Edward Marston - The Hawks of Delamere

‘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?’