Epilogue

The royal party had passed by the church on its way south, heading for Criccieth. The morning had started out fine, but now, in late afternoon, the clouds had rolled in, and fat raindrops speckled the stones of the porch.

Father Medwyn pushed open the church door and entered, instantly feeling the peace of his domain settle upon his shoulders like a mantle. He recited a psalm in a sing-song voice as he moved through the nave, navigating around the few benches placed there for the elderly in the parish, who couldn’t stand during an entire service. He squared several of the benches and then bent to pick up a stray leaf that had blown in through the open door.

When he reached the alms box, he stopped. It had a strong lock on it, but the lid appeared to be popping up just a bit, as if the box was full. In the old days, the box had only ever been full after the prince had come to stay at his palace.

With fumbling fingers and his heart beating a little faster, he jammed his key into the lock and lifted the lid to reveal two bags and a silver cup that would be perfect for communion—something he’d noted when he’d seen it in the satchel Rhys and he had uncovered in the Roman temple.

Irked that Rhys had disobeyed him, fearful for his wellbeing, and uncertain what to do with the knowledge that his friend had stolen from the king, he lifted the cup and the bags out of the box. For a moment, he gaped at the wealth in his hands, and then he carried everything to the altar.

After setting the cup in the center of the linen altar cloth, he opened the bags one at a time and dumped out their contents. The first bag contained nothing but silver pennies, a hundred of them. The second contained an equal number of pennies, but also a note, once sealed with the Boydell crest but already broken open. Unfolding the letter, it was revealed to be written in Latin and signed by Simon Boydell himself.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. Rhys wanted you to take some of what he found, but you wouldn’t, for good reason. It is better for his heart that he does not steal, even from a king he hates. I am not so burdened by honor as he, so I leave you now with what you refused before. Help your people, Father, in Rhys’s name.”

That was the first paragraph. The second, added at the end in the same hand but not as legibly, implying haste, said, “It appears Rhys has left you a bag too. Know that it contains his entire wages for the last ten days. Spend it wisely, for it is not so much silver he’s given you as his heart.”

Then came a quote from the very psalm Medwyn himself had just been singing: “Let me hear Your loving kindness in the morning; For I trust in You; Teach me the way in which I should walk; For to You I lift up my soul.”

A rush of air poured in through the door, lifting a lock of hair from Medwyn’s forehead, and sending a shiver down his spine. Though he was not a superstitious man, he had learned over the years to trust even when he couldn’t see. A new wind was blowing. Today it smelled strongly of rain. What it would bring to Wales, Medwyn didn’t know and only time would tell. All the same, he couldn’t help thinking the wind that had brought Rhys home to Gwynedd, even though it had swept him along like a hurricane, boded only good.

Then he locked the alms box and gathered up the wealth. He would use it, as Simon had asked, for the good of his people.