I put nothing into my mouth until Durand has tasted it first. It is a sensible precaution.’
‘Has he ever detected any poison?’ wondered Ralph.
‘Twice.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Killed the chef responsible for cooking that food.’
‘Was Durand not affected by the poison?’
‘He spat it out. His tongue is infallible.’
Gervase glanced across at the dwarf, who had now curled up beside one of the mastiffs in front of the fire. He seemed to have far more kinship with the dogs in the room than with the humans.
Durand had reverted to nature.
The Lady Ermintrude rose and excused herself from the table.
She was patently out of place in the gathering and wished to leave before the revelry overflowed into true licentiousness. Ralph gallantly escorted her to the door before bidding her farewell and returning to his place, wondering how his host came to have such a beautiful and gracious wife. He and the earl then fell into a discussion of the Battle of Hastings in which they had both fought with distinction.
Since he could take no part in military reminiscences, Gervase let his gaze drift around the room until it finally located Brother Gerold. He was sitting at the extreme end of one of the tables, eating quietly and washing down the food with a cup of ale. Gerold might have been alone in the privacy of his lodging. He was quite impervious to the tumult all around him. When the behaviour of his immediate neighbours became still rowdier, he did not even look up from his repast. Why was the chaplain present at such an occasion? Vices which he would surely condemn were exhibited on all sides of him. Was he inured to such antics or did he attend in order to prevent the banquet from spilling over into a complete riot?
Gervase was intrigued. A grotesque dwarf, a high-minded monk 34
The Hawks of Delamere
and an indifferent wife. Hugh d’Avranches kept peculiar company at his table.
The soldiers won the Battle of Hastings all over again.
‘Golden memories!’ sighed the earl.
‘A day that changed our lives,’ said Ralph nostalgically.
‘And that of every man, woman and child in this country.’
‘No question but that it did, my lord.’
‘I miss the excitement of battle.’
‘It is something I have happily put behind me.’
‘You are getting old, Ralph,’ teased the other.
‘Old but wise.’
‘Where is the wisdom in denying your true instincts?’
‘Instincts?’
‘Once a soldier, always a soldier,’ insisted Hugh, clapping him between the shoulder blades. ‘Join us tomorrow on a stag hunt and revive those memories of warfare.’
‘It is a tempting offer, my lord.’
‘Then take it.’
‘I may not and will not,’ said Ralph, turning to Gervase. ‘Our work begins in earnest tomorrow and Gervase will not spare me.
While you pursue stags, we will be hunting game of another kind.’
‘Wild boar? Hares? Rabbits?’
‘Human game, my lord.’
‘Cheats and liars,’ explained Gervase.
‘Show them no mercy,’ urged Hugh, banging the table with a fist. ‘Summary justice. Be firm, be brutal. Nothing is served by temporising. I was judge, jury and executioner myself only this morning and it gave me a feeling of exhilaration. It also assuaged my desire for revenge.’
‘Revenge?’ repeated Ralph.
‘Against the men who killed my favourite hawk.’
‘Why did they do that?’
‘I did not bother to ask them, Ralph. When someone shoots an arrow at your prize bird, you do not allow him to deliver a sermon on his reasons for doing so. We hanged the rogues from the nearest tree. You should do the same.’
‘We do not have the power to execute,’ said Gervase. ‘We can only report malefactors to the King.’
‘That is too slow a process for me. I will not wait upon the King’s word. I crave instant retribution.’ He pulled out his dagger to emphasise his point. ‘If someone dares to cross the Earl of Chester, he will not live to boast about it.’
The dagger was embedded in the table with force.
It was no idle gesture. Ralph and Gervase knew they had received a grim warning from their host. He would be watching them.
Chapter Four
Archdeacon Idwal was in a typically combative vein that evening.
His whole body was pulsing with vitality.
‘I blame the Synod of Whitby!’ he said accusingly, chewing a mouthful of capon. ‘It reached a foolish decision and set the Christian Church on the wrong path.’
‘It is rather late in the day to say that,’ observed Frodo drily.
‘Your censure is over four hundred years behind the times, archdeacon.’
‘It is still relevant.’
‘Hardly.’
‘I say that it is,’ asserted Idwal pugnaciously. ‘What was the main reason for calling the Synod of Whitby?’
‘To resolve the paschal controversy.’
‘Exactly, my friend. To remove once and for all disputes about how to decide on the date for Easter. The Celtic Church, which, may I remind you, was in existence for centuries before St Augustine began his Christian mission in Kent, had its own method of identifying Easter in the calendar.’
‘But the Synod was in favour of the Roman practice.’
‘That is where the hideous mistake was made,’ argued the little Welshman before gulping down a generous measure of ale and belching melodiously. ‘Celtic custom and practice should have been respected. In Wales and elsewhere, we had come willingly to God at a time when the English counties were still worshipping false idols. If it were left to me, we would revert at once to Celtic tradition.’
‘Fortunately,’ said Canon Hubert tartly, ‘that decision has not been left in your hands, Archdeacon Idwal, experienced and manipulative as they are. In my view, the Synod of Whitby made the correct election and the English Church has been the beneficiary ever since.’
‘The English Church — yes! But what about the Welsh?’
‘They are effectively the same thing.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Please!’ said Bishop Robert. ‘Moderate your language.’
‘Then get Hubert to moderate his idiocy.’
‘You are subservient to Canterbury,’ reminded Hubert.
‘More’s the pity!’
‘Archbishop Lanfranc is your primate.’
‘Only at the moment.’
While Idwal ranted on, the others suffered in silence. He was a bellicose companion. The four men were sharing a meal at the bishop’s palace within the city. Brother Simon had been invited but the mere thought of eating with Idwal had played havoc with his digestion and he declined. Hubert was beginning to wish that he had done likewise. The privilege of dining with the bishop was vitiated by the ordeal of listening to the patriotic Welshman.
Since their last meeting, Idwal had not mellowed in even the slightest way with the passage of time. In Hubert’s opinion, he had become still more intemperate.
Robert de Limesey sought to move the conversation to a more neutral topic. He dislodged a chicken bone from between his teeth then bestowed an episcopal smile upon them.
‘Our cathedral is still a relatively new phenomenon in Chester,’
he said, ‘but it is a foundation stone on which we hope to build.
My predecessor, Bishop Peter, began his work at the cathedral church of St Chad’s in Lichfield.’
‘St Chad!’ sneered Idwal contemptuously.
‘When the see was translated to Chester,’ continued the bishop, sailing over the interruption, ‘Peter was eager to develop the scope and the physical presence of the Church here. Sadly, he died before that work could be brought to its culmination. I see it as my duty to carry on where he left off. The establishment of the cathedral was the first major undertaking, but it may soon be possible to move on to the next project.’