The Hawks of Delamere d-7 Read online

  ‘That is very plain, my lord.’

  Dishes of quail were brought in from the kitchens and taken round the tables to tempt the appetites of the guests. Before anyone was served, however, a fresh plate was set before the earl and one of the quails placed upon it. Out of the fireplace where he had been lurking came a strange, misshapen, dwarfish creature with a bulbous nose and massive ears. Taking the food from the earl’s plate, he sniffed it like a dog then took a tentative bite, chewing it slowly until he was satisfied that it was edible. He nodded to his master then withdrew to his position in the fireplace.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Gervase.

  ‘Durand,’ said Earl Hugh. ‘My taster.’

  ‘Is such a position necessary?’

  ‘I fear that it is, Gervase. Power makes for unpopularity. Those who cannot kill me with their swords may try to poison me instead.

  I put nothing into my mouth until Durand has tasted it first. It is a sensible precaution.’

  ‘Has he ever detected any poison?’ wondered Ralph.

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Killed the chef responsible for cooking that food.’

  ‘Was Durand not affected by the poison?’

  ‘He spat it out. His tongue is infallible.’

  Gervase glanced across at the dwarf, who had now curled up beside one of the mastiffs in front of the fire. He seemed to have far more kinship with the dogs in the room than with the humans.

  Durand had reverted to nature.

  The Lady Ermintrude rose and excused herself from the table.

  She was patently out of place in the gathering and wished to leave before the revelry overflowed into true licentiousness. Ralph gallantly escorted her to the door before bidding her farewell and returning to his place, wondering how his host came to have such a beautiful and gracious wife. He and the earl then fell into a discussion of the Battle of Hastings in which they had both fought with distinction.

  Since he could take no part in military reminiscences, Gervase let his gaze drift around the room until it finally located Brother Gerold. He was sitting at the extreme end of one of the tables, eating quietly and washing down the food with a cup of ale. Gerold might have been alone in the privacy of his lodging. He was quite impervious to the tumult all around him. When the behaviour of his immediate neighbours became still rowdier, he did not even look up from his repast. Why was the chaplain present at such an occasion? Vices which he would surely condemn were exhibited on all sides of him. Was he inured to such antics or did he attend in order to prevent the banquet from spilling over into a complete riot?

  Gervase was intrigued. A grotesque dwarf, a high-minded monk 34

  The Hawks of Delamere

  and an indifferent wife. Hugh d’Avranches kept peculiar company at his table.

  The soldiers won the Battle of Hastings all over again.

  ‘Golden memories!’ sighed the earl.

  ‘A day that changed our lives,’ said Ralph nostalgically.

  ‘And that of every man, woman and child in this country.’

  ‘No question but that it did, my lord.’

  ‘I miss the excitement of battle.’

  ‘It is something I have happily put behind me.’

  ‘You are getting old, Ralph,’ teased the other.

  ‘Old but wise.’

  ‘Where is the wisdom in denying your true instincts?’

  ‘Instincts?’

  ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier,’ insisted Hugh, clapping him between the shoulder blades. ‘Join us tomorrow on a stag hunt and revive those memories of warfare.’

  ‘It is a tempting offer, my lord.’

  ‘Then take it.’

  ‘I may not and will not,’ said Ralph, turning to Gervase. ‘Our work begins in earnest tomorrow and Gervase will not spare me.

  While you pursue stags, we will be hunting game of another kind.’

  ‘Wild boar? Hares? Rabbits?’

  ‘Human game, my lord.’

  ‘Cheats and liars,’ explained Gervase.

  ‘Show them no mercy,’ urged Hugh, banging the table with a fist. ‘Summary justice. Be firm, be brutal. Nothing is served by temporising. I was judge, jury and executioner myself only this morning and it gave me a feeling of exhilaration. It also assuaged my desire for revenge.’

  ‘Revenge?’ repeated Ralph.

  ‘Against the men who killed my favourite hawk.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’

  ‘I did not bother to ask them, Ralph. When someone shoots an arrow at your prize bird, you do not allow him to deliver a sermon on his reasons for doing so. We hanged the rogues from the nearest tree. You should do the same.’

  ‘We do not have the power to execute,’ said Gervase. ‘We can only report malefactors to the King.’

  ‘That is too slow a process for me. I will not wait upon the King’s word. I crave instant retribution.’ He pulled out his dagger to emphasise his point. ‘If someone dares to cross the Earl of Chester, he will not live to boast about it.’

  The dagger was embedded in the table with force.

  It was no idle gesture. Ralph and Gervase knew they had received a grim warning from their host. He would be watching them.

  Chapter Four

  Archdeacon Idwal was in a typically combative vein that evening.

  His whole body was pulsing with vitality.

  ‘I blame the Synod of Whitby!’ he said accusingly, chewing a mouthful of capon. ‘It reached a foolish decision and set the Christian Church on the wrong path.’

  ‘It is rather late in the day to say that,’ observed Frodo drily.

  ‘Your censure is over four hundred years behind the times, archdeacon.’

  ‘It is still relevant.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I say that it is,’ asserted Idwal pugnaciously. ‘What was the main reason for calling the Synod of Whitby?’

  ‘To resolve the paschal controversy.’

  ‘Exactly, my friend. To remove once and for all disputes about how to decide on the date for Easter. The Celtic Church, which, may I remind you, was in existence for centuries before St Augustine began his Christian mission in Kent, had its own method of identifying Easter in the calendar.’

  ‘But the Synod was in favour of the Roman practice.’

  ‘That is where the hideous mistake was made,’ argued the little Welshman before gulping down a generous measure of ale and belching melodiously. ‘Celtic custom and practice should have been respected. In Wales and elsewhere, we had come willingly to God at a time when the English counties were still worshipping false idols. If it were left to me, we would revert at once to Celtic tradition.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ said Canon Hubert tartly, ‘that decision has not been left in your hands, Archdeacon Idwal, experienced and manipulative as they are. In my view, the Synod of Whitby made the correct election and the English Church has been the beneficiary ever since.’

  ‘The English Church — yes! But what about the Welsh?’

  ‘They are effectively the same thing.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Please!’ said Bishop Robert. ‘Moderate your language.’

  ‘Then get Hubert to moderate his idiocy.’

  ‘You are subservient to Canterbury,’ reminded Hubert.

  ‘More’s the pity!’

  ‘Archbishop Lanfranc is your primate.’

  ‘Only at the moment.’

  While Idwal ranted on, the others suffered in silence. He was a bellicose companion. The four men were sharing a meal at the bishop’s palace within the city. Brother Simon had been invited but the mere thought of eating with Idwal had played havoc with his digestion and he declined. Hubert was beginning to wish that he had done likewise. The privilege of dining with the bishop was vitiated by the ordeal of listening to the patriotic Welshman.

  Since their last meeting, Idwal had not mellowed in even the slightest way with the passage of time. In Hubert’s opini
on, he had become still more intemperate.

  Robert de Limesey sought to move the conversation to a more neutral topic. He dislodged a chicken bone from between his teeth then bestowed an episcopal smile upon them.

  ‘Our cathedral is still a relatively new phenomenon in Chester,’

  he said, ‘but it is a foundation stone on which we hope to build.

  My predecessor, Bishop Peter, began his work at the cathedral church of St Chad’s in Lichfield.’

  ‘St Chad!’ sneered Idwal contemptuously.

  ‘When the see was translated to Chester,’ continued the bishop, sailing over the interruption, ‘Peter was eager to develop the scope and the physical presence of the Church here. Sadly, he died before that work could be brought to its culmination. I see it as my duty to carry on where he left off. The establishment of the cathedral was the first major undertaking, but it may soon be possible to move on to the next project.’

  ‘And what is that?’ inquired Hubert.

  ‘Frodo will explain.’

  ‘Gladly,’ said the archdeacon, seasoned by the bishop’s habit of delegation and therefore always ready to step in when called upon. ‘Bishop Robert is turning his attention towards the founding of an abbey in the city.’

  ‘A worthy initiative!’ praised Hubert.

  ‘Where will it be?’ asked Idwal.

  ‘We are still at the early stages of discussion,’ said Frodo smoothly, ‘and there are many crucial issues still to be settled, but Bishop Robert is confident that an abbey will be established here in Chester in due course.’

  ‘I congratulate you, Bishop Robert,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied the bishop, ‘but, as Frodo has just indicated, there are still several difficulties to surmount.’

  ‘With regard to finance?’

  ‘That is only one area of contention.’

  ‘What are the others?’ asked Idwal bluntly.

  ‘Problems of personality are involved,’ said Frodo discreetly.

  ‘We have yet to win over the hearts and minds of significant people in the community.’

  Idwal snorted. ‘That means Earl Hugh. You would need a battering ram to get through to his heart and mind. And then you will find that his heart is made of stone and his mind of even harder substance. Is he against the notion of an abbey?’

  ‘Far from it,’ explained Frodo. ‘The earl has given the idea his blessing in principle. It is when we address the practical details that dissension arises. But I am sure that all our differences can be reconciled in time. Who knows? When either of you visits us again, the Benedictine Abbey of St Werburga may well be playing an active part in the Christian life of this community.’

  Hubert frowned. ‘Werburga?’ he said. ‘I am not familiar with the name or provenance of this saint.’

  ‘A Saxon nun,’ said Idwal disapprovingly.

  ‘Already commemorated in this city,’ said Frodo, ‘when her bones were brought here for safety over two hundred years ago. The abbey will be a refoundation of the church of secular canons dedicated to St Werburga.’

  Hubert was curious. ‘Who was the lady?’

  ‘The daughter of Wulfhere, King of the Mercians. She first entered the nunnery of Ely before becoming the superintendent of all the nunneries in Mercia. Werburga was duly canonised,’

  said Frodo knowledgeably ‘because her life was a shining example of Christian virtue and self-denial.’

  ‘That is not true,’ countered Idwal.

  ‘I believe you will find that it is,’ returned Frodo.

  ‘Werburga is unsuited to this honour.’

  ‘Why do you say that, archdeacon?’

  ‘Because I know her history better than you, Frodo.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘You only mentioned her father, King Wulfhere,’ noted the Welshman. ‘What you omitted was the name of her grandfather, King Penda, a notorious heathen who was responsible for the murder of St Oswald of Northumbria. Is the granddaughter of a repellent pagan fit to be enshrined in an abbey?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frodo.

  ‘Without question,’ added Bishop Robert.

  ‘Werberga is a saint. She cannot be held responsible for the shortcomings of her grandfather. She is the natural choice here.

  Besides,’ said Frodo, raising an eyebrow, ‘if the abbey is not founded in her name, to whom else can it be dedicated?’

  ‘St Deiniol,’ urged Idwal.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘St Deiniol.’

  ‘The name means nothing to me,’ said Hubert with a sniff.

  ‘And little enough to me,’ added the bishop.

  ‘Shame on you both!’ chided Idwal. ‘Your ignorance appals me though, I have to admit, it does not entirely surprise me. Even here on the border, you prefer to look over your shoulder to England rather than straight ahead into Wales.’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘St Deiniol was a Celtic monk and bishop.’

  Hubert grimaced. ‘I had a feeling that he might be.’

  ‘He founded the two monasteries of Bangor Fawr, on the Menai Straits, and Bangor Iscoed, which — you may read in the pages of the Venerable Bede — was once the most famous monastery in these islands with no less than two thousand monks under its roof.’ His eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Will the Abbey of St Werburga attract that number?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Frodo honestly, ‘but times, alas, have changed since the days of St Deiniol.’

  ‘That is why his name should be preserved,’ argued the other, rising to his feet and striking a pose. ‘To remind us of an age when monastic life was held in such high regard. Those two thousand monks, incidentally, were routed at the Battle of Chester so there is a direct connection with this city. St Deiniol has another claim to our attention.’ He looked round the upturned faces of his companions. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No,’ sighed the bishop.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Frodo.

  ‘But we suspect that you are about to tell us,’ said Hubert with heavy sarcasm. ‘Whether we wish to hear the information or not.’

  ‘Be grateful, Hubert. I am educating you.’

  ‘That is not the word I would have chosen.’

  ‘Tell us about St Deiniol,’ encouraged Frodo.

  ‘It was he and St Dyfrig who persuaded St David to take part in the Synod of Brefi,’ announced their self-appointed teacher. ‘In other words, Deiniol was considered to be of comparable status with the blessed Dyfrig and the revered David. Those three bishops were nothing less than the triple pillars of the Welsh Church.’

  He sat down again with a triumphant grin. ‘What do you think of that, Bishop Robert?’

  ‘We will hold fast to St Werburga,’ said the other.

  ‘St Deiniol has prior claims.’

  ‘St Werburga.’

  ‘Deiniol!’

  ‘Werburga!’

  ‘The Welsh bishop!’

  ‘The Saxon nun!’

  ‘Think again, Bishop Robert.’

  ‘The matter is decided.’

  ‘It is an act of madness.’

  ‘Then it is one with which we will have to live,’ said Frodo calmly, ending the argument with a benign smile. ‘We must agree to differ here, Archdeacon Idwal. You are entitled to your opinion, eccentric as it may be, but you can hardly expect to thrust your preferences upon us. How would it be if we were to cross the Welsh border and insist that your next monastic foundation be dedicated to St Werburga?’

  ‘There would be an armed uprising.’

  ‘Let the matter rest there.’

  ‘But I can save you from a catastrophic error.’

  ‘The catastrophic error was in inviting you here,’ said Hubert under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ demanded Idwal, sensing hostility.

  ‘I was just wondering what brought you here,’ replied the canon through clenched teeth. ‘Since you espouse the cause of your nation with such vigour — not to say fanaticism — I am surprised that the Bishop
of Llandaff allows you out of his diocese. Does he not have need of you there?’

  ‘I am no longer attached to Llandaff.’

  ‘Yet you are still an archdeacon.’

  ‘Yes, Hubert,’ said Idwal with pride, ‘but of an even nobler diocese. I was called by Bishop Wilfrid to work with him in St David’s.’

  ‘Then what are you doing in Chester?’

  ‘Fulfilling his wishes. Bishop Wilfrid enjoined me to visit all the English dioceses along the border with Wales in order to forge closer links with them. That is why I am here, my friends,’

  he said, getting to his feet again and releasing his ear-splitting cackle of pleasure. ‘I have come to build bridges between the two nations.’

  ‘Bridges?’ gasped Bishop Robert.

  ‘Build them or burn them?’ muttered Hubert.

  Idwal beamed. ‘See me as a peacemaker.’

  It was a feat of perception beyond all three of them.

  Ralph Delchard had to make a concerted effort simply to open one eye. It was several minutes before he could raise the second lid even a fraction. Both eyes throbbed in time with the pounding of his head. His stomach felt as if a herd of horses was stabled inside its inadequate space and his mouth was parched. In such a fragile state, he found that his memory was uncertain. All he knew was that he had drunk far too much, far too fast, at the banquet on the previous night. How he had got to his apartment he did not know, but one thing was clear. He needed to sleep for at least a week if he was to recover.

  Duty called with a harsh, insistent voice. It simply had to be heeded. Cursing his misfortune, Ralph dragged himself upright then almost collapsed from the exertion. His stomach now turned to a whirlpool and his brain seemed to be on fire. He reached clumsily for the pitcher of water on the table and poured it over himself, plastering his hair to his forehead and momentarily blinding himself. Relief slowly came. By the time he had dried his face, he was feeling marginally more like a human being and even managed to stagger to the window without falling over.

  What he saw below jerked him into a semblance of life. Gervase Bret, looking as bright and alert as ever, was talking to Canon Hubert and pointing up at the keep. The two of them strolled towards the mound and ascended the steps. Within a minute, they would be banging on his door and Ralph could not let either of them see him in such a wounded state. Sheer pride forced him fully awake. As he struggled manfully into his attire, he fought off pain and discomfort.