by Mike Ashley
I confess now that I had been afraid. I had thought to outwit him, to earn Archdeacon Gerald’s good opinion. But I feared that Hywel would never forget how I bested him.
Those bitter words of his still echoed in my head as I watched his lifeless body being carried to the church where it would lie until it received Christian burial. But I was distracted by Awena who stood beside me and touched my arm, gentle as a butterfly. I looked at her and felt a stirring in my loins.
She spoke to me, standing on tiptoe so that her soft mouth met my ear. “He will not be missed,” she whispered. “He was a wicked man.”
Shocked by her bluntness, I asked her what she meant.
“My brother is not yet fifteen,” she replied. “A man who would persuade a child to leave his home to face death in a foreign land and break his mother’s heart is wicked in my eyes.”
I muttered the familiar words. It was in the service of Our Lord. It was to avenge the insult done to His name by unbelievers. But I knew that there was hesitation in my voice. Did Our Lord not pity a widow and her children? I would not have uttered these doubts to anyone in our party, yet I wondered whether I was alone in my thoughts. Did men put words into holy mouths for their own ends and glory?
But I had no more time to talk with Awena, even though the prospect was enticing. It was the hour when the Archbishop was to preach in the church and there were whispers in our party that Hywel’s murderer had been discovered and was about to be brought to justice.
Reluctantly, I left Awena’s sweet presence and hurried to the stone church. The Archbishop was standing before the altar, next to Hywel’s lifeless body. Archbishop Baldwin was a swarthy man, of moderate height. He was thin and had about him an air of abstinence and self-control. But his face was gentle and good-humoured as he gazed out upon his congregation. Archdeacon Gerald stood towering beside him, his eyes fixed on the doorway where the townsfolk were pushing their way into the building.
The heat from the packed bodies and the smell of sweat created a warm fug in the small, packed church but when the Archbishop began to speak, there was complete silence. When Baldwin preached, all the town wished to hear.
“Our brother has been most wickedly done to death,” he began. “And we have the guilty one.”
He paused as a murmur of voices rose from the crowd. A man standing next to me muttered that the widow Nest had been taken to the priest’s house. She had been seen following Brother Hywel last night after angry words had been exchanged: her guilt was certain. My mouth gaped open. I had been talking to her daughter only fifteen minutes before and there had been no hint then.
I pushed my way out of the church and found the street outside deserted. I had to find Awena again; I had to discover what was happening. I ran to her house and looked inside but the place was deserted. Then, when I was heading back to the church, I spotted a figure lurking in the shadows – a cloaked man, bent and old. He stood still for a while and he seemed to be staring in my direction. I began to walk away slowly and, glancing round, I saw that the old man had begun to follow. I swung round to face him but he moved away quickly, flitting like a moth down the side of the church.
Something made me follow. Curiosity perhaps – or perhaps a desire to solve the mystery, for mystery there was about Hywel. I had had the uneasy feeling ever since I had met him that Brother Hywel wasn’t quite what he seemed.
The old man slipped down an alleyway, still moving fast for one of his apparent age. I followed and fortune favoured me that day as the alley came to a dead end. He stood with his back to me, like a cornered beast trying to find an escape route.
When I neared him I found I was lost for words. I was a mere novice monk and no pursuer of suspects. Then I had a sudden fear that if this was Hywel’s murderer then it would be only too easy for him to swing round and plunge a knife into my own heart. But he made no move towards me. Instead he turned slowly and I saw his face. There was something familiar about his features, an echo of someone I knew. But I had no time to think as I recognized the fire of madness in the old man’s bloodshot eyes. I began to back away as he spoke.
“My son was the devil.” The old man spoke in Welsh, a strong musical voice with none of the hesitancy of old age.
“What do you mean?” I stammered, suddenly afraid.
“He slithered into that holy house as the serpent slithered into Eden. Wicked, he was – even as a boy.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “And I must bear the shame of fathering such a one.”
The old man would have made a fine preacher for there was a fire in his words that made me tremble. “Who are you?” I asked.
The old man stared at me. “I am Meredudd ap Dafydd ap Merfyn ap Idwal and, to my shame, I fathered a thief and a liar. But now he is dead, down in hell with the others of his kind. The Lord knows the heart of every man. It is futile to hide behind a monk’s cowl.”
I shuddered at his words, knowing the shortcomings of my own heart. My thoughts about Awena in the night had been far from pure. Then the truth dawned and I realized why the old man’s features had seemed so familiar. “You are Hywel’s father?”
The old man looked at me slyly. “You are the one he sent to my house. I watched you take the book. I thought he would come for it himself but I should have known he’d send another. He lacked even the courage to face his own father.”
I swallowed hard. This explained how Hywel had known the whereabouts of the book but I had not suspected that I had been observed. “Tell me about the book,” I asked. I had to know the truth.
Meredudd stared at me, as though deciding if I could be trusted. He seemed calmer now and my fear began to ebb away. He began to speak. “My wife, God rest her soul, bore me two sons, Hywel and Cynan. Hywel was a spiteful, sly boy and Cynan was good and honest. Fruit of the same tree, one wholesome and one appearing wholesome but eaten from within by the worms of corruption.”
Meredudd looked around as though he feared that he would be overheard. “Eight years ago Cynan went on pilgrimage to Ynys Enlli, which the Saxons call Bardsey Island. It is the most holy of places and it is said that the monks there are as pure in heart as mortal men can be. Pilgrims flock there and they say that nobody dies there except of extreme old age. It is a place of peace – a place of saints.”
“I have heard of it.” I willed him to get on with his story.
“Hywel suddenly decided to go with his brother. I was glad and I hoped he would make penance for his many sins on Ynys Enlli; I even allowed myself to think that he intended to make a new start and turn from his wickedness. But Hywel had other plans in mind. He was a sly boy, giving a virtuous face to the world to hide the foulness within.”
I knew what he meant about Hywel. I had seen the truth beneath the mask.
“Cynan did not return,” he said in a low whisper. “And later I went to the island myself to seek the truth.” Tears appeared in his eyes.
“Go on,” I urged, impatient to hear the end of the story.
“I was told by the monks there that Cynan and Hywel had visited them but that Cynan’s drowned body had been found on the mainland, on the beach at Aberdaron near where the pilgrims embark for the island. They said that kind pilgrims had carried him back to Ynys Enlli for burial so that he could join the rest of the island’s saints in eternal rest. I spoke to a young monk there who was all kindness and gentle speech.” He hesitated. “But I knew that he was hiding something: he was not a good liar and I suspected that he knew more about Cynan’s death than he claimed.”
I said nothing, hardly believing that monks with such a reputation for holiness would be involved in a violent death.
He continued. “I went back to the mainland and asked more questions at the pilgrim’s guest house at Aberdaron, near where the monks claimed that Cynan had been found. I was assured that no drowned body had been discovered near by – but the people there had heard rumours that a precious book had been stolen from the monks on the island at around the time of Cynan’s visit. Hywel
hadn’t yet come home to tell his version of the story and I feared that he was somehow involved.”
“So what had happened to Hywel?”
“He returned home weeks later and he swore to me that he had found Cynan’s body on the shore of Ynys Enlli itself and that he had drowned accidentally. My first instinct was not to believe him: Hywel wasn’t the most truthful of men and I feared greatly that he was responsible for his own brother’s death. But one part of Hywel’s story fitted with what I had learned at Aberdaron on the mainland and I began to wonder why the young monk would lie about the place where Cynan’s body was found. What did he have to hide?”
I was starting to feel more confused. What motive would the reputedly saintly monks of Ynys Enlli have for covering up the drowning of a young pilgrim on their island? “What about the missing book?” I asked.
“Hywel left an old book with me when he returned – the one you took from my house,” he added with a hint of reproach. “I told him about the rumours of theft I had heard at Aberdaron and I asked him if he’d stolen the book from Ynys Enlli. But he denied it and said that he’d bought it from some monks at Bangor. Then he told me that he intended to join the brothers of Whitland Abbey as penance for his former crimes and that he intended to present the book to his abbey one day in the future. I was glad at this news. But when he said that a man could prosper in the church and the presentation of the book would earn his Abbot’s favour, my blood ran cold. The church has such men in it, I know – they work like worms in an apple against the will of God and use His church for their own advancement.” Meredudd shuddered and I stayed silent. Then he stared at me, his eyes piercing through mine. “He used you to do his will. Were you his friend?”
I shook my head. “He asked me to fetch the book because the Archdeacon wished to see it. That is all.” To my shame I tried my best to sound innocent, to hide my own ambitious thoughts. The protection of my reputation was important to me then, setting off as I was on life’s path.
“I mourned Cynan but I will not mourn Hywel,” the old man spat out suddenly. “Death was the only way to stop his wickedness.”
Meredudd turned and walked swiftly away and I made no attempt to stop him. But I realized then that the widow Nest was not the only person in Nefyn who had good reason to rid the world of Brother Hywel.
I heard later that the preaching of Archbishop Baldwin was an inspiration to all who heard it. Although I could not vouch for this myself as the sermon was over by the time I returned to the church. But I saw that many men came forward to take the cross, vowing to fight in the Holy Land. Nest’s son was amongst them. If Nest had indeed killed Hywel for his powers of persuasion, then her offence had been in vain. I looked for Awena but I could not see her and I didn’t blame her for her absence. As I pictured her I felt a sudden and urgent longing but I knew I had to banish all thoughts of her from my mind.
When I left the church Deiniol caught up with me and said that Gerald the Welshman wished to speak to me about an urgent matter. I asked him if there was any more news of Hywel’s killer. Deiniol shook his head sadly and said that the widow Nest had admitted to following Hywel from her house to beg him not to press her son to fight in the Holy Land. I saw a sadness in Deiniol’s eyes and I suspected that, like me, his regrets were for the widow and not for Hywel. As he hurried away, I spotted Awena across the street and she glanced at me then looked away. I walked towards the priest’s house with a heart full of sadness. Does violent death always spread its dark misery to everyone around?
But Gerald had asked to speak to me. I confess now that this honour – and the fact that the great Archdeacon had remembered my existence at all – raised my spirits a little. I strutted to his lodgings with as much dignity as I could muster, my head held high with sinful pride.
Gerald awaited me, his face solemn and I was surprised to see that Archbishop Baldwin was with him, sitting by his side and watching me with good-humoured eyes. I stood before those two distinguished men and any youthful confidence I had felt, ebbed away rapidly.
Gerald spoke first. “You were seen talking to Brother Hywel. What do you know about him?”
At his coaxing I stumbled out the whole story. I told him everything I had learned from Hywel’s father, about the pilgrimage to Ynys Enlli, Cynan’s death and the story of the stolen book. I noticed that he kept the book of Merlin by his side and that he was fingering it lovingly.
“So this precious book may have been taken from Ynys Enlli?” He glanced at the Archbishop. “I would not have it known that I was in the habit of receiving stolen treasures.”
“Indeed not,” the Archbishop said sternly. “If it belongs to the monks there, it must be returned at once.”
Gerald frowned. “What you have told us casts some doubt on the guilt of the widow Nest. Several witnesses saw her with him outside her house but she swears on everything holy that he was alive when she left him. She insists that she is innocent and I tend to believe her. Do you not agree?”
I swallowed nervously and nodded. I wanted to believe that it was not my attraction to Nest’s daughter that made me sure of the widow’s innocence. I thought of the woman, her apple cheeks, her affection for her children. But love can drive people to kill as much as hate – nobody protects like a mother.
Gerald stared into the fire for a while without speaking. Then he broke the silence, looking me in the eye. “You show initiative, my young brother. If I were to ask you to remain in Nefyn to make some inquiries on my behalf . . .”
“Anything you ask, Archdeacon,” I said. “But my Abbot . . .”
“Has agreed,” said Gerald, a smile flickering around his lips. “We travel now to Bangor, proceeding part of the way on foot to rehearse the hardships we will encounter on our pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Our journey will be slow which will allow you to catch us up. I will leave Deiniol here to help you. He is a man I can trust. Will you do it?”
I nodded, lost for words, and prayed that Gerald’s faith in me would not be in vain.
I watched the travellers depart and at that moment I wished I was with them. I felt that my burden was too heavy for one so young and I feared that I was bound to fail – or worse still, to make a fool of myself. But with prayer all things are possible, I told myself and I went with Deiniol to the church to make our petitions to God.
We knelt there before Hywel’s body in the flickering candlelight. I had expected Meredudd to come forward and claim his son’s mortal remains for burial but, according to the priest, there had been no word from him. Perhaps Hywel’s father had rejected him in death as well as in life. Or perhaps Meredudd feared discovery for it is said that a corpse bleeds afresh if touched by its murderer – the more I thought of it, the more convinced I was of his guilt.
Before the Archbishop’s party had left Nefyn, the Widow Nest had willingly come to the church and touched the body of the murdered man to prove her innocence before the whole town. The corpse had not bled, nor had there been any other signs of her guilt. Most in the town seemed satisfied by her actions. But, as a pursuer of truth, I kept an open mind.
How seriously I took my task, watching, questioning and listening. And yet I felt alone. Deiniol was a quiet man whose mind was far more active than his mouth and, although I liked him, I missed the chatter and gossip of my fellow travellers, especially the tales and sharp wit of Gerald the Welshman. As the life of the town returned to normal after the Archbishop’s departure, I felt that I was somehow left behind and that the excitement of the journey was continuing elsewhere without me. But if Gerald expected me to clear the matter up quickly and catch them up at Bangor, I wondered what he knew that I didn’t.
Deiniol and I were to stay at the house of the priest and when I carried my meagre possessions from Nest’s house, I was surprised to find Deiniol sitting by the fire in my new lodgings with the book of Merlin in his hand. I said I was surprised that Gerald hadn’t taken it with him.
“The Archdeacon knows that it was not yours to give,�
�� Deiniol said gently, making me feel a little guilty. “The priest here has offered to return it to Ynys Enlli where it belongs.”
“Is it certain that it was taken from there?”
“It is certain,” said Deiniol quietly.
“Then the priest must return it.” It was a satisfactory solution to the dilemma.
“But what about our other problem?” Deiniol sighed, staring into the flames. “How are we to find the one responsible for Brother Hywel’s death?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I feared that Gerald’s faith in me was sadly misplaced as I had no idea where to start. I would, most likely, have to rely on Deiniol for ideas. He was older and more experienced – and probably knew more of human nature.
“I think we should visit Meredudd, Hywel’s father.” I felt myself blushing as I recalled my last clandestine visit to his home. “I fear he had good reason to hate his son. He told me with his own lips how he suspected that Hywel had killed his brother and stolen the book, how he had always brought shame to the family. It may be that . . .”
Deiniol nodded. “You should question him but I will stay here. Meredudd will talk more freely with one he already knows.”
I opened my mouth to object but Deiniol had turned his attention once more to the flames. I had no desire to face Meredudd alone again – he who was unbalanced at best . . . and at worst, the murderer of his own son. Deiniol was a coward – a fine partner for a man who had been charged with uncovering the truth about a murder. However, I controlled my tongue and walked from the room with my head held high. I would face Meredudd alone and trust in the Lord to protect me.
But when I stepped out into the street I saw Awena leaving her mother’s house and I fell into step with her. With such sinful thoughts in my heart, I feared that the Lord would hardly look upon me with favour at that moment. Yet I could not help myself. I walked close to her and felt the forbidden thrill in my loins. I told her how relieved I was to hear that her mother’s innocence had been proven and I asked if her brother intended to keep his vow to fight in the Holy Land. But her answers were evasive and there was no hint now of the pleasure she had appeared to take in my company the night before. I felt she was trying to hide something – or was I fooling myself and failing to realize that she had merely lost interest in me?
