Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

I

Urban sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. 'What's that stink?' he asked the pilot of his river boat.

The man grinned as he leaned on his sweep. 'Delicate and sensitive nose you have there, master clerk. It's a sign that your journey's coming to an end. Two more turns of the river and your voyage will be complete. Not mine of course. I'll load up with pig iron and carry on down to the river mouth. But that's what you can smell, boy. The wind's in the west and that's the stench of the bloomeries of Monmouth along the banks of the Wye. One of the sights of the March country they are, especially at night. Look like the mouths of hell they do, and stink as bad too, like the Devil's arse. Better get yourself packed up soon, young man. I want to be loaded up at the quay and ready to move on as soon as I can, there's a chance I can be in Chepstow port before sundown, so I want you out of my way.'

Urban obediently located his bags and horse harness, for his journey would not end at Monmouth, and one of his first jobs ashore was to buy or hire a suitable horse who would carry him onwards. The pilot's son, a youth a year or two younger than Urban, lifted his heavy bags with an easy contempt for their weight, his back muscles rippling. The boy was as usual casually naked, which distracted Urban more than it should have, especially as the youth had made it as clear as he could without naming a price that his tanned backside was as much for hire as his father's boat. The pilot in the meantime carried on with his travelogue, not apparently much concerned as to whether Urban or his son was listening.

'Course it's commerce, which is not something your Welsh understand. The ironworks here and down in Dean only grew up in old Earl Roger's days, him as was eventually sent back to France by the Conqueror for rebellion. He got the mines working and charcoal kilns set up all over Dean. Perfect set up. Ore, charcoal and water, all just in the right places a few miles from each other, which kept the production price down and quality high. The Welsh, stupid animals, had no idea. It's only when good Christian folk moved into the March that the opportunity was seized, and God has smiled on the enterprise.'

Urban felt obliged to correct the man, for it was a fact that his own father had been Welsh and had been a bishop, and had indeed died and was buried at Rome, the Holy See. How much more Christian could you be, even if he was not faithful to his vows of continence, a sin of which Urban was the consequence. 'Sir, the Welsh people may be as murderous and treacherous as many say, but they experience the same baptism and witness the same mass as all other Christians.'

The man snorted. 'You may well say so, master clerk, and I defer to your learning. But a bit of experience of real life will soon convince you otherwise of their nature. There is no more deceitful and murderous a race than the Welsh, as filthy as animals in a barn with a language like the barking of dogs or screeching of gulls. They don't live like Christians or civilised people. Their villages are filthy shacks without decent stone churches to honour God. Their children wander naked in the mud, boys and girls, even after they've gone through the change, and most of them never graduate to shoes when they grow up.'

'With all respect sir, I have yet to see your son other than completely naked and barefoot, and I assume you consider him a Christian boy.'

The man raised his eyes. 'Clothes are wasted on a ship's boy except in winter, and it's fine spring weather here isn't it? Talk sense, master clerk.'

Urban gave an inward sigh. Master Gregory, his old tutor at Worcester, had once said, 'the trick in using rhetoric in life, young Urbanus – and why learn it if it has no use in life – is to realise it is a game that only clever men can play with profit. It's not chess, which any fool can play, and there's nothing to win. But in the law courts arguing before the king's justices that's different. What you may win if you play well for your client are manors, forests, castles, rents, and the credit of being seen to be a man of wit, wisdom and depth, worthy of his fees. So keep your skill sharp for that arena, Urbanus. Never waste time arguing logic with a fool, for fools love fools and if he argues back, he's already taken you for one of his own.'

So Urban shrugged and murmured to the pilot, 'as you say, master.' Then he went off to find his bags again, which to his surprise he found the pilot's boy already carrying forward for him.

'Thank you, boy,' he said, with a smile and a nod, and then was more than a little taken aback to be enveloped in the ship boy's embrace and to find his mouth pressed against his own, as he was eagerly kissed and found the boy's warm wet tongue tangling with his.

The boy grinned as he broke away. 'That were telling the boring old cunt, master. Him and the Welsh. He don't know fuck. I got good Welsh friends on the river. Boys who smell nice and taught me to kiss just like that, and other good stuff.' He paused before adding shyly. 'And you remind me of them, sir. In looks and sweet smell both.'

Fuck. What did I turn down when this sexy and forward peasant boy offered himself? Urban said to himself, as he pressed a silver penny into the ship boy's dirty hand. But they were in the last bend of the river as they reached the long stretch to the town, and he saw the castle towers above the riverbank treetops, heard the priory's bells ringing the office hours, and saw columns of black smoke and steam belching from the riverside furnaces of Monmouth.

The town was busy, and not just around the chaotic enclosures of the iron foundry. Urban picked his way through the mounds of waste slag that had been dumped over the former river meadow behind the furnaces. Some heaps were still smoking and workers were dumping more waste, jostling Urban as they yelled to let them pass with their large iron barrows. Things were no less bustling when he reached the town street, though here the crowd was more military, gangs of soldiers outside taverns, some English, some French and some barefoot Welsh, chattering away in their language, but apart from a lack of shoes, showing no obvious sign of subhuman savagery.

Urban hauled his bags and saddle into a stable yard at the bottom of the slope that led up to the castle. He found the stablemaster and was regretfully informed that there was no possibility of renting a horse, '… not even a palfrey suitable for a young clerk like you, sir. Fact is the Lord Gilbert has been enlarging his garrison here after the bad news out of west Wales and has called in the stock options he had. Then there is Lord Richard fitz Gilbert passing through Monmouth on his way into the west to reclaim Ceredigion from the Welsh rebels. He took my last available stock. So … sorry. None of the other stables could help you either, I would expect.'

The stablemaster loaned him a servant lad to help him with his luggage and so he trudged uphill to the castle of Gilbert fitz Baderon of Monmouth, the local Marcher lord. He found the castle gate open, for there were yet several hours of daylight. Urban noted with interest the heraldry of the banners hung from the crenellations of the walls on either side of the gatehouse. They all featured the famous red chevrons of the noble house of Clare into which the lords of Monmouth had married, and of which their current guest, Richard fitz Gilbert, was the leader, a direct male descendant of Duke Richard the Old of Normandy and so a cousin of the king. Urban shook his head when he recalled the scolding he had got from Master Gregory when the old man caught him studying an armorial treatise. 'You were sent here by your reverend father to acquire useful knowledge, young man.'

Well. Monmouth Castle had just given him a perfect example of how power worked in his world. You turned to kin for security in troubled times. It occurred to Urban that he was not well provided that way. True, his father had been an outstanding bishop of the church of Glamorgan, politically adept enough to see the way the world was changing and so allying with the papal court, the English king and the archbishop of Canterbury to reinvent his diocese as a conventional Catholic see, with stone-built cathedral, canons, archdeacons and new protector saints. He had been mighty and ambitious enough to reclaim lands and revenues from his episcopal neighbours. But his death in Rome over a year before had left young Urban with no patron and few prospects. The new bishop, his cousin Uthred, was not going to do anything for his predecessor's son, though Urban through his father belonged to the allied clerical families who had for centuries ruled the church in Glamorgan and had claims on its resources. But under the new regime deacons, priests and bishops were not supposed to have families and children. So Bishop Uthred of Glamorgan might readily ignore the claims of Urban of Worcester, subdeacon and clerk, to churches and tithes in his diocese, at least until Urban might find a protector who could push his claims.

Now Urban's father had been an acute and experienced man of the world. He knew Uthred, his former archdeacon, all too well and had apparently concluded that he could set no store by any promises the man might make of future promotion to his underage son. So he had confided to Urban one surer means of advancement. The bishop had made several good friends amongst the more formidable of old King Henry's courtiers and had accumulated debts of gratitude over the past decade, and they were weighty enough that his son might well call them in to his advantage.

Urban slipped his hand inside his dark robe, and felt for the reassurance of the sharp corners of several folded parchment squares within his inner pocket. As he joined the line of suppliants queueing at the castle gate he pulled one out. The superscript read Vrbanus dei gratia episcopus Landavensis Miloni de Gloucestria vicecomiti et iusticiario regis in Marchiis Wallie. From it hung on a parchment tag the vesica shape in green wax of his father's great seal. This was his father's letter of introduction to King Henry's warden of the Welsh March which Urban had presented to Miles of Gloucester in the castle from which he took his name some months before, just after the new King Stephen had confirmed Miles in his wardenship. And the great man had welcomed him to his hall and offered him employment in his clerical chapel.

'The thing is, young Urban,' said the warden with a smile, 'I owe much of my success in dealing with the Welsh magnates of the southern March to your venerable and much regretted father. A great priest of God's church he was, and a splendid opponent in backgammon. So formidable indeed was he that I still owe him ten silver marks in gambling losses, which he asks in his letter that I pay on to you. And I will do so in memory of a good friend and in hopes that you will be as useful to me. So what I will also do is offer you a place in my household, with table privileges and livery. If you have only a tithe of your father's abilities, boy, you will be a great asset. You have French, Latin and English. Do you also have Welsh? Yes? Not surprising. Your father was a Welshman, though it was easy to forget that for he was educated and ordained at Worcester like you and the name he took as bishop was the papal name Urban. But for all he was educated in England he was baptised as Gwrgan ap Caradog, and your mother was Gwladus, of the noble Welsh house of Senghenydd. For what I have in mind for you, young Gwrgan ap Gwrgan, you have the perfect credentials.'

What the Lord Warden meant became clear over the next few weeks. There was an unmistakable subdued tension in the air in Gloucester castle. The castle and all his profitable offices were held by Miles at the king's pleasure. But the new king had not yet been on his throne for six months, and though he seemed to value Miles's support as one of the pillars of his late uncle's administration, he had favourites who were recruited from very different backgrounds than Miles and his colleagues, men more known for their high birth and military prowess than for their administrative ability. King Stephen had held his first ceremonial great court around Easter first at Westminster and later at Oxford only a week before. It was well-attended and it received assurances of the support of the pope and King Louis of France for Stephen's succession to his uncle. But Urban picked up from Miles's clerical household that Stephen had failed to charm some characters whose support would be crucial for him in the long term, notably the king's eldest bastard, Earl Robert, and Richard fitz Gilbert, the chief of the Clare clan.

And it was Richard fitz Gilbert who indirectly brought Urban to Monmouth Castle. He had been called before the Lord Warden after three weeks in Gloucester and finally discovered what he had been employed for. 'My boy,' Miles had said, 'you really are like your father, observant and cautious, a man who inhabits the background but misses nothing. So I have a mission for you where those skills will be very useful. I do not like what has been going on in the southern March this past six months. The Welsh of Cantref Bychan and Gower rebelled in the months before the old king died and inflicted a heavy defeat on the local English lords and the situation has not been retrieved there since. I suspect that a wider Welsh conspiracy is taking heart from that English reverse. This is where your father would have been invaluable to me, for I suspect the Welsh lords of Glamorgan are contemplating joining the insurrection. Earl Robert, the old king's bastard, is lord of English Glamorgan and in the last ten years has dispossessed many Welsh landlords in the province forgetting that they do have an independent Welsh lord to appeal to. That is Morgan ab Owain, the young lord of Machen, where he has built himself a rather formidable castle, and who sent me a letter only the other day where his clerk described him as Morganus filius Oweni rex Morgannuc et Gwentiae, King of Glamorgan and Gwent, your father's diocese in fact. Do you know of this Morgan? I rather suspect that you are related to him through your mother.'

Urban gulped. 'Yes, my lord. All know him as the grandson of the great Caradog ap Gruffudd, King of Glamorgan, Gwent and Deheubarth, who was powerful enough to exclude the Conqueror from the borders of Wales, until he was murdered by his Welsh rivals in the year 1081. You suspect Morgan is intent on reclaiming his grandfather's kingdom of South Wales?'

'That is my nightmare, Urban. Earl Robert has unfortunately helped him onwards by alienating his own Welsh subjects in Glamorgan who will turn to the lord of Machen for protection. I tried to frustrate Morgan's onward progress by old King Henry's favourite method of dealing with over-powerful Welsh kings: I had an interview with Morgan's younger brother Iorwerth and sounded him out about making a bid for his brother's lands and offering him mercenary support for a campaign. But the man just laughed in my face, and coolly said that those fratricidal methods only work in Powys and Gwynedd with stupid … what was his word? Oh yes, Gogleddwyr.'

Urban was impressed. 'You said that right, my lord. It means "Northerners" and it's not complimentary.'

The Warden scowled. 'He explained to me patiently, and indeed with some amusement, that in Glamorgan the custom was for a king to nominate one of his kin as his edling, or designated heir, and that Iorwerth had been named as his brother's edling, and also his … penteulu, which I recognise as the title of the commander of the king's military household. Damn it. A perfect position in which to manage his brother's assassination. But not in this case, it seems.'

The Warden went on to detail his concerns. The new king had undermined Miles's position by commissioning other barons to deal with the Welsh piecemeal. So a well-born Herefordshire nonentity called John fitz Harold had been given money and troops to curb the rebels in Brycheiniog, and a young relative of the king's new favourite, the French count Waleran of Meulan, had been sent to recover Gower. 'And that's where the danger lies, lad. Waleran is arrogant, entitled and recognises no limits to his ambitions. The king has betrothed his infant daughter to him and I believe your old stamping grounds of Worcester have been awarded to Waleran as an English earldom. The earl of Warwick who is the lord of Gower is his cousin and the earl of Leicester is his twin brother. And then of course there are the Clares.'

'The Clares, sir?'

'They are the most powerful aristocratic grouping in England, and they act in lockstep with their chief, Richard fitz Gilbert. Add their weight to the Meulan faction and Waleran of Meulan would control the kingdom, and Waleran has in fact already married his sister to Richard's brother. King Stephen should already be nervous about the man. I hear from my very well-placed London agents that Waleran is to be created lieutenant and regent of Normandy to get him out of the kingdom, a rather devious move which I would credit to Stephen's queen, a very smart woman. If Waleran fails in the difficult job of securing the duchy for Stephen he might be in a position to be discredited by her. But in the meantime, the Clares. My size of enemy.'

'Yes, sir?

'You are going to go from Gloucester into the March to scout out Richard fitz Gilbert's intentions, so far as you can discern them. You will head this afternoon over to Castle Goodrich and there you will pick up a river barge which will take you down the Wye to Monmouth, where the Clare ally, Gilbert fitz Baderon, is lord and currently hosting his brother-in-law Richard after his recent undistinguished visit to King Stephen's Easter Crown-Wearing. You will carry a letter of introduction from me to Lord Richard which will get you entry to his retinue and you will travel with him and collect information, which you will pass on to my local agents and which they will transmit on to me. I will give you names. Do you understand, Urban?'

The door of the castle hall at Monmouth was monitored by a porter, with a rod of office. Urban had cause to wince at the sight. Porters were notorious for exploiting the power of access to the great of the world their office gave them. Adolescent males attempting to gain access to the table and the adult world of conversation and power, as well as a good meal, were their favourite victims. Only silver eased the perilous passage the porter could close on a whim.

But one of the other folded squares of parchment kept safely in his gown gave Urban all the confidence he needed. When challenged by the porter he identified himself as 'Urban of Worcester, clerk and messenger of the Lord Warden of the Marches,' and presented his lord's letter addressed thus Milo de Gloucestria custos Marchie Wallie Ricardo filio Gilberti domino de Tonbrigg' et Clara. It didn't matter whether the porter could read it. The round red wax seal swinging from its tag, with its image of Miles in armour on his warhorse carrying the banner that signified his office of royal constable carried all the authority Urban represented. And the porter bowed respectfully to the seal as if it were the Lord Miles himself, as he was indeed required to. A minion was delegated to escort Urban from the door to Lord Richard's chief clerk and then to seat him appropriately at one of the hall's side tables.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Urban took the indicated seat at one of the middle tables in the hall, below the tables for the knights and higher officers, but nonetheless reserved for men of note, clerks and lesser officers. Urban slipped the minion two silver pennies in acknowledgement of his courtesy, thinking perhaps one of them might end up in the porter's grasping paw, which would probably be politic for the future.

Urban looked around and found himself in a reasonably good position to survey the hall, and then with a jolt he met the eyes of his table companion opposite. They were blue, sharp and intelligent and the young man's face in which they were set was of a beauty far beyond the average, 'godlike' was the word that suggested itself to an instantly smitten Urban, and he was flattered to see that those beautiful eyes were surveying him with considerable interest. But who was to speak first. That depended on their respective standing, their learning, positions and lineage, and the idiot minion had not had the sense or the kindness to introduce them. What a waste of tuppence.

The merry look on the face of the youth opposite reassured Urban that he was amused rather than embarrassed. 'Well sir,' he said in English with a distinct Welsh accent, 'I am sorry I do not know your name, but I would think you are a clerk in orders and a man of some education, if not any particular taste in clothing, which bespeaks a certain poverty appropriate to your age, which I would calculate as being seventeen or eighteen years and your nation as probably a Briton. So to avoid any further embarrassment, let me introduce myself as Morgan the Latimer, that is the latimarius or official translator of Lord Richard fitz Gilbert in his dealings with our compatriots, ein cydwladwyr Prydain.'

Morgan's expression encouraged a smile on Urban's own face and so he introduced himself in Welsh and confirmed Morgan's suppositions about him. 'But how did you know I was Welsh?'

The smile vanished. 'I didn't say "Welsh". Not a word I ever use, young Urban. It's an English name imposed on our people, who are properly called "Britons" and have been since before Julius Caesar landed on our shores. For we are the rightful inhabitants and lords of these islands of Britain, and maybe will be so once again.'

Urban did not detect any real annoyance with him, so he observed mildly, 'And have you explained this to your lord Richard?'

'Cheeky asshole,' guffawed Morgan. 'I like you Urban. But you wanted to know how I know we were of one and the same nation. It's a simple skill of recognising physiognomy, you have a British face, and your dark hair has a British curl to it. It's distinctive and very attractive too, I would say. Let me go further. It's part of my job to know all those who are anyone in south Wales, and I happen to know that the late Bishop Gwrgan of Glamorgan had a son called also Gwrgan, who was sent to Worcester cathedral for his education and would now be seventeen and probably calling himself Urban, as his father did.'

'I am he,' Urban admitted.

'Good,' smiled Morgan, 'for we are cousins. Your mother Gwladus was of the family of Senghenydd, a very honourable house, if not royal, but to whom I too am related. Her father, your grandfather Meurig, was of the royal kin of Deheubarth as am I. Good, we are family. And I can freely like you.'

Urban was beginning to realise his new friend was as interested in him as had been the ship-boy on the Wye, but Morgan was more socially possible than that forward boy-whore had been, what with the stink of sweat and bodily wastes that clung around his slim, brown, muscular body and the dirt ingrained in his hands and feet and under his finger- and toenails. Still, his mind leapt to recall that wonderful kiss he and the ship-boy had shared on the boat, and his penis reacted accordingly. His mind also registered that he was getting more and more evidence he was attractive to other boys. Perhaps he was himself growing to be a beautiful youth. The lack of mirrors in his life deprived him of some of the evidence he needed to confirm that suspicion, but his seductiveness to others was itself a mirror.

When he came out of his narcissistic moment, he found that Morgan was looking a query at him. He scrambled to remember why he was in Monmouth and recalled he was looking for information, and was sitting opposite a very well-informed youth who was doing his best to charm him. He narrowed his eyes. 'Tell me about the people on the dais, Morgan.'

The youth shrugged. 'You'll recognise Gilbert of Monmouth as he has the big chair in the centre. The monk next to him is the prior of Monmouth, a Frenchman from Saumur, the mother house. He's reading out your master's missive to Richard fitz Gilbert himself, who is not litteratus. And he's passing it on to that formidable scarred old soldier who is Brian fitz Count of Wallingford, here in Gwent to put the Three Castles of Grosmont, Skenfrith and White Castle in defence. Brian may be a warrior but he's also litteratus, which was the way King Henry, his old master, liked them to be. He arrived here just before my lord, Richard fitz Gilbert, and I wonder if it's a coincidence.'

'Really? Why?'

'Hmm? Oh, it's all about loyalty I would think.'

'What does that mean, Morgan?'

The Welsh boy's grin turned a little sarcastic. 'I suspect you may guess, little clerk. Anyway, those are the people of note on the top table. Will you be staying on here, Urban?'

'Er … I think the letter I carried requested Lord Richard to let me join his entourage if he was marching on to Cardigan, for I carry further letters from the Lord Warden to the Welsh lords of Powys and Gwynedd.'

'Oh. Well, there is spare bedding in the tower where they put me. You're welcome to join me. You smell nicer than any Frenchman or Saxon. I don't snore, my bedmates tell me.'

As Urban settled next to Morgan that night and tried to ignore the naked body snoozing beside him, he tried out in his head several words which described the role Miles of Gloucester had picked out for him. There was Latin where explorator or speculator would do. French of course had espion, one who observed secretly. English and Welsh had no equivalents he knew of, though English people had borrowed the French word and no doubt the Welsh would do so too. And what did that say about the innate treachery of the various peoples of the British Isles? Underhandedness was engrained in the Latin languages. He internally voted in the end for speculator, one who reflected on what he observed. It sounded more respectable than 'spy'.