The Pilgram of Hate by Ellis Peters

must see
him again before evening. Two or three days of rest will set him up for the
next stage of his walk. From more than a day’s going south of Abingdon to the
remotest tip of Wales, a long, long walk. A strange, even a mistaken, piety it
seems to me, to take upon oneself ostentatious pains, when there are poor
fellows enough in the world who are born to pain they have not chosen, and
carry it with humility.”
    “The
simple believe it brings merit,” said Brother Adam tolerantly. “It may be he
has no other claim upon outstanding virtue, and clutches at this.”
    “But
he’s no simple soul,” said Cadfael with conviction, “whatever he may be. He
has, he tells me, a mortal disease, and is going to end his days in blessedness
and peace at Aberdaron, and have his bones laid in Ynys Enlli, which is a noble
ambition in a man of Welsh blood. The voluntary assumption of pain beyond his
doom may even be a pennon of defiance, a wag of the hand against death. That I
could understand. But I would not approve it.”
    “It’s
very natural you should frown on it,” agreed Adam, smiling indulgence upon his
companion and himself alike, “seeing you are schooled to the alleviation of
pain, and feel it to be a violator and an enemy. By the very virtue of these
plants we have learned to use.” He patted the leather scrip at his girdle, and
the soft rustle of seeds within answered him. They had been sorting over
Cadfael’s clay saucers of new seed from this freshly ripening year, and he had
helped himself to two or three not native in his own herbarium. “It is as good
a dragon to fight as any in this world, pain.”
    They
had gone some yards more towards the stone steps that led up to the main door
of the guest-hall, in no hurry, and taking pleasure in the contemplation of so
much bustle and motion, when Brother Adam checked abruptly and stood at gaze.
    “Well,
well, I think you may have got some of our southern sinners, as well as our
would-be saints!”
    Cadfael,
surprised, followed where Adam was gazing, and stood to hear what further he
would have to say, for the individual in question was the least remarkable of
men at first glance. He stood close to the gatehouse, one of a small group
constantly on hand there to watch the new arrivals and the general commerce of
the day. A big man, but so neatly and squarely built that his size was not
wholly apparent, he stood with his thumbs in the belt of his plain but ample
gown, which was nicely cut and fashioned to show him no nobleman, and no
commoner, either, but a solid, respectable, comfortably provided fellow of the
middle kind, merchant or tradesman. One of those who form the backbone of many
a township in England, and can afford the occasional pilgrimage by way of a
well-earned holiday. He gazed benignly upon the activity around him from a
plump, shrewd, well-shaven face, favouring the whole creation with a broad,
contented smile.
    “That,”
said Cadfael, eyeing his companion with bright enquiry, “is, or so I am
informed, one Simeon Poer, a merchant of Guildford, come on pilgrimage for his
soul’s sake, and because the summer chances to be very fine and inviting. And
why not? Do you know of a reason?”
    “Simeon
Poer may well be his name,” said Brother Adam, “or he may have half a dozen more
ready to trot forward at need. I never knew a name for him, but his face and
form I do know. Father Abbot uses me a good deal on his business outside the
cloister and I have occasion to know most of the fairs and markets in our shire
and beyond. I’ve seen that fellow—not gowned like a provost, as he is now, I
grant you, but by the look of him he’s been doing well lately—round every
fairground, cultivating the company of those young, green roisterers who
frequent every such gathering. For the contents of their pockets, surely. Most
likely, dice. Even more likely, loaded dice. Though I wouldn’t say he might not