Pilgrims by Matthew Kneale

Author:Matthew Kneale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atlantic Books

CHAPTER EIGHT

Iorwerth

I don’t know what you’re fussing about, Iorwerth, you’ll all say. What could ever be wrong with a gift? A gift is kindness and love. A gift warms the heart. So it can be, I’ll answer, but a gift can also be a chain that binds a man and drags him down. Accept that gift, feel it in your hand, and straight away you’re a debtor with a new shadow cast over you, of your own bad conscience. Who knows where that gift may lead you?

Of course I’m not saying all gifts are trouble. The first I took that mattered was given sweetly enough and wanted little back from me, though it set me on the way to all the rest. It was given to me by Uncle Rhodri. My father was a blacksmith and not a rich one, but Uncle Rhodri had married well and owned a herring salting yard in our town, Llan Ffagan Fach. Uncle Rhodri always had a soft spot for me, perhaps because he had no sons himself, only daughters, and he’d often tell my father, ‘Your boy Iorwerth has a quick head on his shoulders. That shouldn’t be wasted.’ Till one day he made sure it wasn’t, and put in a word with the Bishop of Bangor, who was a cousin of his wife’s. So I said my tearful farewells to my family, I took the ferry to the mainland and walked along the shore to Aberconwy Priory to begin my schooling. Uncle Rhodri was right as it turned out. I learned my letters and numbers and catechism so well that I was given another gift. Prior Hywel kept me on to study scripture and to learn Latin and French and Saxon. When I’d finished I was made a lector at the priory. Next I’d be taking orders and then who knew, one day Iorwerth ap Rhys, son of a poor blacksmith from Llan Ffagan Fach, might be a bishop or a prior. Or so I thought.

One bright spring morning when I’d just finished reading in the chapel, Prior Hywel called me over and I could see from the sly look on his face that something was up. ‘I have great news for you, Iorwerth,’ he said. ‘Dafydd ap Gruffudd just sent word to me. His scribe died of fever a few days back and he’s looking for somebody to take his place. I thought of you. You’re well schooled and able and you have a fine, clear hand. What d’you say, Iorwerth? Here’s honour for you.’

There was no doubting it was honour, at least of a kind. Who didn’t know about Dafydd ap Gruffudd? Dafydd ap Gruffudd the great man, lord of two cantreds and younger brother to the Prince of Gwynedd, Llewelyn. Dafydd ap Gruffudd the traitor, who’d plotted to murder his brother and had turned against his own people. One winter’s night at Prince Llewelyn’s court, so the story went, Dafydd had kept watch through the dark hours, waiting to

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