you think I care about so trivial a thing as that? But if you would spare a maiden her blushes, then wear your cloak until your clothes dry out. No one will know.”

Ruefully, he agreed that would serve; I turned my back while he removed his short robe and trousers and wrapped himself in his damp cloak. Placing the lone chair close to the fire, we draped our wet things over it and settled down to warm ourselves as best we could and let the flames do their work.

So, there we sat, shivering in our damp things, feeding the fire and waiting for the hut to warm. Suddenly ravenous, I dreaded the thought of venturing back out into the rain again to see what might be had in the town. I said as much to Addas, who told me that there was a tavern where we could get something to eat. We were discussing this when a knock came on the door and the door opened to admit a woman carrying a bowl covered with a wooden platter.

“Brother Bellinus, I have brought you—” She took a step into the room and then stopped, her mouth open as she took in the sight of two strangers crouched over the fire burning brightly on the hearth.

“Addas!” she gasp. “What are you doing here? I thought Brother ‘Bellinus was coming this week.’ She glanced around. “Is Heddwyn here?”

“No,” he said. “Only me—” he put out a hand to me, “and my friend Aurelia.”

I stood up in my shift and gave her what I hoped was a winsome smile. “I’m going to Deva,” I told her, quite without thinking.

“Deva is it?” She seemed doubtful that anyone would want to go there. “That’s a long way for a girl on her own. Are you a runaway?”

I suppose she meant runaway slave or bondsmaid who has fled her master. “I’m looking after her,” Addas explained. Then, perhaps sensing from the woman’s dubious expression that more explanation might be in order if he continued down this path, he adroitly changed the subject. “We’ve come for the market—”

“The market is two days away,” she said, and cast a glance over me.

“We came in to get out of the rain,” I said. “I’m Aurelia, and your name is . . .?”

“Oh, I am—,” she said. “I saw the smoke earlier and thought Brother Bellinus must have arrived early.”

“And you brought food for him? How very thoughtful. But, here—that looks heavy.” Addas, ever the helpful cleric, reached for the bowl. “Let me take it for you.” She gave up the bowl and he placed it on the table. “It smells wonderful.”

“Is Heddwyn coming, then?” the woman asked, handing him the bag that was hanging on her arm.

“Not this time, no,” Addas said, shaking his head. “No doubt Brother Bellinus will arrive shortly. I expect the weather has delayed him.” As if to lend credence to his words, the door rattled in a gust of wind just then.

Standing there in my thin shift and bare feet, I shivered and glanced back at the warming fire. The movement caught Docilla’s attention. “You poor thing!” she exclaimed. “Look at you—cold to the bone. You must come home with me. Both of you. It’s warmer and you can wait for the market there.”

“But you said the market is not until day after tomorrow.”

“Well, then,” replied Docilla decidedly, “you’ll stay until then. There’s just my husband and me now, but he won’t be of a mind to disagree.” She was already making plans in her head. “You’ll have to sleep on the floor, but we’ll make do. Gather your wet things and bring them along. We’ll get you dried out proper.” Glancing at the bowl and bag on the table, she told Addas, “Bring that, too. I’ll put it back in the pot and heat it again and we’ll all sit down together.”

I pulled on my half-dry mantle and threw my cloak over my shoulders, and slipped back into wet shoes. Addas grabbed up his clothes and the bowl on the table—not easy when trying to hold all his various garments together and keep the cloak from sliding off him.

“Come along now,” said Docilla, firmly in control once more. “It isn’t far, but it’s slippery under foot so watch your step.”

Out into the storm we went—drenched again in less time than it takes to tell. The woman lived just down the way a bit and across the lane. How she ever saw the smoke, from our fire, I’ll never know; but, I was heartily grateful that she did. Not only did we have a warm place by the fire, dry cloaks to wrap up in while ours were drying, and a fine hot meal of mutton stew, but there was a jar of beer as well. Docilla’s husband Julius—or Julian, I never did hear correctly—insisted on pouring out his dark brown brew once he learned that he was hosting uninvited guests for the night.

Later, after our meal and having diverted our gracious hosts with news of the wider world—if only a far as Venta and Aberdyfi—Addas took it upon himself to explain my need to visit the market in hopes of finding merchants who would be travelling to Deva. Our hosts accepted this naturally enough and, as night closed over this chill, rainy day, we prepared our beds: goatskins spread on the floor by the hearth where our clothes were almost dry. Well tired by the day’s events, I lay down on one side of the hearth, and Addas on the other, and sank into sleep content and grateful for the kindness extended and the comfort of a warm place to lay my head and not somewhere under a bush in the cold wind and rain to spend a hungry night freezing under some storm-wracked tree and waking up dead in the morning.

Docilla, bless her, having encountered strangers needing a bit of care did not hesitate to do what she could to help us. Christians are like this as often as not, I find. The good ones, I mean.



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