The man screwed up his face, nodded. ‘I remember now. Captain of the old Duke’s archers, they say, and from these parts.’ He tilted his head, looked Owen up and down. ‘I should think they have made you welcome at the castle. What would you be wanting in my humble tavern?’
‘I want some of your best ale, and a bit of conversation that has nothing to do with archers or France.’
‘Or the disappearance of the steward’s lady?’
So the news had spread to the town. ‘None of that, either.’
‘Good. He is better off without her, her father a traitor and her mother witless.’
The taverner did indeed seem knowledgeable. ‘Will you drink with me?’
The man turned round, shouted for a pitcher of ale and two bowls, then led Owen to a small table in the thick of the smoke, scratching himself as he walked.
Owen did not like a smoky place – he did not like losing the sharp sight in his good eye when it watered, but this was not the time to argue. He did wonder whether the taverner had chosen the table to put him at a disadvantage.
‘Beeker’s the name,’ the taverner said as he settled himself. He grunted at the young woman who set a pitcher and two bowls before him and hurried away. ‘They tell me you are Black Rhodri’s son.’
‘I am Owain ap Rhodri ap Maredudd.’
‘Aye, Rhodri ap Maredudd – that was Black Rhodri.’
‘I never heard him called that.’
‘Well, you were gone when the lightning struck, eh?’ Beeker’s nasty grin revealed teeth blackened by rot.
Owen poured himself a bowl of the ale and swallowed it down. It was thick and surprisingly tasty, though way below Tom Merchet’s standards. ‘Is it your custom to insult the man who buys you ale?’ He held the taverner’s unwilling gaze.
‘I meant no offence,’ Beeker muttered, ‘thought you would know.’
In the end Owen bullied the man into telling him what he wanted, and threatened that part of his anatomy he was so fond of scratching if he informed Burley of his visit.
The receiver’s town house stood two storeys and boasted glazing in the window of the jettied second storey, a fine oak door, a stone path leading down the side to a walled garden and a stone stairway leading up to the side door opening on to the second storey. According to Beeker, Roger Aylward had another, larger house in the country. Made his money importing wine. A prosperous merchant. He would think twice before accepting the ‘honour’ of the receivership again no doubt. What need had he of such trouble?
A barefoot serving girl opened the street-level door to Owen, then made him wait without while she hurried up the stairway to ‘ask whether her master was at home’. Amusingly clumsy – for surely Roger Aylward must be at home, bedridden as he was said to be since the incident. Owen had a long wait – long enough to become well acquainted with a ginger cat who thought him likely to be hiding milk or meat on his person. His thoughts went once again to York: Jasper had a cat much like this; Crowder would sit on a sill watching the lad work in the apothecary, drowsing in the sun. At night he was one of the best mousers in York – he had the belly to prove it.
‘Master Aylward will see you now,’ the young woman called from halfway up the stairs, waking Owen from his homely reverie. As he reached her level she bowed her head and said softly, ‘I am sorry you had to wait without.’
‘It is no fors. I had a quiet moment with the cat.’
The master lay in state in a great oak bed, wearing a linen shift with voluminous pleated sleeves and a tidy linen cap tied beneath his chin. Lamplight revealed a fleshy man of sanguine complexion looking delighted to have a visitor.
‘Forgive me for not rising to welcome you,’ he said in Welsh, ‘but my head still feels as if it is being ground to flour when I stand. I hope you understood why I did not invite you to our house when you arrived – that you had heard of the theft, my attack . . . ?’ The gap in his teeth was evident when he spoke – in truth, the only visible evidence of his having been assaulted.
Why should the man apologise for neglecting what had never been expected? ‘I had heard about your misfortune, Master Aylward.’
‘But I am glad you came. I love to think about your father, my old friend Rhodri ap Maredudd. Please, sit. The girl will bring cider as soon as she has time.’
Old friend? The unexpected connection was Owen’s second gift this day. And why not speak of his family – it would make the rest all the easier. He took a seat on a comfortably cushioned bench at his host’s bedside. ‘I did hope to hear of him, and my mother.’
‘You have been to Morgan’s house?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then you know that they are both with God.’
‘My brother saw no need to delay the telling,’ Owen said. If the man knew his family, he knew Morgan’s character.
‘Indeed. My wife thought perhaps we should do the telling, but I thought it best coming from your kin. Of course your ma’s going was a peaceful one, went to bed and did not wake. But Rhodri’s––’ Roger bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘I confess I did not wish to be the one to describe it to you.’ He clapped his hands as the serving girl backed into the room with a tray. ‘Now I shall show you some hospitality and we can talk of your father’s joys.’
Owen’s heart lightened to hear of his father’s pride in his being chosen one of Lancaster’s archers, and how the family were at last accepted into the community, largely because of his mother’s skill with herbs and his father’s with ailing livestock. ‘They were generous with the talents God gave them,’ Roger said, ‘and your friend Master Chaucer told me of your talents – how you have become indispensable to both the Archbishop of York and our Duke.’
‘Chaucer? You have met?’ Aylward seemed a master of surprise.
Aylward gestured to the serving girl, who sat quietly with some needlework in the light from the window, to pour him more cider.
‘Yes, yes,’ Aylward said as he held up his cup to be filled, ‘it has been a day of pleasant meetings, good for the spirits of one so confined. And a day of sorrow. I have great sympathy for John Lascelles. He did a good deed, granted a heroic kindness to a beleaguered family to my mind, and he has had nothing but sorrow from it. Such a beauty she is, but so unfit to be the wife of one of Lancaster’s stewards. Even so, you will not find me linking her with the beating of Father Francis. It will be the churchman, mark my words. Though I do not like to think it of Father Edern. I was fond of him when he was chaplain at the castle.’
His mind reeling with the effort to follow the track of Aylward’s easy tongue, Owen remained quiet for a moment, though he nodded solemnly now and then to encourage his host. Had Geoffrey told him all this? To what purpose?
‘I confess I was disappointed that you had sent your comrade to me,’ Aylward continued. ‘So I am glad that you had additional questions, though I swear by St David I can think of no reason Mistress Lascelles would take up with Father Edern.’
‘Master Chaucer told you he was assisting me in an investigation?’
‘He was wrong to admit that? But why should a man confide if he does not know to what purpose––’ Aylward stopped as Owen waved aside the argument.
‘I am glad that he was open,’ Owen said. He was thinking fast. ‘Did he tell you that we believe the steward’s recent troubles – the theft, the deaths of John de Reine and the chaplain, and Mistress Lascelles’s disappearance – have some common source?’
The ruddy face registered puzzlement, then amusement. Aylward tried to hide the smile by lifting the cup to his mouth, but Owen had seen it.
‘You find that unlikely?’ Owen asked.
Aylward took his time setting his cup on the table beside him, dabbing his lips with a cloth. ‘Forgive me. I know nothing of these things. I merely–– My good wife, you see, would like your theory. She is fond of blaming all her troubles on one source. And when you said–– Well, in truth, it reminded me of her.’
If Roger Aylward was not telling the truth, he was a clever liar with a quick wit, for his explanation was credible in its singularity.
‘I hope that you are not considered the source of all her problems,’ Owen said with a smile.
Aylward chuckled. ‘No, we are content in one another. And I do sincerely hope that you do not consider me the source of John Lascelles’s troubles.’
‘I should be a fool to sit here partaking of your hospitality if that were so,’ Owen said, lifting his cup. ‘But I do ask a favour, that you tell me in your own words all you remember about the night of the theft.’
The receiver closed his eyes, leaned his head back on the bounteous pile of pillows. ‘Such a cursed night, and you wish to hear of it over and over again.’
So this, too, Geoffrey had requested. What was the man up to? ‘One last time, Master Aylward. I should be grateful. I might then rest assured that I know all that can be known of it.’
Aylward opened one eye. ‘You do not trust Master Chaucer’s memory? But you should, you know. He recited a long and most excellent tale of Seys and Alcyone that he is using in a poem of his own making, in honour of our Duke’s fair Duchess so sadly gone from us.’
So that was how Geoffrey had won the man’s friendship – by playing the bard. Owen would admire his ingenuity if he were not so angry. What was Geoffrey thinking, to come here and question the Duke’s receiver? What did he know of the cunning necessary for such things? Well, he knew something, Owen could not deny it. ‘I worry that he might not heed the finer details.’
Aylward sighed and began a recitation – for that was precisely how it sounded, a rehearsed description of the event. Aylward had sat alone at a table in the castle treasury having a cup of wine after a long session with his secretary, dictating letters to Lancaster and his Receiver General. During the past autumn Aylward had arranged shipping for the Duke’s coming expedition, travelling to various ports in south Wales to do so, and he owed an accounting of his activities, results, expenses. Whilst he sat at the table, his back to the door, a stranger entered the room, grabbed him from behind, dragging him from his chair – which toppled backward and crashed with such a noise he had hoped to see guards at the door at once. But fortune was not with him that evening. With a knife to Aylward’s throat the intruder made him open a chest, then flung the receiver from him with such force Aylward was thrown forward over the toppled chair – which is when he lost his tooth. When he stood up to throw himself upon the thief he was flung to the wall. And that is all he remembered.
Considering the heft of the man, at least what Owen could guess from the parts visible beneath the bedclothes, the thief must have been a man of some considerable strength. And yet Aylward’s vague description of the intruder made him of average weight and height.
‘He had no accomplice?’ Owen asked, frowning.
‘No.’
‘You called him a stranger. You saw his face?’
Aylward shook his head. ‘He wore a mask and no livery.’ He shook his head again, then moaned and called for the serving girl. ‘My head,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, as if weakened by the gesture.
‘A cold compress, soaked in lavender water if you have it,’ Owen said, ‘and some feverfew in his cider. That should soothe him.’
The maid looked puzzled. Even Aylward opened his eyes.
‘My wife is a master apothecary. I have learned much from her. It is the least I can offer, having been the cause of your present discomfort. God go with you, Master Aylward. You have been more than kind.’
Owen shook his head as he descended to the street. Aylward’s account and his behaviour stank of deceit. But who would benefit?
‘You look disappointed, Captain.’ A man stepped from the shadows, leading Owen’s horse. One of Burley’s men, crook nosed and sinewy with large hands and a bald pate. Duncan.
‘It is good of you to bring my horse to me, Duncan,’ Owen said.
A gap-toothed grin. ‘Did you learn what you wished from Master Aylward?’ Duncan patted Owen’s horse.
‘Aye, that I did. He knew my parents well. But surely you did not come down from the castle to ask about my family?’
‘Sir John rode out this morning and has not returned. The town porter said your horse was in a froth when you came to the gate. We hoped you might have news of the steward.’
Owen groaned. ‘Another worry to distract the garrison? I shall never complete my mission.’ His complaint rang hollow in his ears.
‘Whence did you ride in such haste?’
Owen grabbed a partial lie from the air, one that might not be discovered too soon. ‘From Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s. I rode out to escort Mistress Lascelles and the priest back to Cydweli. But I found they had never been at the farm. I thought the steward should know as soon as possible.’
‘Sir John sent you?’
‘He had suggested it last night.’
‘Odd.’ Duncan handed Owen the reins. ‘He sent someone else this morning.’
‘Then I have spent my steed for nothing.’
‘Aye. That you have.’ Duncan motioned for Owen to go first.
Folk moved out of their way as they walked along Castle Street to the south gate of the castle. The townsfolk feared Burley’s men, that was plain. Owen wondered why Burley’s man had awaited him outside Aylward’s house. Had Burley been warned of Owen’s visit? Was that the cause of Owen’s long wait without?