The Summer of the Danes (3 page)

Since
at least the first part of Mark’s mission was meant to be public and
demonstrative, there was no reason why every soul in the enclave should not
take an avid interest in it, and there was no lack of gratuitous advice
available from all sides as to how it could best be performed, especially from
old Brother Dafydd in the infirmary, who had not seen his native cantref of
Duffryn Clwyd for forty years, but was still convinced he knew it like the palm
of his ancient hand. His pleasure in the revival of the diocese was somewhat
soured by the appointment of a Norman, but the mild excitement had given him a
new interest in life, and he reverted happily to his own language, and was
voluble in counsel when Cadfael visited him. Abbot Radulfus, by contrast,
contributed nothing but his blessing. The mission belonged to Mark, and must be
left scrupulously in his hands. Prior Robert forebore from comment, though his
silence bore a certain overtone of disapproval. An envoy of his dignity and
presence would have been more appropriate in the courts of bishops.

Brother
Cadfael reviewed his medical supplies, committed his garden confidently to
Brother Winfrid, and paid a precautionary visit to Saint Giles to ensure that
the hospital cupboards were properly provided, and Brother Oswin in serene
command of his flock, before he repaired to the stables to indulge in the
pleasure of selecting his mount for the journey. It was there that Hugh found
him early in the afternoon, contemplating with pleasure an elegant light roan
with a cream-coloured mane, that leaned complacently to his caressing hand.
“Too tall for you,” said Hugh over his shoulder. “You’d need a lift into the
saddle, and Mark could never hoist you.”

“I
am not yet grown so heavy nor so shrunken with age that I cannot scramble on to
a horse,” said Cadfael with dignity. “What brings you here again and looking
for me?”

“Why,
a good notion Aline had, when I told her what you and Mark are up to. May is on
the doorstep already, and in a week or two at the most I should be packing her
and Giles off to Maesbury for the summer. He has the run of the manor there,
and it’s better for him out of the town.” It was his usual custom to leave his
family there until after the wool clip had been taken and the fields gleaned,
while he divided his time between home and the business of the shire. Cadfael
was familiar with the routine. “She says, why should we not hasten the move by
a week, and ride with you tomorrow, to set you on your way as far as Oswestry?
The rest of the household can follow later, and we could have one day, at
least, of your company, and you could bide the night over with us at Maesbury
if you choose. What do you say?”

Cadfael
said yes, very heartily, and so, when it was put to him, did Mark, though he
declined, with regret, the offer of a night’s lodging. He was bent on reaching
Llanelwy in two days, and arriving at a civilised time, at the latest by
midafternoon, to allow time for the niceties of hospitality before the evening
meal, so he preferred to go beyond Oswestry and well into Wales before halting
for the night, to leave an easy stage for the second day. If they could reach
the valley of the Dee, they could find lodging with one of the churches there,
and cross the river in the early morning.

So
it seemed that everything was already accounted for, and there remained nothing
to be done but go reverently to Vespers and Compline, and commit this
enterprise like all others to the will of God, but perhaps also with a gentle
reminder to Saint Winifred that they were bound into her country, and if she
felt inclined to let her delicate hand cover them along the way, the gesture
would be very much appreciated.

The
morning of departure found a little cavalcade of six horses and a pack-pony
winding its way over the westward bridge and out of the town, on the road to
Oswestry. There was Hugh, on his favourite self-willed grey, with his son on
his saddle-bow, Aline, unruffled by the haste of her preparations for leaving
town, on her white jennet, her maid and friend Constance pillion behind a
groom, a second groom following with the pack-pony on a leading rein, and the
two pilgrims to Saint Asaph merrily escorted by this family party. It was the
last of April, a morning all green and silver. Cadfael and Mark had left before
Prime, to join Hugh and his party in the town. A shower, so fine as to be
almost imperceptible in the air, had followed them over the bridge, where the
Severn ran full but peaceful, and before they had assembled in Hugh’s courtyard
the sun had come out fully, sparkling on the leaves and grasses. The river was
gilded in every ripple with capricious, scintillating light. A good day to be
setting out, and no great matter why or where.

The
sun was high, and the pearly mist of morning all dissolved when they crossed
the river at Mont ford. The road was good, some stretches of it with wide grass
verges where the going was comfortable and fast, and Giles demanded an
occasional canter. He was much too proud to share a mount with anyone but his
father. Once established at Maesbury the little pack-pony, sedate and
goodhumoured, would become his riding pony for the summer, and the groom who
led it his discreet guardian on his forays, for like most children who have
never seen cause to be afraid, he was fearless on horseback—Aline said
foolhardy, but hesitated to issue warnings, perhaps for fear of shaking his
confidence, or perhaps out of the certainty that they would not be heeded.

They
halted at noon under the hill at Ness, where there was a tenant of Hugh’s
installed, to rest the horses and take refreshment. Before mid-afternoon they
reached Felton, and there Aline and the escort turned aside to take the nearest
way home, but Hugh elected to ride on with his friends to the outskirts of
Oswestry. Giles was transferred, protesting but obedient, to his mother’s arms.
“Go safely, and return safely!” said Aline, her primrose head pale and bright
as the child’s, the gloss of spring on her face and the burnish of sunlight in
her smile. And she signed a little cross on the air between them before she
wheeled her jennet into the lefthand track.

Delivered
of the baggage and the womenfolk, they rode on at a brisker pace the few miles
to Whittington, where they halted under the walls of the small timber keep.
Oswestry itself lay to their left, on Hugh’s route homeward. Mark and Cadfael
must go on northward still, but here they were on the very borderland, country
which had been alternately Welsh and English for centuries before ever the
Normans came, where the names of hamlets and of men were more likely to be
Welsh than English. Hugh lived between the two great dykes the princes of
Mercia had constructed long ago, to mark where their holding and writ began, so
that no force should easily encroach, and no man who crossed from one side to
the other should be in any doubt under which law he stood. The lower barrier
lay just to the east of the manor, much battered and levelled now; the greater
one had been raised to the west, when Mercian power had been able to thrust
further into Wales.

“Here
I must leave you,” said Hugh, looking back along the way they had come, and
westward towards the town and the castle. “A pity! I could gladly have ridden
as far as Saint Asaph with you in such weather, but the king’s officers had
best stay out of Church business and avoid the crossfire. I should be loth to
tread on Owain’s toes.”

“You
have brought us as far as Bishop Gilbert’s writ, at any rate,” said Brother
Mark, smiling. “Both this church and yours of Saint Oswald are now in the see
of Saint Asaph. Did you realise that? Lichfield has lost a great swathe of
parishes here in the northwest. I think it must be Canterbury policy to spread
the diocese both sides the border, so that the line between Welsh and English
can count for nothing.”

“Owain
will have something to say to that, too.” Hugh saluted them with a raised hand,
and began to wheel his horse towards the road home. “Go with God, and a good
journey! We’ll look to see you again in ten days or so.” And he was some yards
distant when he looked back over his shoulder and called after them: “Keep him
out of mischief! If you can!” But there was no indication to which of them the
plea was addressed, or to which of them the misgiving applied. They could share
it between them.

Chapter Two

I
AM TOO OLD,” BROTHER CADFAEL OBSERVED complacently, “to embark on such
adventures as this.”

“I
notice,” said Mark, eyeing him sidelong, “you say nothing of the kind until we’re
well clear of Shrewsbury, and there’s no one to take you at your word, poor
aged soul, and bid you stay at home.”

“What
a fool I should have been!” Cadfael willingly agreed.

“Whenever
you begin pleading your age, I know what I have to deal with. A horse full of
oats, just let out of his stall, and with the bit between his teeth. We have to
do with bishops and canons,” said Mark severely, “and they can be trouble
enough. Pray to be spared any worse encounters.” But he did not sound too
convinced. The ride had brought colour to his thin, pale face and a sparkle to
his eyes. Mark had been raised with farm horses, slaving for the uncle who
grudged him house-room and food, and he still rode farm fashion, inelegant but
durable, now that the bishop’s stable had provided him a fine tall gelding in
place of a plodding farm drudge. The beast was nutbrown, with a lustrous copper
sheen to his coat, and buoyantly lively under such a light weight.

They
had halted at the crest of the ridge overlooking the lush green valley of the
Dee. The sun was westering, and had mellowed from the noon gold into a softer
amber light, gleaming down the stream, where the coils of the river alternately
glimmered and vanished among its fringes of woodland. Still an upland river
here, dancing over a rocky bed and conjuring rainbows out of its sunlit spray.
Somewhere down there they would find a night’s lodging.

They
set off companionably side by side, down the grassy track wide enough for two.
“For all that,” said Cadfael, “I never expected, at my age, to be recruited
into such an expedition as this. I owe you more than you know. Shrewsbury is
home, and I would not leave it for any place on earth, beyond a visit, but
every now and then my feet itch. It’s a fine thing to be heading home, but it’s
a fine thing also to be setting out from home, with both the going and the
return to look forward to. Well for me that Theobald took thought to recruit
allies for his new bishop. And what is it Roger de Clinton’s sending him, apart
from his ceremonial letter?” He had not had time to feel curiosity on that
score until now. Mark’s saddle-roll was too modest to contain anything of bulk.

“A
pectoral cross, blessed at the shrine of Saint Chad. One of the canons made it,
he’s a good silversmith.”

“And
the same to Meurig at Bangor, with his brotherly prayers and compliments?”

“No,
Meurig gets a breviary, a very handsome one. Our best illuminator had as good
as finished it when the archbishop issued his orders, so he added a special
leaf for a picture of Saint Deiniol, Meurig’s founder and patron. I would
rather have the book,” said Mark, winding his way down a steep woodland ride
and out into the declining sun towards the valley. “But the cross is meant as
the more formal tribute. After all, we had our orders. But it shows, do you not
think, that Theobald knows that he’s given Gilbert a very awkward place to
fill?”

“I
should not relish being in his shoes,” Cadfael admitted. “But who knows, he may
delight in the struggle. There are those who thrive on contention. If he
meddles too much with Welsh custom he’ll get more than enough of that.”

They
emerged into the green, undulating meadows and bushy coverts along the
riverside, the Dee beside them reflecting back orange gleams from the west.
Beyond the water a great grassy hill soared, crowned with the man-made contours
of earthworks raised ages ago, and under the narrow wooden bridge the Dee
dashed and danced over a stony bed. Here at the church of Saint Collen they
asked and found a lodging for the night with the parish priest.

On
the following day they crossed the river, and climbed over the treeless uplands
from the valley of the Dee to the valley of the Clwyd, and there followed the
stream at ease the length of a bright morning and into an afternoon of soft
showers and wilful gleams of sun. Through Ruthin, under the outcrop of red
sandstone crowned with its squat timber fortress, and into the vale proper,
broad, beautiful, and the fresh green of young foliage everywhere. Before the
sun had stooped towards setting they came down into the narrowing tongue of
land between the Clwyd and the Elwy, before the two rivers met above Rhuddlan,
to move on together into tidal water. And there between lay the town of
Llanelwy and cathedral of Saint Asaph, comfortably nestled in a green,
sheltered valley. Hardly a town at all, it was so small and compact. The low
wooden houses clustered close, the single track led into the heart of them, and
disclosed the unmistakable long roof and timber bell-turret of the cathedral at
the centre of the village. Modest though it was, it was the largest building to
be seen, and the only one walled in stone. A range of other low roofs crowded
the precinct, and on most of them some hasty repairs had been done, and on
others men were still busily working, for though the church had been in use,
the diocese had been dormant for seventy years, and if there were still canons
attached to this centre their numbers must have dwindled and their houses
fallen into disrepair long ago. It had been founded, many centuries past, by
Saint Kentigern, on the monastic principle of the old Celtic class, a college
of canons under a priest-abbot, and with one other priest or more among the
members. The Normans despised the clas, and were busy disposing all things
religious in Wales to be subject to the Roman rite of Canterbury. Uphill work,
but the Normans were persistent people.