Y Llyn Llwyd
by Michael Arram
VII
Leofric had not returned to the lodging house when Urban woke and called down for news. This was not necessarily alarming as Urban knew his boy was with a gang of his formidable Welsh friends from the river. Also he acknowledged to himself that Leofric was still a typical adolescent; not as well aware as he should be of the worries that others who loved him had for him. The thought of giving the boy's bare backside an educative beating momentarily eased Urban's anxieties.
A knock on his door announced Iago, still looking bleary after the previous night's excesses. 'Morning Urban old man. Just got back from Caerleon. No breakfast and I had to walk it. Want to go to the cookshop and make up for it? Also we have things to talk about, I think.'
Fresh bread, sausage and cheese rallied Urban as the two men discussed what they had learned at King Morgan's court.
'I suppose you'll be heading back to St Davids and your bishop now you've finished your mission.' Urban said, glumly. Iago had proved a good and useful friend in their short acquaintance.
Iago shrugged 'Yes,' he said, 'but only for courtesy's sake. The chantry altar at St Davids only pays a pittance and it's too junior for any share of the chapter common fund there. I'll resign it, because it turns out there are better things on offer here in Gwent.'
Urban was intrigued. 'Something happened?'
'A lot. Your friend Geoffrey is turning out to be King Morgan's ecclesiastical fixer in Gwent. After you left there was an uncomfortable three-way interview between him, the king and Bishop Uthred of Llandaff. So as a result I have three letters to deliver. And one of them is to you, from the bishop.'
Iago handed Urban a square of parchment with the bishop's oval seal on a tag. He opened it and scanned the address: Uctredus episcopus Landauensis carissimo clerico diacono et fideli cognato suo domino Urbano rectori de Lantrisan salutem in Christo. Urban was to know that through the high repute Urban has amongst the clergy and magnates of Gwent and his many qualifications the bishop has been moved to promote him to the office of archdeacon of Gwent, with the custody of all vacant livings in his archdeaconry and with besides the post of canon-deacon of his cathedral chapter of Llandaff with all its incidental payments.
'Holy fuck,' swore a wide-eyed Urban. 'I'm not even a priest yet!'
'You don't need to be a priest to be an archdeacon. This was Geoffrey and the king at work. They're obviously clearing the ground for your next promotion. Lucky boy to have such friends. But it's my luck too. This letter here is from Geoffrey. It's not as official but it is just as consequential.'
The letter from Geoffrey was unsealed, a thin strip of parchment saluting his 'dear friend Urban, archdeacon of Gwent, son of Bishop Urban' congratulating him on his well-deserved promotion and assuring him of the support and good wishes of their lord, King Morgan of Glamorgan, and the affection besides of the illustrious earl, Robert of Gloucester, both of whom had brought his talents to the attention of Bishop Uthred and advocated his eminent suitability for the vacant post of archdeacon. He would therefore as a friend lovingly advise Urban that in light of his many new responsibilities he promote a worthy clerk in the order of presbyter to the post of vice-archdeacon to work under him in his parish of Llantrisant to be supported by the salary drawn from a cure of souls. Geoffrey understood that the bishop intended to ordain Urban to the order of presbyter within the year, and he wished him well.
Urban frowned briefly as he perused the missive. Then looked up and grinned at Iago. 'Want to be my vice-archdeacon? I can take a hint.'
Iago and Urban were still deep in discussion several hours later when a timid knock on the door was followed up by two nervous faces peering round the jamb. It was Leofric and Kneithir, 'My lord? We're back.'
Urban was a little amused at their apprehensiveness. 'Good news about Godwin?'
Leofric beamed. 'Got him, sir.'
'Come in, sit down and tell all, Leofric.'
The boys sat cross-legged on the floor. Leofric commenced. 'Kneitho got word from his boys on the Wye that my dad was working the river with a new boy. From the description it could only be Godwin, and he was offering the boy's ass at every landing. Kneitho took a lighter along the coast to Newport to let me know, and he hired horses with his own money so we could ride back and intercept the villain at the Chepstow quays.'
Urban nodded and smiled. 'Well done Kneithir, you'll be repaid for your kindness. So what happened at Chepstow.'
Leofric sniggered. 'The old cunt was flat out drunk when we reached the barge. He'd tied up Godwin and locked him below deck. He wasn't gonna give him the sort of freedom I had to run away. So we gagged and bound the old bastard and Kneitho was thinking of throwing him overboard to drown, but I wouldn't do that, much as he deserved it, so I thought it would be best to untie the barge and ride the tide out into the Severn Sea and coast along the levels down to Newport. Kneitho's gang includes good estuary pilots. We brought him to you to decide what do with, my lord. You're wise and have high friends, sir. You'll know what to do.'
'Where's Godwin now, boys?' asked Iago.
Kneithir left and returned with the boy. Both Iago and Urban drew in their breaths. Godwin was in his early teens and not unlike his brother in looks, though his hair was longer and in face he was rounder, but neither man had ever seen quite so beautiful a boy. Not that he was effeminate or girlish, he just had the face and physical proportions of an angel, without the wings.
Urban noticed that Kneithir's hand stayed on Godwin's shoulder and that the man drew Godwin into his lap when he settled back on the floor. All looked at Urban and for the first time he realised the weight of obligation that went with the respect that followed from his rising position in the world. Then he smiled as he realised that Iago's news had given him just the resources he needed.
'Iago my dear,' he said, 'as my vice-archdeacon of Gwent I can appoint you my official-general in the court of my ordinary jurisdiction. So I will be asking you to convene a hearing to inquire into the disturbing reports of the enslavement and sexual trafficking of a free English boy called Godwin Alfwineson contrary to the canons of the Council of London by a man purported to be his father, and if the man is found guilty to impose an appropriate sentence and penance on the man for his unnatural and illegal acts.' He looked around the group and laughed. 'Iago and I will have to update you boys on recent events here, and then we need to get ourselves off back to Llantrisant. And to make things all due and proper Kneithir, I hereby make you an officer of my court as archdeacon of Gwent, with I believe the proper title of apparitor. Which means you can duly hold the defendant Alfwine of Castle Goodrich in bonds until he is brought to court.'
Settling back into life as rector of Llantrisant was not something Urban found seamless. With a sinking heart he realised that he would soon have to conduct a visitation of his archdeaconry. No record of its extent existed that he could find. Iago suggested ironically he called a synod of the clergy of Gwent, and whoever turned up in response to his general summons would be his archdeaconry.
Iago was very happy. He used his authority as official-general to discharge the lazy old priest Cadwgan and took over the altar of Llantrisant himself, while allowing Cadwgan to eke out a living serving the lesser chapels of the parish. Urban compensated Iago for his industry by instituting him to the dependent church of Llanllywel upriver on the Usk, with all tithes and oblations. Kneithir as apparitor of Gwent was soon touring the archdeaconry with some of his more formidable river boys and collecting long unpaid rents and tithes, as he said 'So you can pay me my proper wage, my lord.' A chest in Urban's bed chamber was before long brimming with silver, which Leofric was often to be found marvelling over and counting compulsively.
But the development which pleased Urban most was that Iago took over the grammar school for the village boys he had founded, not only that but Iago hired a promising young deacon from St Gwynllyw to teach song and music to a song school, whose boys' choir was soon rivalling that of St Gwynllyw itself and stunning the parish with the beauty it lent to the weekly liturgy. The song school tutor was soon occupying Iago's bed, Urban noticed.
Alfwine of Castle Goodrich was kept imprisoned in the north porticus of Llantrisant church awaiting his trial, which was set to be held in the church on the last day of May. Iago had some fun with the staging. A high throne for Urban as archdeacon was set up in front of the church's apse with a bench of clergy below to deliver the verdict. The church interior was newly limewashed and hung with banners, and the spectacle drew a large crowd of villagers and river people.
Alfwine was brought in chains to the front dressed only in a white shift down to his knees. The charge was read out and the statements of evidence taken down by notaries from Leofric, Godwin, Kneithir and the river boys were read out, to general gasps from the court. Iago gave Alfwine opportunities for rebuttal but no other river pilot could be found to support him.
The bench of clergy took no longer than ten minutes to return a guilty verdict. The sentence was to be delivered the next morning by Iago as official-general. The next morning women were excluded from the church for the public flogging of a naked Alfwine before the altar. The whipping was done by Kneithir who was angry enough at the man to let one stroke, the last, fall on Alfwin's genitals.
Urban, exercising his new authority, finished by sentencing Alfwine to walk in penance naked and barefoot to the cathedral of Llandaff carrying a stone on his shoulders, seeking forgiveness at the shrine of St Teilo and forbidden to return thence to the Usk and Wye valleys. Godwin watched his weeping and limping father stagger off. Kneithir slipped an arm around his shoulders, murmuring: 'He walks alone now, cariad. You don't.'
Godwin made very good friends with the two church boys, Dewi and Grono. He was often to be found tumbling, kissing and laughing with the two lads, and pretty soon chattering in Welsh with them. Dewi and Grono had been ordained into minor orders by Iago, Dewi as lector since he had excelled in the grammar school and could be trusted with Latin readings, Grono as acolyte as he was deft at practical service—the wine, the candles, the bell at the elevation. Ordination meant that the pair were no longer slaves, but church servants paid a wage, which pleased their mother. Godwin was very soon recruited by them into the altar team, and he really did look like a picture book angel barefoot in his alb.
Leofric grunted at Urban that Kneithir was finding that Godwin's resemblance to an angel was no more than surface. 'Kneitho's often finding evidence that someone's been there before him in Godwin's ass. Dewi and Grono mostly he thinks, and he can live with those nice lads doing it with the kid, but he's not entirely sure it's only them. He blames my dad. Myself I dunno. Godwin was always keen on being played with when he was small. Still, he's his own boss now, and can suit himself whom he takes up his bum. Kneitho don't like it though.'
Urban dropped a hint to Iago that Godwin should be put through a confessional regime and penance delivered if necessary. The boy had potential to be a disruptive influence on the domestic harmony of the village and should be kept away from the professional boy-whores of Brechenneu market at all costs.
It was in the ember days of June that a letter arrived in Llantrisant warning Urban of the imminent arrival of a distinguished visitor. The Lord Warden Miles was intending to pass through Gwent en route to Cardiff to attend a conference between Earl Robert and the Welsh magnates of Glamorgan, which would conclude and seal peace treaties and alliances to secure the future harmony of the lords of Glamorgan, Saxons and Britons both.
'It's also a military alliance,' Lord Miles said to Urban over wine in his parlour. 'The military households of the allied Welsh lords are being hired by Earl Robert for foreign service. Poor Robert has good reason now to know how effective Welsh soldiers are, and they terrify his French adversaries a lot more than do the usual mercenaries, who are boring and predictable Flemings. So the English roads will have to get used to Welsh companies marching through to the south coast ports and their transport to Normandy. I hadn't realised quite how many troops were there to be recruited, but Robert knows his arithmetic. He tells me he can raise over three thousand from Glamorgan and Gwent by contract with their lords.'
'I would imagine that you'll be pleased that the military might of King Morgan of Glamorgan, the kings of Deheubarth and Cantref Bychan and King Owain of Gwynedd are being bled off into foreign conflicts. It must make your job easier, my lord.'
'In one sense that is true, Urban my lad. But it is a black cloud on the horizon warning of a great storm. The empress and her husband have occupied the castles of the southern march of Normandy, and not even the might of our king's brother, the count of Blois and Champagne, backed up by King Louis can shift them. The Norman lords aren't that much in love with the lady so the Count Waleran, the king's new lieutenant in the duchy, has the upper hand there at the moment. But when our friend, Earl Robert, arrives in Caen with several thousands of savage Welshmen, his choices may well change things for King Stephen. Stephen should himself go over to Normandy, but he's too enamoured of making a parade of being the king of the wealthiest kingdom in Christendom, and too nervous of the empress's uncle, King David of Alba, who has declared her to be the rightful queen of England. Old King Henry knew better. He spent most of his reign in Normandy, because he knew, as did his father the Conqueror, that secure possession of the duchy was the key to holding England in peace and harvesting its wealth.'
Lord Miles cradled his wine cup, filled with red of the best French vintage that Brechenneu market could offer. Eventually he said, 'Give me your account of what happened at Caerleon at what I suppose I must call King Morgan's Pentecost crown-wearing.' The Warden's turn of phrase implied that he had already had several other such accounts. Urban complied, and Miles sat quiet for a moment musing on his words.
'This is something new,' he eventually said. 'Morgan is changing the rules. He is a man of some brilliance, as I realised when I saw the way he defused the possibility of being assassinated by his brother by re-inventing the old Welsh strategy of power-sharing by making Iorwerth his edling. I wonder if that's what triggered this latest innovation. The Welsh word 'edling' was borrowed from the Old English word 'atheling', which was a similar strategy the House of Wessex devised to stop suicidal succession struggles in the dangerous Viking years.' He smiled. 'You can guess who gave me that snippet of historical perspective … our friend Geoffrey of course.
'So if Morgan found that borrowing one foreign survival strategy worked for his dynasty, why not look wider. The grandeur and mystique of kingship as devised by the German, Italian and French dynasties descended from Charles the Great had never been tried before by Welsh kings … what do you call them in your lingo, brenhinoedd, rhiau?
'Yes, sir,' replied Urban. 'Welsh Rhi at least relates directly to Christendom's general understanding of 'king' as any Frenchman should guess. It is drawn from the same root as the Latin rex and the French roi.'
Lord Miles grunted at the language lesson and rolled his eyes. 'Scholars,' he scoffed. 'Anyway, Urban my boy, you see my point. It's an undisguised and shameless bid to be considered the equal in status of a king of England or France, advertised by crown, sceptre and sword of justice. How long before a king of Glamorgan, Powys, Deheubarth or Gwynedd marches into a church and requires a bishop to anoint him with holy oil, as if it were Westminster, Reims or St-Denis? And that, my lord archdeacon, may well account for Morgan's plan to have you consecrated bishop, or even archbishop, of Caerleon.'
The breath caught in Urban's throat. 'Wha …? Surely not.'
'I can tell you that people are talking of just that eventuality, my boy. Bishop Uthred is up in arms about it as you can imagine. Your cool response to the idea when it was put to you went down well at Llandaff, which is why you are now an archdeacon. It's not quite a bribe, but it does tie you into vassalage to Llandaff. Letters are however on the way to Rome from several interested parties and a full embassy from King Morgan, laden with gold. I believe Morgan is seeking a crown from Pope Innocent's own hand and a bull erecting the see of Caerleon into a metropolitan archbishopric of the Britons. I know that because Archbishop William of Canterbury was roused enough on his sickbed to demand Uthred excommunicate you for canonical disobedience.' Miles laughed. 'Don't worry. It won't happen. Uthred can hardly excommunicate you for allegedly but unproveably doing something that he fully intends doing himself if he can ever get the support. Your name has even been mentioned to King Stephen, who was advised not to let it happen.' Miles laughed harder. 'Don't let it go to your head but he apparently asked if bribing you with an English see might end the problem. So there, two kings so far have mentioned investing you with mitre and pastoral staff. It seems you may have a golden future, little clerk.'
When Lord Miles and his escort had ridden out on to the river road next morning, leaving behind only dust, hoofprints, and a small purse of French silver for the poor, Urban found he could breathe again. The Warden's words hung in him like incense that would not disperse. Two kings… a golden future… - all very well, but his feet had become planted in Llantrisant's stony clay, his true obligations were to the souls and buildings of this place, not the airy fantasies of princes.
He sought refuge in work. Before tierce he had summoned Iago and Kneithir to the churchyard, where the early summer sun warmed the several mossy standing stones leaning like arthritic old men. The old church crouched on its hillside like a dishevelled brooding hen.
Llantrisant's church was ancient indeed - older than the Conquest, some said older than Christendom in Britain - Roman carved stone and brick from some local villa site had been reused in its walls and floors. Its nave beams sagged in its structural dotage, the chancel roof was patched in half a dozen timbers of differing provenance, and the tiny side chamber that passed for a sacristy had begun to harbour a mould of sinister colour. Even the bell-cote leaned as though in constant prayer.
Kneithir ran a knowledgeable eye along the west wall, clicked his tongue, then prodded a fissure with a fingertip. 'You may keep patching this, father, but one good wind from the ridge and the whole nave might come down on your choirboys. Even Grono cannot dodge that fast.'
'That is more or less what I feared,' said Urban.
Iago folded his hands in his sleeves and looked at the church with the thoughtful pity of a man who loves a shabby old mother but must acknowledge her infirmities. 'A chapel built by saints,' he murmured. 'But their disciples deserve a better house.'
Urban nodded. 'That is why I asked you both here. Llantrisant grows. The archdeaconry has brought prosperity to me, Brechenneu flourishes and pays me tolls. Miles's visit reminds us that the world beyond our valley notices us more than we might wish. If the Lord Warden hears Mass in this place next time, I should prefer him not to fear for the roof above his head.'
Kneithir laughed. 'Then you must build anew, father - cruciform, with a proper crossing and aisles so folk do not suffocate each other on feast days. Stone from the ridge quarries, if the council does not haggle too much. You could even have a turret over the crossing, though nothing so tall as those Frenchmen like.'
Urban felt a thrill in his breast. 'Yes. That is what I imagined: a modern church worthy of the Trinity, a nave with aisles fit for the great processional feasts, a chancel that does not smell perpetually of rotting oak, and a choir that might echo properly for once.'
'Then you may be in luck,' Kneithir added, resting his big hands on his belt. 'The masons finishing their work at Tintern are soon to be dismissed. The abbey is all but roofed. If you write to their master, he may take a contract in Llantrisant before his men wander off to Brechenneu or Monmouth in search of beer and mischief.'
Urban exchanged a glance with Iago, whose eyebrows had risen in cautious hope.
'Tintern's masons?' Iago said slowly. 'But they are as good as any in this realm, trained in the new Cistercian fashions. Their arches are clean as a psalm and their capitals neat as a moral tale. If we had but one of their foremen, he could set the whole plan in order.'
'And,' Kneithir added with a grin, 'I know a few of the lads from when I worked on the river there. They are pains in the arse, but honest ones.'
'That good word from you is recommendation enough, Kneithir my child' Urban replied.
They walked the perimeter together - Urban full of plans, Iago full of concerns about costs and parish resentment, Kneithir already sketching foundations in his mind. The sun climbed, throwing the long shadow of the ancient church eastward like a ghost of Wales past, and yet as they walked that shadow, Urban felt for once unburdened. Here, in stone and timber, in aisles and arches yet unbuilt, lay a task he could grasp. Whatever dreams King Morgan nursed, whatever coronations and mitres were whispered about in far-off courts, Llantrisant remained his charge, and it loved him back like a father.
At the chancel door, Iago stopped and laid a hand on Urban's arm. 'If we build this house anew,' he said softly, 'it will stand for generations. Long after we are dust. The Lord may yet choose to do great things here, but let them be His, not the ambitions of kings.'
Urban smiled. 'Amen to that. And let the church at Llantrisant be a house of prayer, not a theatre for the schemes of princes.'
Kneithir scratched his stubbly chin. 'Aye, well. If it keeps the roof off sweet Godwin's head while he plays angel in the choir, that will be miracle enough.'
They all laughed, and in the laughter the morning felt lighter. Urban looked once more at the cramped, leaning structure and saw—just faintly in his mind—the curve of new round-headed arches rising, a sturdy tower over the crossing hung with bronze bells, long windows admitting honest light. A church fitting for the Holy Trinity and for the people who trusted him.
'Very well,' he said. 'I shall write to the master at Tintern today and you will take the letter, Kneithir. If God wills it, we shall begin the new Llantrisant before Michaelmas.'
And in that moment, amid the quiet gravestones and the fresher air blowing from Wentwood ridge, Urban felt the first stirrings of a purpose not borrowed from any king's ambition, but rising from the valley itself—solid, rooted, and wholly his.
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