CHAPTER XXX
The wold hung November grey. “Snow in that cloud,” quoth the old smith. “Elf of the world wants a white flower!”
“Snowy night a year ago!” said Morgen Fay.
Emmy spoke. “A many are coming by, hurrying, for they want to get across the wold before air is white and ground is white.”
So the smiths somewhat looked for many, but that day passed and the night and part of the next day and none came. Snow, too, held off. Sky pallid grey, earth grey, and all unearthly still. Then a packman came by, going from a town south of the wold to a town north of it, and he had news. He had ridden ahead of thirty who would stop for rest at the Good Man. “Prior and his monks and so many lay brothers stoutly armed and mounted. Great church folk changing visits.”
“Beyond-Wold Abbey?”
“Aye, going there. Have come a long way, they say, stopping at friaries and castles. They’re Blackfriars. Ah, it is policy for men to visit now and then, getting away from home, changing stories and learning a bit! Prior’s a man like the rest of us! Tail man told me when I walked beside him a bit. They’ve got a saint’s bone with them, and a many poor souls have been healed in this town and that castle.”
“What like is the prior?”
“Tall bent man, thin as paper, very pale, with black eyes.”