Chapter Two

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I am too old,” Brother Cadfael observedcomplacently, “to embark on such adventures asthis.”

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

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

“Whenever you begin pleading your age, I know what I haveto deal with. A horse full of oats, just let out of his stall, andwith the bit between his teeth. We have to do with bishops andcanons,” said Mark severely, “and they can be troubleenough. Pray to be spared any worse encounters.” But he didnot sound too convinced. The ride had brought colour to his thin,pale face and a sparkle to his eyes. Mark had been raised with farmhorses, slaving for the uncle who grudged him house-room and food,and he still rode farm fashion, inelegant but durable, now that thebishop’s stable had provided him a fine tall gelding in placeof a plodding farm drudge. The beast was nutbrown, with a lustrouscopper sheen to his coat, and buoyantly lively under such a lightweight.

They had halted at the crest of the ridge overlooking the lushgreen valley of the Dee. The sun was westering, and had mellowedfrom the noon gold into a softer amber light, gleaming down thestream, where the coils of the river alternately glimmered andvanished among its fringes of woodland. Still an upland river here,dancing over a rocky bed and conjuring rainbows out of its sunlitspray. Somewhere down there they would find a night’slodging.

They set off companionably side by side, down the grassy trackwide enough for two. “For all that,” said Cadfael,“I never expected, at my age, to be recruited into such anexpedition as this. I owe you more than you know. Shrewsbury ishome, and I would not leave it for any place on earth, beyond avisit, but every now and then my feet itch. It’s a fine thingto be heading home, but it’s a fine thing also to be settingout from home, with both the going and the return to look forwardto. Well for me that Theobald took thought to recruit allies forhis new bishop. And what is it Roger de Clinton’s sendinghim, apart from his ceremonial letter?” He had not had timeto feel curiosity on that score until now. Mark’s saddle-rollwas 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 goodsilversmith.”

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

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

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

They emerged into the green, undulating meadows and bushycoverts along the riverside, the Dee beside them reflecting backorange gleams from the west. Beyond the water a great grassy hillsoared, crowned with the man-made contours of earthworks raisedages ago, and under the narrow wooden bridge the Dee dashed anddanced over a stony bed. Here at the church of Saint Collen theyasked and found a lodging for the night with the parish priest.

On the following day they crossed the river, andclimbed over the treeless uplands from the valley of the Dee to thevalley of the Clwyd, and there followed the stream at ease thelength of a bright morning and into an afternoon of soft showersand willful gleams of sun. Through Ruthin, under the outcrop of redsandstone crowned with its squat timber fortress, and into the valeproper, broad, beautiful, and the fresh green of young foliageeverywhere. Before the sun had stooped towards setting they camedown into the narrowing tongue of land between the Clwyd and theElwy, before the two rivers met above Rhuddlan, to move on togetherinto tidal water. And there between lay the town of Llanelwy andcathedral of Saint Asaph, comfortably nestled in a green, shelteredvalley.

Hardly a town at all, it was so small and compact. The lowwooden houses clustered close, the single track led into the heartof them, and disclosed the unmistakable long roof and timberbell-turret of the cathedral at the centre of the village. Modestthough it was, it was the largest building to be seen, and the onlyone walled in stone. A range of other low roofs crowded theprecinct, and on most of them some hasty repairs had been done, andon others men were still busily working, for though the church hadbeen in use, the diocese had been dormant for seventy years, and ifthere were still canons attached to this centre their numbers musthave dwindled and their houses fallen into disrepair long ago. Ithad been founded, many centuries past, by Saint Kentigern, on themonastic principle of the old Celtic clas, a college of canonsunder a priest-abbot, and with one other priest or more among themembers. The Normans despised the clas, and were busy disposing allthings religious in Wales to be subject to the Roman rite ofCanterbury. Uphill work, but the Normans were persistentpeople.

But what was astonishing about this remote and rural communitywas that it seemed to be over-populated to a startling degree. Assoon as they approached the precinct they found themselvessurrounded by a bustle and purpose that belonged to aprince’s llys rather than a church enclave. Besides the busycarpenters and builders there were men and women scurrying aboutwith pitchers of water, armfuls of bedding, folded hangings, traysof new-baked bread and baskets of food, and one strapping ladhefting a side of pork on his shoulders.

“This is more than a bishop’s household,” saidCadfael, staring at all the activity. “They are feeding anarmy! Has Gilbert declared war on the valley of Clwyd?”

“I think,” said Mark, gazing beyond the whirlpool ofbusy people to the gently rising hillside above, “they areentertaining more important guests than us.”

Cadfael followed where Mark was staring, and saw in the shadowof the hills points of colour patterning a high green level abovethe little town. Bright pavilions and fluttering pennants spreadacross the green, not the rough and ready tents of a militaryencampment, but the furnishings of a princely household.

“Not an army,” said Cadfael, “but a court.We’ve strayed into lofty company. Had we not better goquickly and find out if two more are welcome? For there may bebusiness afoot that concerns more than staunch brotherhood amongbishops. Though if the prince’s officers are keeping close atGilbert’s elbow, a reminder from Canterbury may not comeamiss. However cool the compliment!”

They moved forward into the precinct and looked about them. Thebishop’s palace was a new timber building, hall and chambers,and a number of new small dwellings on either side. It was thebetter part of a year since Gilbert had been consecrated atLambeth, and clearly there had been hasty preparations to restoresome semblance of a cathedral enclave in order to receive himdecently. Cadfael and Mark were dismounting in the court when ayoung man threaded a brisk way to them through the bustle, andbeckoned a groom after him to take their horses.

“Brothers, may I be of service?”

He was young, surely not more than twenty, and certainly not oneof Gilbert’s ecclesiastics, rather something of a courtier inhis dress, and wore gemstones about a fine, sturdy throat. He movedand spoke with an easy confidence and grace, bright of countenanceand fair in colouring, his hair a light, reddish brown. A tallfellow, with something about him that seemed to Cadfael elusivelyfamiliar, though he had certainly never seen him before. He hadaddressed them first in Welsh, but changed easily to English afterstudying Mark from head to foot in one brilliant glance.

“Men of your habit are always welcome. Have you riddenfar?”

“From Lichfield,” said Mark, “with a brotherlyletter and gift for Bishop Gilbert from my bishop of Coventry andLichfield.”

“He will be heartily glad,” said the young man, withsurprising candor, “for he may be feeling the need ofreinforcements.” His flashing grin was mischievous butamiable. “Here, let me get someone to bring your saddle-rollsafter us, and I’ll bring you where you can rest and takerefreshment. It will be a while yet to supper.”

A gesture from him brought servants running to unstrap thepack-rolls and follow hard on the visitors’ heels as theyoung man led them across the court to one of the new cells builtout from the hall.

“I am without rights to command here, being a guestmyself, but they have got used to me.” It was said with anassured and slightly amused confidence, as if he knew good reasonwhy the bishop’s circle should accommodate him, and wasforbearing enough not to presume upon it too far. “Will thissuffice?”

The lodging was small but adequate, furnished with beds, benchand table, and full of the scent of seasoned wood freshly tooled.New brychans were piled on the beds, and the smell of good woolmingled with the newness of timber.

“I’ll send someone with water,” said theirguide, “and find one of the canons. His lordship has beenselecting where he can, but his demands come high. He’shaving trouble in filling up his chapter. Be at home here,Brothers, and someone will come to you.”

And he was gone, with his blithe long strides and springingtread, and they were left to settle and stretch at ease after theirday in the saddle.

“Water?” said Mark, pondering this first andapparently essential courtesy. “Is that by way of takingsalt, here in Wales?”

“No, lad. A people that goes mostly afoot knows the valueof feet and the dust and aches of travel. They bring water for usto bathe our feet. It is a graceful way of asking: Are you meaningto bide overnight? If we refuse it, we intend only a brief visit incourtesy. If we accept it, we are guests of the house from thatmoment.”

“And that young lord? For he’s too fine for aservant, and certainly no cleric. A guest, he said. What sort of anassembly have we blundered into, Cadfael?”

They had left the door wide for the pleasure of the eveninglight and the animation to be viewed about the court. A girl camethreading her way through the purposeful traffic with a long,striding grace in her step, bearing before her a pitcher in a bowl.The water-carrier was tall and vigorous. A braid of glassyblue-black hair thick as her wrist hung over her shoulder, andstray curls blew about her temples in the faint breeze. A pleasureto behold, Cadfael thought, watching her approach. She made them adeep reverence as she entered, and kept her eyes dutifully loweredas she served them, pouring water for them, unlatching theirsandals with her own long, shapely hands, no servant but a decoroushostess, so surely in a position of dominance here that she couldstoop to serve without at any point abasing herself. The touch ofher hands on Mark’s lean ankles and delicate, almost girlishfeet brought a fiery blush rising from his throat to his brow, andthen, as if she had felt it scorch her forehead, she did lookup.

It was the most revealing of glances, though it lasted only amoment. As soon as she raised her eyes, a face hitherto impassiveand austere was illuminated with a quicksilver sequence ofexpressions that came and passed in a flash. She took in Mark inone sweep of her lashes, and his discomfort amused her, and for aninstant she considered letting him see her laughter, which wouldhave discomforted him further; but then she relented, indulging animpulse of sympathy for his youth and apparent fragile innocence,and restored the gravity of her oval countenance.

Her eyes were so dark a purple as to appear black in shadow. Shecould not be more than eighteen years of age. Perhaps less, for herheight and her bearing gave her a woman’s confidence. She hadbrought linen towels over her shoulder, and would have made adeliberate and perhaps mildly teasing grace of drying Mark’sfeet with her own hands, but he would not let her. The authoritythat belonged not in his own small person but in the gravity of hisoffice reached out to take her firmly by the hand and raise herfrom her knees. She rose obediently, only a momentary flash of herdark eyes compromising her solemnity. Young clerics, Cadfaelthought, perceiving that he himself was in no danger, might havetrouble with this one. For that matter, so might elderly clerics,if in a slightly different way.

“No,” said Mark firmly. “It is not fitting.Our part in the world is to serve, not to be served. And from allwe have seen, outside there, you have more than enough guests onyour hands, more demanding than we would wish to be.”

At that she suddenly laughed outright, and clearly not at him,but at whatever thoughts his words had sparked in her mind. Untilthen she had spoken no word but her murmured greeting on thethreshold. Now she broke into bubbling speech in Welsh, in alilting voice that made dancing poetry of language.

“More than enough for his lordship Bishop Gilbert, andmore than he bargained for! Is it true what Hywel said, that youare sent with compliments and gifts from the English bishops? Thenyou will be the most welcome pair of visitors here in Llanelwytonight. Our new bishop feels himself in need of all theencouragement he can get. A reminder he has an archbishop behindhim will come in very kindly, seeing he’s beset with princesevery other way. He’ll make the most of you. You’llsurely find yourselves at the high table in halltonight.”

“Princes!” Cadfael echoed. “And Hywel? Wasthat Hywel who spoke with us when we rode in? Hywel abOwain?”

“Did you not recognize him?” she said,astonished.

“Child, I never saw him before. But his reputation we doknow.” So this was the young fellow who had been sent by hisfather to waft an army across the Aeron and drive Cadwaladrheadlong out of North Ceredigion with his castle of Llanbadarn inflames behind him, and had made a most brisk and workmanlike job ofit, without, apparently, losing his composure or ruffling hiscurls. And he looking barely old enough to bear arms at all!

“I thought there was something about him I should know!Owain I have met, we had dealings three years back, over anexchange of prisoners. So he’s sent his son to report on howBishop Gilbert is setting about his pastoral duties, has he?”Cadfael wondered. Trusted in both secular and clerical matters, itseemed, and probably equally thorough in both.

“Better than that,” said the girl, laughing.“He’s come himself! Did you not see his tents up therein the meadows? For these few days Llanelwy is Owain’s llys,and the court of Gwynedd, no less. It’s an honor BishopGilbert could have done without. Not that the prince makes any moveto curb or intimidate him, bar his simply being there, forever inthe corner of the bishop’s eye, and aware of everything hedoes or says. The prince of courtesy and consideration! He expectsthe bishop to house only himself and his son, and provides for therest himself. But tonight they all sup in hall. You will see, youcame very opportunely.”

She had been gathering up the towels over her arm as she talked,and keeping a sharp eye now and then on the comings and goings inthe courtyard. Following such a glance, Cadfael observed a big manin a black cassock sailing impressively across the grass towardstheir lodging.

“I’ll bring you food and mead,” said the girl,returning abruptly to the practical; and she picked up bowl andpitcher, and was out at the door before the tall cleric could reachit. Cadfael saw them meet and pass, with a word from the man, and amute inclination of the head from the girl. It seemed to him thatthere was a curious tension between them, constrained on theman’s part, coldly dutiful on the girl’s. His approachhad hastened her departure, yet the way he had spoken to her asthey met, and in particular the way he halted yet again beforereaching the lodging, and turned to look after her, suggested thathe was in awe of her rather than the other way round, and she hadsome grievance she was unwilling to give up. She had not raised hereyes to look at him, nor broken the vehement rhythm of her gait. Hecame on more slowly, perhaps to reassemble his dignity beforeentering to the strangers.

“Good day, Brothers, and welcome!” he said from thethreshold. “I trust my daughter has looked after your comfortwell?”

That established at once the relationship between them. It wasstated with considered clarity as if some implied issue was likelyto come up for consideration, and it was as well it should beproperly understood. Which might well be the case, seeing this manwas undoubtedly tonsured, in authority here, and a priest. That,too, he chose to state plainly: “My name is Meirion, I haveserved this church for many years. Under the new dispensation I ama canon of the chapter. If there is anything wanting, anything wecan provide you, during your stay, you have only to speak, I willsee it remedied.”

He spoke in formal English, a little hesitantly, for he wasobviously Welsh. A burly, muscular man, and handsome in his ownblack fashion, with sharply cut features and a very erect presence,the ring of his cropped hair barely salted with grey. The girl hadher coloring from him, and her dark, brilliant eyes, but in hereyes the spark was of gaiety, even mischief, and in his it gave animpression of faint uneasiness behind the commanding brow. A proud,ambitious man not quite certain of himself and his powers. Andperhaps in a delicate situation now that he had become one of thecanons attendant on a Norman bishop? It was a possibility. If therewas an acknowledged daughter to be accounted for, there must alsobe a wife. Canterbury would hardly be pleased. They assured himthat the lodging provided them was in every way satisfactory, evenlavish by monastic principles, and Mark willingly brought out fromhis saddle-roll Bishop Roger’s sealed letter, beautifullyinscribed and superscribed, and the little carved wood casket whichheld the silver cross. Canon Meirion drew pleased breath, for theLichfield silversmith was a skilled artist, and the work wasbeautiful.

“He will be pleased and glad, of that you may be sure. Ineed not conceal from you, as men of the Church, that hislordship’s situation here is far from easy, and any gestureof support is a help to him. If you will let me suggest it, itwould be well if you make your appearance in form, when all areassembled at table, and there deliver your errand publicly. I willbring you into the hall as your herald, and have places left foryou at the bishop’s table.” He was quite blunt aboutit, the utmost advantage must be made of this ceremonious remindernot simply from Lichfield, but from Theobald and Canterbury, thatthe Roman rite had been accepted and a Norman prelate installed inSaint Asaph. The prince had brought up his own power and chivalryon one side, Canon Meirion meant to deploy Brother Mark, inadequatesymbol though he might appear, upon the other.

“And, Brother, although there is no need for translationfor the bishop’s benefit, it would be good if you wouldrepeat in Welsh what Deacon Mark may say in hall. The prince knowssome English, but few of his chiefs understand it.” And itwas Canon Meirion’s determined intent that they should all,to the last man of the guard, be well aware of what passed.“I will tell the bishop beforehand of your coming, but say noword as yet to any other.”

“Hywel ab Owain already knows,” said Cadfael.

“And doubtless will have told his father. But thespectacle will not suffer any diminution by that. Indeed,it’s a happy chance that you came on this of all days, fortomorrow the royal party is leaving to return to Aber.”

“In that case,” said Mark, choosing to be open witha host who was certainly being open with them, “we can rideon among his company, for I am the bearer of a letter also toBishop Meurig of Bangor.”

The canon received this with a short pause for reflection, andthen nodded approvingly. He was, after all, a Welshman himself,even if he was doing his able best to hold on to favour with aNorman superior. “Good! Your bishop is wise. It puts us on alike footing, and will please the prince. As it chances, mydaughter Heledd and I will also be of the party. She is to bebetrothed to a gentleman in the prince’s service, who holdsland in Anglesey, and he will come to meet us at Bangor. We shallbe companions along the way.”

“Our pleasure to ride in company,” said Mark.

“I’ll come for you as soon as they take their placesat table,” the canon promised, well content, and left them toan hour of rest. Not until he was gone did the girl come back,bearing a dish of honey cakes and a jar of mead. She served them insilence, but made no move to go. After a moment of sullen thoughtshe asked abruptly: “What did he tell you?”

“That he and his daughter are bound for Bangor tomorrow,as we two are. It seems,” said Cadfael equably, and watchingher unrevealing face, “that we shall have a prince’sescort as far as Aber.”

“So he does still own he is my father,” she saidwith a curling lip.

“He does, and why should he not profess it proudly? If youlook in your mirror,” said Cadfael candidly, “you willsee very good reason why he should boast of it.” That coaxeda reluctant smile out of her. He pursued the small success:“What is it between you two? Is it some threat from the newbishop? If he’s bent on ridding himself of all the marriedpriests in his diocese he has an uphill row to hoe. And your fatherseems to me an able man, one a new incumbent can ill afford tolose.”

“So he is,” she agreed, warming, “and thebishop wants to keep him. His case would have been much worse, butmy mother was in her last illness when Bishop Gilbert arrived, andit seemed she could not last long, so they waited! Can you conceiveof it? Waiting for a wife to die, so that he need not part with herhusband, who was useful to him! And die she did, last Christmas,and ever since then I have kept his house, cooked and cleaned forhim, and thought we could go on so. But no, I am a reminder of amarriage the bishop says was unlawful and sacrilegious. In his eyesI never should have been born! Even if my father remains celibatethe rest of his life, I am still here, to call to mindwhat he wants forgotten. Yes, he, not only the bishop! Istand in the way of his advancement.”

“Surely,” said Mark, shocked, “you do himinjustice. I am certain he feels a father’s affection foryou, as I do believe you feel a daughter’s forhim.”

“It never was tested before,” she said simply.“No one grudged us a proper love. Oh, he wishes me no ill,neither does the bishop. But very heartily they both wish that Imay go somewhere else to thrive, so far away I shall trouble themno more.”

“So that is why they’ve planned to match you with aman of Anglesey. As far away,” said Cadfael ruefully,“as a man could get and still be in North Wales. Yes, thatwould certainly settle the bishop’s mind. But what of yours?Do you know the man they intend for you?”

“No, that was the prince’s doing, and he meant itkindly, and indeed I take it kindly. No, the bishop wanted to sendme away to a convent in England, and make a nun of me. OwainGwynedd said that would be a wicked waste unless it was my wish,and asked me there in front of everyone in the hall if I had anymind to it, and very loudly and clearly I said no. So he proposedthis match for me. His man is looking for a wife, and they tell mehe’s a fine fellow, not so young but barely past thirty,which is not so old, and good to look at, and well regarded. Betterat least,” she said without great enthusiasm, “thanbeing shut up behind a grid in an English nunnery.”

“So it is,” agreed Cadfael heartily, “unlessyour own heart drives you there, and I doubt that will ever happento you. Better, too, surely, than living on here and being made tofeel an outcast and a burden. You are not wholly set againstmarriage?”

“No!” she said vehemently.

“And you know of nothing against this man the prince hasin mind?”

“Only that I have not chosen him,” she said, and sether red lips in a stubborn line.

“When you see him you may approve him. It would not be thefirst time,” said Cadfael sagely, “that an intelligentmatchmaker got the balance right.”

“Well or ill,” she said, rising with a sigh,“I have no choice but to go. My father goes with me to seethat I behave, and Canon Morgant, who is as rigid as the bishophimself, goes with us to see that we both behave. Any furtherscandal now, and goodbye to any advancement under Gilbert. I coulddestroy him if I so wished,” she said, dwelling vengefully onsomething she knew could never be a possibility, for all her angerand disdain. And from the evening light in the doorway she lookedback to add: “I can well live without him. Soon or late, Ishould have gone to a husband. But do you know what most galls me?That he should give me up so lightly, and be so thankful to get ridof me.”

Canon Meirion came for them as he had promised,just as the bustle in the courtyard was settling into competentquietness, building work abandoned for the day, all the domesticpreparations for the evening’s feast completed, the smallarmy of servitors mustered into their places, and the household,from princes to grooms, assembled in hall. The light was stillbright, but softening into the gilded silence before the sinking ofthe sun.

Dressed for ceremony, the canon was brushed and immaculate butplain, maintaining the austerity of his office, perhaps, all themore meticulously to smooth away from memory all the years when hehad been married to a wife. Time had been, once, long ago in theage of the saints, when celibacy had been demanded of all Celticpriests, just as insistently as it was being demanded now by BishopGilbert, by reason of the simple fact that the entire structure ofthe Celtic Church was built on the monastic ideal, and anythingless was a departure from precedent and a decline in sanctity. Butlong since even the memory of that time had grown faint tovanishing, and there would be just as indignant a reaction to thereimposition of that ideal as there must once have been to itsgradual abandonment. For centuries now priests had lived as decentmarried men and raised families like their parishioners. Even inEngland, in the more remote country places, there were plenty ofhumble married priests, and certainly no one thought the worse ofthem. In Wales it was not unknown for son to follow sire in thecure of a parish, and worse, for the sons of bishops to take it forgranted they should succeed their mitred fathers, as though thesupreme offices of the Church had been turned into heritable fiefs.Now here came this alien bishop, imposed from without, to denounceall such practices as abominable sin, and clear his diocese of allbut the celibate clergy.

And this able and impressive man who came to summon them to thesupport of his master had no intention of suffering diminutionsimply because, though he had buried his wife just in time, thesurvival of a daughter continued to accuse him. Nothing against thegirl, and he would see her provided for, but somewhere else, out ofsight and mind.

To do him justice, he made no bones about going straight forwhat he wanted, what would work to his most advantage. He meant toexploit his two visiting monastics and their mission to hisbishop’s pleasure and satisfaction.

“They are just seated. There will be silence until princesand bishop are settled. I have seen to it there is a clear spacebelow the high table, where you will be seen and heard byall.”

Do him justice, too, he was no way disappointed or disparagingin contemplating Brother Mark’s smallness of stature andplain Benedictine habit, or the simplicity of his bearing; indeedhe looked him over with a nod of satisfied approval, pleased with aplainness that would nevertheless carry its own distinction.

Mark took the illuminated scroll of Roger de Clinton’sletter and the little carved casket that contained the cross in hishands, and they followed their guide across the courtyard to thedoor of the bishop’s hall. Within, the air was full of therich scent of seasoned timber and the resiny smoke of torches, andthe subdued murmur of voices among the lower tables fell silent asthe three of them entered, Canon Meirion leading. Behind the hightable at the far end of the hall an array of faces, bright in thetorchlight, fixed attentively upon the small procession advancinginto the cleared space below the dais. The bishop in the midst,merely a featureless presence at this distance, princes on eitherside of him, the rest clerics and Welsh noblemen of Owain’scourt disposed alternately, and all eyes upon Brother Mark’ssmall, erect figure, solitary in the open space, for Canon Meirionhad stepped aside to give him the floor alone, and Cadfael hadremained some paces behind him.

“My lord bishop, here is Deacon Mark, of the household ofthe bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, asking audience.”

“The messenger of my colleague of Lichfield is verywelcome,” said the formal voice from the high table.

Mark made his brief address in a clear voice, his eyes fixed onthe long, narrow countenance that confronted him. Straight, wirysteel-grey hair about a domed tonsure, a long, thin blade of a noseflaring into wide nostrils, and a proud, tight-lipped mouth thatwore its formal smile somewhat unnervingly for lack ofpractice.

“My lord, Bishop Roger de Clinton bids me greet youreverently in his name, as his brother in Christ and his neighbourin the service of the Church, and wishes you long and fruitfulendeavour in the diocese of Saint Asaph. And by my hand he sendsyou in all brotherly love this letter, and this casket, and begsyou accept them in kindness.”

All of which Cadfael took up, after the briefest of pauses foreffect, and turned into ringing Welsh that brought an approvingstir and murmur from his fellow-countrymen among the assembly.

The bishop had risen from his seat, and made his way round thehigh table to approach the edge of the dais. Mark went to meet him,and bent his knee to present letter and casket into the large,muscular hands that reached down to receive them.

“We accept our brother’s kindness with joy,”said Bishop Gilbert with considered and gratified grace, for thesecular power of Gwynedd was there within earshot, and missingnothing that passed. “And we welcome his messengers no lessgladly. Rise, Brother, and make one more honoured guest at ourtable. And your comrade also. It was considerate indeed of Bishopde Clinton to send a Welsh speaker with you into a Welshcommunity.”

Cadfael stood well back, and followed only at a distance on tothe dais. Let Mark have all the notice and the attention, and beled to a place of honour next to Hywel ab Owain, who sat at thebishop’s left. Was that Canon Meirion’s doing, thebishop’s own decision to make the most of the visit, or hadHywel had a hand in it? He might well be interested in learningmore about what other cathedral chapters thought of theresurrection of Saint Kentigern’s throne, and its bestowal onan alien prelate. And probing from him might be expected to find amore guileless response than if it came from his formidable father,and produce a more innocent and lavish crop. A first occasion, itmight be, for Mark to say little and listen much.

Cadfael’s own allotted place was much further from theprincely centre, near the end of the table, but it gave him anexcellent view of all the faces ranged along the seats of honour.On the bishop’s right sat Owain Gwynedd, a big man every way,in body, in breadth of mind, in ability, very tall, exceeding by ahead the average of his own people, and flaxen-fair by contrastwith their darkness, for his grandmother had been a princess of theDanish kingdom of Dublin, more Norse than Irish, Ragnhild, agranddaughter of King Sitric Silk-Beard, and his mother Angharadhad been noted for her golden hair among the dark women ofDeheubarth. On the bishop’s left Hywel ab Owain sat at ease,his face turned towards Brother Mark in amiable welcome. Thelikeness was clear to be seen, though the son was of a darkercolouring, and had not the height of the sire. It struck Cadfael asironic that one so plainly signed with his father’s imageshould be regarded by the cleric who sat beside him asillegitimate, for he had been born before Owain’s marriage,and his mother, too, was an Irishwoman. To the Welsh a sonacknowledged was as much a son as those born in marriage, and Hywelon reaching manhood had been set up honourably in South Ceredigion,and now, after his uncle’s fall, possessed the whole of it.And very well capable, by his showing so far, of holding on to hisown. There were three or four more Welshmen of Owain’s party,all arranged turn for turn with Gilbert’s canons andchaplains, secular and clerical perforce rubbing shoulders andexchanging possibly wary conversation, though now they had the opencasket and its filigree silver cross as a safe topic, for Gilberthad opened it and set it on the board before him to be admired, andlaid de Clinton’s scroll beside it, doubtless to await aceremonial reading aloud when the meal was drawing to itsclose.

Meantime, mead and wine were oiling the wheels of diplomacy, andby the rising babel of voices successfully. And Cadfael had betterturn his attention to his own part in this social gathering, andbegin to do his duty by his neighbours.

On his right hand he had a middle-aged cleric, surely a canon ofthe cathedral, well-fleshed and portly, but with a countenance ofsuch uncompromising rectitude that Cadfael judged he might well bethat Morgant whose future errand it was to see that both father anddaughter conducted themselves unexceptionably on the journey todispose of Heledd to a husband. Just such a thin, fastidious noseseemed suitable to the task, and just such chill, sharp eyes. Buthis voice when he spoke, and his manner to the guest, were graciousenough. In every situation he would be equal to events, and strikethe becoming note, but he did not look as if he would be easy onshortcomings in others.

On Cadfael’s left sat a young man of the prince’sparty, of the true Welsh build, sturdy and compact, very trim inhis dress, and dark of hair and eye. A very black, intense eye,that focussed on distance, and looked through what lay before hisgaze, men and objects alike, rather than at them. Only when helooked along the high table, to where Owain and Hywel sat, did therange of his vision shorten, fix and grow warm in recognition andacknowledgement, and the set of his long lips soften almost intosmiling. One devoted follower at least the princes of Gwyneddpossessed. Cadfael observed the young man sidewise, withdiscretion, for he was worth study, very comely in his black andbrooding fashion, and tended to a contained and private silence.When he did speak, in courtesy to the new guest, his voice wasquiet but resonant, and moved in cadences that seemed to Cadfael tobelong elsewhere than in Gwynedd. But the most significant thingabout his person did not reveal itself for some time, since he ateand drank little, and used only the right hand that lay easy on theboard under Cadfael’s eyes. Only when he turned directlytowards his neighbour, and rested his left elbow on the edge of thetable, did it appear that the left forearm terminated only a fewinches below the joint, and a fine linen cloth was drawn over thestump like a glove, and secured by a thin silver bracelet.

It was impossible not to stare, the revelation came sounexpectedly; but Cadfael withdrew his gaze at once, and forborefrom any comment, though he could not resist studying themutilation covertly when he thought himself unobserved. But hisneighbour had lived with his loss long enough to accustom himselfto its effect on others.

“You may ask, Brother,” he said, with a wry smile.“I am not ashamed to own where I left it. It was my betterhand once, though I could use both, and can still make shift withthe one I have left.”

Since curiosity was understood and expected of him, Cadfael madeno secret of it, though he was already hazarding a guess at thepossible answers. For this young man was almost certainly fromSouth Wales, far from his customary kin here in Gwynedd.

“I am in no doubt,” he said cautiously, “thatwherever you may have left it, the occasion did you nothing buthonour. But if you are minded to tell me, you should know that Ihave carried arms in my time, and given and taken injury in thefield. Where you admit me, I can follow you, and not as astranger.”

“I thought,” said the young man, turning black,brilliant eyes on him appraisingly, “you had not altogetherthe monastic look about you. Follow, then, and welcome. I left myarm lying over my lord’s body, the sword still in myhand.”

“Last year,” said Cadfael slowly, pursuing his ownprophetic imaginings,” in Deheubarth.”

“As you have said.”

“Anarawd?”

“My prince and my foster-brother,” said the maimedman. “The stroke, the final stroke, that took his life fromhim took my arm from me.”

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