The Summer of the Danes (2 page)

“The
bishop has been very good to me,” said Mark, shaking off firmly the idea of any
special preference being shown him in his selection for this mission, “but so
he is to all those close about him. There’s more to this than favour to me. Now
that he’s set up Bishop Gilbert in Saint Asaph, the archbishop knows very well
how shaky his position must be, and wants to make sure his throne is secured by
every support possible. It was his wish—indeed his command—that our bishop
should pay the new man this complimentary visit, seeing it’s from his diocese
most of Gilbert’s new see has been lopped. Let the world see what harmony there
is among bishops—even bishops who have had a third of their territory whipped
from under their feet. Whatever Bishop Roger may be thinking of the wisdom of
planting a Norman, with not a word of Welsh, in a see nine-tenths Welsh, he
could hardly refuse the archbishop. But it was left to him how he carried out
the order. I think he chose me because he does not wish to make too lavish and
flattering a show. His letter is formal and beautifully executed, his gift is
more than suitable. But I—I am a judicious half-measure!”

They
were gathered in conference in one of the carrels of the north walk, where the
spring sunshine still reached slanting fingers of pale gold even in late
afternoon, an hour or so before Vespers. Hugh Beringar had ridden down from his
house in the town as soon as word of Brother Mark’s arrival had reached him,
not because the sheriff had any official business in this clerical embassage,
but for the pleasure of seeing again a young man he held in affectionate
remembrance, and to whom, in this present instance, he might be able to give
some help and advice. Hugh’s relations with North Wales were good. He had a
friendly agreement with Owain Gwynedd, since neither of them trusted their
mutual neighbour the earl of Chester, and they could accept each other’s word
without question. With Madog ap Meredith of Powis the sheriff had a more
precarious relationship. The Shropshire border was constantly alert against
sporadic and almost playful raids from beyond the dyke, though at this present
time all was comparatively quiet. What the conditions of travel were likely to
be on this ride to Saint Asaph, Hugh was the most likely man to know.

“I
think you are too modest,” he said seriously. “I fancy the bishop knows you
well enough by now, if he’s had you constantly about him, to have a very good
opinion of your wit, and trusts you to step gently where a weightier ambassador
might talk too much and listen too little. Cadfael here will tell you more than
I can about Welsh feeling in Church matters, but I know where politics enter
into it. You can be sure that Owain Gwynedd has a sharp eye on the doings of
Archbishop Theobald in his domain, and Owain is always to be reckoned with. And
only four years ago there was a new bishop consecrated in his own home diocese
of Bangor, which is totally Welsh. There at least they did sanction a Welshman,
one who at first refused to swear fealty to King Stephen or acknowledge the
dominance of Canterbury. Meurig was no hero, and did finally give way and do
both, and it cost him Owain’s countenance and favour at the time. There was
strong resistance to allowing him to take his seat. But they’ve come to terms
and made up their differences since then, which means they’ll certainly work
together to keep Gwynedd from being wholly subservient to Theobald’s influence.
To consecrate a Norman now to Saint Asaph is a challenge to princes as well as
prelates, and whoever undertakes a diplomatic mission there will have to keep a
sharp eye on both.”

“And
Owain at least,” Cadfael added shrewdly, “will be keeping a sharp eye on what
his people are feeling, and an ear open to what they are saying. It behoves
Gilbert to do the same. Gwynedd has no mind to give way to Canterbury, they
have saints and customs and rites of their own.”

“I
have heard,” said Mark, “that formerly, a long time ago, St David’s was the
metropolitan see of Wales, with its own archbishop not subject to Canterbury.
There are some Welsh churchmen now who want that rule restored.” Cadfael shook
his head rather dubiously at that. “Better not to look too closely into the
past, we’re hearing more of that claim the more the writ of Canterbury is urged
on us. But certainly Owain will be casting his shadow over his new bishop, by
way of a reminder he’s in alien territory, and had better mind his manners. I
hope he may be a wise man, and go gently with his flock.”

“Our
bishop is very much in agreement with you,” said Mark, “and I’m well briefed. I
did not tell the whole of my errand in chapter, though I have told it to Father
Abbot since. I have yet another letter and gift to deliver. I am to go on to
Bangor—oh, no, this is certainly not at Archbishop Theobald’s orders!—and pay
the same courtesy to Bishop Meurig as to Bishop Gilbert. If Theobald holds that
bishops should stand together, then Roger de Clinton’s text is that the
principle applies to Norman and Welsh alike. And we propose to treat them
alike.”

The
“we”, as applying to Mark in common with his illustrious superior, sounded an
echoing chord in Cadfael’s ears. He recalled just as innocent a presumption of
partnership some years back, when this boy had been gradually emerging from his
well-founded wariness of all men into warmth and affection, and this impulsive
loyalty to those he admired and served. His “we”, then, had signified himself
and Cadfael, as if they were two venturers keeping each the other’s back
against the world.

“More
and more,” said Hugh appreciatively, “I warm to this bishop of ours. But he’s
sending you even on this longer journey alone?”

“Not
quite alone.” Brother Mark’s thin, bright face flashed for an instant into a
slightly mischievous smile, as though he had still some mysterious surprise up
his sleeve. “But he would not hesitate to ride across Wales alone, and neither
would I. He takes it for granted the Church and the cloth will be respected.
But of course I shall be glad of any advice you can give me about the best way.
You know far better than I or my bishop what conditions hold good in Wales. I
thought to go directly by Oswestry and Chirk. What do you think?”

“Things
are quiet enough up there,” Hugh agreed. “In any event, Madog, whatever else he
may be, is a pious soul where churchmen are concerned, however he may treat the
English laity. And for the moment he has all the lesser lads of Powys Fadog on
a tight rein. Yes, you’ll be safe enough that way, and it’s your quickest way,
though you’ll find some rough upland riding between Dee and Clwyd.”

By
the brightness and speculation of Mark’s grey eyes he was looking forward to
his adventure. It is a great thing to be trusted with an important errand when
you are the latest and least of your lord’s servants, and for all his awareness
that his humble status was meant to temper the compliment, he was also aware
how much depended on the address with which he discharged his task. He was
meant not to flatter, not to exalt, but nevertheless to present in his person
the real and formidable solidarity of bishop with bishop.

“Are
there things I should know,” he asked, “about affairs in Gwynedd? The politics
of the Church must reckon with the politics of state, and I am ignorant about
things Welsh. I need to know on what subjects to keep my mouth shut, and when
to speak, and what it would be wise to say. All the more as I am to go on to
Bangor. What if the court should be there? I may have to account for myself to
Owain’s officers. Even to Owain himself!”

“True
enough,” said Hugh, “for he usually contrives to know of every stranger who
enters his territory. You’ll find him approachable enough if you do encounter
him. For that matter, you may give him my greetings and compliments. And
Cadfael has met him, twice at least. A large man, every way! Just say no word
of brothers! It may still be a sore point with him.”

“Brothers
have been the ruin of Welsh princedoms through all ages,” Cadfael observed
ruefully. “Welsh princes should have only one son apiece. The father builds up
a sound principality and a strong rule, and after his death his three or four
or five sons, in and out of wedlock, all demand by right equal shares, and the
law says they should have them. Then one picks off another, to enlarge his
portion, and it would take more than law to stop the killing. I wonder,
sometimes, what will happen when Owain’s gone. He has sons already, and time
enough before him to get more. Are they, I wonder, going to undo everything
he’s done?”

“Please
God,” said Hugh fervently, “Owain’s going may not be for thirty years or more.
He’s barely past forty. I can deal with Owain, he keeps his word and he keeps
his balance. If Cadwaladr had been the elder and got the dominance we should
have had border war along this frontier year in, year out.”

“This
Cadwaladr is the brother it’s best not to mention?” Mark asked. “What has he
done that makes him anathema?”

“A
number of things over the years. Owain must love him, or he would have let
someone rid him of the pest long ago. But this time, murder. Some months ago,
in the autumn of last year, a party of his closest men ambushed the prince of
Deheubarth and killed him. God knows for what mad reason! The young fellow was
in close alliance with him, and betrothed to Owain’s daughter, there was no
manner of sense in such an act. And for all Cadwaladr did not appear himself in
the deed, Owain for one was in no doubt it was done on his orders. None of them
would have dared, not of their own doing.”

Cadfael
recalled the shock of the murder, and the swift and thorough retribution. Owain
Gwynedd in outraged justice had sent his son Hywel to drive Cadwaladr bodily
out of every furlong of land he held in Ceredigion, and burn his castle of
Llanbadarn, and the young man, barely past twenty, had accomplished his task
with relish and efficiency. Doubtless Cadwaladr had friends and adherents who
would give him at least the shelter of a roof, but he remained landless and
outcast. Cadfael could not but wonder, not only where the offender was lurking
now, but whether he might not end, like Geoffrey of Mandeville in the Fens,
gathering the scum of North Wales about him, criminals, malcontents, natural
outlaws, and preying on all law-abiding people.

“What
became of this Cadwaladr?” asked Mark with understandable curiosity.
“Dispossession. Owain drove him out of every piece of land he had to his name.
Not a toehold left to him in Wales.”

“But
he’s still at large, somewhere,” Cadfael observed, with some concern, “and by
no means the man to take his penalty tamely. There could be mischief yet to
pay. I see you’re bound into a perilous labyrinth. I think you should not be
going alone.”

Hugh
was studying Mark’s face, outwardly impassive, but with a secretive sparkle of
fun in the eyes that watched Cadfael so assiduously. “As I recall,” said Hugh
mildly, “he said: ‘Not quite alone!’”

“So
he did!” Cadfael stared into the young face that confronted him so solemnly,
but for that betraying gleam in the eyes. “What is it, boy, that you have not
told us? Out with it! Who goes with you?”

“But
I did tell you,” said Mark, “that I am going on to Bangor. Bishop Gilbert is
Norman, and speaks both French and English, but Bishop Meurig is Welsh, and he
and many of his people speak no English, and my Latin would serve me only among
the clerics. So I am allowed an interpreter. Bishop Roger has no competent
Welsh speaker close to him or in his confidence. I offered a name, one he had
not forgotten.” The sparkle had grown into a radiance that lit his face, and
reflected not only light but enlightenment back into Cadfael’s dazzled eyes. “I
have been keeping the best till last,” said Mark, glowing. “I got leave to win
my man, if Abbot Radulfus would sanction his absence. I have as good as
promised him the loan will be for only ten days or so at the most. So how can I
possibly miscarry,” asked Mark reasonably, “if you are coming with me?”

It
was a matter of principle, or perhaps of honour, with Brother Cadfael, when a
door opened before him suddenly and unexpectedly, to accept the offer and walk
through it. He did so with even more alacrity if the door opened on a prospect
of Wales; it might even be said that he broke into a trot, in case the door
slammed again on that enchanting view. Not merely a brief sally over the border
into Powis, this time, but several days of riding, in the very fellowship he
would have chosen, right across the coastal regions of Gwynedd, from Saint
Asaph to Carnarvon, past Aber of the princes, under the tremendous shoulders of
Moel Wnion. Time to talk over every day of the time they had been apart, time
to reach the companionable silences when all that needed to be said was said.
And all this the gift of Brother Mark. Wonderful what riches a man can bestow
who by choice and vocation possesses nothing! The world is full of small,
beneficent miracles.

“Son,”
said Cadfael heartily, “for such refreshment I’ll be your groom along the way,
as well as your interpreter. There’s no way you or any man could have given me
more pleasure. And did Radulfus really say I’m free to go?”

“He
did,” Mark assured him, “and the choice of a horse from the stables is yours.
And you have today and tomorrow to make your preparations with Edmund and
Winfrid for the days you’re absent, and to keep the hours of the Office so
strictly that even your errant soul shall go protected to Bangor and back.”

“I
am wholly virtuous and regenerate,” said Cadfael with immense content. “Has not
heaven just shown it by letting me loose into Wales? Do you think I am going to
risk disapprobation now?”