Edward Marston - The Hawks of Delamere

Hubert’s mind was suddenly concentrated on his survival.

‘Should we move to the castle, my lord?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘In the interests of security.’

‘No!’ wailed Brother Simon.

‘This is the safest place in Chester.’

‘It may protect our bodies, my lord, but think of the spiritual damage it may inflict. This is a haven of sin and fornication. My soul shrinks at the very notion of being immured in such a den of vice.’

‘It might be an education for you,’ teased Ralph.

‘Heaven forfend!’

‘We will move to the castle,’ decreed Hubert, riding over the protests of his companion. ‘Our presence here might help to cleanse the atmosphere. I know that you have severe qualms, Brother Simon, but I hold that a castle which has a chaplain of such quality in its midst cannot be the fount of wickedness that we might fear. We will lend our strength to that of Brother Gerold.’

‘Must we desert Bishop Robert and Archdeacon Frodo?’

‘They will be scurrying in here themselves before too long,’

prophesied Ralph with a chuckle. ‘If there is to be a Welsh uprising, that is, and it is very much in the balance.’

Simon wrung his hands. ‘But you told us that the Prince of Gwynedd is to intercede on the side of peace.’

‘Indeed, I did. And I pray that he may succeed in exerting some control over his people. But there is no guarantee of that,’ said Ralph. ‘The Welsh are a capricious race.’

‘None more so than Idwal!’ groaned Hubert.

‘Give him his due, Hubert. He has worked hard to stave off war and may yet turn out to be our saviour.’

‘That would be too great a burden to bear!’

‘Would you rather be embroiled in a war?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then give thanks where thanks are due,’ said Ralph tolerantly.

‘Idwal worships the same God as we do, albeit in a different language. If he would only take off that dead sheep that he wears, I might even grow to like him.’

‘But he reviles the English Church.’

‘Why, so do I on occasion, Hubert. The English Church seems to come through unscathed from both our aspersions.’ He became brisk. ‘But you must excuse me. I have much to do and you must seek some accommodation in the castle.’

‘No!’ cried Simon.

‘Yes!’ declared Hubert.

‘Argue about it elsewhere,’ suggested Ralph.

Turning on his heel, he unlocked the door and held it open for them to leave. A telltale sound alerted him. Somebody was descending the stairs at speed. Ralph was enraged to discover that the eavesdropper had been outside his door again.

‘God’s tits!’ he howled.

While Canon Hubert grimaced in disapproval and Brother Simon put his hands protectively over his ears, Ralph went charging down the stairs in pursuit, swearing aloud as he did so and pulling out his sword to brandish it in the air. But his mad descent bore no fruit. When he reached the bottom of the steps, there was nobody in sight.

His anger surged until his temples were pounding. ‘Where are you?’ he bellowed.

A door opened behind him and Brother Gerold stepped out, ‘What is the trouble, my lord?’ he said innocently.

Idwal, Archdeacon of St David’s, flung his cloak back over his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height. A sense of pride coursed through him. He had persuaded Gruffydd ap Cynan to advocate peace and now stood over him while he committed his promise to paper. Gruffydd was allowed out into the dingy passageway to sit at the small wooden table used by the guards.

Fresh candles were lit to illumine what might turn out to be a vital document. Idwal grinned with delight as he watched the stylus scratching its way over the parchment. The fact that the missive was in Welsh added a lustre to it.

Gervase waited in the background until the prisoner had finished writing. When he had first read through it himself, Idwal passed the document to Gervase so that he could study its contents. The message was short, simple and quite unequivocal.

The Prince of Gwynedd exhorted his followers to cease forthwith any preparations for war that they had been making. There were only two words that Gervase did not recognise but he was satisfied when Idwal translated them for him and added his own thanks to the prisoner.

Gruffydd ap Cynan rose to his feet and turned resignedly towards his cell. Gervase put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are to be allowed some exercise, my lord.’

‘Am I?’ said the other, his spirits lifting.

‘I told you that Earl Hugh would be grateful,’ Idwal reminded him. ‘Enjoy the fresh air again, my lord. We will show your letter to the earl, then I will carry it in person across the border.’

Farewells were exchanged, then Gervase led the way out of the dungeons and up to the hall. The Earl of Chester was waiting for them and they were admitted at once. Hugh was seated at the head of the table with a few of his barons in attendance. Idwal scuttled across to him with an air of self-importance and placed the document on the table with great ceremony, as if delivering the Ten Commandments.

‘Here it is, my lord,’ he said solemnly.

‘What does it say?’

‘Let me translate it for you.’

‘No,’ said Hugh sharply. ‘I do not trust you. Gervase must translate it for me. Slowly Word for word.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ agreed Gervase.

‘But I helped to draft it,’ boasted Idwal.

‘Then you have already exceeded your orders.’

‘Gruffydd ap Cynan needed much persuasion, my lord.’

‘Your work is done. Stand aside.’ His nose wrinkled in disgust.

‘What is that dreadful stink?’

Gervase stepped in to ease Idwal gently away and to lessen the impact of his malodorous cloak on Hugh the Gross. Standing beside the earl, he took him methodically through the document, using a finger to indicate each word as he translated it. Idwal was peeved that Hugh was not more impressed with the phrasing of the missive.

‘That last sentence was my suggestion, my lord.’

‘I do not need to know that,’ said Hugh.

‘Will you authorise me to deliver it?’

‘You?’

‘It will give the letter credence.’

‘I have messengers enough at my disposal.’

‘But they will suspect a forgery, if I am not there to assure them of the document’s authenticity. I gave my word to Gruffydd ap Cynan that I would bear it in person.’

‘You had no right to do so.’

‘Nevertheless, my lord,’ said Gervase, cutting in to ease the growing friction, ‘I do believe that Archdeacon Idwal should be allowed to deliver this message. Only he can convince Gruffydd’s people that they must heed the orders of their prince. Dispatch him at once, my lord. I will go with him, if you wish, with as many of your men as you choose to send with us. But I beg of you to take speedy action here. Time is of the essence.’

Earl Hugh picked up the document and looked at it with misgivings. Prepared for a battle, he felt cheated by the prospect of peace, especially as it might be instigated by a prisoner in his dungeons and not by any negotiation on his own part. He wrestled with his ambivalence for some minutes. Idwal could contain himself no longer.

‘Delay could cost lives, my lord,’ he claimed.

‘Be silent!’

‘That message must be sent at once.’

‘I make the decisions here,’ growled Hugh, ‘and I do not need your interference. A close friend of mine was laid in his grave today, a fine man cut down by some cowardly Welsh archer. Should I not avenge the death of Raoul Lambert instead of trying to make peace with his killers?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘One person shot that arrow,’ said Gervase reasonably, ‘and not the entire population of Gwynedd.’