Brother Cadfael 18: The Summer of the Danes

fine thing to be heading home, but it's a fine thing also to be setting out from home, with both the going and the return to look forward to. Well for me that Theobald took thought to recruit allies for his new bishop. And what is it Roger de Clinton's sending him, apart from his ceremonial letter?" He had not had time to feel curiosity on that score until now. Mark's saddle-roll was too modest to contain anything of bulk.
    "A pectoral cross, blessed at the shrine of Saint Chad. One of the canons made it, he's a good silversmith."
    "And the same to Meurig at Bangor, with his brotherly prayers and compliments?"
    "No, Meurig gets a breviary, a very handsome one. Our best illuminator had as good as finished it when the archbishop issued his orders, so he added a special leaf for a picture of Saint Deiniol, Meurig's founder and patron. I would rather have the book," said Mark, winding his way down a steep woodland ride and out into the declining sun towards the valley. "But the cross is meant as the more formal tribute. After all, we had our orders. But it shows, do you not think, that Theobald knows that he's given Gilbert a very awkward place to fill?"
    "I should not relish being in his shoes," Cadfael admitted. "But who knows, he may delight in the struggle. There are those who thrive on contention. If he meddles too much with Welsh custom he'll get more than enough of that."
    They emerged into the green, undulating meadows and bushy coverts along the riverside, the Dee beside them reflecting back orange gleams from the west. Beyond the water a great grassy hill soared, crowned with the man-made contours of earthworks raised ages ago, and under the narrow wooden bridge the Dee dashed and danced over a stony bed. Here at the church of Saint Collen they asked and found a lodging for the night with the parish priest.
    On the following day they crossed the river, and climbed over the treeless uplands from the valley of the Dee to the valley of the Clwyd, and there followed the stream at ease the length of a bright morning and into an afternoon of soft showers and wilful gleams of sun. Through Ruthin, under the outcrop of red sandstone crowned with its squat timber fortress, and into the vale proper, broad, beautiful, and the fresh green of young foliage everywhere. Before the sun had stooped towards setting they came down into the narrowing tongue of land between the Clwyd and the Elwy, before the two rivers met above Rhuddlan, to move on together into tidal water. And there between lay the town of Llanelwy and cathedral of Saint Asaph, comfortably nestled in a green, sheltered valley.
    Hardly a town at all, it was so small and compact. The low wooden houses clustered close, the single track led into the heart of them, and disclosed the unmistakable long roof and timber bell-turret of the cathedral at the centre of the village. Modest though it was, it was the largest building to be seen, and the only one walled in stone. A range of other low roofs crowded the precinct, and on most of them some hasty repairs had been done, and on others men were still busily working, for though the church had been in use, the diocese had been dormant for seventy years, and if there were still canons attached to this centre their numbers must have dwindled and their houses fallen into disrepair long ago. It had been founded, many centuries past, by Saint Kentigern, on the monastic principle of the old Celtic clas, a college of canons under a priest-abbot, and with one other priest or more among the members. The Normans despised the clas, and were busy disposing all things religious in Wales to be subject to the Roman rite of Canterbury. Uphill work, but the Normans were persistent people.
    But what was astonishing about this remote and rural community was that it seemed to be over-populated to a startling degree. As soon as they approached the precinct they found themselves surrounded by a bustle and purpose that belonged to a prince's llys rather than a church enclave. Besides the busy carpenters and builders there were men and women scurrying about with pitchers of water, armfuls of bedding, folded hangings, trays of new-baked bread and baskets of food, and one strapping lad hefting a side of pork on his shoulders.
    "This is more than a bishop's household," said Cadfael, staring at all the activity. "They are feeding an army! Has Gilbert declared war on the valley of Clwyd?"
    "I think," said Mark, gazing beyond the whirlpool of busy