‘To Earl Hugh?’
‘No, Brother Gerold. The only message I would like to send him would burn the hands off anyone who carried it. I talk of sending word to Gruffydd ap Cynan.’
‘That would not be allowed.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is not for me to say.’
‘Could you not take a simple letter to him?’
‘No, Archdeacon Idwal.’
‘Not even as a favour to me?’ coaxed the other, producing a sweet smile of persuasion. ‘I would view it as an act of Christian fellowship and remember you in my prayers.’
‘I would be touched.’
‘Then you agree?’
‘No,’ said Gerold. ‘Communication of any kind with the prisoner is forbidden.’
‘Surely the chaplain is entitled to visit him?’
‘Only to offer what spiritual sustenance I may.’
‘There is your opportunity,’ declared Idwal. ‘Next time you are alone in the dungeon with him, give him my letter in secret. It is only a message of greeting but it may bring some small cheer to the Prince of Gwynedd. Will you do this?’ He saw the chaplain shake his head. ‘Why not?’
‘It would be wholly improper.’
‘What harm could it do?’
‘Untold harm. Earl Hugh would be furious.’
‘Only if he learned about it and he will not.’ Idwal brought his smile back into action. ‘Please, Brother Gerold. My countryman suffers enough punishment as it is. Do not deprive him of all contact with his nation. Carry my message to him. Show pity.
Who will ever know about it?’
‘I will,’ said Gerold firmly.
‘Iesu Mawr! How can you refuse me?’
‘There are rules.’
‘Break them, mun! It is your Christian duty.’
But the chaplain’s view of Christian duty differed greatly from that of the Welshman and he politely declined to smuggle any messages to the prisoner. After ridding himself of another torrent of protest, Idwal accepted that he would not be allowed to see the prince. He gave a moan of resignation then let his gaze move slowly round the chapel.
‘This place has the feeling of being used,’ he said with grudging approval. ‘Soldiers are not the most devout men. Some of them only remember God when they need His help on the eve of a battle. I have been in castles where the chapel is empty most of the time.’
‘That is not the case here.’
‘Even with a heathen like Earl Hugh in charge?’
‘He is no heathen but a true Christian.’
‘I prefer to judge him by his actions.’
‘Then know what they are,’ said Gerold briskly. ‘He has endowed churches and encouraged the spiritual life of the whole city. Earl Hugh is a willing student of the scriptures. He has many close 99
Edward Marston
friends in the Church and in the monastic community. Chief among them is Anselm.’
Idwal was astounded. ‘Anselm of Bec?’
‘The same.’
‘He is a friend of Earl Hugh?’
‘They exchange letters regularly,’ explained Gerold. ‘The earl draws great strength from that friendship. It is to Anselm he turned when he conceived the idea of founding an abbey in Chester.’
‘But that is Bishop Robert’s ambition as well.’
‘He may be involved,’ said Gerold easily, ‘but an abbey will only come into being with the weight of Earl Hugh behind it. Do you still call him a heathen?’
‘No,’ said Idwal, his interest quickening. ‘I am pleased to hear that he has been so generous towards the Church. Has he bestowed any gifts upon this chapel?’
‘Several. His purse is always open to us.’
‘Have you purchased anything of special value?’
‘Special value?’
‘Yes, Brother Gerold. Relics of a saint, perhaps?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Idle curiosity,’ said Idwal, eyes roaming. ‘A man of Earl Hugh’s wealth could afford to buy almost anything that caught his interest.’
‘We have a few relics,’ admitted Gerold, ‘but they are kept under lock and key. Like the prisoner.’
Idwal’s anger rekindled at once and his voice crackled.
‘You may rue the day you stopped me from seeing Gruffydd ap Cynan,’ he said with vehemence. ‘Remember that if war does break out. I would have convinced the Prince of Gwynedd that peace is to the advantage of the Welsh. He might have ordered his men to lay down their arms.’
‘How can he when he is not in contact with them?’
‘There are some things that even the deepest dungeon will not hold in,’ said Idwal with a strange smile. ‘You said earlier that it would be easier to turn the River Dee into red wine than to change Earl Hugh’s mind for him.’
‘That is true.’
‘In rejecting me, you may unwittingly have achieved that miracle, Brother Gerold. I hope that you are ready to take the blame.
Enough blood may soon be spilled to turn the River Dee the colour of red wine. Be warned!’
In the absence of Earl Hugh, his wife took on the duty of extending warm hospitality to the guests. Ermintrude was a gracious hostess. At the earlier banquet, she had been very much a marginal figure, seated beside her husband out of loyalty rather than personal enjoyment and taking the earliest opportunity to quit the room when the revelry began to tip over into mild riot. In the hall that evening, over a delicious meal with Ralph Delchard, Golde and Gervase Bret, she really came into her own and emerged as a kind and considerate woman of no mean intelligence. Ralph was soon asking himself again how such a beautiful and stately creature could bear to be married to such an ogre.
‘I am sorry that Hugh is unable to join us,’ she said, ‘but he has important affairs to discuss elsewhere. It gives me the opportunity to welcome you properly to Chester Castle and to offer a particular welcome to you, Golde.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘Your husband has missed you sorely.’
‘So he has told me,’ said Golde.
She caught Ralph’s wink and smiled in response. Golde was wearing her finest apparel but it seemed almost drab beside the elegant chemise and gown worn by Ermintrude. Earl Hugh did not stint on his wife’s wardrobe. The gold circlet which held her lustrous black hair in place was worthy of a queen. It glinted in the candlelight and set off her whole face. Golde was fascinated by it.
‘How did you meet your husband?’ wondered Ermintrude.
‘By accident, my lady. In Hereford.’
‘Gervase and I were there on royal business,’ said Ralph. ‘It was one of the most difficult assignments we have ever had wished on to us, my lady.’
‘Difficult and arduous,’ recalled Gervase.
‘But not without its compensations,’ observed Ermintrude with a glance at Golde. ‘How else would you have made the acquaintance of your future wife?’
‘I would not have done so,’ confessed Ralph. ‘If Golde had not rescued me from my lonely existence, I would have spent the rest of my days as a crusty old bachelor.’
‘There is nothing crusty about you,’ said Golde. ‘And you are the kind of man who never really grows old.’
‘I am childish?’ he teased. ‘Is that your meaning?’
‘No, Ralph. I was praising your youthful energy.’
‘We have all been victims of that,’ said Gervase.
Ermintrude led the gentle laughter. It was a world away from the heady banquet on the day of their arrival. All four of them talked amiably together in a relaxed atmosphere. There was no strain or awkwardness. Golde was drawn to her hostess.
Ermintrude was regal yet approachable and she showed an easy tolerance of Golde’s occasional moments of hesitation over her Norman French. It was the language she used more often than her own now and her sister had taunted her about it during her recent visit to Hereford.
One part of her past Golde was resolved not to surrender. When wine was brought to the table, she put a hand over her cup and looked up at the serving man.
‘I would prefer beer, please.’
He was mystified. ‘Beer, my lady?’
‘Do you have such a thing in the castle?’
‘Of course, but …’
‘Fetch some beer at once,’ said Ermintrude. ‘Our guests will want for nothing.’ She turned to Golde. ‘Though it is an odd request from a lady.’