‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Cadifor fervently.
Cole wrapped Asser in his cloak, ready to be taken back to the castle, while Cadifor began to pray again for the dead man’s soul. The commotion had prompted two of the visitors to emerge from the guesthouse: Sacrist Gilbert from Hempsted and Llanthony’s fat Prior Roger.
‘Gluttony,’ declared Gilbert sanctimoniously, when he heard about the marchpanes. ‘Asser should have restrained himself.’
‘I love marchpanes,’ said Roger wistfully, while Gwenllian gripped Cole’s hand to prevent him from making a tart rejoinder. ‘They are my favourite of all things. Did this knight eat them all, or are there any left?’
‘Yes, but they are for the bishop,’ said Dafydd curtly. ‘And no one else.’
‘I am Prior of Llanthony,’ declared Roger angrily. ‘It is not for a mere cook to forbid sweetmeats to me. Now fetch them at once.’
‘You always were a greedy fellow, Roger,’ said Cadifor in distaste, while Dafydd glowered at the prior and refused to move. ‘You should beware. Greed is almost as deadly a sin as sloth – the vice that ended up killing your predecessor.’
Fortunately, a clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of Geoffrey, so a quarrel was averted. Keen to assert his ecclesiastical authority with a show of pomp, the bishop had brought not only his secretarius and the castle scribe, as he had been asked, but a large number of richly clad attendants. They formed an impressive procession, and Gwenllian saw Cadifor’s monks take courage from the spectacle.
Walter emerged from the guesthouse, and hurried towards the prelate, ready to begin whispering in his ear. Bishop Geoffrey, however, was more concerned with Asser. He eyed Walter coldly until the prior fell silent, then walked to the dead knight’s body.
‘Pity,’ he said softly. ‘Asser was a good man. A crusader, no less.’
Gwenllian did not think the two were necessarily linked, and was of the opinion that most crusaders were violent brutes who should not have been allowed back into the country. Even her beloved Symon had done some terrible things in the name of the so-called holy war.
‘He died because he gorged on your marchpanes, Father Bishop,’ said Dafydd bluntly, and with a good deal of rancour.
Geoffrey blinked. ‘He choked on them?’
‘They probably brought about an apoplexy,’ explained Cadifor. ‘But you have some experience with medicine, Your Grace. Examine him, and give us your opinion.’
The bishop was famous for his skills as a healer, an unusual talent for a prelate, but one for which hundreds had been grateful. He knelt by the body, and Gwenllian was impressed by his calm, competent manner, although he eventually stood and raised his hands in a shrug.
‘I see nothing to tell me you are wrong, Prior Cadifor. An apoplexy is the most likely explanation for what happened. Poor, poor man.’
Gwenllian had always liked the Austins’ chapel. It was a pretty, silent place with large windows that made it light and airy, even on the darkest of days. It was stone-built, with a grey tiled roof, and boasted some of the finest carvings in the country. Cadifor led the way inside, where he arranged seats for Gwenllian, Cole, the bishop and the scribes. Londres and the Hempsted faction were left to fend for themselves. Walter snapped imperious fingers, and his canons brought him a chair that was far grander than anyone else’s. Geoffrey pursed his lips disapprovingly, and Gwenllian saw he was unimpressed with the petty point-scoring.
‘Send your scribe home, Cole,’ ordered Prior Walter. ‘You, too, Bishop. There is not enough room at the table, and there is no need for us all to record what is said. My man, Cadifor’s clerk and Henry are more than enough.’
‘It would be remiss not to keep our own account,’ said Gwenllian, sweetly, aware that Henry and Walter’s versions were likely to match, thus casting doubt on Cadifor’s. ‘Our scribe will stay.’
‘So will mine,’ added Geoffrey genially. ‘He is not doing anything else today.’
‘Then it will be the best documented hearing in the history of Carmarthen,’ drawled Stacpol, as Londres, Belat and Henry exchanged irritable glances. ‘Five separate reports! And I am sure they will all be accurate reflections of what happens here.’
‘He has just lost a friend,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘Yet he here he is making snide remarks. Perhaps he is glad Asser is no more, because now no one can tell me what transpired between him and those clerks.’
‘You spout nonsense, Gwen,’ replied Cole shortly. A facet of her husband’s character that annoyed her intensely was an unquestioning allegiance to those he considered to be friends. Few deserved it, and he was invariably surprised to learn that his loyalty was misplaced, or that the ‘friends’ were nothing of the kind. ‘He is grieving deeply, as am I.’
When everyone was settled, Geoffrey asked for God’s blessing on the proceedings, then declared them open. Cadifor and Walter drew breath to speak, but Prior Roger was there first.
‘It has been a long time since we met, Cadifor,’ he said. ‘And I know why you came to this desolate backwater – you could not bear to remain at Llanthony when I was in charge.’
‘Carmarthen is not a desolate backwater,’ objected Cole, offended. He turned to Walter. ‘And you must agree, or you would not be here trying to steal it.’
‘I steal nothing,’ said Walter, tight-lipped. ‘I only claim what is lawfully mine.’
‘Why did you come, Prior Roger?’ asked Gwenllian quickly, before Cole could argue. Londres was grinning at her husband’s incautious words, and she had no doubt that Henry was gleefully recording them for the King’s edification. ‘Are Llanthony’s affairs still entwined with those of Hempsted?’
‘They are,’ replied Walter, before Roger could answer for himself. ‘Our foundations are very close, and we support each other in all things.’
‘If you say so,’ muttered Roger. ‘Although Llanthony will not benefit from this particular jaunt, and I would rather have stayed home. It may not be very comfortable without the income from Hempsted, but it is better than the open road in January.’
‘I imagine he is a hostage,’ Gwenllian murmured in Cole’s ear. ‘Walter brought him to prevent Llanthony from doing anything to harm Hempsted while he is away. Clever Walter! He has left nothing to chance.’
‘If I were a canon of Llanthony, I would not be too concerned about putting Roger in danger,’ Cole muttered back. ‘He is not a very nice man, and I imagine his monks are delighted to be rid of him for a while.’
They stopped whispering when Walter stood, towering over them all. He was a formidable presence, and Gwenllian was not surprised that so many churches and manors had fallen under the force of his personality.
‘I, Walter of Hempsted, hereby lay claim to Carmarthen Priory,’ he intoned in a powerful voice that rang through the ancient arches. ‘My claim is based on history – this place was founded by a Hempsted monk, and was always intended to be a cell. King John agrees, and has furnished us with a writ giving his approval.’
Belat produced a document, a luxurious thing of velum with a large red seal. ‘Anyone may look, but no one may touch,’ he said. ‘We cannot have it “accidentally” torn, and thus rendered null and void.’
Gwenllian immediately suspected that he did not want it examined too closely lest it was revealed as fraudulent, so she went at once to inspect it. Cadifor and Geoffrey did likewise, although Cole did not bother, knowing he could look all he liked, but was unlikely to spot anything amiss – he was a warrior, not a clerk, and was happy to leave such matters to Gwenllian. Unfortunately, she could detect nothing wrong either.
‘Perhaps a Hempsted monk did found Carmarthen,’ said Cadifor, when everyone was seated again. He made no remark on the document, but his expression was strained: Gwenllian was not the only one who thought it was probably genuine. ‘However, I cannot imagine that he intended you to come along a century later and claim it for yourself.’
‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Roger. Anticipating a lengthy hearing,
he had brought some food with him, and the front of his habit was covered in crumbs. ‘Now can we go home?’
Gwenllian addressed him. ‘Hempsted was still a daughter house of Llanthony when this monk was founding cells. Ergo, it should be Llanthony making this claim, not Hempsted.’
Roger waved a careless hand. ‘I suppose so, but that would entail a great deal of work, and such details have never been my forte.’
‘No,’ said Cadifor acidly. ‘Details such as ensuring that Prior Martin wrote to the Pope to contest Hempsted’s bid for independence. Carmarthen would not be in this situation now if you had done your duty.’
‘It was Martin’s responsibility, not mine,’ objected Roger. ‘And he paid the price for his indolence. He will be in Hell as I speak, in a snake pit, which is the fate for those of a slothful disposition.’
‘Are you not concerned that you might join him there?’ asked Cadifor archly. ‘I know that you have done nothing to improve Llanthony’s lot since you were appointed, and its situation has gone from bad to worse.’
‘I am not slothful!’ declared Roger. ‘I just have a pragmatic approach to life, which entails not striving after impossible goals. You should learn from me, Cadifor. The King’s writ means you are already defeated.’
‘The King can issue writs all he likes,’ Cadifor shot back angrily, ‘but we are an independent house, and the only man who can decide otherwise is our Prior General. The King’s opinion is irrelevant in this matter.’
‘Watch your tongue, monk,’ hissed Henry menacingly. ‘There are many who would consider that remark treason.’
‘And there are many more who would consider it the truth,’ flashed Cadifor. ‘Walter’s claim is a contrived nonsense.’
As the argument raged back and forth, Geoffrey appealed for calm. It took him some time to regain control, after which he kept a tighter rein on the proceedings. First, he allowed Walter to state Hempsted’s case, and then he indicated that Cadifor should outline Carmarthen’s. When each had finished, Belat was permitted to speak; the clerk embarked on an intricate monologue explaining the King’s position. Londres and Henry nodded sagely, even applauding on occasion, although everyone else was bored and Cole did not follow it at all.
Roger was eating again, and Cole nudged Gwenllian when he saw that the portly prior had acquired some of the marchpanes intended for the bishop.
‘He has eaten at least ten,’ he whispered. ‘I doubt there are any left for Geoffrey. Dafydd will be livid.’
Belat droned on, while the scribes’ pens scratched steadily, although Gwenllian noted with dismay that the man from the castle wrote far more slowly than the others. Londres smirked when he saw she had noticed, making her wonder whether the fellow had been bribed to be inefficient.
Belat finished eventually, and although Roger continued to slumber, everyone else shuffled and stretched as Geoffrey summarised what had been said. Then the bishop declared the meeting over.
‘Reports will now be sent to our Prior General,’ he said. ‘And the King. Until we receive replies, I recommend that Walter’s retinue returns to Hempsted.’
Walter was outraged. ‘No! We attended this foolish hearing to be polite, but Belat has made the legal position abundantly clear: the King wants Hempsted to have Carmarthen, so that is the end of the matter.’
‘Nothing will be final until our Prior General had passed judgement,’ argued Cadifor. ‘Until then, you can go home. Sir Symon? See our “guests” off the premises, if you please.’
‘I do not envy you, Cole,’ whispered Londres gloatingly. ‘Your standing orders are to defend the town, but the King’s writ demands that you support Walter. His commands are contradictory, and I am glad I do not have to choose between them.’
‘I am glad you do not, too,’ said Gwenllian coolly. ‘You would be incapable of doing so sensibly, and would be an embarrassment to the Crown.’
She turned her back on him, although not before she had seen his cheeks colour with anger.
‘Londres is right, Cole,’ said Belat smugly. ‘You are in a difficult position, and I am sure the King will be interested in how you handle it.’
‘It is not the first diplomatic crisis we have managed,’ said Gwenllian, nettled by the presumption that Symon would be unequal to the task. ‘We have gained considerable experience during the last twenty years.’
‘Twenty years,’ mused Henry. He was carrying his account of the meeting, and she was amazed by how much he had written. ‘Perhaps it is time to retire. A man becomes stale if left in one place for too long.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Londres sourly, scowling at Gwenllian. ‘And if not, there are many other ways to oust complacent officials.’
‘Did they just threaten us?’ asked Cole, as the trio walked away together.
‘I believe they did,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘So we must be on our guard.’
Cadifor invited Gwenllian and Cole to eat in the refectory when he emerged from the church, although he scowled irritably when the bishop informed him that good manners dictated that the Hempsted men must be included in the meal, too. His canons served their rivals with ill grace, and Cole and Gwenllian exchanged a wry glance when they saw one spitting in Prior Walter’s ale. She and Cole sat with the Carmarthen men, while the bishop trotted from one side of the room to the other in a determined effort to be impartial.
‘I am afraid there are no marchpanes, Your Grace,’ said Dafydd, pale with suppressed fury. ‘Asser took four, but then someone came along and stole the rest.’
‘Roger,’ said Cadifor immediately. ‘I saw him scoff them all while Belat was pontificating.’
‘Where is Roger?’ asked Geoffrey, looking around genially. ‘It is unlike him to miss a meal. I have never met anyone who enjoys his victuals so.’
‘He does not need to eat now,’ said Cadifor sourly, ‘because he devoured enough for ten men while we were in the chapel. Doubtless he has gone for a postprandial nap. He always was a lazy man. Indeed, Walter’s ambitions would have been thwarted years ago if he and Martin had stayed awake more.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘And you would still be Llanthony’s almoner – we all know you only accepted a post in Carmarthen because you could not bear to serve under Roger. However, you have performed wonders here, so much good has come from your promotion.’
‘But it will all be for nothing if Walter wins,’ said Cadifor bitterly. ‘Carmarthen will not thrive under him. He will bleed us dry to keep Hempsted in riches, and all I have built will be lost. Damn him! And damn Roger, too!’
The bishop intoned a tactful final grace at that point. Gwenllian and Cole stood, and were about to return to the castle when Walter and Gilbert came to speak to Cadifor. Cole stopped, unwilling to leave if there was about to be another spat.
‘An adequate feast, Cadifor,’ said Walter coolly. ‘But not of a standard that will be tolerated now we are in charge.’
‘No,’ agreed Gilbert. ‘There was sawdust in my bread and a nail in my broth.’
‘We are a poor foundation,’ said Cadifor innocently. ‘Once we have paid our dues to the King and dispensed alms to the poor, there is very little left for luxurious living.’
‘Then the poor will have to tighten their belts,’ said Walter. He turned to Geoffrey, who was listening with a troubled expression on his kindly features. ‘Will you give me medicine to ease the pain in my innards? Your elixirs are far more effective than the ones Gilbert makes me.’
‘Your innards would fare better if you did not work so hard,’ advised Geoffrey, while Sacrist Gilbert shot his superior a disagreeable glance for his ingratitude. ‘Rest and regular meals will cure your affliction, but you refuse to heed my advice.’
‘A remedy, please,’ said Walter coldly, holding out his hand.
‘I do not have one with me,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I did not imagine that my medical skills would be needed today, so I left my bag in the castle.’
‘I will make you something,’ offered Gwenllian, thi
nking that a tincture of chalk and poppy juice would ease Walter’s discomfort. And when he was not in pain, perhaps he would be more willing to listen to reason.
‘No, thank you,’ said Walter coldly. ‘I would rather suffer than accept help from a woman, especially one who hails from this godforsaken hole.’
‘As you wish,’ said Gwenllian, equally icy. ‘Enjoy your night.’
‘He is a disagreeable fellow,’ said Geoffrey, once Walter and Gilbert had retired to the guesthouse. ‘But I did not know you were a healer, Lady Gwenllian. I have always been interested in medicine. Indeed, had my family not given me to the Church, I would have become a physician.’
They exchanged remedies for acid stomachs while Cole arranged for soldiers from the castle to stand guard outside the guesthouse, to prevent anyone from entering or leaving – if the two factions did not meet, then there could be no further trouble that night.
When Cole had finished, he and the bishop went to fetch their horses while Gwenllian waited in the yard. Darkness had fallen, but light spilled from the guesthouse windows, all of which had ill-fitting shutters. She could not help but notice that one was the room allocated to the two clerks. She glanced around quickly, but no one was looking and the shadows were thick. She put her eye to the biggest crack and peered inside. Belat was dictating and Henry writing.
‘Slow down,’ Henry hissed, stopping to wring his hand. ‘My fingers hurt.’
‘We cannot,’ said Belat urgently. ‘The bishop may ask to see our transcript, and we must have it ready.’
‘I wrote a perfectly good account the first time,’ snapped Henry. ‘It exposed Cole as a blundering buffoon, as per our agreement with Londres, and showed Walter to be the rightful ruler of this house. We do not need to copy it out all over again.’
‘But I do not want to be part of Londres’ plot to topple Cole,’ said Belat. ‘I think the King has forgotten whatever petty squabble prompted him to send Londres here to spy five years ago, and now His Majesty does not care who rules Carmarthen, as long as its taxes are paid on time. Indeed, ousting an efficient governor may even turn John against us.’
The Deadliest Sin Page 18
