I was searching for my leather gauntlets when a servant announced a visitor,
“He did not give a name…a monk, Lord.”
Deep down, I hoped it would be Galan, instead, the prior, one of his companions of the last years of tramping the kingdom, approached. Differently from usual, he was more deferential, less direct.
“Ealdorman Cynn, I have come to ask a favour. How should I begin? —only if you agree, of course…I wonder…” I prefer people to be forthright when addressing me,
“Ay?”
“Last night I had a dream, Ealdorman, and, in it, appeared the blessed saint.”
“Cuthbert?”
He nodded and seemed agitated, which made me wonder if it was to be a warning of danger? Pestilence? As it turned out, neither.
The holy hermit was very clear in my dream, as vivid as I can see you now.”
And what the devi
