‘And what is that?’ inquired Hubert.
‘Frodo will explain.’
‘Gladly,’ said the archdeacon, seasoned by the bishop’s habit of delegation and therefore always ready to step in when called upon. ‘Bishop Robert is turning his attention towards the founding of an abbey in the city.’
‘A worthy initiative!’ praised Hubert.
‘Where will it be?’ asked Idwal.
‘We are still at the early stages of discussion,’ said Frodo smoothly, ‘and there are many crucial issues still to be settled, but Bishop Robert is confident that an abbey will be established here in Chester in due course.’
‘I congratulate you, Bishop Robert,’ said Hubert.
‘Thank you,’ replied the bishop, ‘but, as Frodo has just indicated, there are still several difficulties to surmount.’
‘With regard to finance?’
‘That is only one area of contention.’
‘What are the others?’ asked Idwal bluntly.
‘Problems of personality are involved,’ said Frodo discreetly.
‘We have yet to win over the hearts and minds of significant people in the community.’
Idwal snorted. ‘That means Earl Hugh. You would need a battering ram to get through to his heart and mind. And then you will find that his heart is made of stone and his mind of even harder substance. Is he against the notion of an abbey?’
‘Far from it,’ explained Frodo. ‘The earl has given the idea his blessing in principle. It is when we address the practical details that dissension arises. But I am sure that all our differences can be reconciled in time. Who knows? When either of you visits us again, the Benedictine Abbey of St Werburga may well be playing an active part in the Christian life of this community.’
Hubert frowned. ‘Werburga?’ he said. ‘I am not familiar with the name or provenance of this saint.’
‘A Saxon nun,’ said Idwal disapprovingly.
‘Already commemorated in this city,’ said Frodo, ‘when her bones were brought here for safety over two hundred years ago. The abbey will be a refoundation of the church of secular canons dedicated to St Werburga.’
Hubert was curious. ‘Who was the lady?’
‘The daughter of Wulfhere, King of the Mercians. She first entered the nunnery of Ely before becoming the superintendent of all the nunneries in Mercia. Werburga was duly canonised,’
said Frodo knowledgeably ‘because her life was a shining example of Christian virtue and self-denial.’
‘That is not true,’ countered Idwal.
‘I believe you will find that it is,’ returned Frodo.
‘Werburga is unsuited to this honour.’
‘Why do you say that, archdeacon?’
‘Because I know her history better than you, Frodo.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘You only mentioned her father, King Wulfhere,’ noted the Welshman. ‘What you omitted was the name of her grandfather, King Penda, a notorious heathen who was responsible for the murder of St Oswald of Northumbria. Is the granddaughter of a repellent pagan fit to be enshrined in an abbey?’
‘Yes,’ said Frodo.
‘Without question,’ added Bishop Robert.
‘Werberga is a saint. She cannot be held responsible for the shortcomings of her grandfather. She is the natural choice here.
Besides,’ said Frodo, raising an eyebrow, ‘if the abbey is not founded in her name, to whom else can it be dedicated?’
‘St Deiniol,’ urged Idwal.
‘Who?’
‘St Deiniol.’
‘The name means nothing to me,’ said Hubert with a sniff.
‘And little enough to me,’ added the bishop.
‘Shame on you both!’ chided Idwal. ‘Your ignorance appals me though, I have to admit, it does not entirely surprise me. Even here on the border, you prefer to look over your shoulder to England rather than straight ahead into Wales.’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘St Deiniol was a Celtic monk and bishop.’
Hubert grimaced. ‘I had a feeling that he might be.’
‘He founded the two monasteries of Bangor Fawr, on the Menai Straits, and Bangor Iscoed, which — you may read in the pages of the Venerable Bede — was once the most famous monastery in these islands with no less than two thousand monks under its roof.’ His eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Will the Abbey of St Werburga attract that number?’
‘No,’ conceded Frodo honestly, ‘but times, alas, have changed since the days of St Deiniol.’
‘That is why his name should be preserved,’ argued the other, rising to his feet and striking a pose. ‘To remind us of an age when monastic life was held in such high regard. Those two thousand monks, incidentally, were routed at the Battle of Chester so there is a direct connection with this city. St Deiniol has another claim to our attention.’ He looked round the upturned faces of his companions. ‘Do you know what it is?’
‘No,’ sighed the bishop.
‘Not yet,’ said Frodo.
‘But we suspect that you are about to tell us,’ said Hubert with heavy sarcasm. ‘Whether we wish to hear the information or not.’
‘Be grateful, Hubert. I am educating you.’
‘That is not the word I would have chosen.’
‘Tell us about St Deiniol,’ encouraged Frodo.
‘It was he and St Dyfrig who persuaded St David to take part in the Synod of Brefi,’ announced their self-appointed teacher. ‘In other words, Deiniol was considered to be of comparable status with the blessed Dyfrig and the revered David. Those three bishops were nothing less than the triple pillars of the Welsh Church.’
He sat down again with a triumphant grin. ‘What do you think of that, Bishop Robert?’
‘We will hold fast to St Werburga,’ said the other.
‘St Deiniol has prior claims.’
‘St Werburga.’
‘Deiniol!’
‘Werburga!’
‘The Welsh bishop!’
‘The Saxon nun!’
‘Think again, Bishop Robert.’
‘The matter is decided.’
‘It is an act of madness.’
‘Then it is one with which we will have to live,’ said Frodo calmly, ending the argument with a benign smile. ‘We must agree to differ here, Archdeacon Idwal. You are entitled to your opinion, eccentric as it may be, but you can hardly expect to thrust your preferences upon us. How would it be if we were to cross the Welsh border and insist that your next monastic foundation be dedicated to St Werburga?’
‘There would be an armed uprising.’
‘Let the matter rest there.’
‘But I can save you from a catastrophic error.’
‘The catastrophic error was in inviting you here,’ said Hubert under his breath.
‘What was that?’ demanded Idwal, sensing hostility.
‘I was just wondering what brought you here,’ replied the canon through clenched teeth. ‘Since you espouse the cause of your nation with such vigour — not to say fanaticism — I am surprised that the Bishop of Llandaff allows you out of his diocese. Does he not have need of you there?’
‘I am no longer attached to Llandaff.’
‘Yet you are still an archdeacon.’
‘Yes, Hubert,’ said Idwal with pride, ‘but of an even nobler diocese. I was called by Bishop Wilfrid to work with him in St David’s.’
‘Then what are you doing in Chester?’
‘Fulfilling his wishes. Bishop Wilfrid enjoined me to visit all the English dioceses along the border with Wales in order to forge closer links with them. That is why I am here, my friends,’
he said, getting to his feet again and releasing his ear-splitting cackle of pleasure. ‘I have come to build bridges between the two nations.’
‘Bridges?’ gasped Bishop Robert.
‘Build them or burn them?’ muttered Hubert.
Idwal beamed. ‘See me as a peacemaker.’
It was a feat of perception beyond all three of them.
Ralph Delchard had to make a concerted effort simply to open one eye. It was several minutes before he could raise the second lid even a fraction. Both eyes throbbed in time with the pounding of his head. His stomach felt as if a herd of horses was stabled inside its inadequate space and his mouth was parched. In such a fragile state, he found that his memory was uncertain. All he knew was that he had drunk far too much, far too fast, at the banquet on the previous night. How he had got to his apartment he did not know, but one thing was clear. He needed to sleep for at least a week if he was to recover.