Sir Robert dragged a stool over, sat down. ‘We heard of a young man, a fellow pilgrim, who left the palace abruptly. He has been gone some days – five, they say – but he left his belongings. Folk think it was hisbody . . .’
They would people the entire courtyard with corpses by tomorrow. Anyone who did not appear at the communal table. ‘You may rest easy about your pilgrim.’
‘Who was he then?’
Should Owen tell him when the bishop wished to keep his identity a secret? But how futile was that wish? If the man was known to a vicar in this tiny city, he was probably known to others. ‘He was from the Cydweli garrison.’
Sir Robert was quiet so long Owen opened his eyes. The old man was praying.
‘They say he had been murdered,’ Brother Michaelo said. He was perched on the bed opposite.
‘Indeed,’ Owen muttered.
‘Sweet Heaven.’ Brother Michaelo drew one of his lavender-scented cloths from his sleeve, pressed it to his temple.
Sir Robert pulled himself from his prayers to look on Michaelo with disgust. ‘He took ill at the news, though it has nothing to do with him.’
Michaelo considered himself to have a delicate constitution – cold and dry, melancholic. Indeed, one of Owen’s greatest concerns regarding his presence in the company had been the monk’s distaste for fresh air and activity. He had expected the man to wrap himself in heavy cloaks and complain about venturing forth in any but the most clement weather. But Michaelo had proved no worse than Sir Robert.
‘His head pains are harmless enough,’ Owen said.
Sir Robert, the former soldier, sniffed. ‘Will you carry the body back to Cydweli?’
‘You leave me no news to divulge. Aye, I leave at dawn. A priest accompanies us.’
‘So soon?’ Sir Robert looked stricken.
‘We would have departed in a day or two. Rest easy, the bishop sends some of his own men with us. Armed. And he assures me the priest is trustworthy.’
‘May God grant you a safe journey,’ Sir Robert whispered. He was very pale.
‘In this holy place, prayers go quickly to God. You must remember me in yours.’
Bishop Houghton had been generous in providing accommodations for Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo, a large chamber with a fireplace just beyond the great chapel in the north wing of the palace. The floor was tiled in yellow and black, matching the servants’ liveries, and a wall painting depicted King Henry’s crossing of Llechllafar. A second bed had been added for Geoffrey and Owen’s stay, and in an antechamber eight of their retainers were comfortably bedded for the night – the other two, who would stay behind, were down below with other pilgrims’ servants. Owen’s only reservation about the arrangements was the necessity to pair Brother Michaelo and Sir Robert – he could not imagine their constant bickering ceasing merely because they had arrived in St David’s. But it was rare for any but royal guests to be granted a private room; indeed it was quite an honour for the two to be allowed so much space without sharing.
Owen slept well, despite the upsets of the day and an ache in the back of his left thigh and hip that forced him to sleep on his right side, which he had not done willingly since losing the use of his left eye. His wife Lucie thought it a foolish rule – while he slept, what did it matter whether or not his good eye were pressed into the pillow. But the bedding was soft and clean, the wine had been excellent, and Owen slept as if he had not a care in the world.
Nevertheless, on waking he fell to worrying.
What did John de Reine’s death mean for his mission? There were and always had been rumours that French spies prowled the coast of Pembroke and Dyfed. Had one of them heard that Reine was to march archers to Plymouth? He discarded that theory. In that instance Reine’s death would resolve nothing, for a new captain would be chosen. No, the man’s death most likely had nothing to do with Owen’s mission, God be thanked. And yet it would almost certainly complicate his efforts.
Houghton had asked why Reine’s body was brought to Tower Gate. Although Owen had chosen to ignore the bishop’s question, he thought it one that demanded a response for the residents of this close. What made it important also made it difficult to answer: there was no apparent reason why someone would have brought the body here. If someone had discovered it and worried that they might be accused of murder, they need only walk away. The murderer had presumably managed to commit the deed and disappear; so why would he return and call attention to his crime? Unless he meant it for a warning. A mute warning, which seemed of little use.
Sir Robert stirred on his bed near the fire. Owen propped his head on his hand and looked at his father-in-law. His thin white hair escaped in lank wisps from beneath the cap he wore to keep his head warm at night. One bony, blue-veined hand rested atop the blanket, fingers slightly curled. More claw than hand. Age brought such frailty, even to an old soldier. But until his recent illness, Sir Robert had been hardy. Whenever he stayed in their house in the city he spent most of the day helping with garden chores. The summer before he had fallen into a pond at his manor of Freythorpe Hadden – whilst playing at jousts with Owen’s young daughter Gwenllian. A chill had settled on his lungs. Though he had the best care, with his sister Phillippa hovering and Lucie prescribing medicines, it was plain he had suffered some permanent damage. And yet he had insisted on this journey.
The subject of Owen’s thoughts suddenly opened his eyes. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
Sir Robert sat up, precipitating a coughing fit. Owen rose and helped his father-in-law to a few mouthfuls of honey water. When the fit eased, Sir Robert closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his palms to his ribs, took several cautious breaths. A grimace, then a nod.
‘Better now. You would think I would have the sense to keep a cup beside my bed, eh?’ His attempt at a smile was unconvincing.
Owen felt Sir Robert’s hands and feet. Cold and dry. That was not helpful to a cough. He pulled the blankets from his own bed, laid them over Sir Robert’s feet, though the old man protested.
‘I am the most pampered pilgrim.’
‘Save your strength for prayer, Sir Robert.’
Geoffrey, bereft of blanket, stirred in his bed, sat up. ‘Is it time to rise?’
‘Aye. We must ready ourselves,’ Owen said.
As Owen dressed, a servant came with bread, cheese and ale, a most fortifying breakfast. The men in the outer room were likewise fed. Another servant soon arrived to stoke the fire. As the smoke curled round the room before finding the chimney, Brother Michaelo rose, wiping his eyes and complaining.
‘You see, Sir Robert, you are not the most pampered pilgrim,’ Owen said.
‘I would go to the chapel before I break my fast,’ Sir Robert said, ‘but I fear you might depart before I return.’
‘If we are to leave before dawn, we must depart soon, aye.’
Brother Michaelo rose. ‘I shall go to the chapel and pray for the Captain and his men, Sir Robert. You take your ease and make your farewells.’
‘A pretty courtesy,’ said Owen. ‘I speak for us both in thanking you.’
Michaelo shook his head. ‘Less a pretty courtesy than a selfish plot to avoid listening to your pretty speeches.’
Geoffrey grabbed a hunk of bread and a cup of ale. ‘I shall come with you to the chapel for a little while.’
When Geoffrey and Michaelo had departed, Sir Robert and Owen sat down to their meal and spoke of Lucie and the children, wondered how Jasper, their adopted son, was managing as both Lucie’s apprentice and the strong back in the garden. Jasper was thirteen years old, tall for his age and strong from his work in the garden and five years of training at the butts with Owen. They passed the time thus pleasantly until they heard a sharp knocking on the outer door and the noise of men gathering their belongings.
Sir Robert leaned across the table, grasped Owen’s forearms, looked deeply into his eyes. ‘God speed, my son. May He watch over you on the journey to Cydweli, and always.’
‘And may you find peace here. Remember to be patient about your return. Wait for a large party in which to travel.’
Sir Robert nodded once, kissed Owen on both cheeks, then released him.
After a second warning knock, Edern entered the room and stood just within the door, a squirrel-lined travelling cloak thrown over one shoulder exposing a sword and dagger. A cap hid his tonsure. In fact nothing suggested he was a cleric except for a small emblem on his gown identifying him as Houghton’s man.
The vicar’s willing participation still bothered Owen. He had taken the precaution of assigning Iolo, his most trusted man and one familiar with the countryside, to shadow the vicar and ensure his honesty.
Edern nodded to Owen and Geoffrey, who had just returned from the chapel. ‘We must make haste. We should use the fog to hide from curious eyes. Though we shall climb out of the vale underground, we must still watch our backs. We would do best to avoid Reine’s murderer and whoever left him at the gate.’ It was not yet dawn, but the vicar showed no signs of recent awakening, neither in his eyes nor his gestures.
Not so Owen’s men, who waited in the outer chamber. Sleep creased their faces, kinked their hair, puffed their eyes, and gave them all an air of confusion. Yesterday the men had complained loudly of their paltry rest between journeys, but this morning they were silent. At Owen’s command, they stood and followed Edern down into the undercroft. They were joined by four servants who would carry the corpse, now secured in a wooden box, to the cart which awaited them outside the city with two of the bishop’s guards. Owen sensed the darkening of his men’s already grim moods as Reine joined their procession. Last night they had been made uneasy by a rumour circling the hall, that four soldiers in the livery of Cydweli had been seen combing the beach at Whitesands two days before, heavily armed. Four armed men who had then vanished.
Tom, the youngest of the retainers brought from Kenilworth and the only one who had never set foot in Wales prior to this journey, had been pale with fear when Owen had returned from his meal with the bishop the previous evening. ‘Six men have now vanished from this place, Captain. Five of them armed men, one a pilgrim.’
‘One of the five lies beneath the bishop’s great hall,’ Jared had muttered. ‘And he wore the same livery as the others.’
‘They do say the Old Ones live in this vale,’ Tom had continued. ‘And that up on St David’s Head is a place on which a Christian must not stand, else he will be sucked into the world of the Old Ones.’
‘I am not ordering you up on to St David’s Head, lad,’ Owen said. ‘Nor did the men disappear into the world of the Old Ones, as you call them. I would wager that the four were the same who came to the palace yesterday demanding to see the body.’
‘Which we shall carry on the morrow,’ Jared said.
Sam spat in the corner. ‘Why would the guard from Cydweli desert one of their own dead, Captain, eh? Spirited away, they were.’
‘And spirited back?’ Owen had laughed.
Iolo, the only Welshman among them, grinned and shook his head. ‘This is hallowed ground, you fools. Save your fears for a truly bedevilled place.’
‘I, for one, pray they are spirits,’ said Jared. ‘I’d rather spirits lie in wait for us upon the road than well-armed men.’
Sam growled, but said no more.
Iolo’s level-headedness reassured Owen that he had chosen the right man to watch Edern.
But this morning, as Edern opened the door to the underground passage through which they would ascend from the vale, even Iolo crossed himself against the yawning darkness.
‘What of our horses?’ Owen asked.
‘They await us on Clegyr Boia, along with the cart.’
‘Why should we trust this man, Captain?’ Sam asked.
‘Because Bishop Houghton trusts him. And what would you have us do? Walk out the gate in plain sight?’
‘We have no enemies here.’
‘Perhaps not. But the man carried before us may have thought much the same.’
‘What is this place to which we climb beneath the ground?’ Tom asked.
‘The outcrop upon which the Irish chief Boia was converted by St David,’ Owen said. There was much more to the legend than that, but all of it far less likely to calm Tom – for it involved human sacrifice and spells that felled cattle and men. He was grateful that Iolo and Edern said nothing. ‘Now let us proceed before all the household is awake.’
Six
A GRIM JOURNEY
O
wen’s company rose from the dark, echoing tunnel to be enveloped in a fog that clouded the vale. He thought of St David’s ritual fire by which the saint announced his presence to the Irish chieftain and druid, Boia. David had lit a huge fire, letting the smoke collect in the vale and spread to the surrounding lands, declaring his ascendancy over all that it touched. Enraged as he looked down from his fortress on the mound, Boia had sent his warriors against David. The saint had responded with a spell that caused Boia’s men and his cattle to fall down as if dead. In awe of David’s power, Boia was converted. But his wife continued to war against David’s holy men – eventually sacrificing her stepdaughter in the valley. Before that she had warred in subtler ways, sending her women to bathe naked in the river, hoping to tempt the monks from their vows. Owen smiled, imagining them in the River Alun.