"Are you familiar with Saint Cuthman?" Alfred asked me cheerfully. "No, lord." "He was a hermit," Alfred said. We were riding north, keeping on the high ground with the swamp to our left. "His mother was crippled and so he made her a wheelbarrow." "A wheelbarrow? What could a cripple do with a wheelbarrow?" "No, no, no! He pushed her about in it! So she could be with him as he preached. He pushed her everywhere." "She must have liked that." "There's no written life of him that I know of,' Alfred said, 'but we must surely compose one. He could be a saint for mothers?" "Or for wheelbarrows, lord."