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

response than if it came from his formidable father, and produce
a more innocent and lavish crop. A first occasion, it might be, for Mark to say
little and listen much.
    Cadfael’s
own allotted place was much further from the princely centre, near the end of
the table, but it gave him an excellent view of all the faces ranged along the
seats of honour. On the bishop’s right sat Owain Gwynedd, a big man every way,
in body, in breadth of mind, in ability, very tall, exceeding by a head the
average of his own people, and flaxen-fair by contrast with their darkness, for
his grandmother had been a princess of the Danish kingdom of Dublin, more Norse
than Irish, Ragnhild, a granddaughter of King Sitric Silk-Beard, and his mother
Angharad had been noted for her golden hair among the dark women of Deheubarth.
On the bishop’s left Hywel ab Owain sat at ease, his face turned towards
Brother Mark in amiable welcome. The likeness was clear to be seen, though the
son was of a darker colouring, and had not the height of the sire. It struck
Cadfael as ironic that one so plainly signed with his father’s image should be
regarded by the cleric who sat beside him as illegitimate, for he had been born
before Owain’s marriage, and his mother, too, was an Irishwoman. To the Welsh a
son acknowledged was as much a son as those born in marriage, and Hywel on
reaching manhood had been set up honourably in South Ceredigion, and now, after
his uncle’s fall, possessed the whole of it. And very well capable, by his
showing so far, of holding on to his own. There were three or four more
Welshmen of Owain’s party, all arranged turn for turn with Gilbert’s canons and
chaplains, secular and clerical perforce rubbing shoulders and exchanging
possibly wary conversation, though now they had the open casket and its
filigree silver cross as a safe topic, for Gilbert had opened it and set it on
the board before him to be admired, and laid de Clinton’s scroll beside it,
doubtless to await a ceremonial reading aloud when the meal was drawing to its
close.
    Meantime,
mead and wine were oiling the wheels of diplomacy, and by the rising babel of
voices successfully. And Cadfael had better turn his attention to his own part
in this social gathering, and begin to do his duty by his neighbours. On his
right hand he had a middle-aged cleric, surely a canon of the cathedral,
well-fleshed and portly, but with a countenance of such uncompromising
rectitude that Cadfael judged he might well be that Morgant whose future errand
it was to see that both father and daughter conducted themselves unexceptionably
on the journey to dispose of Heledd to a husband. Just such a thin, fastidious
nose seemed suitable to the task, and just such chill, sharp eyes. But his
voice when he spoke, and his manner to the guest, were gracious enough. In
every situation he would be equal to events, and strike the becoming note, but
he did not look as if he would be easy on shortcomings in others.
    On
Cadfael’s left sat a young man of the prince’s party, of the true Welsh build,
sturdy and compact, very trim in his dress, and dark of hair and eye. A very
black, intense eye, that focussed on distance, and looked through what lay
before his gaze, men and objects alike, rather than at them. Only when he
looked along the high table, to where Owain and Hywel sat, did the range of his
vision shorten, fix and grow warm in recognition and acknowledgement, and the
set of his long lips soften almost into smiling. One devoted follower at least
the princes of Gwynedd possessed. Cadfael observed the young man sidewise, with
discretion, for he was worth study, very comely in his black and brooding
fashion, and tended to a contained and private silence. When he did speak, in
courtesy to the new guest, his voice was quiet but resonant, and moved in
cadences that seemed to Cadfael to belong elsewhere than in Gwynedd. But the
most significant thing