Authors: Ellis Peters
Monk's Hood (26 page)
But
it was a long story, of which they, here in this solitude and with their own
tranquil world undisturbed, knew not even the beginnings. Better say nothing.
He
rose before dawn and saddled his horse, taking the same track he had ridden two
days previously as far as the ford, where he had turned aside to cross the
tributary and make his way to Ifor’s house. This time he did not turn aside,
but rode
on into the valley of the Cynllaith, and crossed by a
wooden bridge. From there it was little more than a mile into Llansilin, and
the sun was up, veiled but bright. The village was wide awake, and full of
people, converging on the timber church. Every house in the neighbourhood must
have given shelter overnight to friends and kin from other parts of the
commote, for the normal population of this hamlet could be no more than a tenth
part of those met here on this day. Cadfael turned his horse into the paddock
by the churchyard, where there was a stone water-trough and peaceful grazing,
and joined the leisurely procession of men entering the church. Out in the
roadway he was conspicuous in his black Benedictine habit, the species being so
rare here, but within, he could be well hidden in a retired corner. He had no
wish to be noticed too soon.
He
was glad that Ifor ap Morgan did not appear among the elders who came to see
justice done, the duty of neighbours who knew the land and the people involved.
Better by far the testimony of these familiar and respected men than the legal
arguments of professional lawmen, though these, too, would be here in plenty.
Nor did he see Cynfrith ap Rhys until after the bench of three judges had taken
their places, and the first adjourned case was called. Then, when the plaintiff
was asked to stand forth with his guarantors on one side, Cadfael recognised
Cynfrith among his brother’s backers. Owain was the younger of the two, but
very like his brother. Hywel Fychan, the defendant, was a wiry, dark man of
belligerent aspect, with his own little cluster of witnesses at his back.
The
presiding judge gave the verdict of the bench. They had viewed the two disputed
holdings on the spot, and taken measurements to match with old charters. Their
judgment was that Hywel Fychan had indeed moved the corner boundary stone in
such a way as to filch some yards of his neighbour’s land, but they had also
found that Owain ap Rhys, more discreetly, and admittedly after he had discovered
the defendant’s fraud, had countered by shifting a whole length of fencing
between them by a cautious yard, adequately repaying himself for his loss. They
therefore decreed that
both marks should be restored to their
former positions, and amerced both parties by a negligible fine. Predictably,
Owain and Hywel clasped hands amicably enough in acceptance of the verdict; and
probably they would be drinking away together, later in the day, the excess of
their expected fines over those imposed. The game would be resumed next year.
Cadfael was familiar with the national sport.
There
were two more boundary disputes which had been awaiting a judgment arrived at
on the disputed land, the one settled amicably, the other accepted with some
bitterness by the losing party, but none the less accepted. There was a widow
who claimed a patch of land against her husband’s kin, and won her claim by the
testimony of no less than seven neighbours. The morning wore away, and Cadfael,
constantly looking over his shoulder towards the door, began to wonder if he
had been utterly mistaken in his reading of the probabilities. How if he had
interpreted all the signs wrongly? Then he had all to do again, and Edwin was
in genuine peril, and his only resort was Hugh Beringar, whose rule would end
when Gilbert Prestcote returned from the king’s Christmas.
The
grateful widow was withdrawing with her witnesses, flushed and happy, when the
door of the church opened wide. The light of day flowed across the crowded
assembly, and so remained for some minutes, as a numerous group entered the
nave. Cadfael looked round, as half those met there were also doing, and saw
Meurig advance into the open aisle, and there take his stand, with seven grave
elders at his back.
He
was wearing, Cadfael noted, the same cotte and hose in which he had always seen
him, no doubt his best, worn to the commote court as they were worn to visit
the abbey at Shrewsbury. His only other garment would be those he wore at work.
And the linen scrip hanging by its leather thongs from his belt was the same
Cadfael had seen on him at the infirmary, where he had laboured, certainly out
of kindliness and with nothing to gain, to coax the aches and pains out of an
old man’s rusty joints. Such scrips cost money, and are durable for many years.
Doubtful if he even owned another such.
“With
the court’s leave,” he said, and his voice was high and clear, “I have a plea
that will not wait.”
“We
were about to declare this sitting at an end,” said the presiding judge mildly.
“But we are here to serve. Declare yourself and your business.”
“My
name is Meurig, son of Angharad, daughter of Ifor ap Morgan, who is known to
all men here. By this same Angharad I am the son of Gervase Bonel, who held the
manor of Mallilie while he lived. I am here to advance my claim to that manor,
by reason of my birth, as the son, and the only child, of Gervase Bonel. I am
here to introduce testimony that that same land is Welsh land, and subject to
Welsh law, and that I am that man’s son, and the only child he ever engendered.
And by Welsh law I lay claim to Mallilie, for by Welsh law a son is a son,
whether born in or out of wedlock, provided only that his father has
acknowledged him.” He drew breath, and the pale, drawn lines of his face
sharpened yet further with tension. “Will the court hear me?”
The
shudder and murmur that rippled through the church caused even the dark timber
walls to quiver. The three on the bench stirred and peered, but kept their more
than human balance and calm. The president said with the same restraint: “We
must and will hear whoever comes with an urgent plea, however proffered, with
or without legal advice, but the cause
may involve adjournment
for proper procedure. On that consideration, you may speak.”
“Then
first, as to the land of Mallilie, here with me are four respected men, known
to all here, who hold land bordering the manor, and their boundaries between
them encircle nine-tenths of the manor lands. Only the remaining tenth touches
English soil. And all is on the Welsh side of the dyke, as all men know. I ask
my witnesses to speak for me.”
The
oldest said simply: “The manor of Mallilie is within the land of Wales, and
causes within it and concerning it have been tried by Welsh law within my
lifetime, on two occasions, even though the manor was in English hands. True it
is that some cases have also been heard in English court and by English law,
but Gervase Bonel himself twice preferred to plead in this court and by Welsh
law. I hold that Welsh law has never lost its right in any part of that land,
for whatever its ownership, it is part of the commote of Cynllaith.”
“And
we hold the same opinion,” said the second of the elders.
“That
is the view of you all?” asked the judge.
“It
is.”
“Is
there any present here who wishes to refute that opinion?”
There
were several, on the contrary, who spoke up in confirmation of it, one indeed
who recalled that he had been the party in dispute with Bonel on the last
occasion, over a matter of cattle straying, and had had his case heard in this
court, by a bench on which one of the present judges had sat with two others.
As doubtless the judge in question recalled without need of reminders.
“The
bench is in agreement with the witness of neighbours,” said the president,
having consulted his colleagues with hardly more than a glance and a nod.”
There is no question that the land involved is within Wales, and any plaintiff
advancing a claim on it is entitled to Welsh law if he desires it. Proceed!”
“As
to the second matter of substance,” said Meurig,
moistening
lips dry with tension, “I declare that I am the son of Gervase Bonel, his only
son, his only child. And I ask these who have known me from birth to testify to
my parentage, and any here who may also know the truth to speak up in support
of me.”
This
time there were many in the body of the church who rose in turn to confirm the
declaration of the elders: Meurig, son of Angharad, daughter of Ifor ap Morgan,
had been born on the manor of Mallilie, where his mother was a maidservant, and
it had been known to everyone before his birth that she was with child by her
lord. It had never been any secret, and Bonel had housed and fed the boy.
“There
is a difficulty here,” said the presiding judge. “It is not enough that the common
opinion should be that a certain man is father, for common opinion could be
mistaken. Even the acceptance of the duty of providing for a child is not in
itself proof of acknowledgement. It must be shown that the father has himself
acknowledged the child as his. That is the validation the kinship requires for
the admittance of a young man into full rights, and that is the validation
necessary before property can be inherited.”
“It
is no difficulty,” said Meurig proudly, and drew out from the bosom of his
cotte a rolled parchment. “If the court will examine this, they will see that
in this indenture, when I took up a trade, Gervase Bonel himself called me his
son, and set his seal to it.” He came forward and handed up the parchment to
the judges’ clerk, who unrolled and studied it.
“It
is as he says. This is an agreement between Martin Bellecote, master-carpenter,
of Shrewsbury, and Gervase Bonel, for the young man Meurig to be taken and
taught the whole craft of the carpenter and carver. A payment was made with
him, and a small allowance made to him for his keep. The seal is in order, the
young man is described as ‘my son.’ There is no doubt in the matter. He was
acknowledged.”
Meurig
drew breath deep, and stood waiting. The bench conferred in low and earnest
tones.
“We
are agreed,” said the president, “that the proof is irrefutable, that you are
what you purport to be, and have the
right to make claim upon
the land. But it’s known that there was an agreement, never completed, to hand
over the manor to the abbey of Shrewsbury, and on that ground, before the man’s
unfortunate death, the abbey placed a steward in the house to administer the
estate. A claim by a son, in these circumstances, must be overwhelmingly
strong, but in view of the complications it should be advanced through the
channels of law. There is an English overlord to be taken into account, as well
as such claims as the abbey may advance, by virtue of Bonel’s having shown his
intent even in an uncompleted agreement. You will have to bring formal suit for
possession, and we would advise that you brief a man of law at once.”
“With
respect,” said Meurig, paler and brighter than ever, and with hands cupped and
curled at his sides, as if he had already filled them with the desired and
coveted soil, “there is a provision in Welsh law by which I may take possession
even now, before the case is tried. Only the son may do so, but I am the son of
this man who is dead. I claim the right of dadanhudd, the right to uncover my
father’s hearth. Give me the sanction of this court, and I will go, with these
elders who uphold my claim, and enter the house which is mine by right.”
Brother
Cadfael was so caught into the intensity of this consuming passion that he
almost let the just moment slip by him. All his Welsh blood rose in helpless
sympathy with so strong a hunger and love for the land, which Meurig’s blood
would have granted him, but by Norman-English law his birth had denied him.
There was almost a nobility about him in this hour, and the bleak force of his
longing carried with him judges, witnesses, even Cadfael.
“It
is the court’s judgment that your claim is justified,” said the president
gravely, “and your right to enter the house cannot be denied you. For form’s
sake we must put it to this assembly, since no notice has been given
beforehand. If there is any here who has anything to raise an objection, let
him stand forward now, and speak.”
“Yes,”
said Cadfael, wrenching himself out of his daze
with a great
effort. “Here is one who has somewhat to say before this sanction is granted.
There is an impediment.”
Every
head turned to peer and crane and stare. The judges ranged the ranks looking
for the source of the voice, for Cadfael was no taller than the majority of his
fellow-countrymen, and even his tonsure could be matched by many here conferred
by time rather than a cloistered order. Meurig’s head had turned with a wild
start, his face suddenly fixed and bloodless, his eyes blank. The voice had
pierced him like a knife, but he did not recognise it, and for the moment was
too blind to be able to mark even the undulation of movement as Cadfael pushed
his way clear of the crowd to be seen.