its own archbishop not subject to Canterbury. There are some Welsh churchmen now who want that rule restored.”
Cadfael shook his head rather dubiously at that. “Better not to look too closely into the past, we’re hearing more of that claim the more the writ of Canterbury is urged on us. But certainly Owain will be casting his shadow over his new bishop, by way of a reminder he’s in alien territory, and had better mind his manners. I hope he may be a wise man, and go gently with his flock.”
“Our bishop is very much in agreement with you,” said Mark, “and I’m well briefed. I did not tell the whole of my errand in chapter, though I have told it to Father Abbot since. I have yet another letter and gift to deliver. I am to go on to Bangor, oh, no, this is certainly not at Archbishop Theobald’s orders!, and pay the same courtesy to Bishop Meurig as to Bishop Gilbert. If Theobald holds that bishops should stand together, then Roger de Clinton’s text is that the principle applies to Norman and Welsh alike. And we propose to treat them alike.”
The “we”, as applying to Mark in common with his illustrious superior, sounded an echoing chord in Cadfael’s ears. He recalled just as innocent a presumption of partnership some years back, when this boy had been gradually emerging from his well-founded wariness of all men into warmth and affection, and this impulsive loyalty to those he admired and served. His “we”, then, had signified himself and Cadfael, as if they were two venturers keeping each the other’s back against the world.
“More and more,” said Hugh appreciatively, “I warm to this bishop of ours. But he’s sending you even on this longer journey alone?”
“Not quite alone.” Brother Mark’s thin, bright face flashed for an instant into a slightly mischievous smile, as though he had still some mysterious surprise up his sleeve. “But he would not hesitate to ride across Wales alone, and neither would I. He takes it for granted the Church and the cloth will be respected. But of course I shall be glad of any advice you can give me about the best way. You know far better than I or my bishop what conditions hold good in Wales. I thought to go directly by Oswestry and Chirk. What do you think?”
“Things are quiet enough up there,” Hugh agreed. “In any event, Madog, whatever else he may be, is a pious soul where churchmen are concerned, however he may treat the English laity. And for the moment he has all the lesser lads of Powys Fadog on a tight rein. Yes, you’ll be safe enough that way, and it’s your quickest way, though you’ll find some rough upland riding between Dee and Clwyd.”
By the brightness and speculation of Mark’s grey eyes he was looking forward to his adventure. It is a great thing to be trusted with an important errand when you are the latest and least of your lord’s servants, and for all his awareness that his humble status was meant to temper the compliment, he was also aware how much depended on the address with which he discharged his task. He was meant not to flatter, not to exalt, but nevertheless to present in his person the real and formidable solidarity of bishop with bishop.
“Are there things I should know,” he asked, “about affairs in Gwynedd? The politics of the Church must reckon with the politics of state, and I am ignorant about things Welsh. I need to know on what subjects to keep my mouth shut, and when to speak, and what it would be wise to say. All the more as I am to go on to Bangor. What if the court should be there? I may have to account for myself to Owain’s officers. Even to Owain himself!”
“True enough,” said Hugh, “for he usually contrives to know of every stranger who enters his territory. You’ll find him approachable enough if you do encounter him. For that matter, you may give him my greetings and compliments. And Cadfael has met him, twice at least. A large man, every way! Just say no word of brothers! It may still be a sore point with him.”
“Brothers have been the ruin of Welsh princedoms through all ages,” Cadfael observed ruefully. “Welsh princes should have only one son apiece. The father builds up a sound principality and a strong rule, and after his death his three or four or five sons, in and out of wedlock, all demand by right equal shares, and the law says they should have them. Then one picks off another, to enlarge his portion, and it would take more than law to stop the killing. I wonder, sometimes, what will happen when Owain’s gone. He has sons already, and time enough before him to get more. Are they, I wonder, going to undo everything he’s done?”
“Please God,” said Hugh fervently, “Owain’s going may not be for thirty years or more. He’s barely past forty. I can deal with Owain, he keeps his word and he keeps his balance. If Cadwaladr had been the elder and got the dominance we should have had border war along this frontier year in, year out.”
“This Cadwaladr is the brother it’s best not to mention?’ Mark asked. “What has he done that makes him anathema?”
“A number of things over the years. Owain must love him, or he would have let someone rid him of the pest long ago. But this time, murder. Some months ago, in the autumn of last year, a party of his closest men ambushed the prince of Deheubarth and killed him. God knows for what mad reason! The young fellow was in close alliance with him, and betrothed to Owain’s daughter, there was no manner of sense in such an act. And for all Cadwaladr did not appear himself in the deed, Owain for one was in no doubt it was done on his orders. None of them would have dared, not of their own doing.”
Cadfael recalled the shock of the murder, and the swift and thorough retribution. Owain Gwynedd in outraged justice had sent his son Hywel to drive Cadwaladr bodily out of every furlong of land he held in Ceredigion, and burn his castle of Llanbadarn, and the young man, barely past twenty, had accomplished his task with relish and efficiency. Doubtless Cadwaladr had friends and adherents who would give him at least the shelter of a roof, but he remained landless and outcast. Cadfael could not but wonder, not only where the offender was lurking now, but whether he might not end, like Geoffrey of Mandeville in the Fens, gathering the scum of North Wales about him, criminals, malcontents, natural outlaws, and preying on all law-abiding people.
“What became of this Cadwaladr?” asked Mark with understandable curiosity.
“Dispossession. Owain drove him out of every piece of land he had to his name. Not a toehold left to him in Wales.”
“But he’s still at large, somewhere,” Cadfael observed, with some concern, “and by no means the man to take his penalty tamely. There could be mischief yet to pay. I see you’re bound into a perilous labyrinth. I think you should not be going alone.”
Hugh was studying Mark’s face, outwardly impassive, but with a secretive sparkle of fun in the eyes that watched Cadfael so assiduously. “As I recall,” said Hugh mildly, “he said: “Not quite alone!””
“So he did!” Cadfael stared into the young face that confronted him so solemnly, but for that betraying gleam in the eyes. “What is it, boy, that you have not told us? Out with it! Who goes with you?”
“But I did tell you,” said Mark, “that I am going on to Bangor. Bishop Gilbert is Norman, and speaks both French and English, but Bishop Meurig is Welsh, and he and many of his people speak no English, and my Latin would serve me only among the clerics. So I am allowed an interpreter. Bishop Roger has no competent Welsh speaker close to him or in his confidence. I offered a name, one he had not forgotten.” The sparkle had grown into a radiance that lit his face, and reflected not only light but enlightenment back into Cadfael’s dazzled eyes. “I have been keeping the
