By Ellis Peters
The bold head of Shrewsbury Abbey desires to gather Saint Winifred's sacred is still for his Benedictine order. And whilst the resultant controversy ends up in homicide, Brother Cadfael investigates.
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Extra info for A Morbid Taste for Bones (Brother Cadfael Mystery #1)
Chapter broke up in some disorder. With the help of Brother John, and certain others of a practical turn of mind, they got Brother Columbanus securely but comfortably swathed in a sheet, confining arms and legs so that he would do himself no injury, wedged his teeth apart with a wooden spit instead of the cloth, on which he might have gagged and choked, and carried him on a shutter to the infirmary, where they got him into bed, and secured him there with bandages round breast and thighs. He moaned and gurgled and heaved still, but with weakening force, and when they had managed to get a draught of Brother Cadfael’s poppy-juice into him his moans subsided into pitiful mutterings, and the violence of his struggles against his confinement grew feebler.
Afterwards he had asked them in wonder how he came there, and what had happened to him, and had been greatly chastened and exalted at his humbling and his deliverance, and most grateful to his patroness, by whose guidance he had been made whole. “And, Father, the people there told us that the saint is indeed buried at Gwytherin, where she died after her ministry, and that the place where her body is laid has done many miracles. ” “You are inspired, having been present at this miracle,” said Prior Robert, tall and splendid with faith rewarded, “and you speak out what I have felt in listening to you.
Before the leading pair a man walked backwards, arms gently waving and beckoning, his goad only a wand, flourished for magic, not for its sting, his high, pure calls carried aloft on the air, cajoling and praising. Towards him the beasts leaned willingly, following his cries with all their might. The new-turned soil, greyish-brown and sluggish, heaved moist and fresh to light after the share. “A harsh country,” said Urien, as one assessing, not complaining, and set his horse moving downhill towards the church.