Arrangements are made, and on a cool day in November, a lone rider approaches.
Father Thomas wears a rough-spun robe, with a threadbare hood to keep out the chill. You had word of the arrival of a horseman, and watch from the steps of your recently renovated manor as his donkey trots up to the house. At a wave from you, groomsmen come forward and steady the animal, helping the thin figure off his mount.
He stretches, arching his back, and walks forward, a crooked staff in his hand. He seems a man used to life on the road. Under the hood, you can see the shaved pate that mark him as a holy man, and an unadorned weathered wooden cross hangs about his neck. He steps forward and bows low.
Rising, he says, "Well met, Sir Cedwyn. I am Father Thomas. I thank you, and God, for your hospitality." You note the Gaulish accent to his voice.
He seems a humble man. He shows no sign of worldly wealth, and does not have the prideful face many in the upper levels of the church hierarchy seem to have.
