“That I can’t,” said Cadfael. “I was sent from Shrewsbury to take care of an ailing brother, a shepherd at the folds by Rhydycroesau, and until he’s restored I must take on his duties there.”
“Your patient is mending, I trust?”
“So well that I thought I might use a few hours to come and see what manner of property may be slipping through our fingers here. But have you any immediate reason for feeling that our tenure may be threatened? More than the obvious difficulty of the charter not being sealed in time?”
The steward frowned, chewing a dubious lip. “The situation is strange enough, for if both the secular heir and the abbey lose their claim, the future of Mallilie is a very open question. The earl of Chester is the overlord, and may bestow it as he pleases, and in troublous times like these I doubt if he’ll want to leave it in monastic hands. We could appeal to him, true, but not until Shrewsbury has an abbot again, with full powers. All we can do in the meantime is manage this land until there’s a legal decision. Will you take your dinner here with me, brother? Or at least a cup of wine?”
Cadfael declined the offer of a midday meal; it was yet early, and he had a use for the remaining hours of daylight. But he accepted the wine with pleasure. They sat down together in the panelled solar, and the dark Welsh kitchen-boy brought them a flagon and two horns.
“You’ve had no trouble with the Welsh to west of you?” asked Cadfael.
“None. They’ve been used to the Bonels as neighbours for fifty years now, and no bad blood on either side. Though I’ve had little contact except with our own Welsh tenants. You know yourself, brother, both sides of the border here there are both Welsh and English living cheek by jowl, and most of those one side have kin on the other.”
“One of our oldest brothers,” said Cadfael, “came from this very region, from a village between here and Llansilin. He was talking of his old kinship when he knew I was coming to Rhydycroesau. I’d be glad to carry his greetings, if I can find his people. Two cousins he mentioned, Cynfrith and Owain ap Rhys. You haven’t encountered either? And a brother by marriage, one Ifor ap Morgan… though it must be many years since he had any contact with any of them, and for ought I know this Ifor ap Morgan may be dead long ago. He must be round about Rhys’s own age, and few of us last so long.”
The steward shook his head doubtfully. “Cynfrith ap Rhys I’ve heard spoken of, he has a holding half a mile or so west of here. Ifor ap Morgan… no, I know nothing of him. But I tell you what, if he’s living the boy will know, he’s from Llansilin himself. Question him when you leave, and do it in Welsh, for all he knows English well enough. You’ll get more out of him in Welsh… and all the more readily,” he added with a wry grin, “if I’m not with you. They’re none of them ill-disposed, but they keep their own counsel, and it’s wonderful how they fail to understand English when it suits them to shut the alien out.”
“I’ll try it,” said Cadfael, “and my thanks for the good advice.”
“Then you’ll forgive me if I don’t accompany you to the gate and give you God-speed. You’ll do better alone.”
Cadfael took the hint and his leave, there in the solar, and went out through the hail and by the screened way into the kitchen. They boy was there, backing red-faced from the oven with a tray of new loaves. He looked round warily as he set down his burden on the clay top to cool gradually. It was neither fear nor distrust, but the wariness of a wild creature alert and responsive to every living thing, curious and ready to be friendly, sceptical and ready to vanish.
“God save you, son!” said Cadfael in Welsh. “If your bread’s all out now, do a Christian deed, come out to the gate with me, and show a stranger the way to the holding of Cynfrith ap Rhys or his brother Owain.”
The boy gazed, eyes brightening into interest at being addressed placidly in his own tongue. “You are from Shrewsbury abbey, sir? A monk?”
“I am.”
“But Welsh?”
“As Welsh as you, lad, but not from these parts. The vale of Conwy is my native place, near by Trefriw.”
“What’s your will with Cynfrith ap Rhys?” asked the boy directly.
Now I know I’m in Wales, thought Cadfael. An English servant, if he ventured to challenge your proceedings at all, would do it roundabout and obsequiously, for fear of getting his ears clipped, but your Welsh lad speaks his mind to princes.
“In our abbey,” he said obligingly, “there’s an old brother who used to be known in these parts as Rhys ap Griffith, and he’s cousin to these other sons of Rhys. When I left Shrewsbury I said I’d take his greetings to his kin, and so I will if I can find them. And while we’re about it there’s one more name he gave me, and you may at least be able to tell me if the man’s alive or dead, for he must be old. Rhys had a sister Marared, who married one Ifor ap Morgan, and they had a daughter Angharad, though I’m told she’s dead years ago. But if Ifor is still living I’ll speak the good word to him, also.”
Under this rain of Welsh names the boy thawed into smiles. “Sir, Ifor ap Morgan is still alive. He lives a fair way beyond, nearly to Llansilin. I’ll come out with you and show you the way.”
He skipped down the stone staircase lightly, ahead of Cadfael, and trotted before him to the gate. Cadfael followed, leading his horse, and looked where the boy pointed, westward between the hills.
“To the house of Cynfrith ap Rhys it is but half a mile, and it lies close by the track, on your right hand, with the wattle fence round the yard. You’ll see his white goats in the little paddock. For Ifor ap Morgan you must go further. Keep to the same track again until you’re through the hills, and looking down into the valley, then take the path to the right, that fords our river before it joins the Cynllaith. Half a mile on, look to your right again, just within the trees, and you’ll see a little wooden house, and that’s where Ifor lives. He’s very old now, but he lives alone still.”
Cadfael thanked him and mounted.
“And for the other brother, Owain,” said the boy cheerfully, willing enough now to tell all he knew that might be helpful, “if you’re in these parts two more days you may catch him in Llansilin the day after tomorrow, when the commote court meets, for he has a dispute that was put oft from the last sitting, along with some others. The judges have been viewing the impleaded lands, and the day after tomorrow they’re to give judgment. They never like to let bad blood continue at the Christmas feast. Owain’s holding is well beyond the town, but you’ll find him at Llansilin church, sure enough. One of his neighbours moved his boundary stone, or so he claims.”
He had said more than he realised, but he was serenely innocent of the impression he had made on Brother Cadfael. One question, perhaps the most vital of all, had been answered without ever having to be asked.
Cynfrith ap Rhys—the kinship seemed to be so full of Rhyses that in some cases it was necessary to list three generations back in order to distinguish them—was easily found, and very willing to pass the time of day even with a Benedictine monk, seeing that the monk spoke Welsh. He invited Cadfael in heartily, and the invitation was accepted with pleasure. The house was one room and a cupboard of a kitchen, a solitary man’s domain, and there was no sign of any other creature here but Cynfrith and his goats and hens. A solid, thickset, prominent-boned Welshman was Cynfrith, with wiry black hair now greying round the edges and balding on the crown, and quick, twinkling eyes set in the webs of good-humoured creases common to outdoor men. Twenty years at least younger than his cousin in the infirmary at Shrewsbury. He offered bread and goat’s-milk cheese, and wrinkled, sweet apples.
“The good old soul, so he’s still living! Many a time I’ve wondered. He’s my mother’s cousin in the first degree, not mine, but time was I knew him well. He’ll be nearing four-score now, I suppose. And still comfortable in his cloister? I’ll send him a small flask of the right liquor, brother, if you’ll be so kind as to carry it. I distil it myself, it will stand him in good stead through the winter, a drop in season is good for the heart, and does the memory no harm, either. Well, well, and to think he still remembers us all! My brother? Oh, be sure I’ll pass on the word to Owain when I see him. He has a good wife, and grown sons, tell the old man, the elder, His, is to marry in the spring. The day after tomorrow I shall be seeing my brother, he has a judgment coming up at the commote court at Llansilin.”