Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

XIV

The summer of 1140 was eventful and indeed sweltering in Gwent. King Morgan ab Owain exacted a price for his confirmation charter of privileges to the borough of Newbridge-on-Usk (or Pontnewydd-ar-Wysg) formerly known as Brechenneu Landing. Bishop Urban was required in return to consecrate the grand new basilica of Ss Julius and Aaron at Caerleon on the feast of the Ascension in May. 'Bishop Uthred says he's too busy,' Morgan Ddu confided, when he came with his father's message. 'Bollocks of course. You do more than half the work he used to have to do. You can ordain your boy Leofric priest on the same feast. If you do, Daddy will make him a canon of the new church. He's going to make you dean of the chapter anyway.'

In fact Urban decided on Rogation Sunday as the most appropriate day on which to confer the order of presbyter on Leofric Alfwineson and to do it in Llantrisant church, where Leofric MaelDyfrig was known and loved. It was done during the morning mass. The church of Llantrisant was packed with Brechenneu boys, mostly naked but all well-scrubbed at least. But they were not just there for Leofric but also for the Rogation procession that was to follow.

The parish was going to walk its bounds in the traditional manner and on the traditional day for it, with banners and spectacle. One party of boys processed as a dragon, with a frankly scary mask at the front, while another group adopted the costume of a roaring lion, which walked to guard the shrine of St Dyfrig who was to join his people on the walk. The younger parish boys and some enthusiastic volunteer Brechenneu river lads were to be thrashed on their bare behinds at each landmark along the way to fix it in their memories. Urban's three archer guards, who were avid patrons of the Brechenneu boy whores, had cheerfully volunteered to make the experience memorable for them. 'They'll be hard while we do it, my lord' sniggered Gruffudd Goch, the chief of his archers. 'I just hope the sluts don't publicly climax. They see it as a local advert for their services.'

Leofric was delighted that day because his brother Godwin turned up for the ordination, dressed in silk and fur like the young lord he now was, a beloved consort of a prince. He bore gifts of books suitable for a new priest: a psalter, a missal, a portifor and a breviary, in luxury editions rich in illuminations.

He also carried letters for Urban from King Morgan, one of which was particularly intriguing. It appeared that Archbishop Theobald, Henry, bishop of Winchester, the king's brother, and King Stephen's wife, Queen Mathilda, were to meet representatives of the Empress for a peace conference at the city of Bath in August. King Morgan had delegated his son Morgan to be his representative and asked Bishop Urban to join and advise his son at Bath in view of the great respect in which the bishop was held generally and his known friendship with the archbishop.

Urban was deeply impressed with the new basilica at Caerleon, built outside the precinct of the legionary fort on the supposed site where the two martyrs had been entombed on the road into the west. King Morgan had not skimped on expense, though the recycling of lots of Roman masonry had helped his budget, as also had the many skilled master-masons in the Marches in those days, meeting the eager demand for stone parish churches and abbeys and priories of the new orders of white and grey monks.

As he inspected the shining structure Urban had to admit that it looked very like a cathedral-in-waiting, not least because the Welsh king had organised its endowment as a secular prebendal chapter. Leofric had been inducted into the new chapter as canon and treasurer, while Urban was given the deanship. He was currently being much troubled by the authorities at the church of St Gwynllyw, who saw its status as mother church of Gwent being challenged by the upstart chapter. Urban sighed. King Morgan had made him the grant of the deanery, he realised, to defuse the likely tension with the older churches of his kingdom. St Gwynllyw's rector knew he was overmatched in any struggle for status by 'Dyfrig's bishop', as Urban was known by many.

Leofric was chatting with his new colleague, the canon precentor of the church, when Urban found them under the vault of the choir, between the ranked stalls. It was the filling of those stalls that was taxing the precentor. He bowed low to the bishop of Caerleon, 'My lord, King Morgan has been generous, and we have an endowment to appoint clerk-vicars to each canonry, and they'll be expected to lead the daily office as a body of adult male voices, but we desperately need a trained boys' choir, such as St Gwynllyw and Llantrisant have, to suitably support it, that and the Lady Mass on Saturdays.'

'Then open a school, my dear precentor,' said Urban. 'Offer scholarships to talented boys. Take it to the chapter. Everything good will follow on from that. You have my full support.'

The precentor headed off looking thoughtful. Leofric grinned. 'That was easy. I've just given the canon-sacristan our dedication present to this church, a tooth of St Dyfrig which our sacristan young Grono has – very respectfully – levered out of his skull. It'll go into the high altar with the rest of the relics when you consecrate it. Deacon Dewi has just arrived with it and our choir. So we're all set for Thursday. King Morgan should be pleased. I've got a canopied throne to be set up in the choir, and you, Bishop Urban, will carry out a ceremonial crown-wearing for His Grace after the dedication.'

Urban raised an eyebrow. 'A crown-wearing?'

'Yes,' said Leofric cheerfully. 'Morgan Ddu says the king has not worn his crown publicly in Gwent since Easter last year, and the new basilica seems a suitable place to remind everyone that he may do so whenever he pleases.'

Urban smiled faintly. 'Indeed. Kings have always enjoyed reminding their subjects of such things.'

Ascension Day dawned bright and already warm. The great doors of the basilica stood open and the crowds from Caerleon and the neighbouring villages filled the forecourt and the road beyond. Inside, the new walls glowed pale gold in the morning light. Roman columns, salvaged from the old fortress, had been reset along the nave, their worn capitals supporting the fresh-cut arches of the vault. The altar stood naked and waiting, like a bride.

Urban vested in the sacristy with Leofric and the other clerks of the chapter. The Llantrisant choristers, freshly washed and combed, were already assembled under the direction of the canon-precentor, their treble voices nervously running over the opening responses.

'They sound well,' Urban said.

'They will sound better once they realise that half of Gwent is listening,' said the precentor anxiously. Outside the trumpets sounded. King Morgan had arrived.

The king entered with little ceremony but with considerable presence. Morgan ab Owain was a large man, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, his black beard already streaked with grey. He wore a cloak of deep red wool over a tunic of dark silk, and at his side hung the long sword that had won him most of his kingdom.

Behind him came his son Morgan Ddu, grinning as always, and a cluster of nobles and captains. The king surveyed the basilica with satisfaction.

'Well done, bishop,' he said to Urban. 'It looks almost Roman.'

'Your masons deserve the praise, sire,' Urban replied.

Morgan nodded toward the throne set beneath the arch of the choir. 'We shall use that later.'

Urban inclined his head. 'As Your Grace wishes.'

The ceremony began. Urban traced the twelve crosses upon the walls with chrism, moving slowly around the building while the litany rolled through the nave. The relics were brought forward: bones of the martyrs Julius and Aaron, fragments of other saints gathered from half the churches of Wales, and finally the small ivory casket containing the tooth of St Dyfrig.

Leofric placed it reverently in Urban's hands.

'Our old master, still serving the Church,' he murmured.

Urban smiled and set the relic within the cavity of the altar stone before sealing it with mortar.

The Mass followed, solemn and splendid. The boys' choir sang well above expectation, their voices filling the vault so sweetly that even the king looked moved and impressed.

At its conclusion the throne was brought forward. Morgan mounted the steps and sat heavily, resting his hands on the carved arms of the chair. A plain gold talaith or circlet—the royal crown of Glamorgan—was carried in on a cushion by his fully-armed penteulu, his younger brother, Iorwerth.

Urban took it. He stood before the king and lifted the crown. At that precise moment the great west doors of the basilica slammed open. The choir faltered.

A procession of clergy strode down the nave, their vestments dusty from travel but their expressions fierce. At their head walked Bishop Uthred in mitre and cope, pastoral staff in hand. Beside him marched the rector of St Gwynllyw and several priests of that church.

Uthred's staff struck the pavement sharply as he halted before the choir steps. 'Hold!' he cried. The word rang through the basilica like a stone thrown into still water.

Urban slowly lowered the crown. Morgan did not rise from the throne. 'What is this?' the king asked.

Uthred drew himself up. 'I forbid this unlawful rite.'

A murmur ran through the congregation.

'This church,' Uthred continued loudly, 'has been dedicated without proper episcopal authority, and this so-called coronation is a profanation of sacred order. No king in Glamorgan may be crowned without the blessing of the lawful bishop of the see.'

Morgan's eyes narrowed. 'And who,' he asked quietly, 'would that be?'

'Myself,' said Uthred.

The rector of St Gwynllyw stepped forward eagerly. 'The ancient rights of our church …'

Morgan lifted a hand. The rector fell silent. For several seconds the king regarded Uthred in silence. Then he spoke. 'You were invited.'

'I was occupied with more lawful duties.'

Morgan's voice hardened. 'You were invited.'

Uthred raised his pastoral staff as if it were a club he intended to bring down on someone's head. 'I declare this ceremony void, and if it proceeds I shall place this church and all present under interdict.' Uthred's voice rose further. 'And if the king persists in this sacrilege, I shall not hesitate to pronounce the greater sentence.'

'You threaten to excommunicate me?' Morgan asked.

'I threaten nothing,' said Uthred. 'I defend the law of God.'

The king stood. He did not raise his voice.

'Iorwerth.' Iorwerth ab Owain stepped forward with two of the royal guards. 'Remove this man.'

Uthred stared. 'I am a bishop of the Church of God!'

'And frankly a tedious one,' Morgan replied, 'ripe for retirement in this new world we find ourselves in.'

The guards seized Uthred by the arms. Uthred struggled furiously.

'I place you under anathema!' he shouted. 'You and all who assist this …'

Morgan turned to Iorwerth. 'Gag him if he continues.'

The guards dragged the protesting bishop down the nave. The clergy of St Gwynllyw melted rapidly into the crowd. The doors slammed to again. Silence filled the basilica as

Morgan resumed his seat with full regal composure.

'Now then,' he said calmly to Urban, 'where were we?'

Urban looked at the crown in his hands, then at the king. 'At the point, sire, where Your Grace was about to be reminded of his dignity and its obligations.'

Morgan smiled faintly. 'Then let us proceed.'

Urban lifted the crown and placed it upon the king's head.

The precentor, recovering his nerve, flung up his hand. The choir burst into the Te Deum, their voices ringing triumphantly through the new basilica of Caerleon.

And the king of Glamorgan sat crowned beneath the vault while the people shouted his name and wished him long life.

Urban sat on the carved and upholstered episcopal cathedra before the altar of Ss Julius and Aaron with which King Morgan had thoughtfully provided his basilica. 'You sort this out, Urban,' the king had said, before heading off to his palace for an Ascension Day feast.

Leofric stood at his shoulder. 'Well, love? How do we deal with a mad bishop?'

'The damned fool made his move, and mistimed it badly,' Urban said sadly. 'So we are where we are, and it is in a place King Morgan intended us to be in one day, I'm all too sure.'

There was a clash of mailed feet coming up from the nave. It was Gruffudd Goch, Urban's archer captain. 'Your Grace?' he ventured, after genuflecting to the enthroned prelate who was his employer.

'I have a tricky job for you, Gruffudd,' Urban said. 'I have a state prisoner in my charge whom I must deal with. Unfortunately he is the bishop of Llandaff, so this will be … difficult. I want you and your men to escort the gentleman to Gloucester abbey, where my brother Nicholas will receive him and confine him to the cloister by my authority, which is set out in the sealed writ that Dom Leofric here has prepared. Now, if the bishop attempts to threaten you with excommunication and anathema on the journey, you may gag him. He is charged with the high crime of lèse majesté toward our lord King Morgan and has been deprived of his office by the king. His body however is given to the Church to deal with. We await what Archbishop Theobald may ultimately decide as to the case, which I believe will be heard at the Council of Bath in August. Once you have delivered him to Gloucester, I believe Earl Miles has been asked by King Morgan to keep Bishop Uthred secure. So you may return to us at Llantrisant after your mission. Understood?'

Such was the state of affairs that when Bishop Urban assembled his entourage for the trip to the Council of Bath he travelled with a far larger number than ever before. Gruffudd Goch now commanded a company of a dozen soldiers, mounted archers and horse serjeants, who rode under the banner of crossed crozier and cross-staff. Archdeacon Iago and Leofric headed a clerical staff including Deacon Dewi, who now rejoiced in the title of bishop's chancellor.

To get to Bath involved a crossing of the Severn Sea, so Urban had instructed Kneithir to contract with the captain of a large cog equipped to carry all their baggage, horses and men, sailing from Newport to Bristol, rather than make the crossing from Beachley to Aust in small ferries at the mercy of the tides and currents of the great estuary.

The crossing was scheduled to be made on Lammastide, and they were on time on the quays at Newport, which was as well as the labour of winching their mounts to be stabled and secured in the big-bellied hold was hard and lengthy. But at midday as the tide was turning the vessel Sebastian of Chepstow cast off and entrusted itself to the ebb tide of the broad brown Usk.

Urban and Leofric watched the river bank creep by. The shipmaster paused in his restless walking up and down the waist of the Sebastian to make his salute and to brief the pair. 'My lord, it's fair weather and the tide is taking us out into the sea at a fair crack. We'll round the sandbanks before the tide uncovers them, then there's enough of a westerly breeze to fill the mainsail and take us up along the Somerset coast to make Avonmouth by late afternoon, and then it may be hard work on the sweeps to take us upriver into the harbour of Bristol before evening closes in. But you'll make Bristol Castle for dinner I do not doubt.'

The ship moved out and away from the coast, and gradually the banks of the Usk fell away, and the Sebastian moved out into the brown and choppy waters of the Severn Sea. A spritsail was set to give the ship steerage way and the ship began an uncomfortable new movement, a rise and fall that made Urban's bowels uneasy. Although a seasoned mariner, Leofric also seemed uneasy, saying 'I mostly sailed on rivers, love.' As they approached the coast of Somerset the mainsail was loosed to catch the westerly breeze and the ship made headway towards Portishead. The ship's plunging grew more troubling and soon Urban and Leofric's stomachs were emptying Megan's breakfast into the brown waves below. Urban turned his bleary eyes to his lover and asked him to murder him if he ever suggested a sea voyage again.

As the Sebastian turned into the estuary of the Avon and the crew ran out sweeps and furled the sails, the troubling motion abated. The tide was not yet at full ebb, so there was enough water for the Sebastian to make steady progress under oars through a rather spectacular gorge helped by the efforts of two well-crewed rowboats or hobblers who had taken the ship in tow at the little port of Pill at the Avon's mouth. As Bristol approached Dewi accosted his bishop with a grin. 'Funny how the Saxons call this river the 'Avon', my lord, since in our language a river is afon.'

Urban chuckled. 'Yes Dewi bach, I can imagine a party of Saxon warriors marching up to a bunch of Britons, pointing down at this river and asking "What river do you call that?" and our guys shrugging and saying "Afon ydy hi, chi ffyliaid Sacsonaidd! It's a river, you Saxon morons." And then the Saxons nod wisely to each other saying "He says it's the River Avon, catch that?"'

They passed the building site that showed the makings of a white abbey church as the river took a turn towards the quays lining the right bank below a grand built-over bridge. The shipmaster bustled up. 'Here we are my lord, and nones has not yet rung from the town bells. We'll find a berth, tie up and get the horses swung up from the hold. The castle's just a short walk upriver past the bridge.'

Urban thanked the man for his efficiency and for a trouble-free crossing, while swearing in his head that the return journey would be by road via Gloucester.

The banner flying from Bristol Castle's great square keep was that of Earl Robert. So the Empress had stayed in Gloucester. The earl's son, Philip, had been placed at the main gate to greet the delegates to the Council. He went to his knee to kiss Urban's hand respectfully and receive his blessing. He looked up with a grin. 'We're off in a long convoy tomorrow to Bath, my lord. It's a comfortable day's journey via Keynsham, where we'll stop for lunch. Ah! There's my good friend, Father Leofric! Congratulations on your promotion Master Chancellor of Caerleon. Your brother Godwin's already arrived with his lord, Prince Morgan. I should call him Sir Godwin, since he's an English lad, not a Welsh boy. He's been knighted by King Morgan and cuts an even more splendid figure than he did as a squire.'

Philip's grin widened as Leofric clasped his forearm in greeting.

'Sir Godwin!' Leofric laughed. 'I must remember the title, or he will challenge me for slighting his honour.'

'Oh, he would not dare,' Philip replied merrily. 'Not his Reverence the Canon-Treasurer of Ss Julius and Aaron.'

Urban allowed the young men their moment of familiarity before speaking. 'And Prince Morgan?' the bishop asked.

'Already lodged within the castle,' Philip replied. 'He came down the road from Gloucester two days past with a strong Welsh company and has been making himself agreeable to my father. There are many here already: abbots, bishops, lords both temporal and spiritual. Tomorrow's road to Bath will look more like a small army than a pilgrimage for peace'

Urban nodded gravely. 'Perhaps that is fitting, given the temper of the times.'

Philip ushered them through the gatehouse into the busy courtyard of Bristol Castle, where grooms hurried to take the horses and servants carried chests and baggage towards the guest lodgings prepared for the episcopal party. From the kitchens drifted the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread, and the clang of the smithy echoed against the stone walls.

'You will dine with my father tonight,' Philip said. 'Nothing too solemn, I promise. He knows you have had the Severn Sea to contend with.'

Urban winced faintly at the memory. 'A misjudgement I do not intend to repeat.'

Leofric murmured quietly at his side, 'We might yet have to, love.'

Urban gave him a dark look. 'Then I shall make my peace with God first.'

The next morning dawned cool and bright, with a pale mist lying over the Avon valley. Bristol Castle was already awake when the bell rang for prime. By the time Urban emerged from the chapel the great outer ward was alive with activity.

Horses stamped and snorted in the chill air while squires tightened girths and checked harness. Gonfanoniers raised standards that caught the early sun—the lion of Earl Robert, and the crozier and cross-staff of Caerleon. Wagons creaked under the weight of chests, clerical baggage, and the necessities of a travelling council.

Gruffudd Goch had his little company drawn up neatly beside the gate, mounted archers and horse serjeants in orderly ranks. Their captain saluted as Urban approached.

'All ready, my lord.'

Urban nodded approvingly. 'You have them well in hand, Gruffudd.'

'More so on land than at sea,' the soldier replied with a wry smile.

Prince Morgan rode up shortly afterwards, splendid in a cloak of deep green fastened with a silver brooch, his retinue forming behind him. At his side rode Sir Godwin Alfwineson, who indeed looked every inch the knight now, his mail newly burnished and a small shield bearing Morgan's livery colours and badge slung from his saddle.

Leofric greeted his little brother warmly. 'Sir Godwin. The world grows strange.'

Godwin laughed. 'If your bishop calls me "sir", Father, I shall believe it myself.'

Philip joined them, mounted and energetic. 'My father bids you a good road, my lord bishop. The convoy will move out in order. We follow the Avon valley to Keynsham for our midday rest, and Bath by late afternoon if the roads are kind.'

Urban looked over the gathering procession. It was indeed an impressive train—lords, clergy, soldiers, servants, wagons and packhorses stretching almost to the bridge. 'Let us hope,' he said quietly to Leofric, 'that the council proves as orderly as the journey.'

Leofric smiled. 'When has a council of the Church ever been orderly, since Rome put the corpse of Pope Formosus on trial?'

The gates of Bristol Castle opened, and the long procession began to move. They crossed the bridge over the Avon first, hooves ringing on the timber planks, and then wound eastward along the river road. The morning mist slowly lifted, revealing green meadows and orchards heavy with ripening summer fruit. Villagers paused in their work to stare as the cavalcade passed: knights in armour, Welsh princes with bright cloaks, black-robed clerics riding solemnly behind their bishop.

Urban found the rhythm of the road soothing after the misery of the sea. The air smelled of damp grass and wood smoke, and the sun warmed his face as the convoy made steady progress along the valley.

By midmorning they reached the broad meadows near Keynsham. The convoy halted there for a luncheon, the travellers spreading across the green while servants unpacked bread, cheese, cold meats and ale.

Urban sat beneath an ash tree with Leofric and Prince Morgan while the horses grazed nearby.

'Half the journey done already,' Morgan said cheerfully.

Urban looked eastward where the hills rose gently toward Bath. 'Then by evening,' he said thoughtfully, 'we shall stand in that ancient city where Romans bathed and Saxon kings were crowned.'

Leofric raised his cup. 'And where bishops will argue the cause of peace.'

Morgan laughed. 'That too.'

When the sun had begun its slow descent the convoy formed again and rode on, following the winding Avon toward the old Roman city where the council – and whatever storms it might bring – awaited them.

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Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

XIV