The Hawks of Delamere

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 opinion, 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.

When his colleagues arrived outside, he was almost ready.

‘It is time for breakfast, Ralph,’ called Gervase.

‘I have already eaten,’ he lied, vowing inwardly never to let food or drink pass his lips ever again. ‘Go ahead without me. I will join you shortly.’

‘Did you sleep well, my lord?’ said Hubert.

‘Too well, Hubert. And you?’

‘A restless night, I fear.’

‘Why?’

‘I will tell you when you come out.’

Half an hour later, Gervase had eaten his breakfast, Ralph had shaken off the worst of the banquet’s legacy and Hubert was telling them about the unexpected guest from Wales. Attended by Ralph’s men, they left the castle and followed the directions they had been given to the shire hall. Hubert was still shaken by his exchange with Idwal.

‘It was like meeting a ghost,’ he recalled.

‘Thank heaven he is not staying at the castle,’ said Ralph. ‘I would be more than happy never to set eyes on that ragged pestilence again. Archdeacon Idwal is a menace.’

‘But a helpful one,’ Gervase remembered.

‘Helpful!’

‘Yes, Ralph. He came to our assistance in Hereford.’

‘He was a thorn in our flesh from start to finish.’

‘A Welsh thorn,’ said Hubert. ‘The sharpest kind.’

‘What is he doing in Chester?’ asked Ralph.

‘Haunting us.’

They arrived at the shire hall to find Brother Simon awaiting them. Satchels of documents were slung from his shoulders.

There was such an expression of anguish on his face that they thought he was suffering from some malady, but the real cause of his grief was standing a few yards away. A young woman in the garb of a Saxon peasant was loitering hopefully with a boy at her side. Her proximity to Simon was enough to transform him into a furnace of embarrassment. Females were anathema to him. No monk had more willingly taken the vow of celibacy. When he saw Canon Hubert approaching, he scuttled hastily across to him.

The young woman, meanwhile, accosted Ralph and Gervase.

‘May I have a word with you, good sirs?’ she pleaded.

Ralph had learned enough of the Saxon tongue from his wife to be able to understand her entreaty, but he left the reply to Gervase. With a Saxon mother and a Breton father, Gervase was conversant with both languages.

‘What is the trouble?’ he asked her.

‘My name is Gytha and this is my brother, Beollan,’ she said.

‘We are in great distress and need your help.’

‘In what way?’

‘Our father and brother have disappeared.’

‘Where?’

‘In the Forest of Delamere.’

‘Perhaps they merely went astray.’

‘There is no chance of that,’ she explained. ‘Our home is within the bounds of the forest. We know its paths by heart. Our father and brother have been missing since yesterday and we fear that something dreadful has happened to them.’

‘Why come to us?’ wondered Gervase. ‘We are strangers to the city. Take this inquiry to the castle.’

‘We already have and we were turned away.’

‘Then seek out the sheriff.’

‘He, too, spurned us,’ she complained. ‘We were told that royal commissioners would be coming to the shire hall this morning so we appeal to you as a last resort.’

‘This is none of our business,’ decided Ralph, grasping the gist of what she was saying. ‘We came to sit in judgement on claimants to property, not to search for missing persons.’

‘Please, my lord!’ she begged.

‘Stand aside,’ he advised.

‘We implore your help.’

‘There is nothing that we can do.’

Ralph pushed gently past her and went into the shire hall with Hubert and Simon at his heels, but Gervase lingered. Gytha’s plight concerned him and her brother’s attitude puzzled him.

While she was on the verge of tears, the boy had an air of quiet resignation. It was almost as if he had given up hope of ever seeing his father and brother again.

Gytha clutched at the sleeve of Gervase’s black gown. ‘We fear for their lives!’ she wailed.

‘When did you last see them?’

‘Early yesterday morning. When they left the cottage.’

‘Where did they go?’

‘Into the forest. All three of them.’

‘Three?’

‘Beollan went with them.’

Gervase turned to him. ‘What happened to them?’

‘I … lost sight of them,’ stuttered the boy.

‘Where?’

‘I … can’t remember.’

‘What were the three of you doing in the forest?’

When the boy shifted his feet and studied the ground guiltily, Gervase had his answer. They were poaching. He thought of the two men whom Earl Hugh had hanged in the forest when his hawk was brought down with an arrow. Could they be the missing father and brother? He hoped not and he certainly did not wish to alarm Gytha and Beollan unnecessarily by mentioning the possibility. He needed more facts before he could help them.

‘Leave this matter with me,’ he suggested.

‘You’ll find out the truth?’ she said anxiously.

‘I will do what I can.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you, thank you!’

Tears of gratitude streamed down her face and Gervase felt a surge of sympathy. Beollan, by contrast, was watching him with a mixture of dislike and distrust. Gervase sensed that the boy was hiding something, but this was not the place to try to wrest his secrets from him. A degree of reassurance was all that he could offer at this stage.

‘I will make inquiries,’ promised Gervase.

‘Shall I wait for you here?’ she said.

‘No, Gytha. My colleagues and I have work to do in the shire hall. I may not be able to look into this matter until much later on. Tell me where you live and I will get a message to you somehow.’

She was touched. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘If it will ease your mind, I will do it with pleasure.’

‘You are so kind, sir.’

‘I cannot guarantee that I will find out what you want.’

‘But you will try. That is all I ask.’

‘I will try, Gytha. Very hard.’

She explained where she lived and gave him precise instructions about the route he should take. Gervase listened intently. Struck by her pale beauty, he was also startled by her resemblance to Alys. She had the same blue eyes, the same curve of chin and the same complexion. When he thought how distraught Alys would be if he ever went missing, he had some insight into Gytha’s misery. It made him resolve to help her.

‘We will go back home directly and wait,’ she said.

‘Do that,’ he counselled. ‘God willing, you may even find that your father and brother are there ahead of you.’

There was hope in his voice but none in his heart. Gervase felt certain that she would never see them again.

The excesses of the banquet left no mark on Hugh d’Avranches.

He was up at the crack of dawn and riding out with his guests for a morning in the forest. Deer were plentiful. While his huntsmen stalked their quarry with leashed dogs, Hugh and his friends waited in a clearing.

When the deer were sighted, word was sent to the hunting party and they mounted their horses at once. The dogs were taken in a circle to intercept the herd’s line of retreat. All three breeds, the lyme, the brachet and the greyhound, were kept on their leashes until the right moment.

Earl Hugh was impatient for action. Holding a lance aloft, he threw out a challenge to his companions.

‘I will kill the largest stag of all,’ he boasted.

‘Only if you get to it first, my lord,’ said William Malbank. ‘My lance is just as deadly as yours.’

‘You could not kill a mouse, let alone a stag.’

‘Watch me, my lord.’

‘Are you so sure of yourself, William?’

‘I am, indeed.’

‘I admire a man with confidence.’

‘Nobody has more than William Malbank.’

‘Then you will risk another wager?’

‘No,’ said the other, checked by the memory of his severe loss on the previous morning. ‘There is no need for a wager.’

‘Do you have no more mistresses to spare?’

Malbank blenched and the others ridiculed him but the earl stopped the laughter at once with a wave of his lance. Stag-hunting required stealth. He did not want the herd to be frightened away before he had made his first kill.

In the middle distance, one of the huntsmen advanced on foot with a pair of lyme-hounds to drive the deer towards the hunting party. The horn was soon raised and a loud blast echoed through the greenwood. It was the signal they had been waiting for and they did not hesitate. The deer fled, the hounds were released and the chase was on.

For all his bulk, Hugh kept his horse at the front of the pack, slashing at overhanging foliage with his lance and urging his mount into reckless pursuit. The whole forest reverberated with the clamour. Frightened deer darted wildly and baying dogs slowly closed in. Hot blood coursed through the veins of the hunting party. For many of them, the thrill of the chase was enough in itself, but not for Earl Hugh.

He needed a kill to satisfy his bloodlust and no slender deer would content him. Only a stag would suffice. He charged on through the forest with increasing speed until the hounds finally cornered their quarry in a clearing. It was a full-grown stag with huge antlers which it used to jab at the snarling dogs, catching the first to attack and tossing it yards across the grass. But there was no defence against Hugh the Gross. Reining in his horse in front of the beast, he raised his arm and needed only one vicious thrust of the lance to pierce the stag’s breast and drain the life out of it.

By the time that William Malbank arrived, the earl had dismounted to stand beside the fallen animal. Huntsmen swiftly leashed the dogs again to prevent them from eating the stag.

‘What did I tell you, William?’ said Hugh.

‘I was a fool even to accept your challenge, my lord.’

‘No hunter can ever get the better of me.’

He gave a laugh of celebration but it died in his throat as an arrow suddenly came whistling through the air to miss him by a matter of inches. It buried itself instead in the chest of one of the huntsmen and knocked him off his feet.

The man was killed instantly.