It seemed to Brother Cadfael, watching with unashamed interest from his dark corner, that both of them were very well aware of the stormcloud bearing down on them, and neither was disposed to do anything to evade or placate it. Indeed, he perceived that Heledd softened by a hair the stiffness of her stance, and allowed her head to tilt towards the descending light and glitter into a bright and brittle smile, meant rather for her father’s discomfort than for Bledri’s gratification. Let him sweat for his place and his desired advancement! She had said that she could destroy him if she so willed, it was something she would never do, but if he was so crass, and knew so little of her, as to believe her capable of bringing about his ruin, he deserved to pay for his stupidity.
The instant of intense stillness exploded into a flurry of movement, as Canon Meirion recovered his breath and came seething down the steps in a turmoil of clerical black, like a sudden thundercloud, took his daughter by the arm, and wrenched her firmly away from Bledri’s grasp. As firmly and competently she withdrew herself from this new compulsion, and brushed the very touch of his hand from her sleeve. The dagger glances that must have strained through the dimness between sire and daughter were blunted by the night. And Bledri suffered his deprivation gracefully, without stirring a step, and very softly laughed.
“Oh, pardon if I have trespassed on your rights of warren,” he said, deliberately obtuse. “I had not reckoned with a rival of your cloth. Not here in Bishop Gilbert’s household. I see I have undervalued his breadth of mind.”
He was being provocative deliberately, of course. Even if he had had no notion that this indignant elder was the girl’s father, he certainly knew that this intervention could hardly bear the interpretation he was placing upon it. But had not the impulse of mischief originated rather with Heledd? It did not please her that the canon should have so little confidence in her judgement as to suppose she would need help in dealing with a passing piece of impudence from this questionably welcome visitor. And Bledri was quite sufficiently accomplished in the study of women to catch the drift of her mild malice, and play the accomplice, for her gratification as readily as for his own amusement.
“Sir,” said Meirion with weighty and forbidding dignity, curbing his rage, “my daughter is affianced, and shortly to be married. Here in his lordship’s court you will treat her and all other women with respect.” And to Heledd he said brusquely, and with a sharp gesture of his hand towards their lodging under the far wall of the enclave: “Go in, girl! The hour is late already, you should be withindoors.”
Heledd, without haste or discomposure, gave them a slight, curt inclination of her head to share between them, and turned and walked away. The rear view of her as she went was expressive, and disdainful of men in general.
“And a very fine girl, too,” said Bledri approvingly, watching her departure. “You may be proud of your getting, Father. I hope you are marrying her to a man who’ll appreciate beauty. The small courtesy of hefting the lass down the steps to level ground can hardly have blemished his bargain.” His clear, incisive voice had dwelt fondly on the word ‘Father’, well aware of the dual sting. “Well, what the eye has not seen, the heart need not grieve, and I hear the bridegroom is well away in Anglesey. And no doubt you can keep a still tongue where this match is concerned.” The plain implication was there, very sweetly insinuated. No, Canon Meirion was exceedingly unlikely to make any move that could jeopardise his cleansed and celibate and promising future. Bledri ap Rhys was very quick on the uptake, and well informed about the bishop’s clerical reforms. He had even sensed Heledd’s resentment at being so ruthlessly disposed of, and her impulse to take her revenge before departing.
“Sir, you are a guest of prince and bishop, and as such are expected to observe the standards due to their hospitality.” Meirion was stiff as a lance, and his voice thinned and steely as a sword-blade. Within his well-schooled person there was a ferocious Welsh temper under arduous control. “If you do not, you will rue it. Whatever my own situation, I will see to that. Do not approach my daughter, or attempt to have any further ado with her. Your courtesies are unwelcome.”
“Not, I think, to the lady,” said Bledri, with the most complacent of smiles implicit in the very tone of his voice. “She has a tongue, and a palm, and I fancy would have been ready enough to use both if I had caused her any displeasure. I like a lass of spirit. If she grants me occasion, I shall tell her so. Why should she not enjoy the admiration she is entitled to, these few hours on the road to her marriage?”
The brief silence fell like a stone between them; Cadfael felt the air quiver with the tension of their stillness. Then Canon Meirion said, through gritted teeth and from a throat constricted with the effort to contain his rage: “My lord, do not think this cloth I wear will prove any protection to you if you affront my honour, or my daughter’s good name. Be warned, and keep away from her, or you shall have excellent cause to regret it. Though perhaps,” he ended, even lower and more malevolently, “too brief time!”
“Time enough,” said Bledri, not noticeably disturbed by the palpable threat, “for all the regretting I’m likely to do. It’s something I’ve had small practice in. Goodnight to your reverence!” And he passed by Meirion so close their sleeves brushed, perhaps intentionally, and began to climb the steps to the hall door. And the canon, wrenching himself out of his paralysis of rage with an effort, composed his dignity about him as best he could, and stalked away towards his own door.
Cadfael returned to his own quarters very thoughtfully, and recounted the whole of this small incident to Brother Mark, who was lying wakeful and wide-eyed after his prayers, by some private and peculiar sensitivity of his own already aware of turbulent cross-currents trembling on the night air. He listened, unsurprised.
“How much, would you say, Cadfael, is his concern only for his own advancement, how much truly for his daughter? For he does feel guilt towards her. Guilt that he resents her as a burden to his prospects, guilt at loving her less than she loves him. A guilt that makes him all the more anxious to put her out of sight, far away, another man’s charge.”
“Who can decypher any man’s motives?” said Cadfael resignedly. “Much less a woman’s. But I tell you this, she would do well not to drive him too far. The man has a core of violence in him. I would not like to see it let loose. It could be a killing force.”
“And against which of them,” wondered Mark, staring into the dark of the roof above him, “would the lightning be launched, if ever the storm broke?”
Chapter Four
THE PRINCE’S cortege mustered in the dawn, in a morning hesitant between sullenness and smiles. There was the moisture of a brief shower on the grasses as Cadfael and Mark crossed to the church for prayer before saddling up, but the sun was shimmering on the fine drops, and the sky above was the palest and clearest of blues, but for a few wisps of cloud to eastward, embracing the rising orb of light with stroking fingers. When they emerged again into the courtyard it was already full of bustle and sound, the baggage horses being loaded, the brave city of tents along the hillside above folded and on the move, and even the frail feathers of cloud dissolved into moist and scintillating radiance.
Mark stood gazing before him with pleasure at the preparations for departure, his face flushed and bright, a child embarking on an adventure. Until this moment, Cadfael thought, he had not fully realised the possibilities, the fascinations, even the perils of the journey he had undertaken. To ride with princes was no more than half the tale, somewhere there was a lurking threat, a hostile brother, a prelate bent on reforming a way of life which in the minds of its population needed no reform. And who could guess what might happen between here and Bangor, between bishop and bishop, the stranger and the native?