When Canon Hubert and Brother Simon entered the precincts through the high round-headed arch, they were met by the soaring stone of the eastern end of the nave. They paused to appraise the building before moving slowly round it to study its salient features on all sides. Wooden scaffolding was still in place around the chancel and stonemasons swarmed busily over it, but the visitors were able to see more than enough of the edifice to make a sound judgement.
They were deeply impressed. It might lack the grandeur of Canterbury cathedral and the breathtaking scale of York minster — both of which they had visited in the course of their official duties — but Chester cathedral had a dignity and character all of its own. Bishop Robert, they decided, was to be congratulated on transforming a humble collegiate church into such an inspiring structure. After their bruising confrontation with the earl at the castle, both men were relieved to be on consecrated ground once more.
Brother Simon crossed himself and emitted a long sigh. ‘We are safe,’ he said.
‘We are always safe in the hands of the Lord,’ corrected Hubert pedantically. ‘He is there to help us at all times and in all places.’
‘I did not feel His comforting touch at the castle.’
‘I did, Brother Simon. It sustained me.’
‘I went weak at the knees,’ confessed the other.
‘Put on the whole armour of God.’
‘Yes, Canon Hubert. It will be necessary apparel.’
‘It will protect you against that fiend in human shape.’
‘Earl Hugh terrified me. Wearing that cowl was a calculated insult to the Benedictine order.’
‘He will be made to pay for it in time.’
The plump figure of Archdeacon Frodo bore down on them. His face was wreathed in a smile and his podgy hands were gesturing a welcome. Introductions were made and friendship instantly established. Hubert recognised at a glance that the archdeacon was a man after his own heart, and Simon was profoundly reassured by the warmth of their reception. Chester was not, after all, an antechamber of Hell.
‘How was your journey?’ inquired Frodo.
‘Long and tedious,’ said Hubert.
‘Then you will want to rest.’
‘Not until we have seen Bishop Robert. We would like to pay our respects and deliver some letters from Bishop Walkelin of Winchester.’
‘Bishop Robert will be delighted to see you,’ said Frodo, ‘but he is engaged at present with another visitor. Let me show you to your lodgings so that you may deposit your baggage and shake some of the dust of travel from your feet.’
‘Teach us the way, Archdeacon Frodo.’
‘We are so grateful to be here,’ confided Simon. ‘We met with a dispiriting welcome at the castle.’
‘From whom?’
‘Earl Hugh.’
‘Yes,’ said Frodo tactfully. ‘He is a creature of moods. Catch the earl at the wrong time and it can be a distressing experience.
But,’ he continued, trying to redress the balance of his implied criticism, ‘he has many good qualities.’
Simon gaped. ‘Has he?’
‘Earl Hugh has done an immense amount for this city.’
‘In the name of self-aggrandisement,’ opined Hubert.
‘That is not for me to say.’
‘We have eyes and ears, Archdeacon Frodo.’
‘Do not underrate Earl Hugh’s contribution to the safety of this community,’ warned the archdeacon. ‘Chester has been a far more secure place to live under his aegis.’
‘How much freedom do you enjoy within that security?’
‘We have no complaints, Canon Hubert.’
‘Indeed?’
‘None at all.’
‘I find that astonishing.’
‘The holy church must adapt itself to the conditions in which it finds itself,’ said Frodo evenly. ‘And that is what Bishop Robert has done.’
Hubert’s jowls shook in disagreement. ‘I have always held that the holy church should lead rather than follow,’ he said with a glance up at the heavens. ‘It is for man to adapt to God and not the other way round.’
‘I have great sympathy with that point of view as well,’ consoled the archdeacon. ‘Here in Chester, I think you will find, we have achieved a workable compromise.’
‘Between what?’
‘You will see.’
Frodo led them off to their lodgings and waited while each of them settled into the small cell which had been set aside for him. Brother Simon was pleased by the monastic simplicity of his accommodation, but the four bare walls and rude mattress held less appeal for Canon Hubert. Back in Winchester, he was accustomed to a far more comfortable chamber and to food of a higher quality and quantity than he expected to find here. While Simon offered up a prayer of thanks for his return to his natural habitat, Hubert’s limbs ached in anticipation and his stomach began to rumble mutinously. He was even prey to envious thoughts about the banquet at the castle.
When the guests were ready, Frodo took them away. They made an incongruous trio. Beside the emaciated scribe the fleshy archdeacon looked truly corpulent, but he himself appeared slim when viewed against the adipose canon. A master of the middle way, Frodo was glad that he occupied an intermediate position between the two newcomers, physically and theologically. It would enable him to communicate easily with both.
‘Where was your last assignment?’ he asked.
‘Oxford,’ said Hubert. ‘Ill health prevented me from joining the commission at first, but they could not manage without my services and I was summoned from my sickbed to help my colleagues out of the pit into which they had fallen in my absence.’
‘Canon Hubert was their salvation,’ said Simon.
‘I am not surprised,’ said Frodo, without irony.
‘Several complicated disputes came before us,’ explained Hubert, ‘but we managed to settle all of them satisfactorily. We certainly left Oxford a far healthier and more just place than we found it.’
‘I hope that you do the same with Chester.’
‘We will, Archdeacon Frodo. We will.’
The three men strode on in companionable silence until they came to Bishop Robert’s chamber. In the short time he had known them, Frodo felt that he had learned a great deal about the visitors, all of it encouraging news, while, for their part, Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were convinced that they would be far happier as the guests of an obliging bishop than of an egregious earl.
That conviction was summarily shattered. The door of the room swung open to reveal another visitor to the cathedral. Hubert and Simon recoiled in horror. A small, wiry, wild-eyed and sprightly man in his late thirties stood before them, wearing a ragged lambskin cloak that was spattered with mud and reeking with decay. Indeed, since the cloak hid most of his diminutive body, he looked and smelled more like a dead sheep than a live churchman. Hubert and Simon were frankly appalled.
Here was the last man in the world they wished to meet again.
What added to their distress was the patent enthusiasm with which he greeted them. The wild eyes intensified, the animated body went into a spasm of joy and the inimitable face became one large grinning rictus. He let out a cackle of pleasure which chilled them to the bone.
‘This is Archdeacon Idwal,’ said Frodo.
Hubert and Simon gave their response in perfect unison. ‘We know,’ they groaned. ‘We know!’
Gervase Bret knelt at the altar rail for several minutes in private communion with his Maker. The chapel was dark and dank but its atmosphere had a spirituality which he found conducive to prayer and meditation. It was only when he rose to leave that he realised he was not alone.