new-baked bread and baskets of food, and one strapping lad hefting a side of pork on his shoulders.
“This is more than a bishop’s household,” said Cadfael, staring at all the activity. “They are feeding an army! Has Gilbert declared war on the valley of Clwyd?”
“I think,” said Mark, gazing beyond the whirlpool of busy people to the gently rising hillside above, “they are entertaining more important guests than us.”
Cadfael followed where Mark was staring, and saw in the shadow of the hills points of colour patterning a high green level above the little town. Bright pavilions and fluttering pennants spread across the green, not the rough and ready tents of a military encampment, but the furnishings of a princely household.
“Not an army,” said Cadfael, “but a court. We’ve strayed into lofty company. Had we not better go quickly and find out if two more are welcome? For there may be business afoot that concerns more than staunch brotherhood among bishops. Though if the prince’s officers are keeping close at Gilbert’s elbow, a reminder from Canterbury may not come amiss. However cool the compliment!”
They moved forward into the precinct and looked about them. The bishop’s palace was a new timber building, hall and chambers, and a number of new small dwellings on either side. It was the better part of a year since Gilbert had been consecrated at Lambeth, and clearly there had been hasty preparations to restore some semblance of a cathedral enclave in order to receive him decently. Cadfael and Mark were dismounting in the court when a young man threaded a brisk way to them through the bustle, and beckoned a groom after him to take their horses.
“Brothers, may I be of service?”
He was young, surely not more than twenty, and certainly not one of Gilbert’s ecclesiastics, rather something of a courtier in his dress, and wore gemstones about a fine, sturdy throat. He moved and spoke with an easy confidence and grace, bright of countenance and fair in colouring, his hair a light, reddish brown. A tall fellow, with something about him that seemed to Cadfael elusively familiar, though he had certainly never seen him before. He had addressed them first in Welsh, but changed easily to English after studying Mark from head to foot in one brilliant glance.
“Men of your habit are always welcome. Have you ridden far?”
“From Lichfield,” said Mark, “with a brotherly letter and gift for Bishop Gilbert from my bishop of Coventry and Lichfield.”
“He will be heartily glad,” said the young man, with surprising candour, “for he may be feeling the need of reinforcements.” His flashing grin was mischievous but amiable. “Here, let me get someone to bring your saddle- rolls after us, and I’ll bring you where you can rest and take refreshment. It will be a while yet to supper.”
A gesture from him brought servants running to unstrap the pack-rolls and follow hard on the visitors’ heels as the young man led them across the court to one of the new cells built out from the hall.
“I am without rights to command here, being a guest myself, but they have got used to me.” It was said with an assured and slightly amused confidence, as if he knew good reason why the bishop’s circle should accommodate him, and was forbearing enough not to presume upon it too far. “Will this suffice?”
The lodging was small but adequate, furnished with beds, bench and table, and full of the scent of seasoned wood freshly tooled. New brychans were piled on the beds, and the smell of good wool mingled with the newness of timber.
“I’ll send someone with water,” said their guide, “and find one of the canons. His lordship has been selecting where he can, but his demands come high. He’s having trouble in filling up his chapter. Be at home here, Brothers, and someone will come to you.”
And he was gone, with his blithe long strides and springing tread, and they were left to settle and stretch at ease after their day in the saddle.
“Water?” said Mark, pondering this first and apparently essential courtesy. “Is that by way of taking salt, here in Wales?”
“No, lad. A people that goes mostly afoot knows the value of feet and the dust and aches of travel. They bring water for us to bathe our feet. It is a graceful way of asking: Are you meaning to bide overnight? If we refuse it, we intend only a brief visit in courtesy. If we accept it, we are guests of the house from that moment.”
“And that young lord? For he’s too fine for a servant, and certainly no cleric. A guest, he said. What sort of an assembly have we blundered into, Cadfael?”
They had left the door wide for the pleasure of the evening light and the animation to be viewed about the court. A girl came threading her way through the purposeful traffic with a long, striding grace in her step, bearing before her a pitcher in a bowl. The water-carrier was tall and vigorous. A braid of glassy blue-black hair thick as her wrist hung over her shoulder, and stray curls blew about her temples in the faint breeze. A pleasure to behold, Cadfael thought, watching her approach. She made them a deep reverence as she entered, and kept her eyes dutifully lowered as she served them, pouring water for them, unlatching their sandals with her own long, shapely hands, no servant but a decorous hostess, so surely in a position of dominance here that she could stoop to serve without at any point abasing herself. The touch of her hands on Mark’s lean ankles and delicate, almost girlish feet brought a fiery blush rising from his throat to his brow, and then, as if she had felt it scorch her forehead, she did look up.
It was the most revealing of glances, though it lasted only a moment. As soon as she raised her eyes, a face hitherto impassive and austere was illuminated with a quicksilver sequence of expressions that came and passed in a flash. She took in Mark in one sweep of her lashes, and his discomfort amused her, and for an instant she considered letting him see her laughter, which would have discomforted him further; but then she relented, indulging an impulse of sympathy for his youth and apparent fragile innocence, and restored the gravity of her oval countenance.
Her eyes were so dark a purple as to appear black in shadow. She could not be more than eighteen years of age. Perhaps less, for her height and her bearing gave her a woman’s confidence. She had brought linen towels over her shoulder, and would have made a deliberate and perhaps mildly teasing grace of drying Mark’s feet with her own hands, but he would not let her. The authority that belonged not in his own small person but in the gravity of his office reached out to take her firmly by the hand and raise her from her knees. She rose obediently, only a momentary flash of her dark eyes compromising her solemnity. Young clerics, Cadfael thought, perceiving that he himself was in no danger, might have trouble with this one. For that matter, so might elderly clerics, if in a slightly different way.
“No,” said Mark firmly. “It is not fitting. Our part in the world is to serve, not to be served. And from all we have seen, outside there, you have more than enough guests on your hands, more demanding than we would wish to
