The Hawks of Delamere Page 4

  ‘May I visit the chapel, my lord?’ asked Gervase.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Ralph?’

  ‘I would rather see the rest of the defences, Gervase.’

  ‘Then I will leave you to it.’ He gave a nod of farewell to his host. ‘My lord.’

  ‘Gerold will show you all that you wish to see.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Gervase walked away, Hugh kept one glaucous eye on him. ‘Your young friend is contentious, Ralph.’

  ‘Ignore him, my lord,’ said Ralph with a grin. ‘Gervase is a lawyer. He loves to argue.’

  ‘I do not tolerate argument.’

  ‘Not even from your wife?’

  ‘She does not argue,’ returned the other with a laugh. ‘She simply complains. Like every other wife. What is marriage but an endless series of moans and reproaches?’

  ‘That has not been my experience, my lord.’

  ‘Then your wife has no tongue in her head.’

  ‘She does,’ Ralph assured him, ‘but I manage to stay on the right side of her anger. Life is much happier that way.’

  ‘Is Gervase married?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Betrothed?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. To a gorgeous creature called Alys.’

  ‘That might explain it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His restless urge for debate,’ said Hugh. ‘If he had a woman in his bed, she would take him between her thighs and squeeze it out of him.’ He turned to Ralph. ‘He is a handsome enough lad. There are ladies aplenty in Chester who would willingly do the office for him. Should I provide one or two?’

  ‘Gervase would not even look at them, my lord.’

  ‘Is he too shy?’

  ‘Too faithful to Alys.’

  ‘Fidelity is the enemy of true happiness.’

  ‘I am not sure that I agree with that.’

  ‘Gervase will learn.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a newcomer. Flanked by four armed soldiers, a big, bearded, sturdy man came into view and marched round the edge of the courtyard. Even with his hands tied behind his back, the man had an undeniable dignity about him. There was real pride in the upward tilt of his chin. The dark hair, swarthy skin and telltale attire helped Ralph to identify him.

  ‘A Welsh prisoner, I think.’

  ‘Yes, Ralph.’

  ‘A member of their nobility.’

  ‘Of higher rank than that.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Gruffydd ap Cynan.’

  Ralph was surprised. ‘The Prince of Gwynedd?’

  ‘No less.’

  ‘And you have him under lock and key?’

  ‘Yes, Ralph. He is let out for exercise twice a day.’

  ‘I thought that Gruffydd ap Cynan collaborated with us.’

  ‘He did at first. Then he was gripped by the folly that he could unite his people and put us to flight. I thought it safer to let him cool his heels in my dungeon. He will not cause any problems in there.’

  ‘Will they not try to rescue him?’

  ‘Nobody can escape from Chester Castle.’

  ‘They are bound to seek the release of their prince.’

  ‘Yes, Ralph,’ said Hugh grandly, ‘but I will hear none of their entreaties. They have offered me money, land or both in return for their beloved prince but he is far more valuable to me in a dungeon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Release him and he might start a Welsh uprising.’

  ‘He is a doughty soldier, I know that.’

  ‘And an inspiring leader. Locking him up is the only sensible course of action. We have had uninterrupted peace on the border since Gruffydd became my guest.’

  The Welshman walked past and shot them a glare of hatred.

  ‘He is not entirely happy with his lodging,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Who cares?’ replied Hugh. ‘At one stroke, I have crippled the Welsh army. They cannot operate without Gruffydd ap Cynan at their head. As long as he is my prisoner, there is no danger whatsoever of a Welsh uprising.’

  Chapter Three

  The cathedral church of St John stood outside the city walls. It was at once an integral part of Chester and a detached appendage and the bishop sometimes felt that its ambiguous situation accurately reflected his own relationship with the city. He was both accepted and limited, recognised as a key feature in the community yet held back from exercising his full episcopal power and influence. Earl Hugh cast a long shadow. Bishop Robert had not yet found the way to escape it.

  The church of St John Baptist was a seventh-century foundation which had been refounded in 1057 as a collegiate establishment by Leofric of Mercia, one of the three great earls of the day among whom the government of the kingdom had been divided. At the time of the Conquest, the county of Cheshire was in the diocese of Lichfield, but that city became so impoverished and its cathedral so poorly maintained that Archbishop Lanfranc eventually moved the bishop’s seat to Chester. It had been a cathedral city now for over ten years and that decade had seen some extensive rebuilding as the collegiate church was extended and improved in accordance with its new status.

  When Canon Hubert and Brother Simon entered the precincts through the high round-headed arch, they were met by the soaring stone of the eastern end of the nave. They paused to appraise the building before moving slowly round it to study its salient features on all sides. Wooden scaffolding was still in place around the chancel and stonemasons swarmed busily over it, but the visitors were able to see more than enough of the edifice to make a sound judgement.

  They were deeply impressed. It might lack the grandeur of Canterbury cathedral and the breathtaking scale of York minster – both of which they had visited in the course of their official duties – but Chester cathedral had a dignity and character all of its own. Bishop Robert, they decided, was to be congratulated on transforming a humble collegiate church into such an inspiring structure. After their bruising confrontation with the earl at the castle, both men were relieved to be on consecrated ground once more.

  Brother Simon crossed himself and emitted a long sigh. ‘We are safe,’ he said.

  ‘We are always safe in the hands of the Lord,’ corrected Hubert pedantically. ‘He is there to help us at all times and in all places.’

  ‘I did not feel His comforting touch at the castle.’

  ‘I did, Brother Simon. It sustained me.’

  ‘I went weak at the knees,’ confessed the other.

  ‘Put on the whole armour of God.’

  ‘Yes, Canon Hubert. It will be necessary apparel.’

  ‘It will protect you against that fiend in human shape.’

  ‘Earl Hugh terrified me. Wearing that cowl was a calculated insult to the Benedictine order.’

  ‘He will be made to pay for it in time.’

  The plump figure of Archdeacon Frodo bore down on them. His face was wreathed in a smile and his podgy hands were gesturing a welcome. Introductions were made and friendship instantly established. Hubert recognised at a glance that the archdeacon was a man after his own heart, and Simon was profoundly reassured by the warmth of their reception. Chester was not, after all, an antechamber of Hell.

  ‘How was your journey?’ inquired Frodo.

  ‘Long and tedious,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Then you will want to rest.’

  ‘Not until we have seen Bishop Robert. We would like to pay our respects and deliver some letters from Bishop Walkelin of Winchester.’

  ‘Bishop Robert will be delighted to see you,’ said Frodo, ‘but he is engaged at present with another visitor. Let me show you to your lodgings so that you may deposit your baggage and shake some of the dust of travel from your feet.’

  ‘Teach us the way, Archdeacon Frodo.’

  ‘We are so grateful to be here,’ confided Simon. ‘We met with a dispiriting welcome at the castle.’

  ‘From whom?’

&nbs
p; ‘Earl Hugh.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frodo tactfully. ‘He is a creature of moods. Catch the earl at the wrong time and it can be a distressing experience. But,’ he continued, trying to redress the balance of his implied criticism, ‘he has many good qualities.’

  Simon gaped. ‘Has he?’

  ‘Earl Hugh has done an immense amount for this city.’

  ‘In the name of self-aggrandisement,’ opined Hubert.

  ‘That is not for me to say.’

  ‘We have eyes and ears, Archdeacon Frodo.’

  ‘Do not underrate Earl Hugh’s contribution to the safety of this community,’ warned the archdeacon. ‘Chester has been a far more secure place to live under his aegis.’

  ‘How much freedom do you enjoy within that security?’

  ‘We have no complaints, Canon Hubert.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘I find that astonishing.’

  ‘The holy church must adapt itself to the conditions in which it finds itself,’ said Frodo evenly. ‘And that is what Bishop Robert has done.’

  Hubert’s jowls shook in disagreement. ‘I have always held that the holy church should lead rather than follow,’ he said with a glance up at the heavens. ‘It is for man to adapt to God and not the other way round.’

  ‘I have great sympathy with that point of view as well,’ consoled the archdeacon. ‘Here in Chester, I think you will find, we have achieved a workable compromise.’

  ‘Between what?’

  ‘You will see.’

  Frodo led them off to their lodgings and waited while each of them settled into the small cell which had been set aside for him. Brother Simon was pleased by the monastic simplicity of his accommodation, but the four bare walls and rude mattress held less appeal for Canon Hubert. Back in Winchester, he was accustomed to a far more comfortable chamber and to food of a higher quality and quantity than he expected to find here. While Simon offered up a prayer of thanks for his return to his natural habitat, Hubert’s limbs ached in anticipation and his stomach began to rumble mutinously. He was even prey to envious thoughts about the banquet at the castle.

  When the guests were ready, Frodo took them away. They made an incongruous trio. Beside the emaciated scribe the fleshy archdeacon looked truly corpulent, but he himself appeared slim when viewed against the adipose canon. A master of the middle way, Frodo was glad that he occupied an intermediate position between the two newcomers, physically and theologically. It would enable him to communicate easily with both.

  ‘Where was your last assignment?’ he asked.

  ‘Oxford,’ said Hubert. ‘Ill health prevented me from joining the commission at first, but they could not manage without my services and I was summoned from my sickbed to help my colleagues out of the pit into which they had fallen in my absence.’

  Canon Hubert was their salvation,’ said Simon.

  ‘I am not surprised,’ said Frodo, without irony.

  ‘Several complicated disputes came before us,’ explained Hubert, ‘but we managed to settle all of them satisfactorily. We certainly left Oxford a far healthier and more just place than we found it.’

  ‘I hope that you do the same with Chester.’

  ‘We will, Archdeacon Frodo. We will.’

  The three men strode on in companionable silence until they came to Bishop Robert’s chamber. In the short time he had known them, Frodo felt that he had learned a great deal about the visitors, all of it encouraging news, while, for their part, Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were convinced that they would be far happier as the guests of an obliging bishop than of an egregious earl.

  That conviction was summarily shattered. The door of the room swung open to reveal another visitor to the cathedral. Hubert and Simon recoiled in horror. A small, wiry, wild-eyed and sprightlyman in his late thirties stood before them, wearing a ragged lambskin cloak that was spattered with mud and reeking with decay. Indeed, since the cloak hid most of his diminutive body, he looked and smelled more like a dead sheep than a live churchman. Hubert and Simon were frankly appalled.

  Here was the last man in the world they wished to meet again. What added to their distress was the patent enthusiasm with which he greeted them. The wild eyes intensified, the animated body went into a spasm of joy and the inimitable face became one large grinning rictus. He let out a cackle of pleasure which chilled them to the bone.

  ‘This is Archdeacon Idwal,’ said Frodo.

  ‘Hubert and Simon gave their response in perfect unison. ‘We know,’ they groaned. ‘We know!’

  ‘Gervase Bret knelt at the altar rail for several minutes in private communion with his Maker. The chapel was dark and dank but its atmosphere had a spirituality which he found conducive to prayer and meditation. It was only when he rose to leave that he realised he was not alone.

  Brother Gerold slipped out of the shadows at the rear of the little nave and greeted him with a smile of approval. ‘That was a long grace before a meal,’ he commented.

  ‘I was giving thanks for our safe arrival.’

  ‘God watched over your journey.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Gervase. ‘It remains to be seen if He will be equally vigilant on our behalf during our stay here.’

  ‘Do you feel in need of divine assistance?’

  ‘It is always welcome. Will you show me round the chapel?’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  Their inspection completed, the two men came out into the bailey and headed towards the keep. Gerold was an easy companion, quiet, unassuming and friendly. His questions were searching and yet remarkably inoffensive

  ‘I believe that you were once destined for the cowl.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The lord Ralph.’

  ‘It’s true,’ conceded Gervase. ‘I was a novice at Eltham Abbey but drew back at the last moment.’

  ‘Fear or lack of faith?’

  ‘Human frailty, Brother Gerold.’

  ‘A young woman?’

  ‘Her name is Alys. We are betrothed.’

  ‘I congratulate you, Gervase.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I am pleased to see that her presence in your life has not distracted you from your devotions.’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ admitted Gervase. ‘Not a day passes but I thank God for bringing me Alys in the first place. My work as a commissioner means that we are perforce apart a great deal, and that causes much heartache. Prayer is not merely a way of dulling the pain. God is indulgent. I find that through Him I can keep in touch with Alys.’

  ‘And she with you, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes, Brother Gerold. She is a devout Christian.’

  ‘I expected no less.’

  They began to ascend the steps set into the huge mound on which the keep was set. Gerold probed gently away.

  ‘Have you never had regrets about leaving the abbey?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘What do you miss most?’

  ‘The comforting ritual of the Benedictine order.’

  ‘It is supposed to tax as well as comfort.’

  ‘I found it reassuring,’ said Gervase. ‘When I was at Eltham, my whole day was shaped in the service of God. I lived and worked alongside holy men and that is always instructive.’

  ‘I can see that you were an apt pupil.’

  ‘My modest gifts are employed elsewhere now.’

  ‘There is nothing modest about your talents, Gervase.’

  ‘I have been fortunate.’

  ‘Eltham Abbey was the loser when you departed.’

  ‘They would have gained nothing from having a discontented monk in their midst. I chose the right path.’

  ‘I am glad that it has crossed mine.’

  Gervase was touched by the obvious sincerity of the remark. Having heard so much about the excesses of the Earl of Chester, it was refreshing to discover that there was someone like Brother Gerold at his side to impose a degree of control over his mast
er.

  As they approached the hall, further conversation became impossible because the sound which came through the closed doors was deafening. Evidently, the banquet was already in full swing. When the doors swung open to admit the newcomers, the noise surged out like a tidal wave. A combination of music, clapping, singing, shouting and cheering washed over them. They plunged into the maelstrom with misgivings.

  Long oak tables were set out in a horseshoe pattern. They were laden with every conceivable variety of rich food, and pitchers of wine stood everywhere. Almost a hundred guests were packed into the hall, laughing, joking and generally swelling the cacophony. In the flickering candlelight, it looked like a scene of wild abandon.

  ‘Over here, Gervase!’ called Ralph, waving to him. ‘I have been keeping a place for you beside me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gervase, making his way towards him.

  When he turned to bid farewell to Gerold, he saw that the chaplain had already been swallowed up in the crowd. Gervase dedicated all his energies to pushing past the jiggling bodies of the other guests to the table at the very centre of the horseshoe. Ralph Delchard was in a chair beside the earl who was in turn seated beside his wife, Ermintrude, a woman of great poise and beauty who seemed out of place in such a gathering.

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Ralph as Gervase sat down.

  ‘In the chapel.’

  ‘You missed the start of the banquet.’

  ‘It looks as if it started days ago,’ observed Gervase, gazing around at the drunken guests. ‘How long can they keep this pandemonium up?’

  ‘They know how to enjoy themselves, that is all.’

  ‘Bear in mind that we have work to do in the morning.’

  Ralph was peeved. ‘I can hold my wine.’

  ‘It looks as if you will have ample opportunity to prove it,’ said Gervase as a servant arrived to pour him some wine and to refill Ralph’s cup. ‘The King himself does not dine in such style as this.’

  ‘It is all in our honour!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘That is why we must not hold back.’

  ‘Gervase grinned. ‘Nobody could accuse you of doing that.’

  Ralph chuckled and slapped him on the back. Servants came to load Gervase’s plate with some spiced rabbit and he sampled the delicacy. When his ears became used to the din, he slowly began to enjoy the meal. It was superb, comprising ten courses, each of which was paraded round the room on huge pewter plates before it was served to the guests. Minstrels played but nobody listened. Dancers whirled but few watched. There was so much revelry at the tables themselves that everything else was merely a garnishing.