#
Master Iving and I waited for Charles to receive first communion, then as he gathered his horse and arms the brothers loaded up Master Iving’s sleigh with cheese and honey, a show of hospitality. I looked over at the two men and saw standing close together, trading smiles and laughter. The Abbot slapped the Master on the back, and the master responded with a clumsy version of a signed blessing.
It suddenly occurred to me that the Bardhall had never lacked for either cheese or honey.
And I knew where the book of stories had come from, and what the Abbot had been trying to tell me.
And then we were off, Master Iving and I sitting on the running board with a patient cart horse pulling us, and Charles behind us on his big Percheron. Snow began to sift down, fat wet flakes that freshened up the fields but did not threaten our travels.
After a time we saw a traveler walking our way, his faded, patched clothes marking him a beggar. Master Iving pulled alongside him and reached for a gift of cheese, an act of charity. The man turned toward us.
It was Peter. "Take me with you!"
I raised my hands. "We are going to Slatten, to the Bardhall. Where do you mean to go?"
"With you." He looked straight into my eyes.
"My path is a hard one, filled with hardship and hunger. Why not stay at the monastery, where you will be safe?"
His gaze stayed steady. "Father Alfred commanded that I not speak to you – but Christ my Lord says that I must follow you. I must – sing for you. That is my vocation: to be your mouthpiece."
Without a word, Charles put down his arm to Peter, and lifted him to a seat on the Percheron.
