He asked a woman leaning against a boat near the new boat. “Who is it?”
“It is the smith Richard. He dwelleth in town a league away, but at times he cometh this way.”
“Is he preaching?”
“No. But he talketh to us at times.”
“He uses your tongue well, but still I would say—”
“Aye, he comes from over the water.”
Montjoy moved into the ring of fisher folk. A great flapping hat of palmer shadowed his face. Those about saw straying pilgrim and gave him room.
Richard a smith, not Breton but English. A tall, gold-brown, simple-seeming man, strong enough, quiet enough, loving enough of face—and now level ray of the morning sun lighted his face.
He did not drown in Wander!
How much was true and how much was mistake of the much that the many found to say? Like the thunder and murmur and waves of the sea rose within voices and voices and yet voices. Abbot Mark’s voice Prior Matthew’s, Prior Hugh’s, Friar Martin’s, Father Edmund’s, the Hermit by the Old Burying Ground, Brothers Andrew and Barnaby, Anselm’s, Norbert’s, Somerville’s voice, voice of Master Eustace Bettany and of young Thomas Bettany, voice even of Godfrey the gaoler, voices of pilgrims chanting, Middle Forest’s voice, voices of Silver Cross, voices of his own squires and castle folk, voice of Westforest and Wander vale. Voice of Morgen Fay. Further back, voice of Isabel, and then again the heavy waves. “O God, Thy voice!”