by Mike Ashley
Many years ago I heard strange and wonderful tales of an island where nobody dies, except in extreme old age: an isle of saints where violent death never walks abroad and all live in peace and brotherhood. In the innocence of my youth I believed in this blessed place. But on that journey we made through Wales in that distant spring of 1188, I learned that there is no place on this earth untouched by death and evil.
In Lent of that year Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury and Gerald the Welshman, Archdeacon of St David’s, journeyed all through Wales calling men to fight for the Holy Land. And although Archbishop Baldwin spoke no Welsh, he drew the crowds to him wherever he went.
In those days I, Maelgwn, was a young novice of Strata Florida Abbey, shortly to make my vows, and on the second day of April I joined up with the travellers in the company of my abbot and two other brothers of our house.
There is little comfort in lengthy travels – as I know now that I am advanced in years myself – and as we journeyed I relied on my new companions to distract me from the discomfort of a hard saddle. It was Gerald the Welshman who drew my particular attention. Even on short acquaintance I liked the man and shared the high opinion he seemed to have of himself. He was handsome and tall with delicate features, and a tongue as sharp as his quill pen. And in the arrogance of my youth I flattered myself that he had deigned to notice the lowly young brother who rode an aged pony near the rear of the party. But looking back now, I doubt if he was aware of my existence until the night when blood was shed.
It was on the ninth of the month, on the eve of Palm Sunday, that we crossed the Traeth Mawr and the Traeth Bychan at low tide and came to the Lleyn peninsula with great relief that we had encountered no quicksand that would drag our laden animals downwards to the bowels of the earth.
As we rode toward the town of Nefyn I fell into conversation with two monks of Whitland, fellow Cistercians, who had their Abbot’s permission to ride with the party and be of use to Archdeacon Gerald and Archbishop Baldwin on the journey. One was called Deiniol, a small, wiry man who was quiet and modest in his manner. I liked him for he said little and listened much and the words that he did say were full of gentleness and good sense.
But I can think of little good to say of his companion whose name was Hywel. He was a Welshman of Lleyn, or so he said, but there was something about him that I did not like. Perhaps he smiled too much with no mirth in his eyes – or perhaps his thin face reminded me of a death’s head.
As Deiniol rode on ahead with Archdeacon Gerald, Hywel hung back and stayed beside me. It was plain that he had taken a liking to me. I was a good-looking lad in those days, eighteen years of age and on the lookout for any distraction from my abbey’s dull routine of prayer and labour.
This Hywel told me many tales of what had happened on the journey before I had joined them. He told of widows who had given their blessing to their only sons’ desire to fight in the Holy Land and he spoke of other, more stubborn, women who had prevented their menfolk from going and who had thus incurred the wrath of the Almighty. I told him that I intended to volunteer myself, if God so willed it. He smiled and said that with the Archbishop’s powers of persuasion, I might have little choice in the matter.
Young and naïve as I was, I babbled on to Hywel about my admiration for Archdeacon Gerald. He smiled again, that mirthless smile, and said that he had noticed how I listened intently to Gerald’s stories and how I was so eager to sharpen the quills he used for his writings. It was true – I had never met a man so full of stories as Gerald the Welshman and I drank in his every word.
Then, as our ponies rode side by side across the rough terrain, slightly behind the rest of the party, Hywel put his hand on my bridle.
“A word,” he said, leaning over so that his face was close to mine. His breath was fresh – like most Welshmen he cleaned his teeth diligently.
I backed away slightly, uneasy, and I saw that Deiniol had turned and was watching us with a look of gentle concern on his face. I suspected that he too felt no liking for his fellow monk of Whitland and I wondered to myself how they got on together in their day to day life in the abbey.
“So, young Maelgwn, you admire the Archdeacon?” Hywel whispered in my ear.
I nodded, uneasy.
“You wish to impress him? Gain his favour?”
He saw my discomfort as I prepared to deny it.
“Come on, boy. Only a blind fool would not notice that you hang on his words like a lovesick maiden. Would you not like to earn his gratitude?” He smiled, the death’s head baring its teeth.
“I find him . . .” I searched for the word. “Interesting. His skill in writing . . . the tales he tells . . .”
“And his sharp tongue wielded like a sword against those he dislikes?” Hywel hissed. I suspected then that he had been at the sharp end of Gerald’s wit more than once during the journey.
I felt myself blushing and I looked round. We had fallen further behind the others and Deiniol was now riding ahead. I noticed that Gerald was engaged in deep conversation with the Archbishop.
Hywel spoke again, leaning towards me still, his voice lowered so that it would not carry to the others. “If you wish to please him, I can tell you how to do it.”
My curiosity was aroused. I looked at him and waited.
“There is a book,” he said after a long pause. “A book he has said many times that he longs to see. You know his nature: he has a scholar’s inquisitiveness about all matters but this one in particular. He has been searching for this volume for many years, or so he tells anyone who cares to listen.”
“What is it?” I heard myself asking. I wished Hywel would get to the point so that I could be out of his company.
He looked around, as if to check that he could not be overheard. “The writings of Merlin. Have you heard of them?”
I nodded. I had heard tell of Merlin, the magician of legend and Archdeacon Gerald had mentioned his writings. But Hywel’s talk was strange and I felt uneasy.
“Merlin lived at the time of King Arthur and made many prophecies,” Hywel began patiently. “It is said that he was buried on Ynys Enlli, a holy isle near here.”
“So?” I tried to feign indifference. I did not like this talk of magic from a man of God.
He was smiling, the grinning death’s head. “I know where to lay my hands on Merlin’s book.”
I looked at him, wary. Archdeacon Gerald had spoken of the book more than once in my hearing and he had said that he had searched for it and longed to see it. “Where is it?” I asked.
“I cannot get it myself, you understand,” Hywel said smoothly. “But nothing prevents you from fetching it.” He paused, watching my face. “And if you do, I can guarantee you’ll be high in Gerald’s favour. Maybe he’ll speak well of you to your Abbot. Or, as you haven’t yet made your vows, he might even take you into his household.”
I felt a warm glow of temptation as I contemplated such preferment. “Why can’t you get the book for him yourself?”
Hywel hesitated, showing discomfort for the first time. “Because it is in a place where I am known. It is not far away, just outside the town of Nefyn where we are bound. You would be there and back before your Abbot missed you. When we reach the town, take the road south-west that leads to Ynys Enlli and you will see a house, the last before the open country. Go into that house and in a niche in the wall near the doorway you will find a box of strong oak. The box contains an ancient volume: the writings of Merlin.”
“How do you know?” I asked. Now that I think back on it, I curse my naïveté.
“I know because I have seen it.”
“Who lives in the house?” I had no wish to be chased off by an angry householder and I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was not being told the whole story.
“Just an old man. Nobody who matters. You ask too many questions,” he hissed at me, the spray of his saliva hitting my cheek. “The book is mine, you need not fear that I am making you a thief,” he added as if he ha
d read my thoughts.
When we reached the town of Nefyn, Hywel grabbed my pony’s bridle. “Go now, boy. There is the road. It is not far.”
I looked up. I could see my Abbot ahead with the two other brothers of our Abbey who were with us. I was far behind the party and my departure would not be noticed. I gave my pony a firm kick and rode on, down the road which led towards Ynys Enlli, the isle of saints.
It was so easy, my first and last attempt at theft. The house was not large, nor was it small. It was built of stone, standing alone at the very edge of the town, and I guessed that its owner, if not a wealthy man, was at least comfortably off, and yet there was an air of neglect about the place. I pushed at the heavy oak door. It opened smoothly and when I stepped inside it was some time before my eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was no fire lit in the central hearth. And no sign of the old man Hywel had spoken of.
I wondered who the old man was, who owned such a place. And how Hywel had come to leave a precious possession here, if indeed he did own the book of Merlin he had spoken of. But I thought then that it was best not to ask too many questions.
I found the niche and the wooden box easily enough; it was there just as Hywel had said. I opened the box and lifted the shabby, leather-bound book from its resting place. It wasn’t until I was outside again, riding off towards Nefyn with the book hidden beneath my cloak, that it occurred to me that my ambition, my desire to please Gerald the Welshman, had turned me into a thief: a thief who would sneak into a house and steal a precious thing from it unsuspecting inhabitants. Then I began to justify my actions by telling myself that Hywel was indeed its rightful owner. But somehow I knew deep in my heart that I was deceiving myself.
I endeavoured not to dwell on my sin as I rode into the town of Nefyn to rejoin my fellow travellers. And I did not suspect then that I had been followed from the house by someone who was tracking my progress as a huntsman tracks a deer.
There was no sign of Hywel among the travellers thronging in the main street so I made straight for the house where I was to lodge for the night. Several good people of the town had offered us their hospitality, for in Wales nobody begs and everyone’s house is open to all: for the Welsh generosity is the greatest of all virtues, as Gerald the Welshman boasted on many occasions.
I and the other brothers of my abbey were to lodge in the house of a widow called Nest. But Hywel, I knew, was to stay with Gerald in the priest’s house on the other side of the main street. How I longed to be part of that learned man’s household, to sit at table with him listening to his talk and his ready wit, or rest around the dying fire in the evening listening to his tales.
I hid the book of Merlin’s writings beneath my discarded cloak which I folded carefully around it. I had resolved to keep it from Hywel as I intended to take the credit for its discovery myself and present it to Gerald before Hywel had the chance to take it from me. I am ashamed to think of my vanity now, in the days of my wisdom and maturity, but I longed for Gerald’s good opinion and for the praise and notice that I would receive for finding the volume he had been eager to see for so long. How foolish we can be in this mortal life.
But my plans did not go smoothly. Hywel arrived at my lodgings when the meal was beginning, just as the sun was descending into night. I hurried to the doorway to meet him, not wishing him to enter and search for the book I had so carefully concealed.
“Did you get it?” he asked, putting his face close to mine.
“Of course.” I drew myself up to my full height, an inch or so shorter than my adversary’s. “But as I took the risk of retrieving it, I intend to give it to Archdeacon Gerald myself,” I said with a courage I did not feel.
He smiled, a death’s head grin. “But how will you explain your actions to your Abbot . . . or to Archbishop Baldwin himself? What will they say when they know that a novice monk is a common thief who broke into a house and stole a precious treasure? Give the book to me and you can rely on my silence. If not . . .” A smile played on his lips. He was enjoying himself, relishing the discomfort of a lad so naïve that he’d committed foolish sin to impress a superior.
I hated Hywel then: hated him for encouraging me, for tricking me into doing his dirty work for him. My thoughts as I looked into his smug, mocking eyes, were hardly worthy of one who planned to take holy vows. I turned away before I yielded to the temptation to strike him and wipe the smile from his gloating face.
“Your part in this is best forgotten. If you give me the book, I guarantee that your Abbot will hear no word of this,” he said smoothly. “But now I have more pressing matters to claim my attention. The Archbishop is anxious to recruit as many as he can to fight in the Holy Land. How I will rise in the favour of my superiors if it is known that I persuaded some willing fools to die in the heat.” He gave a bitter laugh and I shuddered.
He edged further into the house, peering through to where the household were eating, sitting around in groups of three as is the custom. My hostess, the widow Nest, spotted him and bustled over. She was a small woman with a round, apple face.
As she approached he leaned towards me. I felt his warm breath on my ear and shifted away.
“I have heard that this widow has a son,” he whispered. “He looks a likely lad to make the journey to the Holy Land. I will talk with him, work on him before the Archbishop preaches in the morning.” He stared beyond the approaching woman, his eyes focused on a boy who was sitting with an older man and a girl. I knew the boy to be our hostess’s son but I had paid him scant attention. It was the girl by his side, his elder sister, who interested me more. She had hair like spun copper and a delicate face dotted with pale brown freckles. I had learned from one of the men that her name was Awena and for a moment, as I watched her, I forgot that I was supposed to be in that place on the Lord’s business.
The widow Nest brought water for Hywel’s feet. This he declined, saying that he had only dropped in for a word with his fellows and did not intend to stay there for the night. Nest looked relieved that the customs of hospitality didn’t oblige her to feed another hungry mouth. I watched her as she walked away and paused to speak to her son, her face all love and concern. He was her only son, I had heard, and she clearly held him most dear in her heart.
But Hywel made straight for the lad and his companions. Squatting down to talk with Nest’s son, Hywel looked like some great bird of prey in the habit that hung loosely off his thin fame. What honeyed words of persuasion he used I do not know to this day, but I saw the fire of zeal appear in the boy’s eyes. Another recruit for the Holy Land, I thought fleetingly. Then my thoughts turned elsewhere.
I retrieved the book of Merlin from its hiding place. Now was the time. While Hywel’s attention was focused elsewhere I would save the situation by presenting Gerald the Welshman with the book he had sought for so long. I would be in his favour and I would tell the truth about Hywel if necessary. Hywel, the death’s head, would laugh on the other side of his ugly face.
I slipped from Nest’s house and crossed the street to the house of the priest where Archdeacon Gerald and the Archbishop were lodging for the night. I opened the door and crept in like a scurrying mouse, not wishing to draw attention to myself.
But I need not have feared. Gerald the Welshman was sitting nearest the blazing hearth, all eyes upon him as he recounted some tale. I waited in the shadows at the edge of the hall until he had finished, the book clasped beneath my cloak which I had folded lightly around my body as the night was chilly.
When some of the party began to drift into chattering groups and the Archbishop announced that he intended to retire to the church for an hour of prayer, I seized my chance. Gerald was sitting alone, gazing into the fire’s leaping flames, so I approached him quietly. But he must have heard my footsteps because he looked up, his eyes sharp and darting, noting everything he saw and storing it in his formidable memory. I hesitated, conscious of my gaucheness, knowing that the faults and weaknesses of others were only too apparent to this
great man.
“Come, boy. If you have something to say to me, then get on and say it,” he said with a hint of impatience that robbed me of my confidence.
I stepped forward and drew the ancient volume from the folds of my cloak. I held it out to him, too nervous to speak. He took it and turned the pages as I waited. After a while he spoke. “Where did you come by this, boy? Speak up now – I don’t eat novices during Lent.” A smile played on his lips and I sensed that he was trying hard to suppress his excitement.
“I cannot say, sir. But I knew you were searching for it so I . . .”
But he wasn’t listening. He had opened the book and was now devouring its contents with greedy eyes. I knew there would be no more questions. I stepped back into the shadows and watched him, hoping that he’d remember my face and that he’d one day decide to favour the one who’d found the treasure he’d been seeking.
But for the moment I had no word of thanks. I looked round and saw that Deiniol was standing in the shadows near by, watching me. He looked worried – but Deiniol, I thought, often looked that way. I returned to my lodgings across the street, resolving to ask Gerald in the morning how he’d enjoyed the book so that I wouldn’t be forgotten.
But such is ambition that it is so often thwarted. When I awoke the next morning, stiff and cold in the huge communal bed I shared with the rest of the household, news had already come that Hywel was dead.
He had been found outside in the street, face down on the cold damp stones. A dagger or a sword had been thrust between his ribs and into his beating heart but there was no sign now of the instrument of death: the murderer had drawn the blade out of Hywel’s body leaving no clue behind.
As I took in the news my thoughts returned to the last time I had seen him alive. When I had returned to my lodgings the previous night, he had been leaving. He had asked me where the book was and I took great delight in telling him that Gerald was reading it as we spoke. He had reddened first, clenching his first in fury, then he had leaned toward me and hissed like a snake spitting venom, “You will pay for this treachery, boy.”