Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

XV

The cavalcade reached the North Gate of Bath well before compline. The sun was still high, sending shafts down into the choir of the cathedral-priory when Urban and Leofric attended the office. All the bishops present were accommodated in the monastery, apart from the noble and famous Bishop Henry of Winchester, King Stephen's brother, who occupied a house in the city belonging to his abbey of Glastonbury.

'So he's a bishop and an abbot?' queried Leofric.

'He began religious life in the great and famous abbey of Cluny in Burgundy. His uncle and godfather, King Henry, lured him to England by offering him the royal abbey of Glastonbury in Somerset, the richest in England, which urgently needed some reform. So when the king decided to make him a bishop, he combined his see of Winchester with the abbacy making him the wealthiest prelate in England: too wealthy and too powerful many would say. He's another one of those bishops, like my late father, who thought they should properly be an archbishop, so he pitted himself against the authority of Canterbury. Last year he scored a major victory. My father's friend, Pope Innocent, made him papal legate in England, which gave him a status above that of Archbishop Theobald. I look forward to finding out if it's true that he wears the robes of a pope and if he rides a white mule, as the pope does.'

The refectory of Bath priory had ceased to resemble a monastic dining hall. For the days of the council it had been given over to the bishops and their entourages, and though the monks themselves kept the discipline of silence at the lower tables, the upper end of the hall was alive with the murmur of clerical politics.

Candles had been set along the trestle tables, their flames wavering in the draughts that eddied beneath the high roof. Outside the last glow of evening lingered above the city walls, but within the hall the air had grown warm with bodies, cloaks, and the smell of cooked fish underlain by another pungent odour, the trace of a reek of sulphur from the ancient hot baths which were the city's fame and the source of its English name.

Urban sat happily beside Philip of Gloucester, who had already removed his riding gloves and was methodically dismantling a loaf of bread as though it were some theological problem. He winked at his Welsh friend. 'Urban my friend, the smell of this place resembles that of the place to which we sinners will be damned for a time, until your prayers and pardons will release us. I do rather think that we are in for some days of genuine torment here in Bath, however.'

Leofric had secured a place a little further down the board and was engaged in cheerful conversation with a canon of Wells, though every now and then his eyes flicked back towards Urban as if to make sure nothing interesting was happening without him.

Philip lowered his voice. 'You see them there?'

Urban followed his gaze toward the high table, where several bishops were gathered around a tall, handsome young man with a dark tonsure and an expression of habitual authority. He wore a white cassock draped over with a red cloak, braided with gold, the habit not of a monk but of the supreme pontiff of the Latin Church.

'Henry of Winchester,' said Urban.

'Indeed. The pope's man in England.'

Urban watched him for a moment. Henry spoke with calm assurance while a clerk beside him leaned forward to catch every word. Even at supper he seemed to preside.

'The king's brother,' Urban said quietly. 'And the pope's legate. Between them he holds half the kingdom in his hands.'

Philip smiled faintly.

'And the other half?'

Urban glanced across the table.

'In the hands of your father and of Earl Miles, and indeed of King Morgan of Glamorgan, who stands behind them.'

Philip nodded. 'Just so.' For a moment neither spoke. The hall hummed with voices.

Then Philip said, 'Do you think the Empress can win? And is this council just a waste of time?'

Urban did not answer at once. He broke a piece of bread and dipped it absently into the dish of herbs and oil before him. 'At the moment,' he said slowly, 'she does not need to win.'

Philip raised an eyebrow.

'She only needs not to lose.'

Philip leaned back slightly. 'That is a distinction I do not quite understand.'

Urban lowered his voice further. 'Stephen has the crown. The bishops recognise him. The coinage is his. Even now most men swear by his authority, however reluctantly.'

Philip nodded. 'And yet his kingdom burns and the roads in the west of his land are choked with mercenaries.'

'Because,' said Urban, 'the Empress will not accept that crown while Stephen lives. Nor will Stephen surrender it while he breathes.'

Philip gave a small laugh. 'That is what we call a war.'

Urban looked at him calmly. 'No,' he said. 'That is what we call a stalemate.'

Philip stopped tearing his bread.

Urban continued, almost thoughtfully. 'Suppose the crown were not the question.'

Philip's eyes sharpened.

'Go on.'

'Suppose Stephen remained king,' Urban said, 'as he is now. Crowned, anointed, acknowledged. Suppose the Empress did not attempt to take the throne from him.'

Philip studied him.

'That would require a miracle.'

'Not necessarily.' Urban lifted his eyes toward the candles. 'The Empress has sons.'

Philip chuckled, 'And so does King Stephen.'

Urban continued quietly. 'One of them will one day have to be king. That is certain.'

Philip's voice was careful now, as if he feared someone might be listening to what was being said, and marking it down as treachery.

'You suggest…'

'That Stephen should be king … for his life.'

Philip leaned forward. 'And after?'

Urban met his gaze.

'After Stephen's death, the crown passes not to his son Eustace … but to Henry FitzEmpress.'

The words hung between them. Philip slowly exhaled. 'You would disinherit Count Eustace.'

Urban shrugged slightly. 'No. He would be a prince in France, ruler of Boulogne and maybe Normandy. It is a plan which would spare England twenty years of slaughter.'

Philip sat very still. At last he said softly, 'That is… a dangerous thought to speak aloud in this hall, where Eustace's uncle sits in the robes of the supreme pontiff of the Church.'

Urban smiled faintly. 'Fortunately,' he said, 'we have not spoken it aloud.'

Philip stared at him another moment. Then he began to laugh. Not loudly—but with genuine delight. 'My dear Urban,' he said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, 'you realise what you have just proposed?'

Urban raised an eyebrow. 'The end of the war.'

Philip shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'You have proposed the only peace that both sides might actually accept.'

Urban did not answer. Across the hall the bishops were rising from the high table. Henry of Winchester stood among them, speaking briefly to one of his attendants.

Philip watched him thoughtfully. 'If such a settlement were ever to be made,' he said, 'it would require a man like that to pronounce it.'

Urban nodded. 'Yes.'

Philip leaned back. 'And who,' he asked, 'would first put such a thought into his head?'

Urban allowed himself the faintest smile. 'My dear Philip,' he said quietly, 'we are clerks.'

Philip's eyes gleamed.

'Yes.'

Urban lifted his cup. 'We write things.'

Philip raised his own. 'And sometimes,' he said, 'those things become history.'

Across the hall Henry of Winchester turned slightly, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.

For a moment his eyes seemed almost to rest on their table.

Urban lowered his voice. 'Then let us be careful what we write.'

It was night outside now. The tables were beginning to clear. The monks moved quietly among the guests with jugs of watered wine offering a grace cup. The lesser clerks and squires drifted toward the doors in twos and threes, glad to escape the heat of the hall.

At the high table the bishops were rising.

Henry of Winchester stood for a moment speaking with Bishop Bernard, designated the lead counsel for the Empress. He then dismissed his attendant with a slight motion of the hand. When the clerk had gone he remained standing, his dark eyes wandering slowly across the refectory. Urban saw his glance sweep the room. It paused.

Then, with the casual assurance of a man accustomed to obedience, Henry descended from the dais and crossed the hall.

Philip saw him coming first. 'My dear Urban,' he murmured, without turning his head, 'I think history may be walking in our direction.'

Urban looked up. Henry of Winchester stopped beside their bench. Up close he was younger than Urban had expected, though there was something imperious and inflexible in the set of his mouth. The white cassock gleamed in the candlelight. 'My lord Philip of Gloucester,' Henry said pleasantly.

Philip rose at once and bowed. 'My lord legate.'

Henry inclined his head. 'And this must be Master Urban, the suffragan of Caerleon' he said.

Urban stood. 'My lord.'

Henry studied him with undisguised curiosity.

'I have heard of you,' he said. 'A Welsh scholar with a Latin education and a talent for inconvenient thoughts.'

Philip could not suppress a smile. Urban inclined his head slightly.

'My thoughts are rarely convenient, my lord. But I hope they are sometimes useful.'

Henry's eyes flickered with amusement. 'So I am told.' He rested a hand lightly on the back of the bench and leaned a little closer. 'Tell me,' he said, 'were you discussing the war just now? I remarked the earnestness on your table.'

Philip answered cautiously. 'It is difficult to dine in England without talking earnestly, my lord.'

Henry's mouth twitched. 'That is very true.' He turned his gaze back to Urban. 'And what conclusion did you reach?'

Urban hesitated. Henry watched him patiently. The murmur of the hall had faded now as most of the guests drifted out into the cloister. Only a handful remained, and the monks were extinguishing the lower candles. Urban spoke quietly. 'That neither side can win, as things are currently disposed.'

Henry's eyebrows lifted slightly. 'Indeed?'

Urban met his gaze. 'The king will not yield the crown while he lives.'

Henry nodded once. 'Correct.'

'And the Empress will not abandon her claim.'

'Also correct.'

Urban folded his hands. 'So the kingdom will bleed until one of them dies.'

Henry said nothing. Urban continued. 'Unless the crown itself ceases to be the question.'

Henry's eyes sharpened. Philip held his breath.

Urban spoke with deliberate calm.

'Let King Stephen reign as he is now, anointed and acknowledged, for the remainder of his life.'

Henry's gaze did not move. 'And when he dies?'

Urban answered without hesitation.

'The crown passes not to the king's son… but to Henry fitzEmpress.'

For a moment Henry said nothing at all. Then he laughed. It was not loud laughter — but it was genuine.

'My dear Master Urban,' he said softly, 'do you know that you have just solved the problem of England?'

Urban replied with equal calm. 'I fear, my lord, that solving it and persuading men to accept the solution are very different matters.'

Henry nodded thoughtfully. 'Yes indeed.' He looked around the hall once more, as if measuring the kingdom itself in his mind. 'You are right,' he said at last. 'But the advantage of such a solution is that it offends everyone equally.'

Philip chuckled quietly. Henry turned back to Urban.

'You are staying in the priory?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Good.'

Henry adjusted the red mantle on his shoulders. 'Then tomorrow you will walk with me after the morning session of the council. You are a more profitable intermediary than your colleague, Bernard of St Davids, who has come with no proposal other than that my brother should clear off to the Holy Land and kill pagans. And how well did that turn out for our late father?'

Urban inclined his head. 'My lord.'

Henry studied him for another moment.

'England,' he said, almost to himself, 'has need of clerks who think like kings.' Then he turned and walked back toward the dais.

Philip sat down slowly. 'My dear Urban,' he said, 'I believe you have just started something.'

Urban watched Henry's retreating figure. 'Yes,' he said quietly. 'I think perhaps we have.'

Leofric appeared at his shoulder as Philip walked off chuckling. 'Bed, love. You've been overdoing things, I suspect.'

'You may be right, darling.'

Hot sunlight lay across the cloister garth of the priory when Urban left the chapter house. The council so far had been wearisome. The bishops had argued over oaths and precedences, while the legate had listened with the patient expression of a man who already knew where the discussion would end.

Urban was making his way toward the garden when he saw Philip of Gloucester hurrying toward him. Philip's face carried that curious mixture of excitement and embarrassment which usually meant news of consequence.

'My dear Urban,' he said quietly, 'I have just come from Henry of Winchester.'

Urban smiled faintly. 'And am I to be congratulated or pitied?'

Philip hesitated. 'That depends very much on how you take the news.'

Urban folded his hands in his sleeves. 'Then let us hear it.'

Philip lowered his voice. 'The see of Llandaff is to be filled, and the legate has confirmed Uthred's deposition. The established facts of his several children and his wife did not do him any favours.'

Urban nodded. The diocese had been vacant long enough that the question had become a matter of discussion among the Welsh clergy. 'And?'

Philip looked directly at him. 'The legate has decided on a replacement. One very acceptable to the clerical families of Glamorgan, though perhaps less so to you, my friend.'

Urban waited.

'It will be given to your brother Nicholas.'

For a moment Urban said nothing at all. Philip watched him carefully, as though measuring the effect of the words.

At last Urban smiled. 'Well,' he said gently, 'that is excellent news.'

Philip blinked, surprised. 'You take it very calmly. You might have expected the nomination.'

Urban gave a small shrug. 'Nicholas has always been a good monk, which would have gone down well with Bishop Henry. Besides he is the elder son of Bishop Urban. And it is known we two are devoted brothers. He knows I cannot resent my brother's promotion.'

Philip studied him. 'And you would not have wished it for yourself?'

Urban considered the question for a moment. 'I might have wished it,' he admitted. 'But that is not the same thing. It's not me who will be upset but King Morgan, who has asserted his right as king to nominate bishops in his realm. But then he too cannot really resent Nicholas's provision to the see by a papal legate.'

Philip frowned slightly. 'You do not seem surprised.'

Urban's smile deepened a little.

'No,' he said. 'In truth I am not. I will continue to be suffragan, and working with a more amenable and respectable diocesan now, who is my beloved and faithful brother.'

Philip raised an eyebrow. 'You expected this?'

Urban nodded toward the chapter house. 'You heard the council this morning.'

'Yes.'

'And you know what Llandaff is.'

Philip thought for a moment. 'A small and troublesome Welsh diocese.'

Urban chuckled. 'A small and troublesome Welsh diocese on the frontier of the king's enemies.'

Philip nodded slowly. 'Glamorgan.'

'Exactly.'

Urban continued quietly. 'The legate does not want a bishop there who is entangled in the politics of the war.'

Philip looked at him sharply.

'You mean yourself.'

Urban inclined his head slightly. 'I am known to favour the Empress.'

'That hardly makes you unique.'

'No,' Urban said, 'but it does make me inconvenient.' He paused. 'Nicholas, on the other hand, is a monk of unimpeachable reputation. That rarity, a pragmatic man of prayer.'

Philip smiled. 'In other words, a man who will not make trouble.'

Urban nodded. 'And a man whom the Welsh clergy will respect.'

Philip looked thoughtful. 'So Henry chooses peace.'

Urban's eyes glinted. 'No,' he said softly. 'He chooses stability.'

They walked slowly along the cloister walk. Philip glanced sideways at him.

'You truly bear him no resentment?'

Urban laughed quietly. 'My dear Philip, the Church does not lack for variety in its bishops.'

Philip smiled. 'That is very true.'

Urban looked out into the garden where the morning sun was beginning to warm the stone. 'But it does sometimes lack for good monks in mitres.'

Philip followed his gaze. 'And Nicholas is one of those.'

'Yes. My brother is a good fellow: kind, dutiful in every sense and pious.'

Urban folded his hands again. 'He will serve God better in Llandaff than I would.'

Philip considered him for a moment. 'My dear Urban,' he said at last, 'you are a very strange man.'

Urban smiled. 'So I have been told.'

At that moment a familiar figure appeared at the end of the cloister.

Nicholas. The tall monk approached them with a look of puzzled expectation.

Philip grinned. 'Well,' he said, 'here comes the Bishop of Llandaff.'

Nicholas stopped. 'The what?'

Urban stepped forward and embraced him.

'My brother,' he said warmly, 'I believe the Church has found work for you. And I have some objects in my possession that our father left for you in his last will and testament, and they will now be needed by you: a rather fine mitre and a pastoral staff'

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