Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

XII

Urban and Leofric were strolling hand in hand along the golden leaf-littered paths of the Wentwood. It was a warm day for autumn and their clothes had been happily discarded some time before, further down the ridge. 'How about here?' Leofric asked, gesturing to a fallen tree trunk covered in moss, like green fur.

Urban laughed. 'You're remembering the fun of lying with every cute Welsh boy on the river, Leofric. Your golden age.'

Leofric shot him a sultry look. 'Not every cute Welsh boy, darling. There's a whole new generation of them now, lining up naked on the quays at Brechenneu. Some of them are quite as cute as my little brother Godwin, which is saying a lot. You should think of holding the next archdeaconry synod in Llantrisant; the boys on the river could do with the money. And yes, I do spend a lot of time chatting to the whores. It's me being pastoral.' He laughed and spread his arms. 'Isn't it just great to be naked under the sky and sun, without clothes and responsibilities, just as I was when we first met at Castle Goodrich over three years ago now.'

Urban grinned and said, 'That voyage to Monmouth, with your smooth round ass jiggling uncontained round your dad's boat was the most exciting thing in my life up till that date.' He embraced and kissed his partner. You're a lot less smelly now, of course, but just as beautiful to me. And you were only three pence for a fuck. You undersold yourself.'

Leofric led his lover over to the fallen tree trunk he had selected and lay across it, his small bottom raised in the perfect position for penetration. He gasped as Urban ran his erection into him with practised ease. The free air around him and the sun on his back ignited a sexual abandon in Urban that translated into a ferocious battering of his boy's backside, the slap-slap of skin on skin echoing through the trees, and eventually he emitted a groan of orgasm so deep it might have come from an underground woodland spirit.

As the two young men lay draped over the tree trunk in their mutual afterglow, they were brought back to reality by the sound of the whistling of a man approaching on the forest track up the hill.

'Bugger it,' swore Urban.

Leofric just laughed, perfectly unflustered. 'You just did, love.'

The whistling cut off mid-phrase. Urban and Leofric both stiffened, still perched on the mossy trunk, their recent activities all too obvious. A boot scraped on gravel, then the hesitant crunch of someone shifting weight.

A figure stood just beyond the next bend in the forest path. He had frozen where he was, his cloak caught in one hand, letters clutched in the other. The years had pared down Kneithir, the river boy gang-leader; the softness Leofric remembered from their time on the River Wye was gone, replaced by long days in the saddle as a trusted courier and nights in cold monastery dormitories. Dust streaked his cheeks. His dark hair was wind-tangled. But his eyes — those deep, uncertain eyes — were unchanged, grey and appraising.

Kneithir made a small, involuntary sound, almost a choke, and turned his face aside as if to give them privacy. Yet he could not help one second glance. The sort of glance that revealed too much: surprise, hurt, longing, resignation, all in the flicker of a weighted glance.

'Kneitho, my mate!' Leofric called lazily, propping himself up on his elbows as if he'd merely been sunbathing. 'Of all the logs in all the Wentwood, you had to walk past ours. Come on then — no need to faint. You're a grown up. We were only passing the morning.'

Urban shot his boy a look of disbelief: only passing the morning? But Leofric just grinned, utterly unbothered.

Kneithir swallowed, bowed his head, then made the long walk up to them like a man approaching a shrine he had not expected to revisit. 'Leofric. Urban.' His voice was controlled, formal — too formal. 'I beg your pardon. I should have… announced myself sooner.'

Urban rose, wiping leaf-dust from his thighs, and placed himself subtly between Leofric and whatever this interruption might bring. Not possessive — protective. Kneithir noticed, and something in his expression tightened, then eased, as if he had accepted the new order of things.

'I've ridden from Gloucester since dawn,' he continued, glancing at the sealed packets in his hand. 'Lord Miles sent me in haste. He is at Bristol now, hosted by Earl Robert. The Empress has summoned her sworn allies in the South West, and the Angevin party gathers under her banner.'

A breeze drifted down the woodland ridge, carrying with it the first true chill of the turning season. The golden spells of sunshine no longer seemed quite so warm. Leofric sat up fully, brushing moss debris from his sweaty chest, all laughter gone from his face. 'Bristol? Already? We though it was just rumours.'

Kneithir nodded. 'The Empress has had some adventures, but she has evaded capture, and she means to hold the Severn valley. And Miles …' His voice hitched very slightly, pride and fear threading together. '… Miles is Earl of Hereford now, girded by the Empress at Bristol with the sword of his earldom. A great honour, and a great danger.'

Urban exhaled slowly. 'If he's calling for us, it's no small matter.'

Kneithir stepped closer, finally meeting Leofric's eye — really meeting it — and the tension of years flickered between them like a taut string. 'These letters are for you, Lord Urban,' he said quietly. 'And the Empress has her commands.'

Urban reached for the packet. Their woodland idyll was over. History had climbed the forest path and found them.

Kneithir lowered his head once more, not in deference — but in something like farewell.

'Do please forgive the interruption,' he murmured.

Leofric's voice softened. 'Kneitho … you never have to ask pardon of me, we've shared too much.' And just like that, the three strands of their past and future lay knotted together in one sun-dappled clearing, friends and yet more than friends.

Urban sorted through the small pile of parchment that was the contents of Kneithir's saddlebag. He held up the bulkiest of them. 'This is not addressed to any individual, but it is a general summons meant to be read out to assemblies both lay and ecclesiastical, and to be given to certain worthies to read, amongst whose names I see "Urban son of Bishop Urban, archdeacon of Gwent and bishop-elect of Caerleon".'

Leofric raised his eyebrows. 'They're really serious about this episcopal shit, love. Want a nice big mitre for Christmas?'

Urban growled back. 'So who are the clergy and people of the diocese of Caerleon who elected me? Where're the cathedral and chapter of this imaginary see of Caerleon? This is King Morgan's political fantasy, into which the Lady Empress has bought, for her own purposes I think. Anyway this imaginary bishop, who carries my name, is instructed to be at Gloucester on Sunday 15 October in this year of 1139 to join the council of Mathilda, the Empress, daughter of King Henry, Lady of the English, to discuss her righful cause against King Stephen.' He pondered the other names on the summons. 'She's asking the southern Welsh lords to attend her court. Something her father never did.'

'That gives us a week to prepare,' mused Leofric. 'You should send a messsage to Lord Morgan Ddu. We'd do well to have his escort to get there. It's safer these days to travel in the March than in the English shires.'

Urban nodded. These were wise concerns. Civil war had now broken out in England, and Earl Robert of Gloucester had already sent his armies marching against King Stephen's garrisons in the west, and the king had retaliated. England had been renowned as a land of civil peace and law in the reign of the late king, to the marvel of Europe, but now that aura was collapsing into dynastic warfare.

Morgan Ddu, lord of Llefnydd, was waiting for Urban's travelling party on Chepstow bridge, as promised. 'Sh'mae arglwydd,' the prince said equably, and added. 'It really is about time you recruited some household guards. Bishop Uthred travels with a half dozen Welsh archers in his retinue. Better spend it on them than have to fork out ransom payments to any would-be robber baron whose castle you have to pass.'

Urban chuckled. 'And there speaks a robber baron, so I should listen.'

Morgan looked (or at least acted) offended momentarily, then laughed and added. 'In my father's kingdom of Glamorgan the roads are so ordered that a young widow might travel in peace and unmolested across its entire length carrying a box of gold.'

Leofric and Godwin were happily embracing, kissing and chattering in the meantime, Leofric marvelling at the handsome and expensive military gear his brother was encased in. Approaching adulthood, Godwin was as beautiful as ever but now broader across the shoulders and bestriding his magnificent black destrier with all the confidence and social assurance of a trained household knight.

They left Chepstow by the bridge and took the Roman road that climbed steadily out of the Wye valley, a broad, straight track laid down by legions and still the swiftest way towards the city the British and Romans called Glevum, but which the Saxons had renamed Glevumcaestre. Once they had gained the high ground, the land opened before them in long folds and ridges running above the Severn's right bank. The river itself glimmered in and out of view through the autumn haze: a broad, shifting mirror of pale brown beneath the October sun.

'This is a road the Romans made for speed,' Morgan remarked, as their horses settled into a steady rhythm. 'You can march an army along it from Isca to Glevum in two days if the weather serves.'

Urban felt the reassurance of it beneath them — dry, level, and maintained well enough by usage that their packhorses seemed grateful for its kindness to their hooves. To the north and west the Forest of Dean rose like a dark, rumpled mantle, its fringe of oakwoods brushing up close to the ridge. To the south the land fell away gradually to the Severn flats, dotted with hamlets and clothed with harvested fields.

Morgan drew nearer to Urban as they rode. 'You asked earlier about Earl Robert's temper. Up here you can see why Gloucestershire is in a fever. Every track running down to the river is choked with carts and herds being brought within Earl Miles's protection. The folk below know the storm is coming.'

Urban shaded his eyes. Far down towards the river, he could indeed make out knots of movement: cattle driven fast, wains piled with grain, men on foot bearing crossbows or staves. 'This is more than any usual autumn gathering,' he murmured.

'Aye,' Morgan said. 'Earl Robert means to make an example of Worcester. And the Valley of the Severn above his castle of Tewkesbury will feel the weight of his passing.'

They pressed on along the ridge, enjoying long stretches where the Roman builders had raised the road above the surrounding land. At times the path offered sweeping views of the Severn curving northwards in great shining bends; at others it dipped between ancient banks, the old stonework half-lost beneath moss, yew roots, and the bristling stems of hazel. Past Blakeney Hill the road bent eastward, and the air grew busier with travellers. They began to meet bands of retainers riding for Gloucester, merchants bringing news from Tewkesbury, and a cleric or two making anxious speed south.

One such man, a canon of Hereford by his account, hailed them on the road. 'My lords, Gloucester is full to bursting,' he said. 'The Empress holds court there. Earl Robert's men and his mercenaries drill daily on the meadows below the castle. They say he plans to march before the month is out.'

Morgan offered him a courteous nod and sent him on his way. When the canon was out of earshot he murmured, with that dry, amused gravity of his, 'You see, arglwydd? Even the clerks are winded from keeping pace with Earl Robert's vengeance.'

Urban felt something tighten inside him — not quite fear, not quite anticipation, but the sober knowledge that he was riding towards the centre of a gathering tempest. The Roman road sloped gently downward now, and ahead the land flattened into the broad river-meadow where abbey and castle rose like a pale, stone outcrop above the Severn's bend.

The towers of Gloucester came into view first: stark, square, and uncompromising against the washed-out sky. Smoke drifted from the settlement below in several long plumes, and the rumble of activity — forges, carts, shouted orders — carried faintly even up the road.

Morgan reined in at a small crest, letting Urban take in the sight. 'There she is. Gloucester. And beyond those walls waits the Lady Empress. She has sharp eyes and a sharper memory. Best be ready to give her neither too much nor too little of yourself.'

Urban drew a long breath, steadying himself. 'Very well. Let us go down into it.'

'With pleasure,' Morgan said, smiling faintly. 'It's been too quiet on the road. Time to see what history looks like up close.'

As they rattled across the stone causeway which rose above the wetlands and the River Severn west of the town, and joined the queue at the West Gate, Urban's party exchanged lodging information. The town was packed. The Empress had lodged at the royal foundation of St Oswald's priory. Urban's brother Nicholas, subprior of Gloucester abbey, had used his position to reserve Urban and his party places in the abbey guest house; Morgan and his men were to be offered beds in the castle precinct by Earl Miles. They made a friendly parting at the castle gate, and Urban led his party north through the crowded streets to the white bulk of the abbey, looming up over the timber houses and tiled roofs of the town.

The tall black-cloaked figure of his brother was awaiting Urban at the abbey gateway, and he was warmly hugged and welcomed. Nicholas marshalled Leofric and Urban's servants and sent them off to the guesthouse with a Welsh-speaking novice. 'But you are to come with me, brother,' he said portentously.

'What's up, Nicholas?' Urban asked.

'Just follow me. You're required at St Oswald's, my dear.'

They wound their way south east through the narrow streets to another monastic precinct and gatehouse, this one guarded by soldiers in the blue and gold-lion livery of the counts of Anjou, though above it flapped a great red banner with two gold lions passant guardant, the personal banner of King Henry of England, now being used by his daughter, the Lady of England.

'Yes,' smirked Nicholas, 'she wants to meet you in advance of tomorrow's council.'

'Me? Why me?' Urban said, nervously.

'Your friends at court have been busy, dear brother. That's almost all I know, but I can tell you one thing at least. So follow me.'

Nicholas and Urban traversed the outer court and entered the priory church through its great west door. Within was a very odd church. The nave had been recently rebuilt, but Urban recognised lots of reused Roman brick and stone. Beyond the choir arch was a space which he gasped to recognise from its pillars and capitals as a surviving Roman presbyterium, with behind the high altar an elaborately carved sarcophagus raised shrine-like above the altar. Eight tall candles burned around it.

Nicholas grinned at the look on his brother's face. 'That's the tomb of Aethelflaed, daughter of King Alfred, Lady of the Mercians, raised here above the priory's relics of St Oswald. But what's got you intrigued, brother, is this choir, isn't it?'

'I should say. This is a large part of a standing Roman basilica.'

'Indeed it is. This church of St Oswald was in the days of our British ancestors the seat of a bishop, perhaps one of those British bishops who attended the great councils of the Church under the Emperor Constantine. And it survived the Saxon invasions and remained a bishop's church, but when the Christian Saxon tribe called the Hwicce founded a kingdom in the Severn valley they shifted the bishop to a new church in their tribal capital, which is nowadays called Worcester.'

'Facinating, brother.'

Nicholas laughed. 'So this is an episcopal church in a royal city, Urban. And it has in it the tomb of a legendary female warrior and ruler, who was not called a queen, but was the daughter of a great king of England. Are you catching the resonances here?'

Urban shrugged. 'The Empress is up to something weird, and it concerns me.'

'Yes, my lord bishop-elect. I suggest that you take a seat in the canons' choir and compose your mind and soul for your impending consecration.'

'That's impossible, Nicholas. It would take an archbishop and there is none here.'

'Well, not quite true, brother. In default of an archbishop, a bishop can be consecrated with the laying on of hands of three bishops acting in concert, and with the Empress here at Gloucester are her loyal bishops of St Deiniol's, the bishop of Bangor and the bishop of St David's, the last of whom regards himself in any case as Archbishop of Wales.'

'It's going to happen isn't it, brother?'

'Yes, my lord bishop, it is. My congratulations.'

A canon of St Oswald's who had been conscripted as chamberlain to the Empress's household met them inside the basilica, a thin and nervous man whose eyes kept darting towards the choir as if afraid someone there might overhear their footfalls. He bowed awkwardly.

'My lords… this way, if you please. Her Majesty awaits.'

Nicholas gave Urban an encouraging squeeze at the elbow and then stepped back, leaving his brother to follow alone. Urban crossed the choir beneath the Roman capitals and the deep, shadowed flutings of their marble pillars to enter the south aisle.

Out briefly into the free air of the east walk of the cloister and the brothers were led thence under a great round-headed arch into the chapter-house, an arch guarded by two knights in blue and gold. Inside lamps burned fiercely around the stone-vaulted room bright enough to dazzle. Figures moved in the glow.

The Empress sat on a high throne erected at the east end of the room, within the apse in front of the prior's stall, and sat there high above the rest draped in her mantle dyed in the imperial manner, falling straight from a jewelled clasp at her throat. She did not turn when Urban approached. She simply flicked her fingers once, sharply, and the canon stopped him at a respectful distance.

Before her knelt a boy — no more than eighteen — pale as chalk, eyes huge in the candlelight. He was trembling so hard Urban could hear the soft shiver of the youth's sleeves. Surrounding them were three bishops, each in rich but travel-stained robes: St Deiniol's to the left, Bangor to the right, and at the Empress's right hand the stocky, heavy-shouldered presence of Bernard of St David's, the Empress's former tutor and her mother's sometime chaplain.

'Get up, young Master Thomas of London,' the Empress said to the boy, her voice clipped, impatient. 'You are no use to me on your knees. Stand and answer plainly on behalf of your master, Archbishop Theobald.'

The boy, a very handsome boy, as Urban noted, wavered upright. Urban saw the tears standing in his eyes.

'What say you now?' she demanded. 'Archbishop Theobald has the temerity to tell me that I may not nominate a clerk, a perfectly respectable and learned clerk to the office of bishop, though he himself shamelessly wears the mitre of an English province that I did not nominate him to?'

The boy stammered something inaudible — and the Empress gave a soft, contemptuous huff. 'Too green an advocate. And they wonder why I have no patience. Boy, you will come to no good end.' Then, at last, she turned her head — and Urban felt the full force of her gaze sweep over him like a blade testing the edge of skin.

'Ah! This is the Welsh fellow.'

Bishop Bernard stepped forward with a grunt of satisfaction. 'Aye, Majesty. This is Urban, archdeacon of Gwent, recommended by —'

'—my brother of Gloucester,' she finished, waving Bernard into silence. 'I know who he is. Approach, boy.'

Urban went to obey, but he was momentarily halted by a hand on his arm. The canon-chamberlain whispered urgently in his ear. 'You appoach the Imperial Presence on your knees, and kiss her sandal.'

His heartbeat thrummed painfully in his ears as he went to his knees and crawled across the mosaic pavement before the throne. He craned his head forward and touched his lips to the Empress's red felt, gold-embroidered slippers.

'Rise,' came the peremptory voice from above.

He rose, but kept his head bowed in respect to a lady who was the Empress of Rome, who wore that day the crown of the Empire, and who had till recently ruled Italy as her late husband's Viceroy.

The Empress pondered Urban for some moments, inspecting him with the frank, unblinking assurance of a connoisseur appraising a horse or a hawk. 'They tell me, young man, you are clever, moderate, acceptable to the clergy, and loyal to the rightful Crown of England.' A pause. 'I trust this is so?'

Urban swallowed. 'I am loyal to my oath, my lady.'

'And that oath binds you to me,' she replied sharply, 'as your lawful sovereign, appointed by God and by birth.' She took another step closer. Urban smelled the faint bitter tang of the expensive resin burnt in her private chapel. 'So you will not refuse what I am about to command.'

Then she lifted her chin.

'You will be consecrated bishop at the morning mass in this church tomorrow.'

There was an audible intake of breath from someone — perhaps the bishop of St Deiniol's, perhaps the canon. Urban felt his knees threaten to loosen but forced them still.

'Your Majesty,' he said quietly, 'there are… formalities…'

'Formalities,' she snapped, 'are fetters forged by men too timid to seize the moment God sets before them.'

The youthful clerk, Thomas of London, who had preceded Urban before the Empress cleared his throat, very softly. 'Majesty — it is only that — the see of Caerleon—'

'Is no concern of yours, or your master's,' the Empress said without looking at him. 'Nor need he be seated at Caerleon as bishop.' Her eyes slid to Bernard. 'Show it.'

Bernard of St David's stepped forward with something like relish. From his sleeve he produced a sealed parchment, already broken open, and smoothed it between his hands.

'Letter from Bishop Uthred of Llandaff,' he said, his accent rough as gravel. 'Requesting that Urban of Worcester be consecrated as suffragan bishop with the title of Caerleon, to aid him in the restoration of the ancient see.'

Urban stared. 'Suffragan… Caerleon? But—'

'But nothing, boy,' growled Bernard. 'The Church in Wales reclaims its dignity. And if your friends in Canterbury quibble over irregularities — let them. They denied me my pallium for twenty years because of such niggling. I will not hear it again.'

Bangor nodded solemnly. St Deiniol's gave a faint shrug, as though all this were tiresome but inevitable.

The Empress lifted the parchment from Bernard's grip and held it up between two fingers.

'There is the authority you feared I lacked, young Thomas,' she said. 'Three bishops stand ready. The moment is ripe. My kingdom requires strong men, and Wales requires a strong March. You will accept consecration, Urban of Worcester — or be marked publicly as one who refuses his sovereign's charge and bear the consequences.'

Urban closed his eyes briefly, breathing once — the chill stone under his feet, the chapter house vault seeming to press down on him like a sky massing for a thunder storm.

When he opened them again, the Empress's stare was waiting, hard and hungry for obedience.

'Majesty,' he said at last, steadying himself, 'I am yours to command.'

Her expression did not soften, but some tension in her stance eased, as though a knot had loosened. 'Good,' she said simply. 'Prepare him.'

Bishop Bernard stepped forward, satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth.

And Urban felt, with a strange, hollow clarity, that the bow of Fate had not merely been drawn back — its arrow had already been loosed.

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Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

XII