Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“Not if it is a just war!” argued Ralph.

“The two words insult each other.”

“A man is entitled to fight for his rights.”

“Not with a sword and spear.”

“I have great sympathy with your view,” said Canon Hubert, with a sidelong glance of reproof at Ralph. “Conquest will always contain the seeds of evil.”

“The same may be said of the Church,” growled Ralph.

“That is blasphemy!”

“It is cold fact, Canon Hubert. Holy men march behind soldiers and reap the benefits of our labour. The Church’s one foundation in this country is the Battle of Hastings.”

“No, my lord,” said Hubert, complacently. “You fought and we sought reconciliation with God. That is why the bishops in Normandy drew up the Penitential Ordinance that was confirmed by the papal legate, Bishop Ermenfrid of Sion.”

Richard Orbec rose involuntarily from his seat.

“Take special note of the first article in that decree,” he said with unexpected passion. “Whoever knows he has killed in the great battle is to do one year’s penance for each man slain. Remember that. Each man slain.”

“You are too young to have fought at Hastings,” said Ralph.

“There are other battles. With other deaths.”

Orbec’s mien had altered completely. Dignity and self-possession had been supplanted by wild agitation. But it was his expression which alarmed the others. The green eyes were hot coals of fire and the bearded face was twisted with hate. Even Ralph Delchard was taken aback at first.

They were looking into the face of Satan.

Idwal the archdeacon spread his opinions evenly throughout the cathedral.

During his short stay, therefore, he contrived to infuriate everyone to the same degree. His arrogance and his outspokenness were devastating. Robert Losinga, Bishop of Hereford, a man renowned for his learning and revered for his Job-like patience, found the scholarly Welshman too great an affliction to bear. His command to the dean was simple.

“Rid us of this tumult!”

Theobald went off to implement the order from on high. It would be a delicate task. The laws of hospitality were being breached and Christian fellowship was being negated, but their visitor had brought it upon himself. He had caused more upset than a swarm of bees during a choir rehearsal. The dean should feel no compunction in directing him to the road out of Hereford.

“Good morning, Archdeacon,” he said.

“ Bore da .”

“You slept well?”

“Fitfully,” said Idwal. “Fitfully. I was much distracted by some remarks you made about the Holy Eucharist. I will take issue with you on that account.”

“This is not a convenient time for debate,” said the dean, hastily.

“Let us postpone our discussion until a more fitting moment. During another visit, perhaps.”

“Yes, I intend to come back here soon.”

“When you have the whole of Wales to visit?”

“I have met with such friendship,” said Idwal. “A man should always make a determined effort to see his friends.”

Theobald swallowed hard. “Yes, of course.”

They were in the half-built cathedral cloister, picking their way among the slabs of stone. Two canons darted out of the way as they approached, fearful of being drawn into another conversation with the evangelical Celt. Idwal was wearing his grubby lambskin cloak.

Theobald’s hope rustled.

“You are dressed for travelling, Archdeacon,” he said.

“My life is one of perpetual motion.”

“You are leaving us?”

“Unhappily, yes.”

“Today?”

“Within a matter of hours.”

“This is sad news indeed,” said Theobald, rejoicing inwardly. “We looked for a longer visitation.”

“My plans have been upset and I have been compelled to change my itinerary slightly.”

“I wish you God speed!”

Theobald could not believe his luck. Having racked his brains to find a diplomatic means by which he could evict the little Welshman, he was instead being confronted with a voluntary departure. It was the clearest example of divine intervention that Theobald had met in a long while and he offered up a silent prayer of gratitude.

A gust of wind blew and a noisome vapour attacked his nostrils. He realised, with disgust, that it was the archdeacon’s cloak which was giving off the stink.

“Must you wear this common lambskin?” he asked.

“I like it.”

“Surely, a man in your position could well afford a richer fur? One that imparted more dignity and status to its wearer.”

“What had you in mind, Dean Theobald?”

“Sable, beaver, or fox skin.”

“They are such shifty animals,” said Idwal. “Their skins might do for English bishops and abbots but I am a plain man and therefore content with lambskin.”

“At the very least, you might wear cat skin.”

“That would be an abomination.”

“Why?”

“I have often heard the Angus Dei sung,” said the Welshman, “but I shudder at the thought of a Cattus Dei! ”

His cackle reverberated around the cloisters.

“I will hold you back no longer,” said Theobald, even more anxious to speed the parting guest. “Convey our best wishes to Bishop Herewald when you return to Llandaff.”

“But I will come back here first.”

“Here?”

“In a day or two at most.”

“You said even now that you were quitting Hereford.”

“The city only, not the county. I merely travel back to Ergyng once more.”

“To Archenfield, you mean? Why?”

“To solve a murder.”

“How are you implicated in that?”

“By birth, Dean Theobald,” said the other. “A man is killed and the blame is placed on my nation. You cannot expect me to stand idly by while such injustice occurs.”

“What will you do?”

“Find the real culprits and exonerate Wales.”

“Oh.”

“Ample reward then awaits me.”

“Reward?”

“Yes, Dean Theobald,” said Idwal, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder. “You, Bishop Robert, this cathedral. It calls to me. I cannot wait to cross swords with you all in debate once more.”

Theobald shuddered as the stench of the lambskin hit him.

The interrogation of Richard Orbec was long and probing but it yielded no firm results. His manors in Archenfield gave him a substantial holding that was second only to the King’s demesne in that part of Herefordshire. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret questioned his right to that land, while Canon Hubert’s opinion was clouded by the fact that the rent from the estate went towards the rebuilding of the cathedral.

Brother Simon was a mute witness, but Corbin the Reeve was brought in on a number of occasions to clarify certain points relating to people and procedures in the county. It was left to Redwald to summarise his master’s position.

“The carucates under review are worked by subtenants who know only one landlord,” he said, turning to Richard Orbec. “He sits before you. We have a legal charter to enforce that claim and subtenants who will attest it upon oath.” He glanced down at the table. “You have shown us a charter, but its legality remains in doubt and its contents are, in any case, no longer relevant. Warnod is not here to press his claim and neither is anyone else on his behalf.”

“They may be,” said Gervase.

“When?”

“When we find them,” added Ralph.

There was no more to be said. The first session with Richard Orbec was over. Maurice Damville was due in the shire hall at any moment and it was politic to keep them apart. A brawl between two witnesses would achieve nothing. Ralph gave Orbec and Redwald leave to depart and they bade farewell.