Pabo, the Priest: A Novel

by S. Baring-Gould

  CHAPTER III

  THE SEVEN DEGREES

  The river Cothi, that after a lengthy course finally discharges into theTowy, so soon as it has quitted the solitudes of moor and mountain,traverses a broad and fertile basin that is a gathering-place of manyfeeders. From this basin it issues by a narrow glen, almost a ravine.

  The sides of this great bowl are walled in by mountains, though not ofthe height, desolation, and grandeur of those to the north, where theCothi takes its rise. The broad basin in the midst of the highlands,once probably occupied by a lake, is traversed near its head by the SarnHelen, a paved Roman-British road, still in use, that connects the valesof the Towy and the Teify, and passes the once famous gold-mines ofOgofau.

  At the head of this oval trough or basin stand the church and village ofCynwyl Gaio, backed by mountains that rise rapidly, and are planted ona fork between the river Annell and a tributary, whose mingled waterseventually swell the Cothi.

  The lower extremity of the trough is occupied by a rocky height,Pen-y-ddinas, crowned with prehistoric fortifications, and a little tarnof trifling extent is the sole relic of the great sheet of water whichat one time, we may conjecture, covered the entire expanse.

  At the time of this story, the district between the Towy and Teify,comprising the basin just described, constituted the sanctuary of David,and was the seat of an ecclesiastical tribe--that is to say, it was theresidence of a people subject to a chief in sacred orders, the priestPabo, and the hereditary chieftainship was in his family.

  And this pleasant bowl among the mountains was also regarded as asanctuary, to which might fly such as had fallen into peril of life bymanslaughter, or such strangers as were everywhere else looked on withsuspicion. A story was told, and transmitted from father to son, toaccount for this. It was to this effect. When St. David--or Dewi, as theWelsh called him--left the synod of Brefi, in the Teify Vale, heascended the heights of the Craig Twrch, by Queen Helen's road, and onpassing the brow, looked down for the first time on the fertile districtbedded beneath him, engirdled by heathery mountains at the time in theflush of autumn flower. It was as though a crimson ribbon was drawnround the emerald bowl.

  Then--so ran the tale--the spirit of prophecy came on the patriarch. Hissoul was lifted up within him, and raising his hands in benediction, hestood for a while as one entranced.

  "Peace!" said he--and again, "Peace!" and once more, "Peace!" and headded, "May the deluge of blood never reach thee!"

  Then he fell to sobbing, and bowed his head on his knees.

  His disciples, Ismael and Aiden, said, "Father, tell us why thouweepest."

  But David answered, "I see what will be. Till then may the peace ofDavid rest on this fair spot."

  Now, in memory of this, it was ordained that no blood should be spilledthroughout the region; and that such as feared for their lives couldflee to it and be safe from pursuit, so long as they remained within thesanctuary bounds. And the bounds were indicated by crosses set up onthe roads and at the head of every pass.

  Consequently, the inhabitants of the Happy Valley knew that no Welshprince would harry there, that no slaughters could take place there, nohostile forces invade the vale. There might ensue quarrels betweenresidents in the Happy Land, personal disputes might wax keen; but sogreat was the dread of incurring the wrath of Dewi, that such quarrelsand disputes were always adjusted before reaching extremities.

  And this immunity from violence had brought upon the inhabitants greatprosperity. Such was a consequence of the benediction pronounced by oldFather David.

  It was no wonder, therefore, that the inhabitants of the region lookedto him with peculiar reverence and almost fanatical love. Just as inTibet the Grand Lama never dies, for when one religious chief pays thedebt of nature, his spirit undergoes a new incarnation, so--or almostso--was each successive Bishop of St. David's regarded as therepresentative of the first great father, as invested with all hisrights, authority, and sanctity, as having a just and inalienable claimon their hearts and on their allegiance.

  But now a blow had fallen on the community that was staggering. On thedeath of their Bishop Griffith, the church of St. David had chosen ashis successor Daniel, son of a former bishop, Sulien; but the Normanshad closed all avenues of egress from the peninsula, so that he mightnot be consecrated, unless he would consent to swear allegiance to thesee of Canterbury and submission to the crown of England, and this wasdoggedly resisted.

  Menevia--another name for the St. David's headland--had undergone manyvicissitudes. The church had been burnt by Danes, and its bishop andclergy massacred, but it had risen from its ruins, and a new successorin spirit, in blood, in tongue, had filled the gap. Now--suddenly,wholly unexpectedly, arrived Bernard, a Norman, who could not speak aword of Welsh, and mumbled but broken English, a man who had beenhurried into Orders, the priesthood and episcopal office, all in oneday, and was thrust on the Welsh by the mere will of the English King,in opposition to Canon law, common decency, and without the consent ofthe diocese.

  The ferment throughout South Wales was immense. Resentment flamed insome hearts, others were quelled with despair. It was not the clergyalone who were in consternation: all, of every class, felt that theirnational rights had been invaded, and that in some way they could notunderstand this appointment was a prelude to a great disaster.

  Although there had been dissensions among the princes, and strifebetween tribes, the Church, their religion, had been the one bond ofunion. There was a cessation of all discord across the sacred threshold,and clergy and people were intimately united in feeling, in interests,in belief. In the Celtic Church bishops and priests had always beenallowed to marry--a prelate of St. David's had frankly erected amonument to the memory of two of his sons, which is still to be seenthere. Everywhere the parochial clergy, if parochial they can be styled,where territorial limits were not defined had their wives. They wereconsequently woven into one with the people by the ties of blood.

  Nowhere was the feeling of bitterness more poignant than in the HappyValley, where the intrusion of a stranger to the throne of David wasresented almost as a sacrilege. Deep in the hearts of the people lay theresolve not to recognize the new bishop as a spiritual father, one ofthe ecclesiastical lineage of Dewi.

  Such was the condition of affairs, such the temper of the people, whenit was announced that Bernard was coming to visit the sanctuary andthere to initiate the correction of abuses.

  Pabo, the Archpriest, showed less alarm than his flock. When he heardthat threats were whispered, that there was talk of resistance to theintrusion, he went about among his people exhorting, persuading againstviolence. Let Bernard be received with the courtesy due to a visitor,and the respect which his office deserved.

  A good many protested that they would not appear at Cynwyl lest theirpresence should be construed as a recognition of his claim, and theybetook themselves to their mountain pastures, or remained at home.Nevertheless, moved by curiosity, a considerable number of men didgather on the ridge, about the church, watching the approach of thebishop and his party. Women also were there in numbers, children aswell, only eager to see the sight. The men were gloomy, silent, and woretheir cloaks, beneath which they carried cudgels.

  The day was bright, and the sun flashed on the weapons and on the armorof the harnessed men who were in the retinue of Bishop Bernard, thatentered the valley by Queen Helen's road, and advanced leisurely towardsthe ridge occupied by the church and the hovels that constituted thevillage.

  The Welsh were never--they are not to this day--builders. Every fairstructure of stone in the country is due to the constructive genius ofthe Normans. The native Celt loved to build of wood and wattle. Hischurches, his domestic dwellings, his monasteries, his kingly halls, allwere of timber.

  The tribesmen of Pabo stood in silence, observing the advancingprocession.

  First came a couple of clerks, and after them two men-at-arms, then rodeBernard, attended on one side by his interpreter, on the other by hisbrother Rogier
in full harness. Again clerks, and then a body ofmen-at-arms.

  The bishop was a middle-sized man with sandy hair, very pale eyes withrings about the iris deeper in color than the iris itself--eyes thatseemed without depth, impossible to sound, as those of a bird. He hadnarrow, straw-colored brows, a sharp, straight peak of a nose, and thinlips--lips that hardly showed at all--his mouth resembling a slit. Thechin and jowl were strongly marked.

  He wore on his head a cloth cap with two peaks, ending in tassels, andwith flaps to cover his ears, possibly as an imitation of a miter; butoutside a church, and engaged in no sacred function, he was of coursenot vested. He had a purple-edged mantle over one shoulder, and beneathit a dark cassock, and he was booted and spurred. One of the clerks whopreceded him carried his pastoral cross--for the see of St. David'sclaimed archiepiscopal pre-eminence. In the midst of the men-at-armswere sumpter mules carrying the ecclesiastical purtenances of thebishop.

  Not a cheer greeted Bernard as he reached the summit of the hill and wasin the midst of the people. He looked about with his pale, inanimateeyes, and saw sulky faces and folded arms.

  "Hey!" said he to his interpreter. "Yon fellow--he is the Archpriest, Idoubt not. Bid him come to me."

  "I am at your service," said Pabo in Norman-French, which he hadacquired.

  "That is well; hold my stirrup whilst I alight."

  Pabo hesitated a moment, then complied.

  "The guest," said he, "must be honored."

  But an angry murmur passed through the throng of bystanders.

  "You have a churlish set of parishioners," said Bernard, alighting."They must be taught good manners. Go, fetch me a seat."

  Pabo went to the presbytery, and returned with a stool, that he placedwhere indicated by the bishop.

  The people looked at each other with undisguised dissatisfaction. Theydid not approve of their chief holding the stirrup, or carrying a stoolfor this foreign intruder. Their isolation in the midst of themountains, their immunity from war and ravage, had made them tenaciousof their liberties and proud, resistful to innovation, and resolute inthe maintenance of their dignity and that of their chief. But a certainamount of concession was due to hospitality, and so construed these actscould alone be tolerated. Nevertheless their tempers were chafed, andthere was no graciousness in the demeanor of the bishop to allaysuspicion, while the contemptuous looks of his Norman attendants werecalculated to exasperate.

  "It is well," said Bernard, signing imperiously to Pabo to draw near."It is well that you can speak French."

  "I have been in Brittany. I have visited Nantes and Rennes. I can speakyour language after a fashion."

  "'Tis well. I am among jabbering jackdaws, and cannot comprehend a wordof their jargon. I do not desire to distort my mouth in the attempt toacquire it."

  "Then would it not have been as well had you remained in Normandy orEngland?"

  "I have other work to do than to study your tongue," said Bernard with alaugh. "I am sent here by my august master, the fine clerk, the greatscholar, the puissant prince, to bring order where is confusion."

  "The aspect of this valley bespeaks confusion," interrupted Pabo, with acurl of the lip.

  "Do not break in on me with unmannered words," said the bishop. "I am anapostle of morality where reigns mere license."

  "License, my Sieur? I know my people; I have lived among them fromchildhood. They are not perfect. They may not be saints, but I cannotadmit that a stranger who is newly come among us, who cannot understanda word that we speak, is justified in thus condemning us."

  "We shall see that presently," exclaimed Bernard, "when we come toparticulars. I have heard concerning you. My lord and master, theBeauclerk Henry, has his eyes and ears open. Ye are a dissolute set, yedo not observe the Seven Degrees." Then aside to his chaplain: "It isseven, not four, I think?"

  "I pray you explain," said Pabo.

  "Seven degrees," pursued Bernard. "I must have all the relationships ofthe married men throughout the country gone into. This district of Caioto commence with, then go on through the South of Wales--through mydiocese. I must have all inquired into; and if any man shall havecontracted an union within the forbidden degrees, if he have taken tohim a wife related by blood--consanguine, that is the word, chaplain,eh?--or connected by marriage, affine--am I right, chaplain?--or havingcontracted a spiritual relationship through sponsorship at the font, orlegal relation through guardianship--then such marriages must beannulled, made void, and the issue pronounced to be illegitimate."

  "My good Lord!" gasped Pabo, turning deadly pale.

  "Understand me," went on the bishop, turning his blear, ringed, birdlikeeyes about on the circle of those present, "if it shall chance thatpersons have stood at the font to a child, then they have therebycontracted a spiritual affinity--I am right, am I not chaplain?--whichacts as a barrier to marriage; and, if they have become united,bastardizes their issue. Cousinship by blood, relationship throughmarriage, all act in the same way to seven degrees--and render unionsvoid."

  "Are you aware what you are about?" asked Pabo gravely. "In our land,hemmed in by mountains, marriages are usually contracted within the sametribe, and in the same district, so that the whole of our people aremore or less bound together into a family. A kinship of some sortsubsists between all. If you press this rule--and it is no rule withus--you break up fully three-fourths of the families in this country."

  "And what if I do?"

  "What! Separate husband and wife!"

  "If the union has been unlawful."

  "It has not been unlawful. Cousins have always among us been allowed tomarry. No nearer blood relations; and the rule of affinity has neverextended beyond a wife's sister. As to spiritual relationship as a bar,it is a device of man. Why! to inquire into such matters is to pry intoevery family, to introduce trouble into consciences, to offeropportunity for all kinds of license."

  "I care not. It is our Canon law."

  "But we are not, we never have been, subject to your Canon law."

  "You are so now. I, your head, have taken oath of allegiance toCanterbury. Thereby I have bound you all."

  Pabo's cheek darkened.

  "I rely on you," proceeded the bishop. "You, as you say, have lived herealways. You can furnish me with particulars as to all the marriages thathave been contracted for the last fifty years."

  "What! does the rule act retrospectively?"

  "Ay. What is unlawful now was unlawful always."

  "I will not give up--betray my people."

  "You will be obedient to your bishop!"

  Pabo bit his lip and looked down.

  "This will entail a good deal of shifting of lands from hand to hand,when sons discover that their fathers' wedlock was unlawful, and thatthey are not qualified to inherit aught."

  "You will cause incalculable evil!"

  The bishop shrugged his shoulders.

  "Lead on to the church," said he. "My chaplain, who is interpreter aswell, shall read my decree to your people--in Latin first and then inWelsh. By the beard of Wilgefrotis! if you are obstructive, Archpriest,I know how to call down lightning to fall on you."

  NOTE.--The seven prohibited degrees were reduced to four at the Fourth Lateran Council (1215). By Civil law the degrees were thus counted,--

  0 | +-----+-----+ | | 10 10 | | 20 20 ---- /----/ 4

  But by Canon law--

  0 | +-----+-----+ | | 0.....1.....0 | | 0.....2.....0