The Summer of the Danes by Ellis Peters Read Free Book Online

monastics and their mission to his bishop’s pleasure and satisfaction. “They
are just seated. There will be silence until princes and bishop are settled. I
have seen to it there is a clear space below the high table, where you will be
seen and heard by all.”
    Do
him justice, too, he was no way disappointed or disparaging in contemplating
Brother Mark’s smallness of stature and plain Benedictine habit, or the
simplicity of his bearing; indeed he looked him over with a nod of satisfied
approval, pleased with a plainness that would nevertheless carry its own
distinction.
    Mark
took the illuminated scroll of Roger de Clinton’s letter and the little carved
casket that contained the cross in his hands, and they followed their guide
across the courtyard to the door of the bishop’s hall. Within, the air was full
of the rich scent of seasoned timber and the resiny smoke of torches, and the
subdued murmur of voices among the lower tables fell silent as the three of
them entered, Canon Meirion leading. Behind the high table at the far end of
the hall an array of faces, bright in the torchlight, fixed attentively upon
the small procession advancing into the cleared space below the dais. The
bishop in the midst, merely a featureless presence at this distance, princes on
either side of him, the rest clerics and Welsh noblemen of Owain’s court
disposed alternately, and all eyes upon Brother Mark’s small, erect figure,
solitary in the open space, for Canon Meirion had stepped aside to give him the
floor alone, and Cadfael had remained some paces behind him.
    “My
lord bishop, here is Deacon Mark, of the household of the bishop of Lichfield
and Coventry, asking audience.”
    “The
messenger of my colleague of Lichfield is very welcome,” said the formal voice
from the high table.
    Mark
made his brief address in a clear voice, his eyes fixed on the long, narrow countenance
that confronted him. Straight, wiry steel-grey hair about a domed tonsure, a
long, thin blade of a nose flaring into wide nostrils, and a proud,
tight-lipped mouth that wore its formal smile somewhat unnervingly for lack of
practice.
    “My
lord, Bishop Roger de Clinton bids me greet you reverently in his name, as his
brother in Christ and his neighbour in the service of the Church, and wishes
you long and fruitful endeavour in the diocese of Saint Asaph. And by my hand
he sends you in all brotherly love this letter, and this casket, and begs you
accept them in kindness.”
    All
of which Cadfael took up, after the briefest of pauses for effect, and turned
into ringing Welsh that brought an approving stir and murmur from his
fellow-countrymen among the assembly.
    The
bishop had risen from his seat, and made his way round the high table to
approach the edge of the dais. Mark went to meet him, and bent his knee to
present letter and casket into the large, muscular hands that reached down to
receive them.
    “We
accept our brother’s kindness with joy,” said Bishop Gilbert with considered
and gratified grace, for the secular power of Gwynedd was there within earshot,
and missing nothing that passed. “And we welcome his messengers no less gladly.
Rise, Brother, and make one more honoured guest at our table. And your comrade
also. It was considerate indeed of Bishop de Clinton to send a Welsh speaker
with you into a Welsh community.”
    Cadfael
stood well back, and followed only at a distance on to the dais. Let Mark have
all the notice and the attention, and be led to a place of honour next to Hywel
ab Owain, who sat at the bishop’s left. Was that Canon Meirion’s doing, the
bishop’s own decision to make the most of the visit, or had Hywel had a hand in
it? He might well be interested in learning more about what other cathedral
chapters thought of the resurrection of Saint Kentigern’s throne, and its
bestowal on an alien prelate. And probing from him might be expected to find a
more guileless