The Hawks of Delamere

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?’

‘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 sprightly man 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 master.

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.

Though his wife was beside him, Earl Hugh paid her little attention and let his eye rove libidinously over the many gorgeous young ladies whom he had invited to decorate his banquet. From the compliant smiles which they gave him, it was clear that most of them were more than casual acquaintances. Hugh was not possessive about his womenfolk.

‘Take your pick,’ he offered.

‘Not me, my lord,’ said Ralph.

‘Would you prefer me to choose for you?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Do you like a buxom wench with plenty to squeeze or some wild and willowy creature who will flail around beneath you like a giant eel? We have plenty of both here.’

‘I will take your word for it.’

‘What is wrong with you, man?’

‘Simple fatigue.’

‘One of these ladies will soon revive you.’

‘I am married, my lord.’

‘So?’

‘My wife will arrive in a day or two.’

‘Will you deny yourself pleasure in the meantime?’

‘I will honour my vows.’

‘More fool you!’ He leaned across Ralph. ‘Gervase?’

‘My lord?’

‘Will you go off to an empty bed tonight as well?’

‘I hope so.’

‘The ladies will be disappointed.’

‘They have entertainment enough without me, my lord.’

‘I like my guests to have everything.’

‘We do.’

‘We do, indeed,’ echoed Ralph. ‘I have never seen such a magnificent feast. Lavish banquets were held in our honour both in York and in Oxford but they pale beside this one.’

‘I never stint,’ boasted Hugh.

‘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.