It took a long time for him to fall asleep. His rest was plagued by concerns that Henry was going to be less than satisfied with his performance and might demand another favour to compensate. He dreamed about Tancred, too, and the clerks whose poisonous pens had destroyed their friendship. One disturbing nightmare had Eudo rising from his grave to stab Bishop Maurice with a quill, for failing to lay hold of his killer. All in all, Geoffrey was relieved when the first glimmer of grey showed morning was approaching.
Although Roger claimed he was fully recovered, Geoffrey could tell by the stiff way he held his arm that he was not. Roger did not argue when Geoffrey declined his company; he seemed more than happy to spend the day in the tavern, getting to know the locals and treating them to a session with his loaded dice. Geoffrey left Bale with strict instructions to keep him out of trouble.
Supposing he should at least try to make himself presentable when visiting two high-ranking churchmen, he washed in water from the well, shaved, donned a fresh shirt and leggings, and set Bale to cleaning his armour. He even raked his fingers through his hair to remove the mud and bits of vegetation that had collected in it since leaving Goodrich. Eventually, feeling he was as respectable as a travelling knight could make himself, he left, electing to walk so that his horse would be rested should he need it for a later journey.
It was not fully light as he walked up the hill from the quay, past where little fishermen’s cottages hugged the side of the road. Eventually, he reached a gate in the ancient walls, which signalled the entrance to the town proper. He found the settlement was larger than he had thought, extending for some distance on its plateau. The walls were taller, too, and the houses inside were in good repair.
Just inside the gate was the church. As he passed it, he saw Sear in its graveyard with a tall, fierce-looking priest. Twenty or so soldiers were with them, all wearing conical metal helmets emblazoned with a small red castle. Geoffrey supposed the emblem represented Pembroc, and these were men Sear had left in Kermerdyn while he had travelled to Henry.
Geoffrey started to join them, to pay his own respects to Alberic, but Sear looked up with such a black scowl that he had second thoughts and continued on his way.
The monastery lay at the far end of the town, reached by means of a long, straight road that cut the settlement in two. He exited through the town walls by a second gate, and the abbey lay to his right. It was surprisingly grand, and the sturdy wall that ran around its entire circumference suggested its occupants thought it worth protecting. There was a large, stone-built church in the middle, as well as a dorter, refectory, stables and kitchens. It was considerably more luxurious than the castle, and rich aromas wafted from the bakery; the monks apparently enjoyed good food, as well as pleasant accommodation.
Geoffrey knocked on the gate and asked for an audience with Mabon’s successor. The lay-brother took one look at the Crusader’s cross on Geoffrey’s surcoat and asked whether he would mind waiting outside while he went to see whether Ywain was available. Fortunately, Delwyn happened to be passing.
‘It is all right,’ he told the lay-brother. ‘It is the King’s messenger – the one who was ordered to escort me safely home. Follow me, Sir Geoffrey. I shall conduct you to Ywain.’
‘How did your monastery receive the news about the death of Abbot Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey as they went, to gauge the level of the apology he would have to offer.
Delwyn shrugged. ‘Well, they were vexed at having to buy a coffin – the one you provided is now too full of arrow holes to go in our vault – but one of the lay-brothers offered to run us up a cheap one, so the expense will not be too great.’
Geoffrey was not sure how to reply to such an observation and said nothing.
‘Ywain is praying over the corpse,’ Delwyn went on. ‘But he will be glad of an excuse to do something else for a while, so do not feel you are intruding on his grief.’
He was right: Ywain leapt to his feet when Delwyn introduced Geoffrey, and shot out of the church with indecent haste. He was a short man with a shock of white hair. Delwyn was unimpressed when Ywain ordered him to take his place by Mabon’s bier.
‘But I have been minding the thing for days,’ he objected. ‘I have no prayers left!’
‘Then you will have to use your imagination,’ said Ywain tartly. ‘I am Abbot now, and you must do as I say.’
He was gleeful as Delwyn stalked inside the chapel with a face as black as thunder.
‘I cannot abide that man, and he will not have the liberties he enjoyed when Mabon was in power. I shall see to that.’
‘I am sorry Mabon is dead,’ began Geoffrey. ‘Especially as he died in my home.’
‘Delwyn said he was poisoned,’ said Ywain. ‘Nasty stuff, poison. Very indiscriminate. I doubt anyone would have wanted to murder Mabon, so you should ask yourself whether it was a case of mistaken identity.’
Geoffrey stared at him. Could he be right? Had the poison been intended for someone else?
‘Sit with me on this wall,’ ordered Ywain, after he had instructed the lay-brother to bring them cups of warmed ale. ‘I feel the need for fresh air after being closeted with that reeking corpse, and you do not look like a man who objects to being outside.’
When they were seated, Geoffrey handed him the letter, careful to ensure it was the one bearing Mabon’s name and the green circle.
‘I am sure Delwyn told you about this,’ he said. ‘Mabon declined to take it when I tried to pass it to him at Goodrich, and then he died . . .’
‘Mabon was not a man for reading,’ said Ywain, breaking the seal. ‘I dealt with all his correspondence, which is why I was elected his successor. Delwyn thought the honour should fall to him, but none of us likes the man. But what is this? This epistle is not addressed to Mabon – it is for that scoundrel Bishop Wilfred!’
‘Mabon’s name is on the outside,’ said Geoffrey, after a brief moment of panic. And there was the green circle that Eudo had drawn to represent Mabon; Wilfred’s epistle was the fat one.
Ywain grimaced. ‘Yes, it is, but obviously the King’s clerk made an error, because it is addressed to Wilfred on the inside. It is about St Peter’s Church and says that, from now on, all tithes and benefits will go to La Batailge instead of to him! Hah! The old devil will be livid. You had better make sure he gets it.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, a quick glance telling him that Ywain was right. He could not imagine the Bishop would be pleased that his enemy should have perused it first.
‘If you have one for Wilfred, too, then you had better give it to me,’ said Ywain gleefully. ‘The clerk will have confused them – so that the one for him will actually be for us.’
Geoffrey was unwilling to risk it. ‘It is more likely that Eudo forgot to include yours at all.’
Ywain scowled. ‘If you do give the other letter to Wilfred, and it does transpire to be to me, I shall not be amused. In fact, I shall write to the King and order you boiled in oil.’
‘Please do not,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘He might do it.’
Ywain made an impatient gesture. ‘Eudo is not very efficient. He is one of those men who has risen higher than his abilities should have allowed, and he has made mistakes before. Do you know the kind of fellow?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Geoffrey.
‘The court is full of them,’ Ywain went on bitterly. ‘All Normans, who itch to see an end to Welsh foundations like this one, and want a Benedictine or Cistercian house established here instead. With a Norman abbot. Our days are numbered.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey.
Ywain shrugged. ‘Delwyn thinks we should ingratiate ourselves with the King – he went to court to try – but it was a waste of time. Our only hope is to support Hywel in all things, because he will not let a Welsh monastery be supplanted by Normans.’
‘He seems a good man.’
‘He is an excellent man – even better than William, and he was a saint. William was inclined to thin
k nice things about people, whereas Hywel is more realistic and knows that people have human failings. We are safer with Hywel than we were with William.’
‘Do you know anything about William’s secret?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ replied Ywain. ‘He mentioned it to me when it first happened to him – he needed to consult a priest, you see, and I was the best one available. But it pleased me to see all those greedy Normans scrabbling around for it, so I have never confided in anyone else.’
‘Will you tell me?’
‘No,’ said Ywain. ‘Why should I?’
Geoffrey hesitated.
‘Oh, all right, then,’ said Ywain, giving him a playful jab in the ribs. ‘Your surcoat says you are a Jerosolimitanus, so you must be a decent soul.’
Geoffrey was bemused by the Abbot’s capitulation. He wondered whether he was about to be regaled with a story that would make him look silly when he investigated it.
‘And now you will not believe me,’ said Ywain, reading his thoughts. ‘Perhaps I should keep it to myself then, as I have done for the past seven years. It has been great fun watching everyone scrabble to learn the secret, but I am bored with the spectacle now. It would give me great satisfaction to share it.’
Geoffrey regarded him uncertainly. ‘Does anyone else know you have it?’
‘Of course not; the likes of Richard, Sear, Edward, Delwyn, and Pulchria would have used violence to make me tell.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Geoffrey. He thought about what Mabon had believed. ‘Did William have a vision? When he was near the river?’
‘Yes,’ said Ywain emphatically. ‘Of the Blessed Virgin. And when she had gone, she left a statue of herself behind. William never showed it to me, but he said he had put it in a safe place.’
‘And that was his secret?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘A statue?’
‘A statue from the hands of Our Holy Mother herself,’ corrected Ywain. ‘A big one.’
‘As a priest, you must have been interested in seeing it?’ asked Geoffrey, not sure he believed him.
Ywain screwed up his face. ‘Well, I considered asking for a peek, but William became rather holy after he set eyes on it, and I did not want the same thing to happen to me. I was tempted to tell Wilfred, though, because I would not mind seeing him cursed with sanctity. But it was more amusing to keep the tale to myself.’
‘So why tell me?’
‘Because, as a Jerosolimitanus, you have set eyes on the holiest sites in the world, and if they have not turned you religious, then neither will William’s statue. I do not want any more saintly people wandering around Kermerdyn. It makes the rest of us look bad.’
‘Where is this statue now?’
‘Ah, there I cannot help you. William never told anyone.’
‘May I look around your abbey?’
Ywain laughed. ‘You think it is here? It is not – I have looked, believe me – but go ahead. No one will disturb you. And it is not in the church, either. If it had been, I would have found it, because I looked very carefully several times.’
Geoffrey took him at his word and explored every inch of the abbey, Ywain at his heels. But the Abbot was right: there was nothing to find.
Thoughts whirling, Geoffrey left the monastery. He knew he had been right to search the abbey, though, because William would not have shoved a gift from the Blessed Virgin somewhere profane – he would have placed it on hallowed ground. He trudged towards the church, not holding much hope of finding it there, either – it was more public than the monastery, and he suspected Ywain had been more thorough than he could ever be.
As he approached, he saw that Sear and his men were no longer in the graveyard, and the place where Alberic’s coffin had lain was now a mound of cold soil. The priest with the fierce face was just locking the door as he arrived, using one of the largest keys Geoffrey had ever seen.
‘Hah!’ The priest jabbed the key challengingly at him. His robes were thin and threadbare, and he was wearing sandals, despite the nip of winter in the air. ‘I want a word with you.’
‘Do you indeed?’ replied Geoffrey coolly. ‘And who might you be?’
‘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 fro
m 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.
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