This year there would be no ceremonial procession all the wayfrom Saint Giles, at the edge of the town, as there had been twoyears previously, in 1141. There her relics had rested while properpreparation was made to receive them, and on the great day, Cadfaelremembered, the threatened rain had fallen all around, yet never adrop had spattered her reliquary or its attendants, or doused thecandles that accompanied her erect as lances, undisturbed by thewind. Small miracles followed wherever Winifred passed, as flowerssprang in the footsteps of Welsh Olwen in the legend. Greatmiracles came more rarely, but Winifred could manifest her powerwhere it was deserved. They had good reason to know and be glad ofthat, both far away in Gwytherin, the scene of her ministry, andhere in Shrewsbury. This year the celebrations would remain withinthe enclave, but there would still be room enough for wonders, ifthe saint had a mind to it.

The pilgrims were already arriving for the festival, in suchnumbers that Cadfael hardly spared a look or an ear for the steadybustle far up the great court, round the gatehouse and the guesthall, or the sound of hooves on the cobbles, as grooms led thehorses down into the stableyard. Brother Denis the hospitaler wouldhave a full house to accommodate and feed, even before the festivalday itself, when the townsfolk and the villagers from miles aroundwould flood in for worship.

It was only when Prior Robert was seen to round the corner ofthe cloister at the briskest walk his dignity would permit, andhead purposefully for the abbot’s lodging, that Cadfaelpaused in his leisurely trimming of spent flowers to note theevent, and speculate. Robert’s austere long visage had thelook of an angel sent on an errand of cosmic importance, andendowed with the authority of the superb being who had sent him.His silver tonsure shone in the sun of early afternoon, and histhin patrician nose probed ahead, sniffing glory.