Owen recognised the squirrel lining on the wool cloak. ‘Father Edern.’
Lascelles glanced back at Owen. ‘How do you know?’
‘The cloak.’
‘God is merciful,’ Lascelles whispered.
‘I see nothing for which to be grateful,’ Owen muttered.
Lascelles stepped to one side of the doorway and nodded at Owen. ‘You have spoken of working with the Duke’s surgeons in the field, Captain. Perhaps you should examine the body.’
‘You are certain he is dead?’
‘That is what the servant reported.’
‘Young fools often fright at a person in a faint.’ Reluctantly, Owen knelt beside the body. The cloak had fallen over Edern’s head. He might have fainted, passed out after a long day of drinking – all was yet possible. But the lack of a snore, a moan, a movement of any kind since they shined the torch on him, and the stench of blood – Owen hesitated. Once the hood was drawn back, the worst would be known. He might be accustomed to death, but one death did not make the next encounter easier. Death dragged one’s soul towards despair. Owen said a prayer for Edern, a man he had come to like, then drew back the hood.
‘What is this?’
Lascelles came closer. ‘What?’
‘Perhaps you will not think God so merciful after all. This is Father Francis, not Edern.’
‘In Edern’s cloak?’
Which was one of those seeming coincidences that Owen ever distrusted. He handed his torch to Lascelles, who dropped it into the sconce by the door, then returned to hold his own over the body. Owen bent to Francis, felt his neck, the wrist of the hand flung out towards the wall, found no pulse.
‘He is dead?’ Lascelles asked.
‘Aye.’
‘How long?’
‘He is cold, but his fingers have not yet stiffened. Not long. A matter of a few hours. Help me turn him over.’
Geoffrey took Lascelles’s torch. The steward crouched on the side of the body opposite Owen, and at the signal began to tilt the body in Owen’s direction. Owen caught Francis and lay him on the floor, face up. There was so much blood on the man’s face and neck it masked the source.
On the table beside the body were the remnants of a meal soaked in wine from an overturned cup. A candle had followed the cup – it was fortunate for the castle that the flame had been extinguished in the sodden mess. Owen pulled a blanket off the bed, dipped the corner in the wine. ‘Bring the torch closer.’
Geoffrey stepped closer.
Owen gently cleaned some of the blood from the priest’s face.
‘Jesu,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Aye. Not a pretty sight.’ The priest’s nose had been broken, one eye had swelled almost shut, and there was a deep gash in his forehead.
‘Might he have fallen?’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘And hit his head on the table or the chest as he fell?’
‘A fall would not do so much damage.’ Lascelles’s voice sounded almost timorous.
Owen glanced at Lascelles, wondering at his swiftly changing moods. ‘No.’ He examined the priest’s hands. One palm was grazed, probably in the fall, but neither showed the bruising or the abrasions of someone who had fought to protect himself from such an attack as this must have been. ‘Father Francis was beaten. And then he fell, or was thrown down. What passion provoked such a violent attack?’
Geoffrey stared down at the dead priest. ‘Why was he wearing Edern’s cloak?’
‘Why indeed,’ Owen said. ‘Who was the intended victim?’
‘We must search the castle for Edern,’ Lascelles said.
Owen had bent to the table. There was a pool of sealing-wax – crimson, not the pale wax of the overturned candle. A pen and ink-well had been pushed to one side.
‘Could Father Francis write?’ he asked.
‘Of course he could,’ Lascelles said with impatience. ‘I would not have tolerated an ignorant priest.’
Owen pushed past his hovering companions and knelt beside the corpse, examined his clerical gown. The priest must have fallen shortly after his nose had begun to bleed, for there was little blood on the gown below the chest. Farther down Owen spied a dried bit of the crimson wax. ‘He had sealed a document at this table,’ Owen said. ‘He spilled a bit of the wax on himself and on the table.’ He eased himself up, suddenly aware of his exhaustion. Such a long, joyless day. How fitting for it to close with a death. ‘I trust you do not need me to search the castle. I am to bed.’
A banging shutter woke Dafydd from a sweet dream of spring. Shutters were a luxury when properly latched; when left to bang they were cursed nuisances. He lay there, holding his breath so he might guess which shutter to attack. And then the hounds began to bark.
Rising slowly so he might not be heard, Dafydd felt for the stool at the foot of his bed. It was the only item close at hand that he might use as a weapon. A footstep in the corridor located the intruders – his servants went barefoot indoors. A thud made him jump. It also made his intruders pause. Thud thud. The shutter. Not so cursed after all. A shout. Ah. They had encountered the giant in the corridor – Cadwal slept across Dafydd’s door at night. Hence the lack of weapons in his room.
For Dafydd had known the men would return, and this time would avoid the front gate. Discourteous but shrewd of them.
Now the thuds and shouts came close together. Dafydd cursed himself for leaving Nest and Cadwy shut in the kitchen. He prayed some of the other men would free the dogs and join Cadwal.
Whilst he stood like a timid old man clutching a stool. Was he a man? Well, he was not as young as he had once been. And he had never been skilled at arms – women’s arms, yes; weapons had never interested him. He must think. What might he do to give Cadwal even more advantage than his size? Light. Indeed. For it was certain the intruders had not walked in boldly bearing torches. Dafydd reached for the shuttered lantern beside his bed, halted with his empty hand in the air. No. A light would be the very worst thing he could bring to the fray. Cadwal’s advantage was knowing the corridor so well, even in the dark. The intruders would not know where to step, where to duck, what doors opened inward. Ah.
Dafydd took the stool firmly in one hand and with a roar to boost his courage, raced to the door, yanking it open with as much speed as he could manage. Someone fell in, praise God, making far too timid a thud to be Cadwal. Dafydd swung the chair, made contact with something soft. With an oath the man on the floor grabbed for the stool. Dafydd yanked it away, swung it again. With little effect this time, for the man was struggling to his knees.
‘Stand aside,’ Madog shouted in Welsh, ‘I am for him!’ The tall man seemed to fly through the doorway, landing at just the right angle and force to knock the rising intruder to the floor. The intruder’s head hit with an unpleasant sound – slate floors were much harder on bones than either wood or packed earth.
Out in the corridor Dafydd heard the dogs barking, and oaths and cries in Welsh, Irish, English and French. The Welsh and Irish oaths were louder, and the Welsh were shouted in more voices. God be praised, the dogs and all Dafydd’s men had come to Cadwal’s aid, and it sounded as if they were winning.
In a short while things had quieted enough for Dafydd to consider it safe to reach for the lantern and open the shutters wide. ‘By my mother’s mother’s bones,’ Dafydd muttered as he viewed the carnage. ‘I thought these men were from a garrison.’
‘So they are,’ Madog said, standing over the man who lay suspiciously still in Dafydd’s doorway as Nest pushed forward and sniffed him, ‘but they let down their guard, thinking you an old, helpless man.’
‘I had introduced them to Cadwal on their last visit, as well as Nest and Cadwy.’
‘One giant and a brace of dogs – they thought themselves ready for them, I suppose. But not for five more men. What English bard has a personal guard to protect him from angry cuckolds?’
Cadwal, bloody mouthed and with a swollen eye, nodded happily. ‘Will there be more?’
Dafydd came forward, counted four men lying on the floor. ‘I think not. Have you not had enough excitement for one night?’
Patrick sat athwart the largest of the men, wiping clean the blade of his knife. ‘I was beginning to think this poor blade would never feel living flesh again,’ he said. ‘God has been merciful.’
‘Six against four,’ Madog said. ‘It was never a challenge.’
The servants now crept from hiding and wandered wide eyed among the bodies. The hounds sat proudly in their midst, tongues lolling in smiles.
Mair dropped down by the man in Dafydd’s doorway, crossed herself. ‘He is dead?’ she whispered. Already her eyes glistened with tears.
‘Dead? Not unless the dead wheeze,’ Madog said. ‘He might pray to die when he wakes and feels his head. And his groin – our master has a terrifying aim.’ He grinned at Dafydd.
‘You talk too much,’ Dafydd muttered. ‘Gather them up, take them into the hall and clean their wounds, make them comfortable. We shall play Samaritans now we have made safe our home.’
Dafydd knelt beside Mair and said quietly, ‘Use the sheets stained by the pilgrim’s blood to wrap them. Then if one should manage a search, he will see nothing to suggest we had an earlier bloodied visitor.’
Mair smiled. ‘He is safely at the abbey by now?’
Dafydd had noticed her affection for the handsome young pilgrim. ‘Not yet, but very soon. And this night my men have guaranteed his safe passage.’
‘I am glad of that, Master Dafydd.’ She rose and followed the others.
Dafydd sat on the floor thinking of the light in Mair’s eyes. Oh to be young again and inspire such desire.
Twelve
INTERRUPTED SLUMBER
‘
H
ow can you sleep at such a time?’ Geoffrey said as he dropped his second boot to the floor with an even greater clatter than the first.
He had wakened Owen with the door banging against the wall, prior to his loud mutterings and the clattering boots. Owen hoped the man would give up and allow him to sink back into sweet slumber. A foolish hope; he knew Geoffrey well enough by now to know how persistent he could be.
‘Edern cannot be found. They have searched the entire castle and found no trace of him.’ Geoffrey paused.
Owen could feel the man’s eyes on him. He fought to keep his breathing steady, deep.
‘The porter remembers Father Francis departing with Mistress Lascelles. He says that even had he not recognised the priest’s cloak he would have known it to be the chaplain because Mistress Lascelles called him by name, saying her mother was ill and Father Francis would be a comfort to her. As you will recall, when I asked after Tangwystl’s mother’s health Sir John said she was not ill.’
Owen did indeed remember. And he found Geoffrey’s chatter intriguing. But now he had begun the cat-and-mouse game he was loath to give it up. And at this rate he would know all the news without bothering to sit up and open his eyes.
The priests had exchanged cloaks. So that Edern might pass through the gates? Why could he not pass through in his own cloak? Who had cause to stop him? Had he beaten Father Francis? But why? And where had he gone with Tangwystl? Owen fought a quickening of breath.
‘You cannot fool me, Owen. I know the difference between the breathing of a sleeper and the breathing of one pretending sleep.’ Geoffrey was moving about the room, disrobing, no doubt. ‘Poor Francis. The priesthood is a dangerous undertaking in your country.’
With a groan, Owen sat up, propping himself on his elbow. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I
knew
you were awake.’ Geoffrey sat at the edge of his bed grinning and dangling his stockinged feet in the air. At such a moment, he seemed oddly childlike to Owen, despite the neat beard he had grown during the journey. Geoffrey had thrown one of the sheepskins over his shoulders, covering his fine linen shift – he must intend to keep up the chatter for quite a while. ‘I knew you would come to the defence of your people. But you will have difficulty defending their treatment of their priests.’
Had he news of Edern? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember the priest at Carreg Cennen?’
‘There was none.’
‘Precisely. Fell down a cliff. Remember?’
‘Are you proposing that the deaths of the two priests are connected?’
‘No.’
‘Then save your energy for useful musings.’
‘You begin to sound like my wife.’
‘I begin to pity her.’
‘Perhaps I do suggest a connection.’
‘I think it unlikely.’
‘What about the obvious connection?’
Owen frowned.
‘John de Reine.’
‘He is dead.’
‘He failed to appear at Carreg Cennen.’
‘And he failed to appear here alive? You see a pattern in that? Stop bobbing your feet!’
Geoffrey obeyed with an insulted grimace. ‘I merely suggest,’ he said quietly, ‘that John de Reine is the key to all that has happened. You remember that Edern came forth with the offer to escort John de Reine’s body to Cydweli, do you not?’