“Have you never thought to marry again?” asked Gervase.
“Nobody could replace Elinor.”
“Many ladies would like the opportunity to try.”
“Then that is what they may do!” said Ralph with a chortle. “Let them come, one and all. Save for battle, there is no greater pleasure than wenching. I can tell you now that I look to find a comely lady or two in Hereford to take the sting out of this interminable journey.
What else are women for?”
Gervase bit back a reply and took a deep breath. “I will not rise to the bait this time.”
“Then I’ll not dangle it before you.” He leaned across to Gervase and lowered his voice. “Many have taken Elinor’s place in my bed; none will ever oust her from my heart.”
“So it is with me and Alys.”
Ralph nodded. He became suddenly brisk and barked out a command, slapping the rump of Gervase’s horse with the palm of his gauntlet and spurring his destrier into a canter that brought loud protest from the two riders directly behind him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were spattered in even more mud as a fresh volley was thrown up by the flashing hooves. Hubert was a round, fat, self-satisfied prelate with an endless supply of red-cheeked, righteous indignation. Seated on a donkey that was all but invisible beneath his bulk, he ordered Ralph to slow down, then blustered impotently when his own mount quickened its pace to catch up the others.
Brother Simon was a Benedictine monk buried deep in his black cowl, a laconic and emaciated man who had chosen the skinniest horse in Christendom to match his ascetic tastes. Clinging to the pommel of his saddle as his horse lunged forward, Simon bounced along precariously and prayed for all he was worth.
They were twelve in number. Eight men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue rode in pairs behind the holy men and towed the sumpter horses after them. An escort was vital on such a long journey. Like their lord, the knights wore helm, hauberk, and sword, and rode upon trained warhorses. Four of them carried a lance and four had bows slung across their backs. Necessary escorts on the long trail from Winchester, they would be able to lend force and status to the work of the commissioners.
Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, Canon Hubert, and even the unsoldierly Brother Simon knew the value of a military presence while they were about their business. The men themselves hoped for some action and adventure in Hereford. It had been a tame, uneventful ride so far and they had exhausted all their crude jokes about the adipose canon and the spectral monk. With their destination rising up before them, they goaded their horses into a steady canter.
As they approached the city from the southeast, Gervase also felt a glow of anticipatory pleasure. Their work would not be too onerous, but it promised to be full of interest. He glanced across at Ralph and called out above the jingle of harness and the thud of hooves.
“Who will greet us this time?” he asked. “What creatures await us here?”
“Creatures?”
“Yes, Ralph. We met with wolves in Savernake Forest and ravens in the Blackwater Estuary. What does Hereford hold?”
“The most dangerous animals of all, Gervase.”
“Dangerous?”
“More savage than wolves, more sinister than ravens.”
“What are they?”
“The worst foe that any man can encounter.”
“Wild bears?”
“No, Gervase,” shouted his friend. “Churchmen!”
As they walked side by side into the choir, the noise was ear-splitting.
Carpenters, woodcarvers, stonemasons, and smiths seemed to be everywhere, filling the cathedral with the most unholy sounds and adding unbearably to the din by raising their coarse voices above it.
The visitor was profoundly shocked. He watched a block of stone being winched up to the top of a pillar by a giant of a man who was whistling at his trade as if completely unaware that he was on hallowed ground. God’s work was being done by mindless heathens.
Idwal turned an accusatory glare on his companion.
“This is sacrilege!” he exclaimed.
“No,” said the other calmly. “Burning the cathedral to the ground was sacrilege. That, I have to remind you, was the work of your compatriots from across the border. Rebuilding is an act of faith. Bishop Robert has decreed that the work be advanced as swiftly as possible.”
“By this crew of noisy infidels?”
“They are skilled craftsmen, Archdeacon.”
“But wherein lies their skill?” demanded the irate Welshman. “In taking the Lord’s name in vain? In turning His house into a fishmarket? Listen to that appalling sound!”
The dean was imperturbable. “Building is a noisy occupation,” he said easily. “No man can carve solid oak or chisel rough stone in silence. And the fellows must talk to each other or how else can they know what is needed and when?” He put a hand on the other’s shoulder and eased him toward the transept. “Let us step outside and leave these good men in peace.”
“Peace!”
“The rain may have stopped by now.”
Dean Theobald was a tall, slim, dignified man of fifty in canonical robes. He moved with a stately tread and towered over the little Welshman beside him. Conducting his visitor back out into the fresh air, he took him far enough away from the building work for the clamour to subside to a distant hum. Idwal was clearly going to be a troublesome guest.
“How is Llandaff?” Theobald asked politely.
“Quiet!”
“Your cathedral church was not razed to the ground.”
“Indeed not,” said Idwal, “but it has suffered many other humilia-tions. I see it as my mission in life to right some of the terrible wrongs that have been inflicted upon us.”
“Wrongs?”
“I mention but one. All else follows from this.” He flung back his tattered lambskin cloak and drew himself up to his full height. “A Bishop of Llandaff should not have to kneel to an Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Lanfranc is a great man.”
“The good archbishop may be three parts saint and one part human being, but that does not entitle him to hold sway over the Welsh nation. Llandaff had a church when Canterbury was still overrun by miserable pagans. The bright light of Christianity shone upon Wales centuries before its rays deigned to touch Kent.”
“An interesting argument,” said the dean tactfully.
“You will hear it in full before I leave Hereford.”
Theobald groaned inwardly. “I feared that I might.”
Idwal was the Archdeacon of Llandaff Cathedral in South Wales. A small, wiry, animated man in his late thirties, he had a manic glint in his eye and a combative nature. His piety and intelligence were not in doubt, but they were allied to a fierce patriotism. There was a flamboyance about his language and gesture that seemed incongruous in someone so shabbily dressed. His shoes were almost worn through, his hat was shapeless, and his cloak looked as if it had been dragged through every patch of mud on the long road from Glamorgan.
Dean Theobald had a reputation for being able to get on amicable terms with almost anyone, but he sensed that he might have met his match in Idwal. There was something about the voluble Welshman that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in alarm.
Welcoming the archdeacon would be nowhere near as pleasant as bidding him farewell.
“How long will you be with us?” he asked.
“As long as it takes,” said Idwal.
“A couple of days? A week?”
“We shall see.”
“There surely cannot be much to detain you here,” said Theobald, probing for enlightenment. “If your bishop has sent you on a tour of your native country, you will not wish to spend much time on the wrong side of the border.”
“Christianity knows no frontiers.”
“That is certainly true.”