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they met, and in particular the way he halted yet again
before reaching the lodging, and turned to look after her, suggested that he
was in awe of her rather than the other way round, and she had some grievance
she was unwilling to give up. She had not raised her eyes to look at him, nor
broken the vehement rhythm of her gait. He came on more slowly, perhaps to
reassemble his dignity before entering to the strangers.
    “Goodday,
Brothers, and welcome!” he said from the threshold. “I trust my daughter has
looked after your comfort well?”
    That
established at once the relationship between them. It was stated with
considered clarity as if some implied issue was likely to come up for
consideration, and it was as well it should be properly understood. Which might
well be the case, seeing this man was undoubtedly tonsured, in authority here,
and a priest. That, too, he chose to state plainly: “My name is Meirion, I have
served this church for many years. Under the new dispensation I am a canon of
the chapter. If there is anything wanting, anything we can provide you, during
your stay, you have only to speak, I will see it remedied.”
    He
spoke in formal English, a little hesitantly, for he was obviously Welsh. A
burly, muscular man, and handsome in his own black fashion, with sharply cut
features and a very erect presence, the ring of his cropped hair barely salted
with grey. The girl had her colouring from him, and her dark, brilliant eyes,
but in her eyes the spark was of gaiety, even mischief, and in his it gave an
impression of faint uneasiness behind the commanding brow. A proud, ambitious
man not quite certain of himself and his powers. And perhaps in a delicate
situation now that he had become one of the canons attendant on a Norman
bishop? It was a possibility. If there was an acknowledged daughter to be
accounted for, there must also be a wife. Canterbury would hardly be pleased.
They assured him that the lodging provided them was in every way satisfactory,
even lavish by monastic principles, and Mark willingly brought out from his
saddle-roll Bishop Roger’s sealed letter, beautifully inscribed and
superscribed, and the little carved wood casket which held the silver cross.
Canon Meirion drew pleased breath, for the Lichfield silversmith was a skilled
artist, and the work was beautiful.
    “He
will be pleased and glad, of that you may be sure. I need not conceal from you,
as men of the Church, that his lordship’s situation here is far from easy, and
any gesture of support is a help to him. If you will let me suggest it, it
would be well if you make your appearance in form, when all are assembled at
table, and there deliver your errand publicly. I will bring you into the hall
as your herald, and have places left for you at the bishop’s table.” He was
quite blunt about it, the utmost advantage must be made of this ceremonious
reminder not simply from Lichfield, but from Theobald and Canterbury, that the
Roman rite had been accepted and a Norman prelate installed in Saint Asaph. The
prince had brought up his own power and chivalry on one side, Canon Meirion
meant to deploy Brother Mark, inadequate symbol though he might appear, upon
the other. “And, Brother, although there is no need for translation for the
bishop’s benefit, it would be good if you would repeat in Welsh what Deacon
Mark may say in hall. The prince knows some English, but few of his chiefs
understand it.” And it was Canon Meirion’s determined intent that they should
all, to the last man of the guard, be well aware of what passed. “I will tell
the bishop beforehand of your coming, but say no word as yet to any other.”
    “Hywel
ab Owain already knows,” said Cadfael.
    “And
doubtless will have told his father. But the spectacle will not suffer any
diminution by that. Indeed, it’s a happy chance that you came on this of all
days, for tomorrow the royal party is leaving to return