Y Llyn Llwyd
by Michael Arram
IV
Urban's new home, his first home, was called the Hen Persondy, the old rectory, a ramshackle stone longhouse in a stone-walled court between the church and the Nant y Banu, a stream that ran down from the spring line of the forested heights of the Wentwood into the River Usk below. A freestanding stone kitchen stood in one corner of the rectory court, where Megan the cook was at work baking bread, judging from the smoke issuing from the chimney vent, and a stable occupied another corner, where lived Mair and Leofric's pony, which he called Alfwine 'because he's contrary and mean, sir, like my dad.' Leofric was presently at work feeding and grooming the beasts.
Urban was feeling proud of his small and modest establishment that morning. There were admittedly many things to be done. The turf roof of the rectory was ragged and leaked, and should be replaced with reed thatch or even tiles. The rubble-stone walling was sound but could do with limewashing. It had been a whole generation since the rectory last had an occupant, and there were villagers who were old enough to remember that before then it had been the communal home of several priests, the ancient community the claswyr of Llantrisant.
Today's job for Urban however was to make an inventory of the church's books. He hoped to find at least a breviary, because in advance of his ordination as deacon in the summer he wanted to begin following the daily office. He had assistant clergy as rector, as indeed he must, jobbing priests able to say mass daily for the villagers in the outlying chapels, living off the altar offerings. He had to ensure they did their duty, not a task that filled him with any anticipation, but it had to be done. Maybe he could get them to say the office with him corporately, as they did in large churches with multiple priests like Worcester.
The church of St Peter, St Teilo and St Dyfrig, the original 'three saints' of Llantrisant, was not impressive. It was a large rectangular thatched stone cell with stretches of salvaged Roman brick from some abandoned local site. It was not to be compared with any of the great Romanesque churches that were springing up all over South Wales, one of which his father had built at Llandaff. It belonged to a much older tradition, the clas church within a monastic compound, or 'llan', of which his own rectory was another remnant. As far as Urban could determine there was no local saint buried in its ancient compound, and no history of pilgrimage. A pity. That could generate income. Nonetheless at Easter all the communities of the district of Coedwen, his parochia as it was these days being called, would process behind banners to his church, and they would hand over their dues to their needy young rector.
A naked Leofric emerged from the stable shed, and grinned at Urban when he saw him looking. The boy preferred nudity when working round the house, largely because, he said, the looks that he got from his master excited him. It certainly excited Urban too. The boy's brown, toned and smooth body had become his fascination and the boy's endless self-giving in sex was deeply arousing for the cerebral young clerk. Since Welsh and Saxon village children and youths of both sexes, especially the unfree, customarily walked around Llantrisant naked in the warmer months the unclothed Leofric attracted no scandalised comment.
They kissed as Leofric walked over to embrace him. 'I need to walk down to the River Market at Brekennyo, sir. You might come too.'
'Oh yes, my pretty young urchin, and why should I?'
Leofric giggled. 'I'd like you to. That's one reason. But you need to be seen there. Brekennyo is a busy place. It's the top end of the tidal reach of the Usk where the boats tie up to wait for the tide to turn. Road traffic is busy too, and it's got a market at the bridge end. It's on your estate, and your bailiff collects river dues, bridge dues and market fees. He needs to be watched, sir. Go say hello and ask to see his accounts, if he's got any.'
'But I was going to go up to the church and investigate its books.'
'Please, sir. I'd really like you to come with me.'
'How do I just know you're not telling me everything, my Leofric?'
He just got giggles in reply. In retaliation he insisted that Leofric got at least minimally dressed. So the boy assumed his old breech clout, a lot whiter these days after the attentions of Megan and her boiling vat. They took the path down the stream and before long saw the glitter of the River Usk through the trees. They emerged on to a towpath along the river bank. A river barge was passing downstream as they did. Leofric whistled at the crew and waved. The two ship's boys shouted and waved back and greeted him by name. This left Urban puzzled.
'You worked on the River Wye, Leofric. So how come you're known on the Usk?'
'Oh sir, those boys are Welsh. Their family also has boats on the Wye. We met there. Those guys taught me a lot when we met up at Chepstow. They sell their asses too, and one of them, the older of the boys who just passed us, called Kneithir – did I say that right? He and I got really friendly – know what I mean? – we were planning to escape and join the crew of a seagoing cog.'
'I'm glad you didn't.'
'Oh we did. It was a Bristol cog heading to Dublin. Problem was they took us on for cargo. It turned out we'd joined a slave-ship. The bastards were dragging us down to the hold when Kneithir broke us free and we jumped overboard and swam for the Caldicot Levels. A fishing boat picked us up before we became of interest to the coroner. Our fathers had us flogged at the Chepstow tollbooth pillory for jumping ship and breaking contract. The bastards. No better than slavemasters themselves.'
'You nearly ended up in the Dublin slave market? But Anselm, the sainted archbishop of Canterbury, suppressed the slave trade from Bristol.'
'Dunno about Bristol, sir, or Worcester where you grew up, but naked slave boys are everywhere on the rivers. They make good crew. They have an appearance of freedom, but they're owned slaves all the same, and their owner profits from their bodies, including their assholes. I am a free boy but my dad saw no reason why I shouldn't be made to do what the slave boys did. And what about them two boys Grono and Dewi on the rectory estate? They're owned by the church, just like Milicent their mum, who minds the rectory chickens and eggs. So – sorry and all – but you're a slaveowner too.'
'I have caethion eglwys as rector? That's "church slaves" to you, Leofric. Well, fuck.'
Brekennyo market was a big surprise to its young rector. It bustled. Numerous barges were tied up along the left bank of the river and a line of market stalls ran along the towpath. Alehouses and a tavern were doing a good trade in the village on the right bank. Locals were selling foodstuffs and earthenware bottles of beer. A line of naked, tanned, flirting ship's boys sitting on a wall offered a different sort of transaction. They welcomed Leofric as a lost brother. He dropped his breech clout and was in amongst them being greeted very erotically. He sat in the lap of Kneithir, a bigger and darker youth, whose tongue was soon well down Leofric's throat, his hand and fingers busy in Leofric's groin and between his thighs. Kneithir was watching Urban carefully as he enthusiastically fingered and kissed Leofric, plainly trying to work out Urban's connection with his former boyfriend and lover.
Eventually, Leofric hopped off the bigger boy's lap, took his hand and brought him over to introduce him and talk. Urban made an effort to be friendly despite unmistakable feelings of jealousy about this rangy, handsome lad who clearly still had feelings for his Leofric, and indeed Leofric for him.
'Let's go to the tavern,' Urban said after the introductions were made.
'Not without clothes, sir, they don't allow it. Whoring happens on this side of the river.' Leofric cautioned. 'I'll get my covering. Have you got something on your boat, Kneithir?'
Urban found a table and a maid brought him three horn cups of red wine from a tun on the counter, which she said was 'best Poitevin'. Urban found it no worse than what Worcester cathedral priory's refectory served its students and novices at dinner.
The two lads came in nervously and got looks from the customers, but no one objected. They took stools and sipped at the wine, Kneithir having a coughing fit. 'Bit harsh, sir,' he commented.
'So Leofric my lad,' Urban began. 'Time to tell me why you really brought me here. I take it the reunion with Kneithir was just unanticipated luck.'
'Yes, sir. I mean it is important you know Brekennyo for all sorts of reasons to do with the rectory estate. But we're in the information business these days and the rivers and their boat crews are the best place to find it. That right, Kneitho love?'
The older boy grinned and nodded. 'Collecting gossip and news passes the time for us ships' boys, and it buys us favours, especially in bad times like this past year. So when a Saxon or French soldier takes one of our asses, we get out of him what we can, and sell the information on to whoever wants it, Welsh lords pay well.'
Catching the hopeful look on Kneithir's face, Urban gave him a smile and commented that he was in the market too. 'So what's the latest news?'
'It's all about King Morgan, sir. His army took Llangybi and Caerleon last week, which means he has the whole land of Gwent east of the Rhymni in his hands, and he threatens Monmouth, Chepstow and Newport. Dyfnwal's barge is carrying all sorts of supplies for his Pentecost court at Caesar's palace: fabrics, drink and food. Earl Robert of Gloucester, the late English king's son, is to attend King Morgan's Pentecost court and they say he seeks a peace treaty with Morgan and his allies to secure peace in Glamorgan.'
'So the Usk valley is King Morgan's,' mused Urban. 'What of the Lord Brian at Y Fenni?'
'He's holed up in the castle, denying what's left of Upper Gwent to the Lord Seisyll, King Morgan's brother-in-law.'
Urban, with something of a nervous thrill had to ask, 'Any news of Morgan, the king's son.'
He didn't think he imagined the quick glance Kneithir shot under his lashes towards Leofric. 'Morgan Ddu ap Morgan, sir? He took Caerleon and Caerwent castles and his father rewarded him with the lordship of Llefnydd. Now he's testing out the garrison of the Lord Warden's powerful castle at Caldicot which stands between the Welsh and Chepstow.'
'Morgan the Black? That's what they call him now? And I'd guess it's not a reference to his hair colour and complexion.'
'No, sir?'
'It's his heart,' snarled Leofric. 'He slit open the belly of a pretty young priest while the boy was still alive 'cos he wouldn't agree to have sex with him, and did other terrible enough things to the kid first.'
'Shit! You don't say? He'll come to a bad end. God don't forget that sort of sin.'
Leofric snorted. "God's got plenty to stomach round here. Morgan Ddu's just quicker about dishing it out."
Urban felt a prickle along his spine. Hearing the name spoken that way — half fear, half grim admiration — was different to knowing the man himself. Kneithir leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice.
'They say he smiles when he kills, sir. Like he's thinking of something pleasant. Like he's remembering someone.'
Urban swallowed. 'Enough of that. Tell me more about what he's doing at Caerleon. Supplies, you said?'
'Aye,' Kneithir said eagerly, grateful for the change of subject. 'Dyfnwal's barge is carrying down barrels, cloths, robes, spices, plate — all sorts of luxuries. The king wants a Pentecost court fit for Arthur himself. They're saying it'll bring half the March in attendance.'
'And the other half left hiding in their keeps,' Leofric muttered.
Kneithir shot him a grin. 'Well, aye. When Morgan Ddu rides, the world is best advised to stay indoors.'
Urban forced a smile, though he felt cold. He lifted his cup and tried to sound brisk. 'Right. Listen well, both of you. If the river carries news, you carry it to me. Quietly. No boasting. No loose talk. I'll pay for good information.'
Kneithir's eyes lit with hope. 'Coin, sir? Or—'
'Coin,' Urban said firmly. 'And food. And protection, if needed.'
The two boys exchanged a glance — a quick, silent calculation — then nodded.
'Aye,' Kneithir said. 'We'll bring you what the river brings us, Sir Urban.'
Urban raised his cup. The boys did the same.
Behind them the tavern's din swelled: bargemen shouting, the clatter of mugs, a snatch of Norman French, the smell of smoke and river-mud.
And Urban, Rector of Llantrisant, newly made lord of Coedwen, realised he had just taken his first real step into the world of Morgan Ddu, the dangerous business of war between the kingdoms of men, while he owed his primary allegiance to the kingdom of Heaven however.
Urban had designated one of the smaller rectory front rooms to be his study. He had enough books with him already to stop his bookshelf there looking pitiful, though they were basic texts for the most part. He expected to deploy his new income on further more exciting acquisitions. The next time Leofric was despatched to Gloucester, he would have instructions to hire a professional scribe to copy books from a list of titles he would take with him, principally Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain. He needed to know more about this King Arthur whom the modern kings of Glamorgan were adopting as a sort of secular patron saint.
That reminded him that he still needed to inventory the books in the church. The sooner the better. It was only three weeks before he would need to travel down the Usk to the great church of St Gwynllyw on its hill above Earl Robert of Gloucester's new borough of Newport, where Bishop Uthred was planning to ordain him deacon on the feast of Pentecost amongst other aspirants from the deaneries of Gwent.
The choice of church was politically astute. Usually such rites were administered at the cathedral, or the local monastic churches, which had the resources to put on an impressive show. But St Gwynllyw was the mother church of Gwent and the burial place of the recent heads of the house of Morgan Hen. It had come into the hands of the abbey of Gloucester whose monks had renovated the old clas church and commissioned a fine new Romanesque nave and choir in freestone from the hands of the abbey's own masons. Yet it was still a showpiece of Welsh dynastic pride not Anglo-Norman colonisation, and King Morgan ab Owain would be at the rite, as patron of both the diocese and the church.
Urban was well aware that during the ordination he would be interrogated before the bishop's throne on his titulus, his means of support as a clergyman, which King Morgan had handsomely provided. But although only a subdeacon at present, he would also be interrogated as a new incumbent on the state of his church, its vestments, books, relics, liturgical items and plate. Today he had to make lists and search out the inadequacies of provision at Llantrisant church. So he quit his work table and took the path up to his church.
Urban found the large and heavy oak door, set in the south wall, ajar. He paused inside and waited till his eyes adjusted to the gloom within. As he did he caught some familiar and suggestive sounds, males grunting, one of them higher-pitched and boyish, and the slap-slap of belly on buttocks. Urban walked to the narrow doorway of the northern porticus of his church, and there saw more or less what he was expecting. The naked village youth Dewi was on all fours within, covered by a bald old man using the boy's arse for his enjoyment. They were too deeply engaged in the act to register the rector's appearance. Urban would have to say something for several reasons. The old man was Father Cadwgan, the priest he employed to say mass daily at Llantrisant church.
Urban waited till the pair emerged from the porticus. Dewi gave no sign that the sexual act had been forced on him, indeed he sweetly kissed the old man as Cadwgan pulled up his breeches. 'Could I have a word, father?' Urban said quietly in Latin. 'You too Dewi bach', he added in Welsh, 'just wait down by the rectory well. And don't look so scared, you are not in any trouble.'
He took a seat on the stone ledge that ran round the interior of the church and which the congregation used to rest themselves during mass. 'Now father,' Urban began, 'Let's not discuss whether the fucking of a youth like our Dewi is right or wrong. Dewi certainly does not think it's wrong, but I expect you know well that the canons of the Church lay down that the shedding of blood or semen within a sacred building necessitates its reconsecration. And that for us in Llantrisant would cause particular trouble at this time.'
The man frowned. 'Dewi is owned by this church as is his mother and brother, Master Urban, as much as a piece of furniture you sit on.'
'So you use the boy for sexual relief because he is caeth and can't protest, any more than a chair will complain if you sit on it. You should know that St Anselm of Canterbury in the canons of the Council of London declares "Let no man be sold as a chattel amongst Christians" because by Christ all men have been made free.'
Cadwgan harumphed. 'Why should I care for the opinion of any Saxon bishop, master? The fact is that slavery is in our Welsh lawcodes handed down by our own kings, and Dewi and his brother Grono are caethion eglwys in a line from father to son reaching back before Morgan Hen.'
'I don't dispute the history of their family or the laws of our kingdom. What I will be doing from now on however is to make some changes in how they live their lives as slaves, because if they inescapably belong to the church of Llantrisant, they are entitled to be nurtured by the church as well as used.'
'I can't fuck the little bitches?'
'No sir, you cannot. Take yourself down to Brechenneu river market and pay the professionals for the relief you want. God knows this church pays you well enough.'
A small crowd had gathered in the churchyard. Milicent the poulterer was there, her sons Dewi and Grono running around, being chased by Leofric and several other village boys.
For a while Urban stood on the steps of his clas church, looking down at the boys of the household running bare-assed in the yard. His heart pulsed. He sensed he was about to do a thing that answered the sense of vocation that had been challenging him since King Morgan had raised him into the clerical aristocracy of Glamorgan.
'Enough!' he called down in loud voice that brought the boys to a halt in their play. 'Hear this well you boys. You are no longer cattle in a lord's hall. You are the servants of the God who loves you, and you will from now on be treated with the honour that is due to you.'
The lads stood, puzzled.
'Tomorrow we begin schooling. You will wear tunics like human youths not run naked and rut like domestic animals. You will learn your letters. Those who show promise will enter minor orders and so become free men.'
Leofric, his arms around Dewi and Grono's shoulders, grinned up at his master with approval. 'Hear that, lads? No more bare arses in the rectory. The rector's turning you into scholars."
One boy called out, awed, 'Free men, Lord Rector?'
Urban smiled. They had got the message, and he saw a light of hope brightening in their eyes 'Aye, children of Llantrisant. Free men.'
Urban's decision caused ripples throughout the rectory village and the hamlets of Coedwen. Word travelled quickly: the new rector intended to teach the children their letters, and even the slave-boys of the clas would learn to read like clerks. There was excitement, suspicion, and a certain amount of awe.
The first practical matter was clothing. Urban took one look at the bare, sunburned torsos of the lads who clustered around him in the yard and declared that no one was setting foot in church for mattins bare-assed, not while he was rector.
He sent for Nest, the widow who was the village seamstress.
'Linen,' he told her. 'Enough for albs for a dozen boys — long, simple, white. Nothing costly. They'll grow out of them in a year. You can send Leofric to pick up bolts of it at Brechenneu, and he'll charge it to the rectory.'
Nest smiled and eyed the lads, who were already posturing proudly at the idea of wearing ecclesiastical garments. 'Will they behave, rector?'
Urban shrugged and himself grinned like one of the village boys. 'The albs may help.'
The woman laughed and agreed to begin work at once, happy to have the custom.
The next problem was writing-matter. Llantrisant rectory had a small store of gall-ink and a few reed pens, but the only parchment was scraps and Urban's own precious supply of sheets he had brought from Worcester. But Gwent was renowned for the production of skins, and the tanneries at Monmouth would accept commissions for superior writing parchment. A letter would have to be sent to the priory, where the monks would help. Another job for Leofric or maybe his Welsh friend Kneithir. In the meantime there was birch bark or whatever wax tablets he could lay his hands on.
Books, however — books the church already possessed. He had simply not known where they were. So he spent an afternoon exploring every corner of the clas enclosure. The sacristy yielded a couple of dusty breviaries and a well-thumbed martyrology. A chest near the altar contained an older but very beautifully illustrated Irish evangeliar with its first few pages gnawed by mice. Behind it lay an epistular, and in a cedar box high on a shelf he found a missal whose illuminations were superior even to the Irish book. And to his delight, three large music codices — heavy, awkward, and smudged, but still usable for teaching psalm tones.
He carried these triumphantly to his newly designated schoolroom in the rectory hall.
But what puzzled him was the key old Gruffudd the verger had pressed into his hand that morning.
'The north portico, Rector,' the man had said. 'No one's opened it in my lifetime.'
The portico was a narrow, chill side-space that faced the wind off the forest. Nothing lay there but a few funerary stones and an ancient chest: low, broad, bound in iron plates blackened with age. Its hinges were thick as a man's wrist. Rust pitted the metal like a disease.
Urban fitted the key into the lock. It resisted. He turned harder. With a complaining groan the mechanism yielded, and the chest's lid lifted an inch, letting out a breath of cold, dry air, like the exhalation of centuries.
Inside, wrapped in crumbling wool and scraps of leather, lay bundles of parchment — dozens of them. Some rolled, some flat, some tied with gut string. Gruffudd, hovering in the doorway, crossed himself. 'Never knew what was kept in there, sir. Old things. Best left alone, I always thought.'
Urban did not answer. His heart had begun to pound. He lifted the first sheet with infinite care. It was a charter — written in a beautiful, angular insular hand — granting lands in Coet Gwenti to Ecclesia Trium Sanctorum de Lantrisant, by some unknown lord or king but witnessed by no less than Dubricius Episcopus Castri Legionis. Dyfrig. Saint Dyfrig himself. The saint and patron of the diocese of Llandaff no one even remembered had a connection to the place.
Urban set it aside, breathless, and reached for another. This one was older. The material was unfamiliar to him, not parchment but a thick discoloured fabric. He guessed that he was handling papyrus that had survived the centuries. The Latin was more Classical and indeed literate and the hand more like what one could still see carved on Roman monuments. The seal was actually cast gold. And the grant was issued by Artorius Senator illustrissimus atque Rex Australium Britonum.
Urban froze. The room seemed to tilt around him. Artorius. Not the Arthur of the song cycles, but a genuine king of the Britons — a war-leader of the age when Rome's shadow still lingered over the land. And here he was — in Llantrisant, in Coedwen — reaching across the dark centuries to Urban in his own hand.
Urban sank to his knees beside the chest, parchment trembling in his fingers. Behind him, Gruffudd murmured nervously, 'Lord Rector? Sir? Is it bad news?'
Urban shook his head slowly. 'No,' he whispered. 'Not bad news. Just… very old news.'
He bent again over the ancient documents, and a curious warmth ran through him — awe, and fear, and the first stirrings of a destiny he had never imagined when he rode into Gwent at Morgan Ddu's side. The boys of his school would learn from books. But he, it seemed, would learn from kings. The forgotten history of Coedwen had been waiting for him. And the past had just opened its mouth to speak.
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