The lonesome coracle brings monks, not pirates. A small band of brothers and one sister make a strange crew - from Ireland, by the lilt of their voices. I stay in the shadows of the crags as the pilgrims make their way inland. Beneath my robes I still wear my black, leathern hauberk. Where a small, wooden cross would dangle at a hermit's waist there is instead a marvellous sword, tucked in concealment. I am not actually a Culdee, though I dress and live as one, cloaking the soldier beneath. The noblest king that ever I've fought beside now sits in Heaven beside Our Lord God. There is none between Himself and me, excepting Our Saviour, of course.

When I am certain that my guests and I are well out of sight of any prying eyes along the shoreline, I step from the shadows and make myself known. This is a risky business with armed, foreign diplomats, as one is liable to be run through. With defenseless men of God, there is less of a worry. There is only the needless flinch of alarm, quelled quickly by a few kind words.

"Welcome to Dyfed, Brothers and Sister. Your journey was no doubt a rough one. Please accept my hospitality - a little food a drink - before continuing on your way."

I invite them further to share their business with me, if they desire, and they are more than happy to do so. They are a very pleasant company, though quite different from the monks of Britain. They are hardier and of a lighter disposition than the brooding brothers I am accustomed to on the Isle of Mighty.

The girl is silent a long while, letting her company do most of the talking. Their business is with the church in Glastenning, if they speak truly, but I can't shake the feeling that they are here for the girl's sake more so than for their own.