Angela Quarles Quote

Here before you lies the memorial to St. Cefnogwr, though he is not buried here, of course. At her words, an uncanny knowing flushed through Katy and, crazy-of-crazy, transfixed her. Why? Where is he? Traci stepped forward, hand on her hip. A you’re-right-on-cue look crossed the guide’s face. She pointed to the ceiling. Traci scoffed. I meant, where’s the body? Her American southern accent lent a strange contrast to her skepticism. Again, the tour guide’s arthritic finger pointed upward, and a smile tugged at her lips, the smokers’ wrinkles on her upper lip smoothing out. That’s the miracle that made him a saint, you see. Throughout the twelve hundreds, the Welsh struggled to maintain our independence from the English. During Madog’s Rebellion in 1294, St. Cefnogwr, a noble Norman-English knight, turned against his liege lord and sided with the Welsh— Norman-English? Katy frowned, her voice raspy in her dry throat. Why would a Norman have a Welsh name and side with the Welsh? She might be an American, but her years living in England had taught her that was unusual.The English nicknamed him. It means ‘sympathizer’ in Welsh. The knight was captured and, for his crime, sentenced to hang. As he swung, the rope creaking in the crowd’s silence, an angel of mercy swooped down and— She clapped her hands in one decisive smack, and everyone jumped. The rope dangled empty, free of its burden. Proof, we say, of his noble cause. He’s been venerated ever since as a Welsh hero. Another chill danced over Katy’s skin. A chill that flashed warm as the story seeped into her. Familiar. Achingly familiar. Unease followed—this existential stuff was so not her. His rescue by an angel was enough to make him a saint? ever-practical Traci asked. Unofficially. The Welsh named him one, and eventually it became a fait accompli. Now, please follow me. The tour guide stepped toward a side door. Katy let the others pass and approached the knight covered in chainmail and other medieval-looking doodads. Only his face peeked out from a tight-fitting, chainmail hoodie-thing. One hand gripped a shield, the other, a sword. She touched his straight nose, the marble a cool kiss against her finger. So. This person had lived about sevenhundred years ago. His angular features were starkly masculine. Probably had women admiring them in the flesh. Had he loved? An odd…void bloomed within, tugging at her, as if it were the absence of a feeling seeking wholeness. Evidence of past lives frozen in time always made her feel…disconnected. Disconnected and disturbed. Unable to grasp some larger meaning. Especially since Isabelle was in the past now too, instead of here as her maid of honor. She traced along the knight’s torso, the bumps from the carved chainmail teasing her fingers. The tour group is getting on the bus. Hurry. Traci’s voice came from the door. Coming. One last glance at her knight. Katy ran a finger down his strong nose again. Bye, she whispered.