Duncan shook his head in wonder.
“They still think they’re immune to invasion,” he said. “Unbelievable.”
“Who would attack them now?” Urric asked. “Everyone knows that Saint Wilfrid and Saint Cuthbert protect the whole town. What else could have saved them from King Malcolm and then King David but a miracle?”
Duncan spat his derision.
“Sudden fog and flood in this land are no more miraculous than the sun coming up,” he said. “If Malcolm’s army had been kept away by a rain of frogs, I might give some credence to it.”
Urric was silenced, but unconvinced. Hexham had twice been spared destruction by the Scots because of its devotion to Wilfrid and Cuthbert and that’s all there was to it. Anyone could see where the line of devastation ended. All the same, the soldier was impressed by Duncan’s skepticism. This was a man who would let nothing keep him from what he wanted, not even the power of the saints. Urric had no intention of damning himself along with his
lord, but there might be a way of grabbing some of the spoils for himself before it was time to repent.
Edgar was looking around, as if searching for someone.
“I keep expecting to see Æthelræd here,” he told his uncle. “This is his home. You remember your namesake, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, boy,” Æthelræd answered. “Only he calls himself Aelred, now that he’s become a Cistercian.”
“Aelred?” Edgar’s lips tightened. “Another concession to a people who won’t bother to learn to pronounce the
eth
.”
Æthelræd laughed. “What of it? It may be that he just likes the name better. He’s become a new man with his conversion to the monastic life. Why shouldn’t he have a new name, as well, easier for the French monks to pronounce? You’ve been gone too long, Edgar.”
“Yes.” Edgar sighed. “It seems I have. Still, I miss him, whatever he calls himself. He might be able to help us. Æthelr … Aelred always knew all the gossip. Perhaps Robert should go see him. They were always such devoted friends. I can’t believe he’s changed that much.”
Æthelræd considered this. “I agree someone should speak to him,” he said. “But not Robert. They had some sort of falling out when Aelred decided to become a monk. Robert won’t speak of it, but since then, he’s not been back to court. He stays on his lands and devotes himself to his crops and his dogs. If we have no luck here in discovering the answer to this, I’ll ask your father to send us down to Rievaulx to talk to Aelred.”
“Edgar!” The voice so close startled them both.
Edgar’s head came up. “Yes, Father.”
“We’re almost at the priory,” Waldeve called back to him. “Get up here. I want someone to talk to these canons in their own language. Earn your keep, boy! Spout some Latin! Let them know we’re not illiterate
neyfs
that they can fool with fancy speech.”
“Certainly, Father,” Edgar answered. Beneath his breath he muttered, “‘Spout some Latin!’ Do you want words at random or maybe a whole sentence? You wouldn’t know the difference, you old
irrumator.”
Grumbling all the while, Edgar obeyed his father. He dismounted and pounded the iron knocker on the priory gate.
The door was opened and Edgar scowled at the friendly smile of
a canon of about his own age whose expression changed swiftly to alarm. Hurriedly, Edgar regained his composure.
“My apologies,” he said. “I am Edgar, the son of Lord Waldeve. We understand that some horses belonging to our family were left here.”
“Ah, yes,” the man answered. “I’m the porter here. My name is Meldred.”
Meldred. A good English name. Edgar continued in that tongue.
“In that case, Meldred, my father would like to speak with you.”
Meldred opened the door all the way.
“Of course, with Prior Richard’s permission,” he answered. “But you and your party will need to rest and wash first, I’m sure. We don’t have space to house you all here, but perhaps somewhere in the town?”
“I believe that my father would prefer information at once,” Edgar answered. “Is the prior available?”
The porter thought. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “He may be working on his history but I know he’d understand the need for the interruption.”
He looked over Edgar’s shoulder at the troop of men, so obviously related and all so large and well armed.
“Perhaps just you and your father could come in?” he asked timidly. “So many would disturb the peace of the cloister, especially with the horses. You can see how little space we have. We had to take our own horses out of the stable to care for yours.
“Of course,” the canon added as they waited for Waldeve to dismount and join them, “we thought at first that the horses were a gift.”
His voice rose in hope, but Edgar knew better than to assume his father would donate three good war horses for the use of clerics. The priory would be lucky if he gave them even a part of their worth as alms.
Waldeve did not appear in a benevolent mood as he strode through the gate. The porter had some trouble staying ahead of him as they headed for the prior’s residence.
“We’ve fed and groomed them, my lords,” he told them. “It’s been years since I’ve seen such fine horses. Raised in Durham, were they?”
Waldeve shut him up with a look.
“How did you know they were mine?” he snapped.
“The bridle, Lord,” Meldred stammered. “By the crest on the silver. I come from Wedderlie. I can see you don’t remember me. I’m one of Alfred’s grandsons. I knew that it belonged to one of your sons.”
He nodded at Edgar. Waldeve growled.
“Not this one,” he barked. “Alexander. Murdered, with his brother and son. Now, tell me, how did my horses get here? Who did this?”
Meldred was beginning to feel as if between the jaws of a mastiff. He cringed inside his robe and backed into the priory.
“Perhaps Prior Richard would be the one to speak to,” he quavered.
But Waldeve wasn’t ready to let him go.
“Was it you who found them?”
The canon shook his head as if shivering.
“No, Lord,” he insisted. “It was the sacristan, come to light the candles for Matins.”
“Bring him to me at once.”
“Lord, this is his hour of meditation …” Meldred began.
Waldeve roared. “Bring him to me now or you can meditate on the toe of my boot up your ass!”
Meldred backed away quickly. As he scurried through the doorway to the churchyard Edgar murmured to him.
“Remember, the meek shall inherit the earth.”
Meldred paused and shook his head.
“Only six feet of it, I fear,” he answered.
Waldeve snorted as he left.
“I’ve no use for clean-shaven men,” he muttered. “Including, you, Edgar. You’re not a monk. You should grow your mustache like a proper Saxon. Now where in hell is that prior? You’d think he’d have come out to see what the noise was, if nothing more. Useless, the lot of them.”
“Perhaps not so much as you think.”
Waldeve froze, then turned around slowly. Prior Richard was standing directly behind him.
The prior was almost as tall as Waldeve and his glare nearly as angry.
“I understand you come to apply for my position.” Prior Richard spoke between clenched teeth.
“What are you babbling about?” Waldeve shouted back at a distance of three inches from the prior’s nose.
“Your orders to my porter could be heard from here to Edinburgh.” Richard’s voice rose to match Waldeve’s. “Who are you to tell my people what to do? You have no right even to enter without my permission!”
Waldeve stopped. He didn’t like being attacked unawares. He was the one with the grievance. He tried to take back the offensive.
“I’m after the men who ambushed my sons, you arrogant ass!” he said.
Now Prior Richard was confused. “Meldred told me that a force of Scots had arrived to retrieve the horses that were left with us.”
“And so we have,” Waldeve motioned Edgar to him.
Edgar came forward cautiously. He didn’t know this man. The prior in his day had been old Canon Asketill, a seasoned administrator who never needed to raise his voice.
“Prior Richard.” He deliberately spoke softly so that the man would have to concentrate on his words. “My father, Lord Waldeve, is devastated by the loss of my brothers. He believes you know something of the men who killed them. Forgive his outbursts.”
The prior made a visible effort to throw off his anger.
“I see,” he said and took a deep breath. “I was unaware that you had come, personally, to investigate this. We all grieve for your loss and will pray for your family. I am sorry that Meldred didn’t make the matter clear to me. You shouldn’t have been made to wait.”
Waldeve might be tyrannical and nasty but he was not ill bred. He accepted the apology graciously.
“An understandable mistake,” he said. “We shall not speak of it again.”
The prior led them to his room.
“I’ve sent for wine and food for you,” he told them. “And I can send some ale to refresh your retainers, if you’ll permit.”
“They can drown in it, if they like,” Waldeve said. “They won’t be needed today. Have them set up a camp. We’ll go no farther until I have reached the heart of this matter.”
“Father,” Edgar whispered. “I don’t think Duncan and Æthelræd appreciate being left outside.”
“Hie
hie fulbrecon mœgon,”
Waldeve answered.
Edgar suspected that both of them could, but not in public. However, it was clear that his father didn’t want either man sent for.
They settled themselves with cups of wine and a platter of fruit and bread.
Prior Richard opened his mouth to speak but Waldeve stopped him.
“I don’t want to hear any more expressions of sympathy,” he said. “And yes, I’ll make a donation to the priory for the rest of their souls, but not of land, you hear. I’ll think of something. But not now. Just tell me what you know.”
The prior accepted the rebuke with dignity.
“There’s little enough to tell, my lord,” he said. “It’s a mystery to us. The gates had been barred for the night, and as you have seen, the church is within the walls. My sacristan came in before dawn and found the horses. He thought that perhaps they belonged to Saints Wilfrid and Cuthbert and that it was a sign that we were about to be invaded again.”
Waldeve started to say what he thought of that, then changed his mind. He motioned for the prior to continue.
“That’s all I can tell you,” Richard went on. “He was soon convinced that they were not from heavenly realms. They had been well fed, the only mark on them was the cropping. And we have cared for them well, while they were in our charge.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Waldeve said, then stopped. “The what?”
Prior Richard seemed puzzled. “Didn’t the messenger tell you? Their tails and manes had been sheared off, almost to the skin.”
Waldeve leapt up, knocking over the wine and splattering it on the monk’s robe.
“Edgar!”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Talk to him. Get the whole story. I’m going to see to my horses.”
With that Waldeve left the room, leaving Edgar wondering how to begin.
“Prior Richard—”
“Don’t apologize for him,” Richard interrupted, wiping the wine off with his hands. “He’s not the worst, not at all. These are wicked times and men become hard to survive them. I am accustomed to their brusque behavior.”
“Nevertheless,” Edgar continued, “my father believes ‘hoc voluit,
sic
jubet, sit pro ratione voluntas.’
I’ve been away from home a long time. I had forgotten how much a lord he is.”
Prior Richard smiled. “I haven’t read Juvenal in years. So you think that your father makes his own laws?”
“At Wedderlie, it is his justice that prevails,” Edgar said. “It’s destroying him that he can’t find any for my brothers. Those who killed them aren’t acting according to custom or tradition. If my brothers had been killed for profit, then their bodies would have been stripped. If for revenge, then their heads would have been taken, and the horses and weapons considered honorable booty. This has no logic. It’s as if someone were taunting him. Was there anything, any message attached to the horses when they were found?”
The prior shook his head slowly. “Nothing that I could see. I have no idea, unless the fact of their being brought here is a sign. But I don’t recall your family having anything to do with Hexham.”
Edgar shook his head. “The family doesn’t, apart from a few bequests in my grandfather’s day. But when I was studying at the cathedral at Durham, sometimes my friend, Æthelræd, would bring me here to visit. It was when his father still lived. I was very fond of old Eilaf.”