Hood

EPILOGUE

Dine days after the searchers returned to Castle Neufmarche in Hereford with the sorry news that they had failed to turn up any sign of the Welsh outlaws' trail, a solitary rider appeared at the door of the Abbey of Saint Dyfrig-the principal monastery of Elfael in the north of the cantref near Glascwm. "I am looking for a certain priest," the rider announced to the brother who met him at the gate. Wearing a dark green hooded cloak and a wide-brimmed leather hat pulled low over his face, he spoke the Cymry of a trueborn Briton. "I was told I might find him here."

"Who is it you seek?" asked the monk. "I will help you if I can."

"One called Asaph, a bishop of the church."

"Then God has rewarded your journey, friend," the monk told him. "He is here."

"Fetch him, please. My time is short."

"This way, sir, if you please."

The brother led the visitor to the guest lodge, where he was given a cup of wine, a bowl of soup, and some bread to refresh himself while he waited. Lifting the bowl to his lips, he drank down the broth and used the bread to sop up the last drops. He then turned his attention to the wine. Sipping from his cup, he leaned on the doorpost and gazed out into the yard at the monks hurrying to and fro on their business. Presently, the doorkeeper appeared, leading a white-robed priest across the yard.

"Bishop Asaph," said the monk, delivering his charge, "this man has come asking for you."

The priest smiled, his pale eyes crinkling at the corners. "I am Asaph," he said. "How may I serve you?"

"I have a message for you," said the stranger. Reaching into a pouch at his belt, he brought out a piece of folded parchment, which he passed to the bishop.

"How very formal," remarked the bishop. He received the parcel, untied the leather binding, and unfolded it. "Excuse me; my eyes are not what they were," he said, stepping back into the light of the yard so that he could see what was written there.

He scanned the letter quickly and then looked up sharply. "Do you know what this letter contains?" The rider nodded his assent, and the bishop read the message again, saying, "… and a sum of money to be used for the building of a new monastery on lands which have been purchased for this purpose the better to serve the people of Elfael should you accept this condition." Raising his face to the stranger, he asked, "Do you have the money with you?"

"I do," replied the rider.

"And the condition-what is it?"

"It is this," the messenger informed him. "That you are to preside over a daily Mass and pray for the souls of the people of Elfael in their struggle and for their rightful king and his court, each day without fail, and twice on high holy days." The rider regarded the bishop impassively. "Do you accept the condition?"

"Gladly and with all my heart," answered the bishop. "God knows, nothing would please me more than to undertake this mission."

"So be it." Reaching into his pouch, the messenger brought out a leather bag and passed it to the senior churchman. "This is for you."

With trembling hands the bishop opened the curiously heavy bag and peered in. The yellow gleam of gold byzants met his wondering gaze.

"Two hundred marks," the rider informed him.

"Two hundred, did you say?" gasped the bishop, stunned by the amount.

"Begin with that. There is more if you need it."

"But how?" asked Asaph, shaking his head in amazement. "Who has sent this?"

"It has not been given for me to say," answered the rider. He stepped to the bench and retrieved his hat. "It may please my lord to reveal himself to you in due time." He moved past the bishop into the yard. "For now, it is his pleasure that you use the money in the service of God's kingdom for the relief of the folk of Elfael."

The bishop, holding the bag of money in one hand and the sealed parchment in the other, watched the mysterious messenger depart. "What is your name?" asked Asaph as the rider took up the reins and climbed into the saddle.

"Call me Silidons, for such I am," replied the rider. "I give you good day, bishop."

"God with you, my son!" he called after him. "And God with your master, whoever he may be!"

Later, as the monks of Saint Dyfrig's gathered at vespers for evening prayers, Bishop Asaph recalled the condition the messenger had made: that he perform a Mass each day for the people of Elfael and the king. Lord Brychan of Elfael was dead, sadly enough. If any soul ever needed prayer, his surely did-but who amongst the living cared enough to build an entire monastery where prayers could be offered for the relief of that suffering soul?

But no… no, the messenger did not name Brychan. He had said "the people in their struggle and for their rightful king and his court…" Sadly, the king and heir were dead-so who was the rightful ruler of Elfael?

Bishop Asaph could not say.

Later that night, the faithful priest led the remnant of Elfael's monks, the handful of loyal brothers who had entered exile with him, in the first of many prayers for the cantref, its people, and his mysterious benefactor. "And if it please you, heavenly Father," he whispered privately as the prayers of the monks swirled around him on clouds of incense, "may I live to see the day a true king takes the throne in Elfael once more.