A Gift Of Sanctuary

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Pulling the hood of his cloak over his comb- and trinket-twisted hair and fastening it against the wind, the old man rode out on to the sands. He was about to nudge his steed to a gallop when the beast shied. God’s grace was upon the man who lay there, that the horse had brought his hoofs down on the bare sand and not on the prostrate form. The old man dismounted to examine this booty of the sea, discovered it was blood, not seaweed that darkened the young man’s hair. He glanced round, wary of trespassing on another’s battle ground, but the mist and blowing sand prevented him from seeing far. The roar of the breakers muted the sound of any who might share the beach with him.

The old man crouched beside the one sprawled on his back in the sand and studied him. One blood-encrusted hand still held a dagger. Blood darkened the edge of the man’s sleeve — another’s blood, for the stains higher up were spatters. A deep thrust into the gut or the chest might cause such a flood. The white-haired man guessed that someone had died this day, at this man’s hands. It had not been an easy victory; a bruise on this one’s throat already darkened and he bled freely from an almost severed ear. It might well be beyond Brother Samson’s skill to repair the latter.

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