Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

V

Urban woke happily that morning. Happy because a warm and naked Leofric was in his arms, his soft rear pressed back into Urban's groin. His hands were on the boy's flat, tight belly and his erection perfectly placed between his cheeks. He pushed. An awakening Leofric pushed back, and they joined smoothly with satisfied gasps.

Leofric sighed. 'So good, sir. Fuck me, please.'

They dozed after Urban's climax, and awoke with their positions reversed. 'Go on, Leofric. Your turn.'

As usual, the boy demurred. 'Oh no sir, I can't.'

'Why is that my Leofric?'

'Taking it is what I do, sir. It'd not be right.'

'You're a free boy, my lad, and God has gifted you with quite a sizeable pidyn. Speaking as a pastor, I have to say that not using it in my rear end is spurning the Almighty's generosity.' Urban went up on his elbow and looked down on the grinning boy he knew now he truly loved. 'The last cock up my hole was Black Morgan's. I'd like it if my latest memory of being fucked was by the ffwcyn of a beautiful boy I actually love, not by a bloodstained monster.'

'Oh sir, you do say the nicest words, even if I don't understand half of them.'

Urban lay back and kissed Leofric's shoulder. 'You know a fair amount of Welsh, lad. Which I guess you've picked up on the river, with some of the dirtier expressions acquired from your beddings by your Kneitho. Whom I am not jealous of, by the way. I see you chatter away in both languages with Dewi and Grono and the other village kids. You're at home here.'

Leofric nodded, took Urban's hand and kissed it. 'Aye sir. Only one thing could make it better.'

'And what's that?'

'Kneitho and the lads are keeping their eyes open on the River Wye for my dad's boat. You see I have a little brother called Godwin. I would have mentioned it before now, 'cos I worry about him. But he's fourteen now and old enough for my dad to use as crew and to pimp his arse out. But he's not strong like me, sir.'

'Are you planning to rescue him, Leofric?'

The boy looked at him earnestly. 'It's a work of grace, sir.'

Urban laughed. One of his favourite phrases had just been used against him. He made no promises, just slapped the boy's bare bum and told him to get the schoolroom ready for the village boys. Urban in the meantime got dressed and headed up to the church for mattins and prime.

He was not alone in the church for mattins. Dewi and Grono always turned up in the church, and though unable to follow the sequence they had picked up enough Latin to proudly join in the Ave Maria. Cadwgan the lazy old priest stubbornly refused to join the office, and thought his duty was discharged since he would offer mass afterwards. Urban did not labour the point. A number of adult villagers attended mass and the loyal church cnaethion Dewi and Grono assumed their shining new albs, prepared the altar and assisted in the rite as censer and crucifer. The liturgy of Llantrisant church was steadily improving. Urban just wished he could do something about Cadwgan's delivery of the rite, a droning mumble.

Urban grinned when he emerged from the church. The village was bustling that morning, with boys everywhere under foot. He had set them the task of labelling village features with their Latin names, using a pot of white paint. So the old oak by the well was labelled twice by a proud urchin: quercus and arbor. The urchin in question's bare butt had itself been labelled (ungrammatically) maxillas in charcoal by a rival, which would give rise to a discussion later about declensions.

It was only then, on his way down to the rectory, that Urban noticed a couple of riders dismounted at the village end. They were young men, and the dark-haired one was chillingly familiar. It was Morgan, which meant trouble.

Prince Morgan Ddu ap Morgan, lord of Llefnydd, was looking very prosperous, as well he might. He was also looking mischievous, which was sinister. 'My word, Gwrgan. You've turned your entire village into a schoolroom. Like a veritable Chartres on the Usk. I just had to decapitate a child who was about to label me as … I don't know … princeps, dominus or, perhaps more appropriately, cinaedus if I remember my Martial. Talking of which, may I introduce a friend who shares our vice. This is Sir Iago, or James if you will, a priest of the diocese of St Davids. He's in need of help, so I brought him to you, my dear, counting on your kindness.'

The priest Iago was in secular clothing. His association with Morgan was not promising, though he seemed a mild and inoffensive young man, maybe in his mid-twenties and running somewhat to plumpness. Not Morgan's type, Urban thought. The prince preferred slim boys, like Urban himself, and also (Urban recalled) the late, disembowelled priest, Alan, who had fatally resisted the prince's advances. Urban wondered if this Iago was fully aware of Prince Morgan's sexual record. 'How can I help?' Urban had little choice but to say.

Iago made a good impression, despite his company. He was a priest and a good-natured man, and was delighted with the school Urban had set up, happily sitting with the boys and voluntarily tutoring those having trouble. Morgan disappeared. He appeared to have heard of the boy prostitutes at the market of Brechenneu, and had something dissolute planned with them to amuse himself. 'They'll really do anything for thruppence, the dirty whores, so I shall spend freely to assist the local economy.' Iago turned down the invitation to join Morgan's fun down by the river. Urban took the opportunity to get his Leofric out of possible danger by despatching him on his pony to Gloucester with the latest bulletin for Lord Miles.

Morgan arrived back at the rectory before evening, and it turned out he had no plans to return to his llys at Undy, whose distinction as his new home he praised above Urban's 'shed' at Llantrisant. Yet nonetheless Urban found that the prince not only fully intended to sleep that night at the rectory, but to sleep naked next to Urban and despite whatever his afternoon's amusements had been at Brechenneu he had enough energy left to require and enjoy a long session of mutual fellatio with Urban, whose consent was not asked for.

To his mingled annoyance and fear Urban found Morgan's arms around his ribs at dawn and the pressure of his erection breaching Urban's anus.

'I've missed this,' breathed Morgan with a sigh as his large cock ran the length of Urban's sphincter. 'Really. We fit together so well, my Gwrgan.'

'I'm not yours, Morgan,' Urban growled into the pillow as he was being energetically fucked.

'But you like what I do to your arse, all the same,' the man sniggered, clutching under Urban at the erection betraying his excitement at being mounted by this dangerous and fascinating man.

The strange confidentiality the prince seemed willing to extend to him decided Urban to see what he could elicit from Morgan about Iago and his circumstances.

Morgan sagged on Urban's sweaty back as he pulsed his ejaculation inside him. 'This was a good move. No one's going to look for Iago here. You're not a player.'

'Who's looking for the man, Morgan? What have you got yourself into now? Some other poor fucker you're planning to assassinate?'

Morgan rolled off Urban's back, lay back in the sheets next to him and stretched. 'Shit. That was my masterstroke. I am legend, little clerk. This new job's going to be even better though. It's a kingdom I'm going to dispose of, not a man. If, that is, I can keep Iago out of the hands of your boss, Miles of Gloucester.'

'So that's it. You've enmeshed the poor man in your plotting here in the Marches. The Lord Warden is my boss, Morgan. It's my duty as his sworn man to tell him Iago is here.'

Morgan's handsome face stared into his. 'Ah well, then you have a problem. You are when all's said and done an honest clerk, and betrayal is not something that is natural to you, Gwrgan. And secondly, do it and your sweet boy Leofric meets the same fate as the late Alan the priest did in Grwyne Fawr. And after that you'll join him in death, though it might take quite a while, because I can be very inventive and patient.'

The words burst out of an agonised Urban. 'Fucking evil devious bastard. I hate you.'

The carefree laugh that followed was not unexpected. 'Then we understand each other perfectly well.'

Iago was in the church for the office and joined Urban in his stall, and he stayed on as Cadwgan celebrated the morning mass. Urban took his hand and led him into the north porticus, where he sat him against the wall.

'So where do you come from, Iago?' he began.

'Oh … I suppose originally St Davids diocese, but my family's from Brycheiniog to be more specific. I was ordained to the title of a chantry altar in the cathedral of Menevia.'

'So how did you end up here?'

'Umm. I have English and French so Bishop Bernard liked using me as his tabellarius to the court, even as far as Normandy.'

'Is that where you've been? Were you there when the old king died?'

Iago shot Urban a cautious look. 'Yes. Though he had died at Rouen before I could give him my bishop's missive.'

'So where have you been since then?'

'It struck me that my bishop, who was very close to the late Mathilda, King Henry's first wife, would value all I could tell him about the crisis in the court and the succession. So I hung around in Rouen. But the succession was quickly settled because the king's nephew Stephen secretly crossed over the Channel as we know, and talked the archbishop into crowning him.'

'So then you came back?'

'Er … no. I knew my master was most interested in the standing of the old king's scheme to get his court to swear to support his daughter's claim to the throne. Bishop Bernard had been her tutor as a child you see, and had been her mother's chancellor. So I travelled to the southern frontier with Maine to collect news of her. You know who I mean don't you? Mathilda, who was empress of Germany before the old king married her anew to the young Count Geoffrey of Anjou.'

'Yes, Iago. I am aware of the lady.'

'Well. Riding south to Domfront I encountered the Angevin army coming in the other direction, and I was apprehended by their scouts. Waving Bishop Bernard's seal around got me access to Count Geoffrey and the empress. She was delighted to hear my news from Wales, and sent me back with letters for her father's former loyalists in the March,'

'Ah! Now I think I understand. She wants to solicit their support for her bid for the throne. Yes?'

A troubled look in Iago's eyes indicated he thought he had said too much. Urban decided to let him off the hook. 'No need to tell me to whom the letters are addressed. I think I can guess anyway. That'd be why my Lord Miles of Gloucester would love to have in his hands you and the letters you carry under the empress's seal. He could engineer the fall of his rivals for King Stephen's favour.' Urban then shot the man an impish look. 'And one addressed to Miles himself could destroy his own fortunes too,' he commented with a smile. It occurred to Urban that if there was indeed such a letter he needed to obtain it.

Iago kept quiet as Urban led him back down to the rectory. His school had not assembled. The parents most likely would not want their children under the same roof as Black Morgan, who it was said dined off pies stuffed with roasted babies in gravy. The man himself was dressed and booted for the saddle, enjoying the breakfast Megan had loaded the kitchen table with.

'So I take it we are agreed, Gwrgan. You will shelter my good friend Iago here and escort him to the synod and ordinations at St Gwynllyw, and from there to my father's Pentecost court at Caerleon. He has to be at both events for reasons that don't concern you. But do your job well, Gwrgan, and you might remember that I am now a man of influence and some means. My llys at Undy has a fat rectory attached to it which is currently vacant and which was once a possession of your good father, the bishop. You get my drift, little clerk?'

Urban was deeply touched to find a large number of the villagers at Brechenneu on the quay when he boarded a river barge for his trip to Newport and Caerleon. They were there to give him their good wishes, and there was even a presentation. The seamstress, Nest, had hoarded some very fine red brocade, and had made Urban a fine diaconal stole for his ordination. He kissed the woman, and she blushed. Leofric too was on the quayside. Since he was going on the river, he had dispensed with clothing for the journey as he intended helping out the barge hands. He was carrying one of Iago's bags.

The barge master was Welsh and Leofric was kissing friends with his two slave boys. 'Can't use free boys or my own kids these days, sir. Newport has no law these days. Better keep an eye on your own boy, master, or the slavers will have him, you mark my words.'

The journey down the river on the breast of the ebb tide was only a dozen miles, though it involved a delay at an anchorage upriver of Newport bridge before the barge could find a berth at the quay, and a lot of work by the small crew with sweeps to thread through the wet mud banks, during which Urban marvelled at how muscular his Leofric was despite their soft new life at Llantrisant rectory. So impressed was the barge master he tipped Leofric generously and enquired as to the boy's availability for occasional river work.

Leofric knew the town well, and found them lodgings in the high street. Iago pointed out the standard of Earl Robert of Gloucester was flapping over the castle motte up the hill, near the church. The great earl was in residence it seemed. 'That's one letter you can deliver then,' Urban laughed. He only got a sour look in return.

The bells of the mother church of St Gwynllyw (known to the English immigrants as St Woollos) on its hill were already sounding as the procession formed outside the west door, their bronze voices rolling over the roofs of the town below and echoing down the Usk. The grey waters of the Severn Sea to the south occasionally shone gold as sunlight broke through the cloud cover. It was the feast of Pentecost, Sunday 10 May 1136.

Urban took his place among the ten other Gwentian candidates at the door of the old clas church, to the west of the more recent Romanesque church, new built and shining. All of them were in undyed linen albs with narrow red stoles folded and carried over the left arm. Their hair had all been cropped in the British clerical style—tonsura Britonum, a broad shaved front from ear to ear—marking them as men set apart. Urban felt the chill on his forehead, but it steadied him, as did the stole his parishioners had made for him so as to be with him in spirit on that challenging day.

A thurifer stepped forward first, swinging a censer whose smoke curled upwards like pale serpents. Behind him came two taper-bearers with unlit long beeswax candles, then the crucifer with a tall staff. After them walked the choristers of St Woollos, boys of the minster school chanting the opening Benedicite in an old British plainchant, their outdoor voices thin but piercing in the morning air.

Then came the senior clergy led by the minster head, the archpriest of Gwent; several canons of his minster and a couple from Llandaff, both of whom Urban recognised as relatives of his; the monastic priors of Goldcliff and Chepstow, Frenchmen both, and finally Urban's cousin, Bishop Uthred of Llandaff, tall and silver-bearded, wearing a rich red wool chasuble embroidered at the hem with woven knot-work patterns. The eleven ordinands followed in double file. Urban kept step, though his heart beat faster than the chant.

When they reached the threshold, the procession halted. The crucifer rapped the butt of the cross-staff on the door. The archpriest proclaimed: Pax huic domui, et ingressuris in eam.('Peace to this house, and to those who enter it'). The doors of St Woollos swung open, candlelit within.

The rite was to be performed in the airy new church to the east. Its nave was dim except for the morning sunlight shafting through the southern clerestory. The relic shrine of Saint Gwynllyw—a carved chest of oak banded in silver—stood raised behind the high altar, hung with votive ribbons left by warriors and mothers.

The candidates took their place before the altar rails. Urban could smell incense, damp stone, old wax, and something else—perhaps the earthiness of expectation.

After the opening psalm and collect, Bishop Uthred ascended the low steps of the presbyterium and turned to face the gathered men. One by one, the ordinands were summoned by name: Qui ad diaconatum accedunt, procedant. ('Let those who come to the diaconate now present themselves').

Urban stepped forward with the others. The bishop questioned them according to the Welsh usage, the words formal but fatherly: Did they vow obedience to their bishop and to the rule of the Church of Britain? Would they guard the poor and uphold the peace of God? Would they preserve chastity, humility, and readiness to serve at the altar?

Urban answered steadily: Volo, Deo adiuvante. The eleven men then lay full-length on the stone floor before the altar. The choir chanted the Litany of the Saints, adding local saints—Gwynllyw, Cadoc, Teilo, Dyfrig, and Illtud—to the Roman forms. As the petitions rolled over him, Urban felt his breath slow, each name of a saint grounding him deeper into the church he served.

When the litany ended, the bishop beckoned them to rise. One by one, the candidates knelt before him. Uthred laid both hands upon Urban's head, the weight of them warm and unexpectedly heavy. He breathed into Urban's face and spoke the ordination prayer in the Llandaff form: Emitte, Domine, super famulum tuum Urbanum Spiritum sanctitatis, ut fideliter impleat opus diaconi… ('Send forth, O Lord, upon your servant Urban the Spirit of holiness, that he may faithfully fulfil the work of a deacon…'). Urban felt the touch like a steady fire descending his spine.

An assisting priest-canon then placed the diaconal stole over Urban's left shoulder, fastening it beneath his right arm, the colour of Pentecost fire, of service and blood-loyalty.

Finally, Bishop Uthred placed the Gospel Book into Urban's hands: Accipe Evangelium Christi, cuius praeco factus es. ('Receive the Gospel of Christ, whose herald you now are').

Urban kissed the book and stepped back, newly robed, newly charged with authority.

After all eleven had been made deacons, the mass continued. Urban was chosen by reason of his parentage to assist at the altar for the first time, holding the chalice filled with the Blood of Christ in awe but with steady hands. When the dismissal came, the congregation surged forward to greet the new servants of the Church.

The bells of St Gwynllyw began again—not a summons this time, but a peal of thanksgiving. The morning sun finally broke through the mist, laying a golden path across Cas Gwent. Urban stood among his brothers, the red stole warm against his side, and felt himself claimed by the land and by the God whose splendour moved in sunlight over its hills.

The new deacons had dispersed into the churchyard, where families, parish clergy and monks mingled in uneven clusters. The bells had quieted at last, leaving only the sound of crows in the yews.

Urban was still flushed from the Mass. The red stole lay diagonally across him like a sash of honour, though he kept touching it as if unsure it were truly his.

'Deacon Urban of Llantrisant?' The voice came from behind him—educated, slightly amused. Urban turned. Two men had approached from the direction of the gatehouse. One wore a travelling mantle of good quality, clasped with a plain brooch of English work; the other, taller and broad-shouldered,was hung with gold chains and garbed in figured silk and grey fur. He carried himself with the unmistakable ease of the highest birth.

Urban bowed instinctively. 'My noble lord. Robert of Caen,' he said. For this could only be Robert, Earl of Gloucester—the late king Henry's eldest natural son, the lord of Bristol, the scholar-warrior whom everyone admired who had met him. He returned the inclination of Urban's head with courteous warmth.

'We were present at your ordination, deacon. The conduct of the liturgy is a credit to Bishop Uthred and his clergy.' The earl's eyes flicked to the other man at his side. 'This is my occasional chaplain, Master Geoffrey of Monmouth."

The second man stepped forward, smiling in a way that suggested both shyness and quiet delight at being recognised.

'Master Geoffrey,' Urban said, bowing with great respect. 'Copies of your Historia have already reached our province and it is talked about with enthusiasm by many people whose judgement and scholarship I value. I have hopes of acquiring my own.'

Geoffrey's smile deepened. 'Ah—news travels faster than a scribe's quill. I have to admit being amazed as to how copies are multiplying across our world. I hear from good friends in France that several monasteries in Normandy have one in their book boxes, and there is even one in the abbey of St Denis outside Paris. Of course I did help it along, as one has to. Two very great men, one of whom is standing here with us, consented to be dedicatees in the latest edition.'

Robert gave a soft chuckle. 'My dear young fellow. We are here in Gwent for several weighty purposes,' the earl said. 'I have to see my old friend the bishop on a matter of land tenure and the privileges of the church of Llandaff. So when I heard of an ordination here at Gwynllyw's church, I could not resist attending. Urban of Llantrisant—Bishop Uthred says you are a man to watch, and my old comrade Miles of Gloucester says the same.'

Urban felt the heat rise in his face. 'I am only a servant, my lord.'

'Precisely why you must be watched,' Geoffrey murmured. "Men who call themselves servants often carry whole kingdoms on their backs.'

Earl Robert shot him an indulgent glance. "You'll forgive Geoffrey. This one thinks in prophecies.'

'Prophecy,' Geoffrey said, 'is simply memory viewed from the wrong end.'

'There my boy,' the earl laughed, 'was that the purest nonsensical drivel or profound wisdom? It depends with what sort of solemn authority you say it I would guess.'

Urban was not sure he understood, so he gave a cautious shrug.

The earl looked him over with the frankness of a man used to choosing able servants.'My boy, you have the look of someone who listens more than he speaks. That's a rarer gift than piety.'

'I do what I can, my lord,' Urban said.

'Good.' Robert rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. 'After the ordination feast, you will attend us in my castle across the hill. I would hear from a Gwentian deacon how the church fares in this borderland. A clear report, not the embroidered sort my friend here favours. My friend the Lord Miles intimated you will have much to tell me, especially of a troublesome young thug called Black Morgan of whom I would know more. The porters and marshals at my gate will usher you to my private rooms.'

'My lord, if you would know Morgan Ddu, you will find him no more than a few miles upriver. His father, the king of Glamorgan, holds his Pentecost court at Caerleon.'

The earl laughed. 'That is a task for which I have selected Master Geoffrey here. King Morgan has specially invited him, and he goes as my ambassador to his court. You should ride with him if that too is your destination. Enough. Till later. God speed.'

Urban watched the two men go, the thrill of the moment settling in his chest like a physical weight. Geoffrey of Monmouth—whose pen had remade the history of Britain—and the great Earl Robert had spoken to him as though he were worth something, as though his voice mattered in the shaping of this fragile border realm. He touched the red stole again, and this time it felt less like ceremonial accessory and more like a summons.

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Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

V