Ellis Peters - The Summer of the Danes

The Summer of the Danes

Ellis Peters

The Eighteenth Chronicle of Brother Cadfael

Digital Edition v2 HTML February 6, 2003

Copyright 1991 by Ellis Peters

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

^

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

^

The extraordinary events of that summer of 1144may properly be said to have begun the previous year, in a tangleof threads both ecclesiastical and secular, a net in which anynumber of diverse people became enmeshed, clerics, from thearchbishop down to Bishop Roger de Clintons lowliest deacon,and the laity from the princes of North Wales down to the humblestcottager in the trefs of Arfon. And among the commonalty thusentrammelled, more to the point, an elderly Benedictine monk of theAbbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury.

Brother Cadfael had approached that April in a mood of slightlyrestless hopefulness, as was usual with him when the birds werenesting, and the meadow flowers just beginning to thrust their budsup through the new grass, and the sun to rise a little higher inthe sky every noon. True, there were troubles in the world, asthere always had been. The vexed affairs of England, torn in two bytwo cousins contending for the throne, had still no visible hope ofa solution. King Stephen still held his own in the south and mostof the east; the Empress Maud, thanks to her loyal half-brother,Robert of Gloucester, was securely established in the southwest andmaintained her own court unmolested in Devizes. But for some monthsnow there had been very little fighting between them, whether fromexhaustion or policy, and a strange calm had settled over thecountry, almost peace. In the Fens the raging outlaw Geoffrey deMandeville, every mans enemy, was still at liberty, but aliberty constricted by the kings new encircling fortresses,and increasingly vulnerable. All in all, there was room for somecautious optimism, and the very freshness and luster of the springforbade despondency, even had despondency been amongCadfaels propensities.

So he came to chapter, on this particular day at the end ofApril, in the most serene and acquiescent of spirits, full of mildgood intentions towards all men, and content that things shouldcontinue as bland and uneventful through the summer and into theautumn. He certainly had no premonition of any immediate change inthis idyllic condition, much less of the agency by which it was tocome.

As though compelled, half fearfully and half gratefully, to thesame precarious but welcome quietude, the business at chapter thatday was modest and aroused no dispute, there was no one in default,not even a small sin among the novices for Brother Jerome todeplore, and the schoolboys, intoxicated with the spring and thesunshine, seemed to be behaving like the angels they certainly werenot. Even the chapter of the Rule, read in the flat, deprecatingtones of Brother Francis, was the 34th, gently explaining that thedoctrine of equal shares for all could not always be maintained,since the needs of one might exceed the needs of another, and hewho received more accordingly must not preen himself on beingsupplied beyond his brothers, and he that received less but enoughmust not grudge the extra bestowed on his brothers. And above all,no grumbling, no envy. Everything was placid, conciliatory,moderate. Perhaps, even, a shade on the dull side?

It is a blessed thing, on the whole, to live in slightly dulltimes, especially after disorder, siege and bitter contention. Butthere was still a morsel somewhere in Cadfael that itched if thehush continued too long. A little excitement, after all, need notbe mischief, and does sound a pleasant counterpoint to the constantorder, however much that may be loved and however faithfullyserved.

They were at the end of routine business, and Cadfaelsattention had wandered away from the details of thecellarers accounts, since he himself had no function as anobedientiary, and was content to leave such matters to those whohad. Abbot Radulfus was about to close the chapter, with a sweepingglance around him to make sure that no one else was brooding oversome demur or reservation, when the lay porter who served at thegatehouse during service or chapter put his head in at the door, ina manner which suggested he had been waiting for this very moment,just out of sight.

Father Abbot, there is a guest here from Lichfield.Bishop de Clinton has sent him on an errand into Wales, and he askslodging here for a night or two.

Anyone of less importance, thought Cadfael, and he would havelet it wait until we all emerged, but if the bishop is involved itmay well be serious business, and require official considerationbefore we disperse. He had good memories of Roger de Clinton, a manof decision and solid good sense, with an eye for the genuine andthe bogus in other men, and a short way with problems of doctrine.By the spark in the abbots eye, though his face remainedimpassive, Radulfus also recalled the bishops last visitwith appreciation.

The bishops envoy is very welcome, he said,and may lodge here for as long as he wishes. Has he someimmediate request of us, before I close this chapter?

Father, he would like to make his reverence to you atonce, and let you know what his errand is. At your will whether itshould be here or in private.

Let him come in, said Radulfus.

The porter vanished, and the small, discreet buzz of curiosityand speculation that went round the chapterhouse like a ripple on apond ebbed into anticipatory silence as the bishops envoycame in and stood among them.

A little man, of slender bones and lean but wiry flesh,diminutive as a sixteen-year-old boy, and looking very much likeone, until discerning attention discovered the quality and maturityof the oval, beardless face. A Benedictine like these his brothers,tonsured and habited, he stood erect in the dignity of his officeand the humility and simplicity of his nature, as fragile as achild and as durable as a tree. His straw-coloured ring of croppedhair had an unruly spikiness, recalling the child. His grey eyes,formidably direct and clear, confirmed the man.

A small miracle! Cadfael found himself suddenly presented with agift he had often longed for in the past few years, by its verysuddenness and improbability surely miraculous. Roger de Clintonhad chosen as his accredited envoy into Wales not some portly canonof imposing presence, from the inner hierarchy of his extensivesee, but the youngest and humblest deacon in his household, BrotherMark, sometime of Shrewsbury abbey, and assistant for two fondlyremembered years among the herbs and medicines of Cadfaelsworkshop.

Brother Mark made a deep reverence to the abbot, dipping hisebullient tonsure with a solemnity which still retained, until helifted those clear eyes again, the slight echo and charm ofabsurdity which had always clung about the mute waif Cadfael firstrecalled. When he stood erect he was again the ambassador; he wouldalways be both man and child from this time forth, until the daywhen he became priest, which was his passionate desire. And thatcould not be for some years yet, he was not old enough to beaccepted.

My lord, he said, I am sent by my bishop onan errand of goodwill into Wales. He prays you receive and house mefor a night or two among you.

My son, said the abbot, smiling, you needhere no credentials but your presence. Did you think we could haveforgotten you so soon? You have here as many friends as there arebrothers, and in only two days you will find it hard to satisfythem all. And as for your errand, or your lords errand, wewill do all we can to forward it. Do you wish to speak of it? Here,or in private?