Geoffrey knocked on the gate and asked for an audience with Mabon’s successor. The lay-brother took one look at the Crusader’s cross on Geoffrey’s surcoat and asked whether he would mind waiting outside while he went to see whether Ywain was available. Fortunately, Delwyn happened to be passing.
‘It is all right,’ he told the lay-brother. ‘It is the King’s messenger – the one who was ordered to escort me safely home. Follow me, Sir Geoffrey. I shall conduct you to Ywain.’
‘How did your monastery receive the news about the death of Abbot Mabon?’ asked Geoffrey as they went, to gauge the level of the apology he would have to offer.
Delwyn shrugged. ‘Well, they were vexed at having to buy a coffin – the one you provided is now too full of arrow holes to go in our vault – but one of the lay-brothers offered to run us up a cheap one, so the expense will not be too great.’
Geoffrey was not sure how to reply to such an observation and said nothing.
‘Ywain is praying over the corpse,’ Delwyn went on. ‘But he will be glad of an excuse to do something else for a while, so do not feel you are intruding on his grief.’
He was right: Ywain leapt to his feet when Delwyn introduced Geoffrey, and shot out of the church with indecent haste. He was a short man with a shock of white hair. Delwyn was unimpressed when Ywain ordered him to take his place by Mabon’s bier.
‘But I have been minding the thing for days,’ he objected. ‘I have no prayers left!’
‘Then you will have to use your imagination,’ said Ywain tartly. ‘I am Abbot now, and you must do as I say.’
He was gleeful as Delwyn stalked inside the chapel with a face as black as thunder.
‘I cannot abide that man, and he will not have the liberties he enjoyed when Mabon was in power. I shall see to that.’
‘I am sorry Mabon is dead,’ began Geoffrey. ‘Especially as he died in my home.’
‘Delwyn said he was poisoned,’ said Ywain. ‘Nasty stuff, poison. Very indiscriminate. I doubt anyone would have wanted to murder Mabon, so you should ask yourself whether it was a case of mistaken identity.’
Geoffrey stared at him. Could he be right? Had the poison been intended for someone else?
‘Sit with me on this wall,’ ordered Ywain, after he had instructed the lay-brother to bring them cups of warmed ale. ‘I feel the need for fresh air after being closeted with that reeking corpse, and you do not look like a man who objects to being outside.’
When they were seated, Geoffrey handed him the letter, careful to ensure it was the one bearing Mabon’s name and the green circle.
‘I am sure Delwyn told you about this,’ he said. ‘Mabon declined to take it when I tried to pass it to him at Goodrich, and then he died…’
‘Mabon was not a man for reading,’ said Ywain, breaking the seal. ‘I dealt with all his correspondence, which is why I was elected his successor. Delwyn thought the honour should fall to him, but none of us likes the man. But what is this? This epistle is not addressed to Mabon – it is for that scoundrel Bishop Wilfred!’
‘Mabon’s name is on the outside,’ said Geoffrey, after a brief moment of panic. And there was the green circle that Eudo had drawn to represent Mabon; Wilfred’s epistle was the fat one.
Ywain grimaced. ‘Yes, it is, but obviously the King’s clerk made an error, because it is addressed to Wilfred on the inside. It is about St Peter’s Church and says that, from now on, all tithes and benefits will go to La Batailge instead of to him! Hah! The old devil will be livid. You had better make sure he gets it.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, a quick glance telling him that Ywain was right. He could not imagine the Bishop would be pleased that his enemy should have perused it first.
‘If you have one for Wilfred, too, then you had better give it to me,’ said Ywain gleefully. ‘The clerk will have confused them – so that the one for him will actually be for us.’
Geoffrey was unwilling to risk it. ‘It is more likely that Eudo forgot to include yours at all.’
Ywain scowled. ‘If you do give the other letter to Wilfred, and it does transpire to be to me, I shall not be amused. In fact, I shall write to the King and order you boiled in oil.’
‘Please do not,’ said Geoffrey tiredly. ‘He might do it.’
Ywain made an impatient gesture. ‘Eudo is not very efficient. He is one of those men who has risen higher than his abilities should have allowed, and he has made mistakes before. Do you know the kind of fellow?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Geoffrey.
‘The court is full of them,’ Ywain went on bitterly. ‘All Normans, who itch to see an end to Welsh foundations like this one, and want a Benedictine or Cistercian house established here instead. With a Norman abbot. Our days are numbered.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey.
Ywain shrugged. ‘Delwyn thinks we should ingratiate ourselves with the King – he went to court to try – but it was a waste of time. Our only hope is to support Hywel in all things, because he will not let a Welsh monastery be supplanted by Normans.’
‘He seems a good man.’
‘He is an excellent man – even better than William, and he was a saint. William was inclined to think nice things about people, whereas Hywel is more realistic and knows that people have human failings. We are safer with Hywel than we were with William.’
‘Do you know anything about William’s secret?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ replied Ywain. ‘He mentioned it to me when it first happened to him – he needed to consult a priest, you see, and I was the best one available. But it pleased me to see all those greedy Normans scrabbling around for it, so I have never confided in anyone else.’
‘Will you tell me?’
‘No,’ said Ywain. ‘Why should I?’
Geoffrey hesitated.
‘Oh, all right, then,’ said Ywain, giving him a playful jab in the ribs. ‘Your surcoat says you are a Jerosolimitanus, so you must be a decent soul.’
Geoffrey was bemused by the Abbot’s capitulation. He wondered whether he was about to be regaled with a story that would make him look silly when he investigated it.
‘And now you will not believe me,’ said Ywain, reading his thoughts. ‘Perhaps I should keep it to myself then, as I have done for the past seven years. It has been great fun watching everyone scrabble to learn the secret, but I am bored with the spectacle now. It would give me great satisfaction to share it.’
Geoffrey regarded him uncertainly. ‘Does anyone else know you have it?’
‘Of course not; the likes of Richard, Sear, Edward, Delwyn, and Pulchria would have used violence to make me tell.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Geoffrey. He thought about what Mabon had believed. ‘Did William have a vision? When he was near the river?’
‘Yes,’ said Ywain emphatically. ‘Of the Blessed Virgin. And when she had gone, she left a statue of herself behind. William never showed it to me, but he said he had put it in a safe place.’
‘And that was his secret?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘A statue?’
‘A statue from the hands of Our Holy Mother herself,’ corrected Ywain. ‘A big one.’
‘As a priest, you must have been interested in seeing it?’ asked Geoffrey, not sure he believed him.
Ywain screwed up his face. ‘Well, I considered asking for a peek, but William became rather holy after he set eyes on it, and I did not want the same thing to happen to me. I was tempted to tell Wilfred, though, because I would not mind seeing him cursed with sanctity. But it was more amusing to keep the tale to myself.’