Ellis Peters: Devil's Novice

When he had seen his wife and baby son installed comfortably in his town house near St. Mary’s church, and satisfied himself of the good order kept in the castle garrison, Hugh’s first visit was always to pay his respects to the abbot. By the same token, he never left the enclave without seeking out Brother Cadfael in his workshop in the garden. They were old friends, closer than father and son, having not only that easy and tolerant relationship of two generations, but shared experiences that made of them contemporaries. They sharpened minds, one upon the other, for the better protection of values and institutions that needed defence with every passing day in a land so shaken and disrupted.

Cadfael asked after Aline, and smiled with pleasure even in speaking her name. He had seen her won by combat, along with high office for so young a man as his friend, and he felt almost a grandsire’s fond pride in their firstborn son, to whom he had stood godfather at his baptism in the first days of this same year.

“Radiant,” said Hugh with high content, “and asking after you. When times serves I’ll make occasion to carry you off, and you shall see for yourself how she’s blossomed.”

“The bud was rare enough,” said Cadfael. “And the imp Giles? Dear life, nine months old, he’ll be quartering your floors like a hound-pup! They’re on their feet almost before they’re out of your arms.”

“He’s as fast on four legs,” said Hugh proudly, “as his slave Constance is on two. And has a grip on him like a swordsman born. But God keep that time well away from him many years yet, his childhood will be all too short for me. And God willing, we shall be clear of this shattered time before ever he comes to manhood. There was a time when England enjoyed a settled rule, there must be another such to come.”

He was a balanced and resilient creature, but the times cast their shadow on him when he thought on his office and his allegiance.

“What’s the word from the south?” asked Cadfael, observing the momentary cloud. “It seems Bishop Henry’s conference came to precious little in the end.”

Henry of Blois, bishop of Winchester and papal legate, was the king’s younger brother, and had been his staunch adherent until Stephen had affronted, attacked and gravely offended the church in the persons of certain of its bishops. Where Bishop Henry’s personal allegiance now rested was matter for some speculation, since his cousin the Empress Maud had actually arrived in England and ensconced herself securely with her faction in the west, based upon the city of Gloucester. An exceedingly able, ambitious and practical cleric might well feel some sympathy upon both sides, and a great deal more exasperation with both sides; and it was consistent with his situation, torn between kin, that he should have spent all the spring and summer months of this year trying his best to get them to come together sensibly, and make some arrangement for the future that should appease, if not satisfy, both claims, and give England a credible government and some prospect of the restoration of law. He had done his best, and even managed to bring representatives of both parties to meet near Bath only a month or so ago. But nothing had come of it.

“Though it stopped the fighting,” said Hugh wryly, “at least for a while. But no, there’s no fruit to gather.”

“As we heard it,” said Cadfael, “the empress was willing to have her claim laid before the church as judge, and Stephen was not.”

“No marvel!” said Hugh, and grinned briefly at the thought. “He is in possession, she is not. In any submission to trial, he has all to lose, she has nothing at stake, and something to gain. Even a hung judgement would reflect she is no fool. And my king, God give him better sense, has affronted the church, which is not slow to avenge itself. No, there was nothing to be hoped for there. Bishop Henry is bound away into France at this moment, he hasn’t given up hope, he’s after the backing of the French King and Count Theobald of Normandy. He’ll be busy these next weeks, working out some propositions for peace with them, and come back armed to accost both these enemies again. To tell truth, he hoped for more backing here than ever he got, from the north above all. But they held their tongues and stayed at home.”

“Chester?” hazarded Cadfael.

Earl Ranulf of Chester was an independent-minded demi-king in a strong northern palatine, and married to a daughter of the earl of Gloucester, the empress’s half-brother and chief champion in this fight, but he had grudges against both factions, and had kept a cautious peace in his own realm so far, without committing himself to arms for either party.

“He and his half-brother, William of Roumare. Roumare has large holdings in Lincolnshire, and the two between them are a force to be reckoned with. They’ve held the balance, up there, granted, but they could have done more. Well, we can be grateful even for a passing truce. And we can hope.”

Hope was in no very generous supply in England during these hard years, Cadfael reflected ruefully. But do him justice, Henry of Blois was trying his best to bring order out of chaos. Henry was proof positive that there is a grand career to be made in the world by early assumption of the cowl. Monk of Cluny, abbot of Glastonbury, bishop of Winchester, papal legate—a rise as abrupt and spectacular as a rainbow. True, he was a king’s nephew to start with, and owed his rapid advancement to the old king Henry. Able younger sons from lesser families choosing the cloister and the habit could not all expect the mitre, within or without their abbeys. That brittle youngster with the passionate mouth and the green-flecked eyes, for instance—how far was he likely to get on the road to power?

“Hugh,” said Cadfael, damping down his brazier with a turf to keep it live but sleepy, in case he should want it later, “what do you know of the Aspleys of Aspley? Down the fringe of the Long Forest, I fancy, no great way from the town, but solitary.”

“Not so solitary,” said Hugh, mildly surprised by the query. “There are three neighbour manors there, all grown from what began as one assart. They all held from the great earl, they all hold from the crown now. He’s taken the name Aspley. His grandsire was Saxon to the finger-ends, but a solid man, and Earl Roger took him into favour and left him his land. They’re Saxon still, but they’d taken his salt, and were loyal to it and went with the earldom when it came to the crown. This lord took a Norman wife and she brought him a manor somewhere to the north, beyond Nottingham, but Aspley is still the head of his honour. Why, what’s Aspley to you?”

“A shape on a horse in the rain,” said Cadfael simply. “He’s brought us his younger son, heaven-bent or hell-bent on the cloistered life. I wondered why, that’s the truth of it.”

“Why?” Hugh shrugged and smiled. “A small honour, and an elder brother. There’ll be no land for him, unless he has the martial bent and sets out to carve some for himself. And cloister and church are no bad prospects. A sharp lad could get farther that way than hiring out a sword. Where’s the mystery?”

And there, vivid in Cadfael’s mind, was the still young and vigorous figure of Henry of Blois to point the judgement. But was that stiff and quivering boy the stuff of government?

“What like is the father?” he asked, sitting down beside his friend on the broad bench against the wall of his workshop.

“From a family older than Ethelred, and proud as the devil himself, for all he has but two manors to his name. Princes kept their own local courts in content, then. There are such houses still, in the hill lands and the forests. I suppose he must be some years past fifty,” said Hugh, pondering placidly enough over his dutiful studies of the lands and lords under his vigilance in these uneasy times. “His reputation and word stand high. I never saw the sons. There’d be five or six years between them, I fancy. Your sprig would be what age?”