Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

VI

Urban was unable to hire horses to get from Newport to Caerleon, so he, Leofric and Iago were obliged to walk the three miles. 'Could have taken a boat up the Usk,' Leofric grumbled, despite the tide being against them.

Urban wanted the hour's walk, however. He was still running over in his head the events of the previous day, not least his interview with Earl Robert in the evening. He found walking a distance often settled his mind. Iago agreed with him. He too had a lot on his mind. Urban suspected that he had delivered several of his letters to key recipients that Sunday, and had hopes of delivering some more at Caerleon that Monday.

The great tower of the so-called Roman palace where King Morgan ab Owain now resided in state was visible over the tree tops soon after they left Newport, and surviving standing Roman tombs were bordering the road well before they reached the castle gates.

Iago was quite excited at the ancient remains. As a young clerk he had joined Bishop Bernard's mission to Rome and so had quite a wealth of knowledge of the architecture of the Ancients, learnedly pointing out stretches of Roman brickwork and masonry.

'My dear Urban. This was no Roman town and palace,' he said with a smile. 'Caerleon was a military compound, a fortress of one of Caesar's legions. Its Welsh name is derived from Castra Legionis after all, meaning 'fortress of the legion'. Through that surviving gate you can see the via principalis of the fortress ending with that massive tower, which I do believe is in origin a monumental four-way arch or tetrapylon in front of the praetorium, or general's headquarters, and its bathhouse, which the ignorant here apparently call 'Caesar's palace'. If the tetrapylon has a dedicatory tablet, like the ones I saw in Lyon and Rome, we may learn more of its origins.'

'Really Iago? That's rather interesting. But in my house I have old documents that talk of Dyfrig as bishop of Caerleon, which hints that the old fort had a new life as a British civitas after the withdrawal of the legions from Britain.'

Iago laughed. 'You'll be telling me next that King Arthur ruled there, like that literary fraud Geoffrey of Monmouth is saying.'

'Oh! You've read the History of the Kings of Britain?' Urban found himself somewhat dashed by Iago's dismissive tone.

'Indeed I have. It's certainly amusing and in its way learnèd, but shall I just say that it is written more in the light of the present politics of our British kings than under the true inspiration of Clio, the muse of History.'

Urban brooded on his new friend's insight. He came back to the present as they encountered crowds in the town's high street which Urban now recognised as running along the southern wall of the old fort. A procession was descending the street from the modern castle. Well-equipped soldiers of several royal teuloedd were marching under their kings' banners, their helmets arrayed with garlands of flowers. Behind the soldiers came the boys' choir of St Gwynllyw's church singing, Urban noted, the coronation anthem, the Benedictus ('Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the Lord'). At the rear of the procession came King Morgan in royal robes and a gold circlet around his head. He walked hand in hand with Bishop Uthred and covering both was a silken canopy on four poles, each corner pole held up by a richly dressed chieftain of Glamorgan. Urban noted that immediately before the king walked Morgan Ddu, carrying upright in both hands an unscabbarded sword of justice, and next to his nemesis walked the king's brother and edling, Iorwerth, carrying a royal sceptre. The crowd around them erupted in an acclamation of 'Hir oes i'r brenin!' (Long live the king).

'Fuck!' gasped Iago. 'The man's copying the crown-wearing rite of the English king … he's saying he's no tribal princeling but a king like any other in Christendom.' Stunned they may have been, but both clerks, and Leofric, bowed low with the rest of the crowd.

Urban and Iago were admitted at the doors of the royal hall, their names recognised. Leofric was not so lucky. He shrugged and said he would walk back to Newport and make himself useful there. A steward ushered the two clerks respectfully to the top of one of the side tables. Urban looked around at the enormous vaulted chamber, with its mosaic floors and walls painted with erotic art which Iago confirmed was surviving Roman work. 'This was once, I would think,' he said, 'the frigidarium hall of the bath complex. Impressive.'

Urban grinned. One of the murals, faded but still decipherable, was the rape of Ganymede. He and Iago were seated at the top of the side table immediately below the king's table. Urban's heart sank as he saw beaming down on him the handsome sardonic face of Morgan Ddu, one eyebrow raised. He slurred in a voice which betrayed incipient drunkenness. 'Saw you, little clerk. Sizing up Jupiter's pidyn as he ripped pretty little Ganymede open. What you doing later? You know you wanna.'

Urban blushed crimson as Iago's eyes widened. But he rallied, called over a serving boy to load their plates, and as he did, leaned over the table to look up into Morgan's face and hiss, 'Fuck off you bullying arsehole. And fucking grow up.'

Morgan looked blearily disconcerted. He shook his head. 'Why, Urban dear. How have I upset you?' He shrugged and turned to talk to another Welsh lord next to him, and mercifully ignored Urban and Iago for the rest of the banquet.

As the meal ended, servants summoned certain favoured guests to join King Morgan in his privy chamber where the king sat on a rather grand carved chair near a fireplace. He continued to wear his coronet. He was talking to Geoffrey of Monmouth when Urban entered the room. Urban was beckoned over and found himself at a loss with the etiquette of a court that seemed to be determined to be as royal as those to be found at Westminster or the Palais de la Cité in Paris. So he trawled his memory of the only other occasion when he had been in a king's company, when King Henry had passed through Worcester and was entertained by the bishop and prior of the cathedral.

The fourteen-year-old Urban, a lowly student at the cathedral school, had been present when the English king had been banqueted in the cathedral priory's refectory. He had watched some of his older fellow-students waiting at the royal table. His friend Albinus had made a hash of presenting the water bowl for the king to wash his hands between courses. But he remembered that Albinus had first to genuflect to the king on his approach (which had been Albinus's downfall, along with the water bowl), and he had seen that others had kissed his royal hand on that occasion. He remembered also that his nemesis, Morgan Ddu, had greeted his mounted father, the king, by kissing his boot.

So keeping his eyes fixed on King Morgan, Urban approached his throne. He genuflected smoothly and as he raised his eyes saw the king's hand extended. He took the hint and the royal fingers, and kissed them lightly, noting how well tended and pared were the nails, the same as were the king's son's, as he recalled from their love making.

'Take that stool there, my lad,' the king said kindly. 'Master Geoffrey and I have been pondering an interesting question, and one that concerns you in several ways. Now in Geoffrey's great work we learn that Dyfrig was the archbishop of Caerleon and in that capacity crowned Arthur king of the Britons. You'll know of course that your late and much-lamented father was aware of that lost great dignity of the church of the Britons, and made the Holy See aware of it too, seeking the pallium of an archbishop at Rome. But not he alone. Bishop Bernard of St Davids has developed the same ambition and his people are at work on it at Rome. That somewhat displeases me, for it would not suit me that the metropolitan of Wales should have his see outside my realm, when history says it should be within it.'

'Yes sire,' Urban responded. 'But you'll be aware that Canterbury claims primacy over all the bishops of Britain, in Wales, Alba and indeed even in Iwerddon. Behind Canterbury stands the power of the king of England, who has long claimed an empire over all the islands in the Mare Oceanum Occidentale.'

'Indeed, my boy,' the king smiled. But the king we now have in Westminster is not such a man as his uncle, and my agents have noticed that Stephen lacks the historical vision of a Henry. So the time may have come for some imagination. You tell him, Geoffrey.'

The scholar nodded. 'The monasteries of Glamorgan and Gwent retain documents and ancient annals that leave no doubt that the see of Llandaff was not the only see in the former British kingdom of Glamorgan, and indeed in my view Llandaff itself is but a late comer, its endowment patched together from older episcopal centres in Llancarfan and Llandough and drawing on the cult of St Teilo for its authority. But Gwent too had its episcopal centres back in the day, not least the community of St Dyfrig which caused your father a problem in his campaign for the pallium.'

King Morgan laughed. 'Not that he let that get in his way. He sent clerks to dig up the supposed corpse of Dyfrig on Bardsey and bury it anew in Llandaff, pretending that Dyfrig was Teilo's master and teacher, and getting a Vita of Dyfrig written which argued just that. You see what I mean by getting imaginative?'

'So … er … what sort of imagination does your grace have in mind?'

'We're just juggling ideas at the moment. But since I am a crowned king and have a kingdom which now includes most of Glamorgan and Gwent, how does this sound, Young Urban? Geoffrey's book says that my predecessor King Arthur had a cathedral and a bishop in his city of Caerleon, so what on earth prevents me from nominating my own bishop of Caerleon?'

Urban blinked rapidly. 'Er … what does Bishop Uthred think about that, your grace?'

The king laughed merrily. 'I thought I'd try the idea out on you first, Urban. After all, you'd be the perfect nominee: the son of a respected bishop of Glamorgan, learnèd and Welsh speaking.'

Urban coughed. 'Sire, I'm just a new deacon. You shouldn't think of it. And I do not think that Bishop Uthred would be in the least happy to have his diocese split in half.'

The king shrugged, 'What do you think, Geoffrey?'

The man grinned. 'It appeals to my historical instincts, obviously, sire. I would also observe that with the English court in disarray, and the cause of Britain in the ascendant, and so many cases concerning Wales being argued in Rome at the moment, Pope Innocent might very well confirm such a nomination if asked in order to shake the dice box, especially as he was known to be a good friend to our Urban's father. It would however cost you a considerable amount of cash at the Curia. Offerings to St Albinus and St Rufinus, as young Urban's late father used to say.'

King Morgan shrugged. 'Talking of which, a letter I had yesterday from Normandy suggested to me that there would be lavish rewards for my military support should a certain great lady succeed in crossing to England. Let me be frank. Suppose that a king in Caerleon could show himself a useful friend in arms, with spears and mail and stout Welsh bowmen. What might a grateful sovereign not concede? A restored British archbishopric perhaps? An ancient see of Caerleon revived? You begin to see why Geoffrey and I play with these toys, Urban.'

Urban's eyebrows rose. 'Sire, these are high matters, too high for a clerk fresh out of the schools. My lord king, such games are played with men's lives. And with souls. Rome will not lightly allow a second metropolitan to be set up in these islands, whatever Geoffrey can squeeze out of his parchments. Canterbury and St Davids will cry out, and you will stand between. And such a bishop, even if nominated, might find consecration an unattainable prize unless done at Rome, at the hands of the Holy Father himself.'

'Where better for a king to stand, my boy, than between his enemies?' King Morgan chuckled. 'But I am not wholly reckless. Which is why we speak to you. Your father was never backward in telling me when I galloped too near a cliff. I hope you may inherit his inconvenient honesty along with his Latin. If ever I were to put quill to parchment and nominate a bishop of Caerleon, I would wish to know first whether the man himself could stomach the game.'

Urban shook his head, feeling heat rise in his face that was not from the fire. 'Sire, you ask too much of a new deacon. I am not fit to be named in such company. I have not much revenue, a small household, and my bishop would curse me to the end of days.'

Geoffrey snorted. 'Fitness has rarely troubled patrons in such matters, young sir. But fear not. Our talk is, as His Grace said, "imaginative". Yet mark this: there will be messengers on the roads soon enough, riding between Caerleon, Normandy and Rome. A clerk who can turn a decent sentence, quote a respectable authority and be recognised in the halls of the Curia as the son of a proven friend—to such a man doors open. Think of that, if ever your bishop sends you to the city on the Tiber.'

King Morgan leaned forward and patted Urban's hand where it rested on his knee. 'Go now, Urban ap—' he caught himself and smiled, 'Urban clericus. Enjoy my wine, but not to excess. Speak with your bishop if you are wise, and tell me no answer tonight. I am not my son; I can wait for what I want.'

Urban rose, bowed and backed away, feeling the weight of the king's last remark as keenly as if it had been a blow. He found the corridor outside the privy chamber cool and oddly dim after the firelight and candled splendour within. As the door closed behind him, a shadow detached itself from a pillar, and he found himself confronted by the familiar smooth and pointed face and lazy smile of Morgan Ddu.

Urban's nemesis giggled in a way that betrayed he had got a lot more drunk than he had been earlier. But strangely it seemed to him that Morgan was making an effort not to be threatening. He hiccupped as he began talking, with a peculiar sort of emphasis which may have been an attempt to come over as seductive. 'You came out without your Leofric tonight, Gwrgan. Have you finally tired of his … limitations?'

'Limitations?'

'You're a learnèd clerk and a man of superior blood, Gwrgan. I cannot imagine what you two would have to talk about after you've decided who fucks whom. He's a llafruddyn, just a gwas cwch, and I won't mention the way he supplemented his father's income.'

Urban bridled. 'Really? It's been quite a while since I concluded that Leofric Alfwinesson was the kindest, most honourable man of my acquaintance, as well as the most beautiful.'

Morgan shot him a look of distaste 'A chacun selonc son goût, as our French neighbours say. They at least knew what to do with the Saxon race, since we Britons had failed to keep them down.'

'What do you want of me, Morgan? You must know I have no interest in sex with you, but this hostility of yours to my Leofric makes you appear to think you are a rival boyfriend. But Leofric is my soulmate and he means far more to me than you ever could.'

Morgan looked sullen under rebuke, like a boy who had been caught out and confronted. 'Relax,' he grunted. 'My Daddy has made it clear you're not to be touched. He appears to have plans for you, little clerk.'

'I'm leaving, Morgan.'

'Really. It's a long dark road to Newport with no moon, and you're walking I believe. Iago has more sense than you. He's going to bed down in the hall. But like it or not, Daddy has told me to see you home safely. I have torches and ponies.'

Urban rode the last stretch into Newport in silence, the trotting ponies throwing long shadows across the causeway as the mist sidled towards them like thin smoke across the dark river meadows. Morgan Ddu, uncharacteristically silent, kept a steady, watchful pace at his side. Urban knew better than to mistake the man's taciturn manner for indifference; this escort was his father's will made flesh, and Morgan would sooner die than lose him on the road.

They crossed the bridge as the town lamps were being lit—small yellow flares fighting a rising fog that carried the smell of tidal mud and hearth smoke. Newport's streets were lively at this hour, filled with sailors shaking off a day on the river and boys in loose shirts darting between the taverns. Morgan ignored them all, his hand never far from the hilt at his belt.

When they reached Urban's lodgings on the High Street, Morgan swung down in one smooth motion, rapped once on the door, and waited. The landlord appeared, wiping his hands on an apron already stained by the day's work.

'Safe home, sir,' Morgan said, stepping aside so Urban could enter. 'My duty's done. My father will want word of your safety before night's end.'

Urban nodded gratefully. 'You've done your duty, Morgan.' The man allowed himself the smallest tilt of the head. 'Keep your door bolted, master host. Newport has teeth after dark.' Then he was gone, swallowed by the mist and the muddle of voices outside.

Urban stepped into the narrow entry, expecting Leofric's laugh to reach him from the stair or the clatter of a basin from the back room. But the house was too quiet, the landlord's manner suddenly tight.

'Your boy,' the man began, rubbing his jaw. 'He left earlier.'

Urban felt something hitch in his breath. 'Left? Where to?'

'That's the thing.' The landlord glanced toward the door again, as if unwilling to be seen speaking of it. 'Didn't say proper. Just took off with several of them river boys. You know the sort—bare-arsed lads who work the quays, some from down Pill way. They come and go like tidewater. Your friend went willing enough, though. He looked… intent.'

Urban's stomach dropped a fraction. Leofric was rarely careless, and never secretive with him. 'Did he leave a message?'

'None.' The landlord shook his head. 'Only said he'd be back before nightfall. But he hasn't returned.' Urban questioned him about Leofric's companions. His landlord shook his head but did recall that one of them was a big Welsh lad called … 'Kneitho, yeah that was it. He was the one who argued that Leofric should leave a note for you, but they had no pen or parchment here.'

Urban climbed the stairs two at a time, pushing his door open to find the small room untouched—Leofric's cloak still folded on the bedpost, his pack beside Urban's own. As if he had meant to be gone only an hour. So Kneithir had been the lad who called him away. That at least was encouraging. He was an honest friend to Leofric, and had been his lover. He could be trusted to take care of Leofric.

The window rattled faintly in the wind, and somewhere beyond it, out on the wide dark river, came the distant sound of boys calling to one another—shrill, echoing, and strangely hollow.

Urban sat on the bed and pressed his hands together. Something had taken Leofric from him—whether adventure, duty, or danger, he could not yet tell. But Newport after dusk was no place for a lone boy, not even one as sharp and swift as Leofric.

He breathed in the brine-tanged air and made a decision. He would be patient and he would not return to the court of King Morgan tomorrow. There were dangers deadlier than knives in the dark, and jealous murderous princes.

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Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

VI