The bishop had been entertaining the children, to take their minds off the trouble outside, and they had been enjoying themselves. The younger ones sat in his lap, while the older pair hung on his every word. There was a chorus of dismay when he announced his intention of accompanying their mother to the monastery.
‘Stay here, Your Grace,’ Gwenllian advised. Geoffrey was no longer young, and she was not sure what to expect from the situation. Moreover, Cole would not thank her for lumbering him with an elderly churchman if he was obliged to do battle.
‘I am not afraid,’ Geoffrey declared, although his unsteady voice suggested otherwise. ‘And the priory is in my See. Of course I must be there to defend it.’
‘But my husband wants to assess the situation before taking action. Look after my children until we discover what is happening. Then we will send for you.’
Geoffrey was reluctant, but Gwenllian convinced him eventually. He gave a wan smile when the children whooped their delight at the prospect of keeping him a little longer.
‘I have heard rumours that Prior Walter was spreading his wings,’ he said soberly. ‘But I did not know that he aimed to spread them in my diocese.’
‘Will his claim on our priory be legal?’ she asked.
‘I hope not! Cadifor is a very good prior, and I should not like him replaced by a less competent man. Or a less likeable one.’
‘Nor would I. Did you know that Cadifor was a monk at Llanthony before he came here?’
‘Of course – I was once a monk at Llanthony, too. We were there together.’
Gwenllian had forgotten that. ‘Yes – you were prior before Martin, the man whose legendary laziness lost Llanthony her wealthy daughter house.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘I repelled Walter’s bids for independence when I was in charge, and now I see what power has done to him, I realise that I was right to resist his demands. Such lust for expansion makes me very uneasy. But go now, and send me word as soon as you can.’
The streets were deserted as Gwenllian and Iefan hurried through them, although a few merchants had declined to leave their properties unguarded, risking death to prevent the loss of their riches. They called out to Gwenllian for news as she sped past, but there was no time to answer them.
‘If Walter wants our priory for himself, why did he set it alight?’ she asked the sergeant. ‘It will be no use to him if it is irreparably damaged. Moreover, its residents are monks from his own Order.’
‘He only incinerated the gates,’ explained Iefan. ‘Prior Cadifor refused to let him in, so he ordered them to be burned down. Stacpol, Elidor and Asser, who have met him before, say he is greedy and ruthless.’
‘It sounds to me as though this is a matter for the Austins to sort out between themselves,’ said Gwenllian uneasily. ‘They will not thank us for meddling.’
‘Cadifor will – Walter has enforced his claim by flooding the monastery with soldiers. He will certainly want our help.’
Iefan indicated she should remain silent as they stepped off the road, taking a narrow path that led to where Cole and his knights were waiting impatiently for her.
‘Walter claims that Carmarthen Priory was founded by a monk from Hempsted in the distant past,’ Cole whispered indignantly, ‘which means it should be Hempsted’s now. He has documents to prove it, one of which bears the King’s seal. I just heard him brag about it.’
‘Then we must distance ourselves from the affair,’ said Gwenllian in alarm. ‘The King will accuse you of treason if we challenge his decisions. Let Bishop Geoffrey mediate – he is an Austin, as well as Prelate of St David’s. He arrived here the day after you went hunting.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cole had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I forgot to mention his letter . . .’
‘I am sure you did,’ said Gwenllian coolly. ‘Just as I am sure it was pure happenstance that led you to suggest a hunting expedition the day before he was due to appear.’
Cole started to make excuses, but stopped abruptly and lunged towards the bushes. He shrugged when he returned and saw her questioning frown. ‘I thought someone was in there.’
Gwenllian supposed it was a townsman, spying so he would have a tale to tell in the taverns that night. ‘Come home, and let the bishop take over.’
‘I cannot, Gwen. This priory is under my protection, and it would be a dereliction of duty to ignore armed invaders. Besides, you need to look at Walter’s document and tell me if it truly does come from the King. Walter might be lying – Cadifor certainly thinks there are grounds for debate, as he has been yelling about it ever since Walter shoved the tiny thing under his nose.’
‘It has been difficult to stand here and do nothing while Walter struts about like a peacock,’ said Elidor sourly. ‘I should love to storm the place and throw him out.’
‘So would I,’ agreed Asser. ‘Yet I suspect the writ will be genuine. The two men standing by the dormitory are royal clerks. Their names are Belat and Henry.’
He pointed. Belat had long dark hair and was dressed entirely in black; Henry was fair and might have been handsome were it not for the selfish pout of his lips.
‘I know them well,’ said Stacpol grimly. ‘They will turn the King against Carmarthen if they survive our assault, so I suggest we make sure they don’t. When we attack, I will kill them before they can slither away. They are . . .’
He trailed off, and Gwenllian could tell that he wished he had held his tongue. Her interest was piqued. She had never liked these particular knights, considering them vicious and stupid, and Stacpol had always seemed the worst. She wondered what business such a mindless brute could have had with John’s officials that resulted in him ‘knowing them well.’ She asked.
‘I cannot discuss it,’ Stacpol replied stiffly. ‘It was a private matter.’
Asser laughed. ‘Do not think you will keep secrets from Lady Gwenllian! She will have them from you in no time at all. And if not from you, then from me.’
‘No – you will not speak out of turn,’ said Stacpol, so coldly that the merry twinkle in Asser’s eyes was immediately extinguished.
Elidor looked from one to the other in bemusement. ‘Did something happen when we met Belat and Henry at Llanthony then? I remember Walter arriving to declare Hempsted’s independence, and those two clerks were there to oversee the matter . . .’
‘It was before that,’ replied Stacpol shortly. ‘Please do not question me further, because I am not at liberty to discuss it.’
Gwenllian’s curiosity intensified, and she determined that Asser would be proven right: she would have the tale from him or Stacpol.
‘Londres knew this was going to happen,’ Cole was saying bitterly. ‘I can tell by the way that he and Prior Walter huddle together that they have had dealings before. They are in league, and it was doubtless he who suggested that they stage their assault today.’
Stacpol frowned. ‘Why today?’
‘Because we would have been away hunting if your horse had not gone lame and brought us home early. Perhaps you were right to warn me about bad luck. I should not have started singing.’
Cole insisted on riding into the priory on his best warhorse, determined to make Walter see that he was dealing with professional warriors, not country bumpkins who rarely saw military action. He, his knights and Iefan were an impressive sight in their armour and crusaders’ surcoats, and Prior Walter’s soldiers blanched – he had been right to predict that they would pose no problem in the event of a skirmish. Gwenllian followed them inside on foot.
There were six men among the invaders who looked important. Gwenllian instinctively distrusted Belat and Henry, thinking they were exactly the type of men the King would hire – sly and deceitful. Bailiff Londres was cast in the same mould.
Walter was lean and cadaverous, with the look of death about him. She wondered if he would live long enough to enjoy the empire he had built, although his burning eyes suggested he would not let ill health interfere with his plans. His sacrist, Gi
lbert, hovered at his shoulder, reminding her of a monkey with his heavy eyebrows, beadlike eyes and dark complexion.
And finally, there was Roger, appointed prior of Llanthony after Martin’s death, although Gwenllian was not sure why he was present. He was a plump, flabby man with soft white hands. There was something disagreeably lethargic about him, and he regarded Cole and his companions with disinterested eyes, as if he could not be bothered to ask who they were.
Cadifor broke away from his captors and stumbled towards Cole in relief, while his canons cheered, clearly believing all would be well now that the constable was there. Gwenllian was sorry they were going to be disappointed.
‘They have no right!’ Cadifor was tearful with anger, and as he was usually calm and measured, it was unsettling to see him so distraught. Since taking up his appointment in Carmarthen, he had worked hard to enhance the priory’s reputation for scholarship and generosity, and he was greatly admired in the town. ‘Walter will not wrest a second foundation from under my nose. Order him gone, Sir Symon. With your sword, if necessary.’
‘The only people who can resolve this dispute are the King and your Prior General,’ said Gwenllian quickly, lest Symon should think to oblige. ‘All we can do is prepare a document outlining each side’s case, to help them make their decision. I recommend a formal hearing in the chapel, with Bishop Geoffrey presiding.’
‘It is none of Bishop Geoffrey’s business,’ declared Londres arrogantly. ‘Let him stay in the castle, away from matters that do not concern him.’
‘You think the fate of a priory in his See does not concern him?’ asked Gwenllian icily. ‘Especially one belonging to his own Order?’
‘Bailiff Londres is right, madam,’ said Walter curtly. ‘This is a matter for the very highest authorities. Mere prelates and constables will meddle at their peril.’
‘I am sure you would like us to leave,’ said Gwenllian, beginning to understand why Symon had wanted to settle the matter by force. ‘But we have a responsibility to assess the situation, so we can provide His Majesty with an accurate report.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Belat haughtily. ‘My colleague, Henry, will document any proceedings, and his is the account that the King will trust.’
Gwenllian smiled sweetly at him. ‘Perhaps so, sir. However, we are nothing if not thorough here at Carmarthen. We shall make our own record, and the bishop will be a witness.’
‘I want him here,’ added Cadifor. ‘He used to be Prior of Llanthony, while Carmarthen is in his See. Thus, he has associations with both foundations, and will be impartial.’
‘Unlike those two royal clerks,’ murmured Stacpol to Gwenllian. ‘You should not trust them as far as you can spit.’
Iefan went to fetch Geoffrey, but Gwenllian knew it would be some time before the elderly churchman arrived – the bishop would want to don suitable vestments for the occasion, and there would be horses to saddle and secretaries to brief. But that was no bad thing, as it would allow time for tempers to cool. All she had to do in the interim was keep the two factions apart.
She said as much to Cole, who immediately ordered Carmarthen’s canons to the kitchen to prepare food, while the Hempsted monks were ‘invited’ to wait in the guesthouse. She expected them to argue, but no one did. The soldiers took the opportunity to slink to the stables, patently relieved not to be doing battle with Norman knights.
‘You cannot order Henry and me around,’ declared Belat, declining to move. ‘We do what we like, because we have the authority of the King.’
‘So do I,’ stated Londres. He edged behind the two clerks when Cole glared at him, daring the constable to push past them to grab him. Cole might have obliged had Gwenllian not laid a cautionary hand on his arm – Londres was not worth the trouble that would follow. Prior Cadifor also lingered, reluctant to go anywhere while his monastery was under threat.
‘I cannot imagine why Walter wants this place,’ said Belat, looking around in disdain. ‘It is mean and shabby compared to Hempsted.’
‘We earn a respectable income from the sale of our wool,’ snapped Cadifor, nettled, but his face fell when Belat’s expression turned triumphant: the clerk had tricked him into revealing something that he should have kept quiet.
‘The King will be delighted to hear it,’ said Henry smoothly, ‘and will raise your taxes accordingly. Or rather, raise Walter’s taxes, as it is now his responsibility to pay them.’
‘I will not yield my priory’s independence without a fight,’ snapped Cadifor, ‘no matter what fictitious document you produce.’
‘It is not fictitious,’ averred Belat. ‘As you will discover if you challenge it. Of course, there may be a way round the problem, although such solutions are very expensive . . .’
Cadifor blanched. The kind of ‘solution’ sold by corrupt clerks tended to impoverish their recipients for years. Gwenllian regarded the pair in distaste. She had met their type before – ruthless, grasping individuals who used the authority vested in them to line their own pockets. She glanced at Londres, not surprised that the dishonest bailiff had elected to play a role in the unfolding drama.
‘Of course, it will have to be settled before Bishop Geoffrey arrives and starts to poke his nose into our affairs,’ said Henry. ‘So make up your mind now. Do you want us to persuade His Majesty to revoke the deed?’
Cadifor stood straight and there was a defiant jut to his chin. ‘There will be no need for underhand practices, thank you. We are in the right, and Bishop Geoffrey will not support the King in a matter that is blatantly illegal.’
‘He will not,’ agreed Gwenllian. Having met the unpleasant Walter, she was now firmly on Cadifor’s side. ‘And his opinion will be recorded in the transcripts of today’s proceedings, which may help to convince His Majesty of the unfairness of the situation.’
Belat and Henry exchanged angry glances, and she saw they had not reckoned on having the views of a powerful churchman included in the account that would be presented at Court. Good, she thought. Perhaps justice would prevail after all.
Belat and Henry grabbed Londres’ arms and hauled him away, no doubt to remonstrate with him for not warning them that this might happen. Gwenllian stared absently towards the kitchen, wondering what more she could do to further Cadifor’s cause. Cole was standing with Elidor, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, while the other two knights had gone inside to beg for food. Suddenly, Stacpol dashed out.
‘Lady Gwenllian, come quick!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Asser has been taken ill.’
The kitchen was a massive room with two large fireplaces and lines of scrubbed tables. Pots and pans hung on the walls, and there was a pleasantly sweet smell of simmering fruit. Asser lay on the floor with his eyes closed. Gwenllian knelt next to him, but it took no more than a glance to see that he was well beyond her meagre medical skills – his face was white, his life-beat feeble, and his breathing unnaturally shallow.
‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Cole. ‘He was perfectly well a few moments ago.’
He grabbed the stricken man’s shoulder and shook it. Asser opened his eyes, but they were glazed, and Gwenllian doubted that whatever he whispered in Cole’s ear would make sense. Then he went limp. She glanced up and saw Stacpol in the doorway, his expression closed and distant.
‘It must have been an apoplexy,’ said Prior Cadifor, when Gwenllian had pronounced Asser dead and his monks had intoned the necessary prayers. ‘He was a large man who ate too much, and he was excitable. Such men are prone to these sorts of attacks.’
‘But he has never had one before,’ objected Cole.
‘Yes, he has,’ countered Stacpol. ‘About a month ago. He told me not to mention it, lest you sent him back to Normandy and recruited a fitter man to take his place.’
Cole would have done. He had licence to keep six knights, and could not afford to house one who was unable to fulfil his duties. Gwenllian glanced at Stacpol again, and was surprised by his lack of emotio
n – he and Asser had been friends. Was he manfully concealing his grief, or was he actually relieved? Asser had, after all, witnessed Stacpol’s previous encounter with the royal clerks and had threatened to reveal whatever had transpired.
‘How curious that he should die now,’ she said, looking hard at him. Stacpol only stared back, his expression impossible to read.
‘Not really,’ said Prior Cadifor. ‘As I said, such men are prone to this kind of ailment.’
‘Especially when they are under strain,’ agreed Stacpol, a little too quickly for Gwenllian’s liking. ‘And today has been full of vexation.’
‘Not for him,’ countered Cole. ‘It was not his horse that went lame, forcing its owner to run about in full armour. Nor was he obliged to solve this business with Walter. All he had to do was sit on his stallion and look menacing, which should not have been too difficult.’
‘I refer to the quarrel he had with the cook,’ said Stacpol. ‘That was vexing.’
All eyes turned to the monk in question, a plump, volatile man named Dafydd.
‘Of course I gave him a piece of my mind,’ Dafydd snapped, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘He ate some of the marchpanes I made for the bishop. Geoffrey loves them, and I always prepare a batch when he visits. But Asser came along and stole a handful before I could stop him. And I cannot make more, because we are out of almonds.’
‘He took only four,’ said Stacpol reproachfully. ‘I am sure they will not be missed.’
‘Yes, they will,’ argued Dafydd bitterly. ‘The bishop ate a lot when he called in to see us last night, so there were only a few left.’ He smiled fondly. ‘I like to spoil Bishop Geoffrey. He has always been good to us. He will prove a friend over these current troubles, too.’
The Deadliest Sin Page 17