‘I let them down.’
‘No, Beollan.’
‘I did. When the hunting party came, I took fright and fled. I should have stayed with them in their hiding place.’
‘Thank God you did not,’ said Gervase sadly, ‘or you might well have ended up in that ditch with them.’
‘I ran. I ran away. I feel so ashamed.’
‘There is no need.’
‘My place was beside them.’
‘You did the right thing. You saved your life at a time when you could not possibly have rescued them.’ He cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. ‘Now, Beollan. Did one of them shoot an arrow at Earl Hugh’s hawk?’
‘No. They would never have dared to do that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. Quite sure.’
‘Then who did kill that hawk?’
‘I do not know, but …’ His voice trailed away and his feet betrayed him again.
‘Go on, Beollan.’
‘I thought I saw someone else leaving.’
‘Someone else?’
‘Running off through the trees,’ the boy recalled. ‘I have no idea who it was. I only caught a glimpse. But I did see a bow. Yes, there was a bow, I remember that.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Then my father and brother were captured. When I heard them yelling for mercy, I ran home as fast as I could.’ More tears threatened. ‘I was weak. I was a coward. I should have stayed to help.’
‘They were beyond it,’ said Gervase.
‘Gytha will blame me.’
‘No, Beollan. She will understand.’
Nothing more could be wrested from the boy. Gervase gave him a comforting hug then led him back to the others. Brother Gerold had managed to ease Gytha’s grief and she had lapsed into a wistful silence. The chaplain read the message in the boy’s face and donated a smile of approval to Gervase. Their journey to the Delamere Forest had not been in vain. Solace had been offered to two orphans.
‘Who is your priest?’ asked the chaplain.
‘Father Ernwin,’ murmured Gytha.
‘A sound man. I know him well. Leave everything to me. When we have escorted you back, I will go to Father Ernwin and tell him what has occurred. He will send a cart to collect the bodies so that they can be buried at your parish church.’ He flicked a sad glance back at the ditch. ‘Their gruesome death is of no account now. It is past. Put it out of your minds. They deserve a proper funeral and I will ensure that they receive one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gytha.
Beollan gave a low murmur of gratitude.
It was time to go home.
Robert de Limesey strolled round the perimeter of the cathedral in the twilight and stopped to inspect the day’s progress on the exterior wall of the chancel. The last of the stonemasons was descending the scaffold with his tools and he gave the bishop a respectful wave of farewell. Robert smiled in reply. He was blessed in his craftsmen. They were skilled artisans with a due reverence for the project in which they had been engaged for so long.
Bishop Robert was still appraising their work when he heard footsteps approaching and caught an unpleasant whiff in his nostrils. He turned to see Idwal coming towards him.
‘Good evening, Bishop Robert,’ said the Welshman.
‘I am pleased to see you again,’ lied the other. ‘Have you had a busy day, Archdeacon Idwal?’
‘My days are always busy. The devil makes work for idle hands so mine are never allowed to be idle. I have been finding my way around this beautiful city of yours and speaking to some of its citizens. In vain, alas.’
‘In vain?’
‘Yes, Bishop Robert,’ complained Idwal. ‘They did not seem to understand how much better off Chester would be if it were part of Wales, which, by right, of course, it should be.’
‘Only in your opinion.’
‘It is not a question of opinion but of geography.’
‘I believe that it is a question of conquest.’
The firm rebuff actually silenced Idwal for once. Robert basked in the respite but it did not last long. Wrapping his disgusting cloak around him, the visitor turned his attention to the cathedral.
‘Do you have rich endowments?’ he said artlessly.
‘Alas, no.’
‘Wealthy patrons?’
‘Very few.’
‘Where, then, does your money come from, Bishop Robert?’
‘Rents and the offertory box. I hold over fifty houses in the city and this eastern suburb around the cathedral. It is called the bishop’s borough and is part of Redcliff, so named because of the red sandstone cliff on which the cathedral stands. There are 63
Edward Marston
other small sources of income,’ he said evasively, ‘but nobody could describe us as prosperous.’
‘What of holy relics?’
‘One or two.’
‘Any of particular note?’
‘Nothing that would interest a Welshman like yourself. If you seek the bones of St Deiniol or the skull of St David, you will have to go back over the border.’
Idwal gave a ripe chuckle. ‘I will do that very soon.’
‘When?’ asked Robert, eager to speed him on his way.
‘When I am ready.’
‘In a day? Two days? Three?’
‘Who knows, Bishop Robert?’ said the other with a wicked grin.
‘You and Frodo have made me so welcome that it will be an effort to tear myself away. And I can hardly deprive Canon Hubert of our theological contests. He thrives on them.’
‘Hubert is in Chester on important business.’
‘So am I, believe me. So am I.’
Idwal flung back his cloak and went off towards the main door of the cathedral with an arrogant strut. Bishop Robert found an expletive rising to his lips and clapped a hand over his mouth.
The laws of Christian fellowship had to be obeyed.
The Welshman, meanwhile, walked slowly down the nave of the cathedral to make sure that he was quite alone. When he stopped under the chancel arch, he could hear and see nobody.
Evening shadows dappled the aisle behind him and darkened the outer corners of the building. Idwal smirked. He was on his own in the house of the Lord.
After genuflecting to the altar, he moved swiftly across to the door of the vestry and lifted the latch. A single candle burned within and cast an inviting glow over a large wooden casket which stood against the wall. Idwal rubbed his hands together and went over to the casket, stroking its weathered lid with an almost paternal affection. There was a key in the lock and he turned it firmly.
Before he could lift the lid, however, someone came out of the gloom behind him to subject him to an accusatory glare.
‘What are you looking for, archdeacon?’ asked Frodo.
Idwal was unperturbed. He patted the casket gently.
‘God,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
Brother Gerold was an accomplished horseman. As they rode back to Chester in the fading light, Gervase was highly impressed with the way that his companion handled his mount. Canon Hubert invariably travelled on his donkey, his bulk dwarfing the beast and his feet all but touching the ground. Brother Simon always rode his spindly horse with excessive nervousness as if it was the first time he had ever been near the animal. It was refreshing to find one Benedictine monk who was patently at ease in the saddle.
When they joined the main road to the city, they were riding at a steady canter. The great, dark, sprawling Forest of Delamere slowly receded behind them.
‘Thank you for taking me there,’ he said.
‘It was you who took me, Gervase.’
‘I would never have found my way without you.’
‘I was glad to help,’ said the other. ‘When two young people are in such distress as Gytha and Beollan, they need all the succour they can get.’
‘How will they manage?’
‘Who knows? But they will somehow.’
‘Will they?’
‘Yes, Gervase. They are forest dwellers. Survivors.
‘Their father and brother were forest dwellers as well. They did not survive. They were the victims of misfortune.’
‘So it seems.’