Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

‘Bishop Wilfred,’ replied the priest. He waved an arm in a vigorous swinging motion, although Geoffrey was not sure what the gesture was meant to convey. ‘And this is my See.’

‘You do not look like a bishop,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether the priest was short of a few wits and in the habit of waylaying strangers with wild claims.

‘And you do not look like a Jerosolimitanus,’ retorted Wilfred. ‘Far too clean by half. Not that I have met many, of course. They are rare in Wales. But why do you say I do not look like a bishop? Am I not regal enough for you?’

‘Your manner is certainly regal,’ said Geoffrey tartly. ‘But most bishops I have met dress rather more grandly. Well, Giffard does not, but he is exceptional.’

Wilfred’s manner softened. ‘You know Giffard? He is a fine man, and it is a wicked shame that he was exiled for obeying his conscience. The Archbishop of York should not consecrate us. Only Canterbury can do that, and Giffard was right to reject York’s blessing.’

‘King Henry does not think so.’

Wilfred grimaced. ‘No, I imagine not. But do not judge me on my working clothes, if you would be so kind. I have been painting, and I can hardly wear my finery for menial work, can I? Would you like to admire my masterpiece?’

It was an odd invitation, but it suited Geoffrey’s purposes. He watched Wilfred unlock the door and followed him inside the church. The moment his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, his heart sank.

St Peter’s was a large building, comprising a long nave, two aisles and an enormous chancel. Every available patch of wall was graced with an alcove in which stood a statue. Some were small, some were large, some finely wrought, others crude. Most were of St Peter and Mary, with a few local saints thrown in. He wondered if he would be able to determine which was William’s. Or should he merely pick one and present it to Henry, knowing His Majesty would never be able to tell the difference?

‘I have letters for you from the King,’ he said, reaching inside his shirt for the thick packet and the one Ywain had opened. He handed them over; he now only had Sear’s left to deliver.

Wilfred snatched them. ‘Yes! That was why I wanted a word with you. That rodent Delwyn hinted there might be something coming my way from His Majesty.’ He grinned gleefully. ‘I anticipate that I shall be the richer at the end of it. Not that I have any great love of wealth, of course.’

Geoffrey took a step away, knowing Wilfred was going to be disappointed. He was not wrong. As the bishop read what was written, his face went from pleasure to rage.

‘What is this?’ he cried. ‘I am to give seven of my churches to foundations in England! My taxes are raised, too. And why is the seal broken? It is addressed to Mabon on the outside, but me inside. Did you give it to the Abbot to read first?’

‘I am afraid so,’ admitted Geoffrey. ‘A clerical error, and not my fault.’

‘But it says I am to give the tithes and benefits of St Peter’s to La Batailge!’ shouted Wilfred, his furious voice ringing down the nave. ‘And it is my favourite church in the whole See!’

‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey quietly.

‘And Abbot Ywain knows about it?’ yelled Wilfred. ‘Damn you for a scoundrel, man!’

‘It was not deliberate,’ said Geoffrey, beginning to edge away. He stopped when a sly expression crossed Wilfred’s face.

‘Hah! Come and see this! You have made two errors, because here is a parchment that is addressed to me on the outside, but Mabon on the inside. It says the abbey is to obey me in all things. This is excellent news! I shall deliver it immediately. Better still, you can do it. They will be livid!’

‘Then I decline the honour.’

‘Ah, but wait,’ said Wilfred, frowning as he continued reading. ‘It says that, in compensation, Ywain can claim one hundred marks from the treasury. That is not fair! I am deprived of money, but he is given a fortune! I had better see what can be done to eliminate this final paragraph, and just give Ywain the first half of the letter. You can deliver the revised edition tomorrow.’

Geoffrey regarded him with distaste, feeling he had learned all he needed to know about the characters of Bishop Wilfred and the Abbot. ‘I will not do it.’

‘I do not blame you,’ said Wilfred, patting his shoulder. ‘I do not like visiting the abbey myself. But it cannot be helped; you will just have to grit your teeth and know you are earning your reward in Heaven.’

‘There is just one more missive,’ said Geoffrey, declining to debate the matter. ‘From Bishop Maurice of London.’

‘Dear old Maurice,’ mused Wilfred fondly, taking the letter and breaking the seal. ‘How is his medical condition? It must be a wretched nuisance to be so afflicted, and I admire him for overcoming adversity and continuing with his sacred work.’

‘He is a good man,’ said Geoffrey pointedly. ‘Not prone to cheating the abbeys in his See.’

‘It is a prayer. How thoughtful! And by Giffard, too. Actually, it is rather beautiful.’ Wilfred became sombre suddenly. ‘It is about forgiveness, compassion and kindness – virtues Giffard has in abundance, but not ones that come readily to me. Maurice is wise to remind me of them.’

Geoffrey read it. It was one he had heard Giffard use before, and reminded him that his friend was a deeply devout man, unlike most of the clerics he knew.

‘It is beautiful,’ he said, admiring the simple poetry of the words. ‘And you are right: he should not be exiled for following his conscience.’

For a while, both men were silent. Wilfred took the prayer and read it again, while Geoffrey stared towards the high altar, aware of the peace and stillness. It was a lovely building.

‘But I brought you here to admire my work,’ said Wilfred suddenly, making Geoffrey jump. ‘Not to stand here praying. Come with me.’

He led the way down the nave towards the rood screen, against which leaned a precarious piece of scaffolding. Pots and brushes were arranged neatly on a table nearby, and sheets had been spread across the floor.

‘It is a depiction of Judgement Day,’ explained Wilfred. ‘And to make it more terrifying for my flock, I have included local features. You can see Rhydygors at the top, being burned by a fire-breathing dragon, and the abbey is at the bottom, inviting the Devil in.’

‘ Mabon is inviting the Devil in,’ corrected Geoffrey.

Wilfred rubbed his chin. ‘So he is. I had better wash him off and insert Ywain instead. It is one thing attacking the living, but it is unfair to tackle the dead, who are not in a position to appreciate it. Do you recognize any familiar faces among the souls burning in Hell at the bottom?’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, as several jumped out at him. ‘Is that legal?’

Wilfred sniggered. ‘What are they going to do about it? Besides, I am doing them a favour. They should be thinking of their immortal souls, and I am reminding them of what will be in store if they do not do what the Church – me, in other words – demands.’

‘Is that William?’ asked Geoffrey, pointing to a bright figure that was winging its way upwards, away from the rest of Kermerdyn’s hapless residents.

Wilfred nodded. ‘He was a holy man, and it was a pity he died young. Still, we have Hywel now, who is just as valiant and honourable. I have been blessed with those at Rhydygors.’

‘I understand William had a vision,’ probed Geoffrey.

Wilfred nodded. ‘He was always rather cagey about it, although I did inform him he should tell me about the experience, because I am a bishop.’

‘And did he oblige?’ asked Geoffrey.

Wilfred grimaced. ‘Only on his deathbed, when he was not in control of his wits – and then I was obliged to listen for days before I had the full story from him. He claimed it happened when he was bathing in the river, and that it entailed the Blessed Virgin.’