The Summer of the Danes (14 page)

Such
an unavoidable task Owain chose not to delegate. When the light from the east
tipped the outer wall of the maenol, and the ward began to fill with horse and
groom and man-at-arms and archer roused and ready, he sent to summon the two
canons of Saint Asaph to the gatehouse, where he waited with one shrewd eye on
the ranks mustering and mounting, and one on a sky and light that promised good
weather for riding. No one had forestalled him with the bad news; so much was
plain from Canon Meirion’s serene, assured face as he strode across the ward
with a civil good-morning already forming on his lips, and a gracious
benediction ready to follow it as soon as the prince should mount and ride. At
his back, shorter-legged and more portly and self conscious of bearing, Canon
Morgant hugged his ponderous dignity about him, and kept a noncommittal countenance.

It
was not Owain’s way to beat about bushes. Time was short, business urgent, and
what mattered was to make such provision as was now possible to repair what had
gone awry, both with threats from an obdurate brother and peril to a lost
daughter.

“There
is news in the night,” said the prince briskly, as soon as the two clerics drew
close, “that will not please your reverences, and does not please me.”

Cadfael,
watching from beside the gate, could detect no disquiet in Canon Meirion’s face
at this opening. No doubt he thought it referred only to the threat of the
Danish fleet, and possibly the flight of Bledri ap Rhys, for the two clerics
had gone to their beds before that supposed flight changed to a death. But
either would come rather as a relief and satisfaction to him, seeing that
Bledri and Heledd between them had given him cause to tremble for his future
career, with Canon Morgant storing up behind his austere forehead every
unbecoming look and wanton word to report back to his bishop. By his present
bearing, Meirion knew of nothing worse, nothing in the world to disturb his
complacency now, if Bledri was either fled or dead. “My lord,” he began
benignly, “we were present to hear of the threat to your coast. It will surely
be put off without harm…”

“Not
that!” said Owain bluntly. “This concerns yourself. Sir, your daughter has fled
in the night. Sorry I am to say it, and to leave you to deal with the case in
my absence, but there’s no help. I have given orders to the captain of my
garrison here to give you every aid in searching for her. Stay as long as you
need to stay, make use of my men and my stables as best serves. I and all who
ride with me will be keeping a watch and asking news of her westward direct to
Carnarvon. So, I trust, will Deacon Mark and Brother Cadfael on their ride to
Bangor. Between us we should cover the country to westward. You ask and search
round Aber and eastward, and south if need be, though I think she would not
venture the mountains alone. I will return to the search as soon as I may.” He
had proceeded thus far uninterrupted only because Canon Meirion had been struck
mute and amazed at the very first utterance, and stood staring with round eyes
and parted lips, paling until the peaks of his sharp cheekbones stood out white
under the straining skin. Utter consternation stopped the breath in his throat.

“My
daughter!” he repeated slowly at last, the words shaped almost without sound.
And then in a hoarse wheeze: “Gone? My daughter loose alone, and these
sea-raiders abroad in the land?”

At
least, thought brother Cadfael approvingly, if she could be here to hear it,
she would know that he has some real care for her. His first outcry is for her
safety, for once his own advancement is forgotten. If only for a moment! “Half
the width of Wales from here,” said Owain stoutly, “and I’ll see to it they
come no nearer. She heard the messenger, she knows better than to ride into
their arms. This girl you bred is no fool.”

“But
headstrong!” Meirion lamented, his voice recovered and loud with anguish.

“Who
knows what risk she might not venture? And if she has fled me now, she will
still hide from me. This I never foresaw, that she could feel so driven and so
beset.”

“I
say again,” said Owain firmly, “use my garrison, my stables, my men as you
will, send out after news of her, for surely she cannot be far. As for the ways
to westward, we will watch for her as we go. But go we must. You well know the
need.”

Meirion
drew himself back a little, erect at his tallest, and shook his broad
shoulders.

“Go
with God, my lord, you can do no other. My girl’s life is but one, and many
depend upon you. She shall be my care. I dread I have not served her turn
lately as well as I have served my own, or she would never have left me so.”
And he turned, with a hasty reverence, and strode away towards the hall, so
precipitately that Cadfael could see him clambering fiercely into his boots and
marching down to the stable to saddle his horse, and away to question everyone
in the village outside the walls, in search of the dark daughter he had gone to
some pains to despatch into distance, and now was all afire to recover. And
after him, still silent, stonily expressionless, potentially disapproving, went
Canon Morgant, a black recording angel.

They
were more than a mile along the coastal track towards Bangor before Brother
Mark broke his deep and thoughtful silence. They had parted from the prince’s
force on leaving Aber, Owain bearing south-west to take the most direct road to
Carnarvon, while Cadfael and Mark kept to the shore, with the shining, pallid
plain of the shallows over Lavan Sands reflecting the morning light on their
right hand, and the peaks of Fryri soaring one above another on their left,
beyond the narrow green lowlands of the coast. Over the deep channel beyond the
sands, the shores of Anglesey were bright in sunlight.

“Did
he know,” Mark wondered aloud suddenly, “that the man was dead?”

“He?
Meirion? Who can tell? He was there among the rest of us when the groom cried
out that a horse was missing, and Bledri was held to have taken him and made
off to his master. So much he knew. He was not with us when we looked for and
found the man dead, nor present in the prince’s counsel. If the pair of them
were safe in their beds they cannot have heard the news until this morning.
Does it signify? Dead or fled, the man was out of Meirion’s way, and could
scandalise Morgant no longer. Small wonder he took it so calmly.”

“That
is not what I meant,” said Mark. “Did he know of his own knowledge? Before ever
another soul knew it?” And as Cadfael was silent, he pursued hesitantly: “You
had not considered it?”

“It
had crossed my mind,” Cadfael admitted. “You think him capable of killing?”

“Not
in cool blood, not by stealth. But his blood is not cool, but all too readily
heated. There are some who bluster and bellow, and rid their bile that way. Not
he! He contains it, and it boils within him. It is likelier far to burst forth
in action than in noise. Yes, I think him capable of killing. And if he did
confront Bledri ap Rhys, he would meet only with provocation and disdain there.
Enough to make for a violent end.”

“And
could he go from that ending straight to his bed, in such unnerving company,
and keep his countenance? Even sleep?”

“Who
says that he slept? He had only to be still and quiet. There was nothing to
keep Canon Morgant wakeful.”

“I
return you another question,” said Cadfael. “Would Cuhelyn lie? He was not
ashamed of his purpose. Why, then, should he lie about it when it came to
light?”

“The
prince believes him,” said Mark, thoughtfully frowning.

“And
you?”

“Any
man may lie, not even for very grave reason. Even Cuhelyn may. But I do not
think he would lie to Owain. Or to Hywel. He has given his second fealty, as
absolute as the first. But there is another question to be asked concerning
Cuhelyn. No, there are two. Had he told anyone what he knew about Bledri ap
Rhys? And if he would not lie to Hywel, who had salved him and brought him to
an honourable service, would he lie for him? For if he did tell anyone that he recognised
Bledri as one among his prince’s murderers, it would be Hywel. Who had no
better reason to love the perpetrators of that ambush than had Cuhelyn
himself.”

“Or
any man who went with Hywel to drive Cadwaladr out of Ceredigion for Anarawd’s
sake,” agreed Cadfael resignedly, “or any who took bitter offence at hearing
Bledri so insolent on Cadwaladr’s behalf in hall that night, spitting his
threats into Owain’s face. True, a man is dead who was well-hated, living, and
took no keep to be anything better than hated. In a crowded court where his
very presence was an affront, is it any wonder if he came by a short ending?
But the prince will not let it rest.”

“And
we can do nothing,” said Mark, and sighed. “We cannot even look for the girl
until I have discharged my errand.”

“We
can ask,” said Cadfael.

And
ask they did, at every hamlet and dwelling along the way, whether a young woman
had not ridden past by this road, a dark Welsh girl on a young roan, all of one
colour. A horse from the prince’s stables would not go unremarked, especially
with a lone girl in the saddle. But the day wore on, and the sky clouded gently
and cleared again, and they drew into Bangor by mid-afternoon; but no one could
give them word of Heledd, Meirion’s daughter.

Bishop
Meurig of Bangor received them as soon as they had threaded their way through
the streets of the town to his cathedral enclave, and announced themselves to
his archdeacon. It seemed that here everything was to be done briskly and
briefly, with small respect to the planned and public ceremony Bishop Gilbert
had preferred. For here they were by many miles nearer to the threat of Danish
raiders, and very sensibly taking such precautions as were possible to cope
with them if they should penetrate so far. Moreover, Meurig was native Welsh,
at home here, and had no need of the cautious dispositions Gilbert felt
necessary to secure his position. It might be true that he had proved at first
a disappointment to his prince, by succumbing to Norman pressure and submitting
to Canterbury, but stoutly Welsh he remained, and his resistance, if diverted,
must still be proceeding by more subtle ways. At least he did not seem to
Cadfael, when they were admitted to his presence in private, the kind of man to
compromise his Welshness and his adherence to the ways of the Celtic Church
without a long and doughty rearguard action.

The
bishop was not at all like his fellow of Saint Asaph. Instead of the tall,
dignified Gilbert, selfconsciously patrician and austere without, and uneasily
insecure within, here was a small, round, bustling cleric in his forties,
voluble of speech but very much to the point, rapid of movement and a little
dishevelled and shaggy, with a sharp eye and a cheerfully bouncing manner, like
a boisterous but businesslike hound on a scent. His pleasure in the very fact
of their coming on such an errand was made very plain, and outweighed even his
delight in the breviary Mark had brought him, though clearly he had an eye for
a handsome script, and turned the leaves with lovingly delicate movements of
thick, strong fingers.

“You
will have heard already, Brothers, of the threat to our shores, so you will
understand that here we are looking to our defences. God grant the Norsemen
never get ashore, or no further than the shore, but if they should, we have a
town to keep, and churchmen must turn to like the rest. For that reason we
observe at present little state or ceremony, but I trust you will be my guests
for a day or two before you need return with my letters and compliments to your
bishop.”

It
was for Mark to respond to this invitation, which was offered warmly enough,
but with a vaguely preoccupied look in the bishop’s shrewd eyes. At least a
part of his mind was away scanning the waterfront of his town, where the brief mudflat
between the tides gave place to the narrowing neck of the strait. Fifteen miles
or more to the western end at Abermenai, but the smaller shallow-draught ships,
oared by twenty rowers, could cover that distance rapidly. A pity the Welsh had
never really taken to the seas! And Bishop Meurig had his flock to consider,
and no amenable temper to let them suffer anything his vigour could prevent. He
would not be sorry to pack his visitors from England off back to Lichfield, and
have his hands free. Hands that looked quite capable of turning to the sword or
the bow whenever the need arose. “My lord,” said Brother Mark, after a brief
thoughtful hesitation, “I think we should leave tomorrow, if that does not
cause you too much inconvenience. Much as I would like to linger, I have
pledged myself to a prompt return. And even beyond that, the party with which
we rode from Saint Asaph included a young woman who should have come here to
Bangor with us, under Owain Gwynedd’s protection, but now, bereft of that protection,
since the prince perforce has hurried on to Carnarvon, she has unwisely ridden
out from Aber alone, and somewhere has lost her way. They are seeking for her
from Aber. But since we have come as far as Bangor, if I may justify the delay
even of one day, or two, I should like to spend them searching for her in these
parts also. If you will grant me leave to make use of so short a delay, we will
spend it for the lady’s benefit, and you, I know, will be making use of every
moment for the better keep of your own people.”

A
good speech, Cadfael approved, one that gives nothing away of what lies behind
Heledd’s flight, thereby sparing her reputation and this good prelate’s very
proper concern. He interpreted it carefully, improvising a little where memory
faltered, since Mark had allowed him no pause between the lines. The bishop
nodded instant comprehension, and demanded practically: “Did the lady know of
this threat from Dublin?”