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remember you well,” the man said. “That I was given this opportunity to speak with you suggests that God has truly smiled on my pilgrimage here.”
    The priest bowed his head with expected modesty, and the coin was softly dropped into his moist palm.
    The merchant knelt. “I beg a blessing.”
    The boon was quickly granted.
    The merchant rose, his lips moving with the final words of some silent prayer.
    Rubbing his fingers around the edges of the coin, the priest noted with delight that it was newly minted. Some pilgrims tried to pass off severely worn or even clipped ones of much reduced value. Suspecting that a blessing was not all this man wanted, Vincent waited to hear what was expected in exchange for the fine coin given.
    But the merchant seemed more inclined to casual conversation as he took the priest by the elbow and suggested they walk on. “I am grateful to see Walsingham so peaceful during this visit. I have been here before when the crowds have been thick and the lines to get into the shrines very long.”
    “It is still the season of Lent. We pray that the weather will soon grow warm and more pilgrims will arrive,” Father Vincent said, feeling relieved when the man ceased to direct him quite so firmly onward.
    “During my early supper at the inn last night, I overheard mention of a visit from the king. As it was time for my prayers, I could not question the speaker further and thus remain ignorant of whether he has already been here or not. Have I missed him?”
    “King Edward had not yet come to Walsingham,” the priest said, “but we pray that he will honor all the shrines with his presence soon.”
    The man sighed. “Now I am truly perplexed. Shall I stay or must I leave? There will be so many who want to welcome our earthly lord. They and his attendants will demand comfortable lodgings.” He shook his head. “My room is small, but the bed lacks fleas. Were I to stay, one of his men might toss me out of the chamber and claim it for himself.” He laughed, a sound that lacked both mockery and cheerfulness. “What then should I do?”
    Father Vincent again ran his finger over the clean edge of the coin and dared to hope there might be more of these if his reply was cleverly phrased. “I beg pardon, but my memory fails me on occasion. Your name, Master?”
    “Durant, a merchant of fine wines.” The man lowered his gaze as if discomfited by possessing such a worldly occupation.
    “Of course! I do recall your other visits here.” That was not true, but the name did sound familiar. “If you wish to stay longer, I could arrange plain but clean quarters so you need not fear if the king’s men required your present room at the inn. King Edward himself will be given lodging at Walsingham Priory, but I can offer you my own chambers attached to the chapel next to Ryehill Priory. Perhaps this transformation had not yet taken place when you were last here, but that chapel has become the glorious Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock. I have the honor of caring for it.”
    The Augustinian priory and Prior William would be obliged to find a spot for him to sleep if he had to give up his small room, Vincent thought, and this pilgrim seemed inclined to a generosity that should compensate him for that temporary discomfort. Staying at Walsingham Priory might also give him the opportunity to direct the attention of one of the king’s courtiers, or even the king himself, to Ryehill’s small shrine. Trying not to smile, the priest grew quite pleased with the merits of his idea.
    Master Durant’s expression blended gratitude with pleasure. “Your charity to this lowly pilgrim is admirable, Father, and God demands that such kindness not go unrewarded.” He discreetly ran his hand over a bulging pouch near his waist.
    The priest licked his damp lips and hoped this man did not habitually go into the streets with so much obvious wealth. Coins like the one he had just received were better given to God than some unholy