Had Owen been trailed by Burley, perhaps since he left the castle this morning with Gladys? Duncan’s boots and leggings were not travel stained, but that told Owen nothing.
What nagged at him more was the theft of the exchequer. As he walked, he thought back over Aylward’s story. Nothing rang true about it – the receiver’s rehearsed tale, his pretence of being bedridden, the implausible trail on which Burley had dispatched his men without a clear description of the attacker. And now Burley’s man awaiting Owen outside the receiver’s house – why?
‘The constable wants to see you,’ Duncan said.
‘I thought he might.’ And Owen wished to see him once he had more time to think all this through. An idea was slowly forming. And if he did not come to some understanding with the constable he would be tripping over him whenever he took a backward step. It was not a time for accidents. It was time to talk. ‘Tell him I shall be with him by and by, once I have seen to my horse and my muddy boots.’
On a long bench in the practice yard, Burley sat with feet propped on a barrel. His fair hair was dark with sweat, his tunic muddy. Duncan leaned down to speak quietly, no doubt reporting his brief conversation with Owen. Burley nodded, waved Duncan away, smiled at Owen. ‘I am glad to see you, Captain Archer. I feared that you, too, had deserted us.’
‘It is good to see a constable who keeps himself ever ready for battle,’ Owen said. ‘But surely you might have asked the Duke for the funds needed for the garrison instead of feigning a theft from the exchequer?’
Showing no emotion, Burley ordered the waiting servant to disappear. ‘Leave the ale,’ he barked. The servant set a pitcher and bowl down on the bench beside Burley and hurried off. Burley poured, drank, belched. ‘Better.’ He turned back to Owen. ‘It had nothing to do with the garrison.’
‘I thought not.’
‘What do you intend to do with your discovery?’
‘Nothing. It does not concern me or my mission here.’
‘What about Master Chaucer?’
‘I cannot swear for him, but I would say that you would do better to worry about his impression of Cydweli’s defences. Convince him that the garrison is fit and ready to defend the Duke’s interests against the French or the Welsh pretender, and you will enjoy a long and profitable constableship.’
‘And you? What do I have to fear from you?’
‘If the theft is the worst sin on your conscience, nothing. But I am curious why you and the wealthy receiver found it necessary to steal from the treasury.’
‘An unfortunate investment. A foolhardy venture . . .’ Burley looked at his muddy boots. ‘Never trust a merchant. He swore the risk was slight when he coaxed me into investing, and after the ship sank he swore it was as much a shock and disaster for him as it was for me. I had my revenge, though.’ Burley’s eyes crinkled with pleasure.
‘The tooth?’
Burley glanced up and burst into laughter. ‘And he cannot say a word about it, vain, pompous, stupid man.’ He picked up a cloth and proceeded to dry his hair. The sky had once more clouded over, bringing a chill to the air.
Owen pitied Roger Aylward. He seemed a man who had taken few bad risks. And this one might have been easily dismissed if he had not brought Burley into it. ‘Had John de Reine anything to do with it?’
‘Nothing. And I had no idea he was off to St David’s when I sent my men out – that was your next question, eh?’
Owen laughed. ‘Aye.’
‘He was on his way to Carreg Cennen, that is what we all thought. My men must have picked up his trail by accident. God’s blood but I wish I knew where they were now.’
‘I should think you might commend their enterprise.’
Burley snorted. ‘Bumbling asses, they are.’
Owen was disappointed, but there it was. He had solved one mystery only to discover it had nothing to do with the important one. ‘John Lascelles. Is it possible he supports Owain Lawgoch?’
Burley snorted. ‘You Welshmen are obsessed with the French King’s puppet. Do you know how many of your countrymen are over there fighting for the ugly Du Guesclin? As many as could fit in the ship.’
‘It is one way to escape the stench of the English invaders.’
‘So that is it,’ Burley said quietly. ‘I thought it odd, a Welshman recruiting archers. You are really here to meet with Gruffydd ap Goronwy. That was your purpose in riding to his farm.’
‘I would be a fool if that were true. I know the Duke of Lancaster well enough to fear what he would do to a traitor in his household. Or a thief.’
Burley’s expression was most gratifying. But he was not one to take a hit on the jaw without striking back. ‘Your championing of a certain woman surprised me, Captain. I misjudged you at first. I thought you were of the steward’s persuasion – ambition does not stumble on charity.’
So he had followed him. Owen straddled the bench, forcing Burley to abandon the barrel so that he might look him in the eye. ‘And what woman was that?’
‘Gladys, the castle whore.’
‘I cannot take all the credit. She sought me out. Then I found it difficult to deny her.’
‘Oh, aye. Many do.’
‘Her sanctuary will not be disturbed?’
Burley shook his head. ‘Only Duncan and I know of it. And of course Harold and Simwnt. I shall send those two for her when the chaplain’s murderer is found.’
‘Any luck with that?’
‘You dined in the steward’s rooms last night, you and Master Chaucer. What was his temper?’
‘Melancholy. Not a mood that often turns to murder.’
‘To my mind, it was him, his lady, or the Welsh vicar who beat the chaplain. Or in the lady’s case,
had
him beaten.’
‘What if I told you I know where all three have gone?’
Burley poured himself more ale, looked at Owen through half-closed eyes as he drank down the bowl. ‘Of course. This is the sort of thing you do, smoke out murderers. But you came to recruit archers. What are those three to you?’
‘Perhaps nothing.’
Burley nodded, as if he had made a discovery. ‘The Duke has heard of Sir John’s questionable marriage. You are here to observe him. But he is not a Welshman. Why would he support Lawgoch?’
Owen did not intend to speculate with Burley. ‘I am going after the three of them. I do not ask for your men. Mine will suffice. Nor do I need a shadow.’
‘Duncan would make an excellent guide.’
Duncan must be an excellent assassin. ‘He would crowd me.’
‘He will be ordered to keep his distance. You need not take all of your men, surely.’
‘No.’
‘What of Master Chaucer?’
Indeed. What of Geoffrey? ‘No doubt he will do what he pleases.’
Owen’s entrance made Geoffrey start and drop his pen. He cursed as a spot of ink trembled on the parchment, then slowly spread flat. ‘Devil’s own is what you are,’ Geoffrey muttered, blotting the stain with frantic energy. ‘Where have you been? Where is Gladys?’
‘Safe.’ Owen considered an apology, thought better of it. Geoffrey had much to answer for. ‘So you are assisting me in an investigation, eh? And what did you learn on your rounds?’
Geoffrey wiped his nose, smudging it with ink, faced Owen with a comically stern face. ‘I learned,’ he said quietly, ‘that Aylward gave a vague description which was then connected to someone who had been boasting in the tavern.’
‘A vague description. Aye. And one that does not fit the tale.’ Owen shook his head. ‘The man has the story by heart, did you note that? And he looks far too hale and hardy to be still abed from an attack eighteen days ago.’
Geoffrey dabbed at the stain on his nose with jerky anger. ‘What about the tooth?’
Owen hid a smile. ‘What do you know of Sir John’s disappearance?’
‘That Burley thinks it coincided too closely with yours. And that he rode out with only his squire.’
‘Roger Aylward thinks you are a bard.’
Geoffrey blushed. ‘I made no claim––’
‘Clever, that was.’ Owen rose to answer a knock at the door.
Iolo stood without. ‘You sent for me, Captain?’
‘You, Jared and the bishop’s men – prepare to ride out with me in the morning.’
‘But the others? And the archers?’
‘We shall return for them. We go to St David’s on an errand for the Duke. Burley’s man Duncan will accompany us.’
Geoffrey was right behind Owen when he turned from the door. ‘What intrigue is this?’
‘Burley has agreed that I am the best man to pursue Sir John and his lady. And Edern.’
‘To St David’s?’
‘It is the logical place for them to go.’
‘I am coming with you.’
‘What of your mission?’
‘It was my understanding that we shared the same mission. Has that changed?’
Sixteen
HE IS NAMED
U
nsettled by Brother Dyfrig’s information, Dafydd had spent the time since his conversation with the monk studying a growing patch of damp on the whitewashed wall above the garden window. The darkening patch seemed at first a simple matter, something about which to instruct the servants. But as the shape shifted, sending out tendrils of damp along unseen cracks in the plaster, he saw how insidious was this leak, how easily it might bring the wall down and the roof with it. How did such a disaster begin? Had a small animal nested in the thatch and worn away a portion by the wall? Had a cross-beam begun to rot? Was it merely God’s will that the wall should fall?
So too with the pilgrim. Had there been a moment in which Dafydd might have seen the danger in shielding him? Had he been arrogant in granting sanctuary in his house? Was God angry that he had not taken the pilgrim to a proper sanctuary? Back to St David’s, to the church of St David and St Andrew? Did God test Dafydd?
And all the while, darkness slowly spread over the wall before him like a plague of ants.
While Dafydd was thus absorbed, Mair appeared at his side, her lovely face darkened with worry. ‘Forgive me, Master, but you did not hear my knock. You have taken no food, no drink since this morning. Are you unwell?’
‘Unwell?’ He considered his pounding heart, the dampness at the nape of his neck. ‘My soul aches. Bring me a cup of cider.’ As Mair hastened to obey, Dafydd called after her, ‘God has answered me in your concern. Bless you.’
After Dafydd had refreshed himself, a wan late afternoon sun at last lured him into the garden. He breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation of a spreading calm.
And then Brother Dyfrig stepped out into the garden. Though the cowl shadowed Dyfrig’s face, Dafydd sensed the monk’s eyes on him. The author of his earlier anxieties, Dyfrig was the last person with whom Dafydd wished to speak, but he could think of no courteous escape. So he spread out his arms and bowed to the monk. ‘
Benedicte
, Brother Dyfrig.’
Dyfrig bowed, uncovered his head. ‘
Benedicte
, Master Dafydd.’
The hooded eyes considered Dafydd closely. It was not Dyfrig’s way, this direct gaze. Dafydd dreaded more distressing revelations. ‘You are now rested?’
‘Dry and rested. God bless you for your generous hospitality.’ Brother Dyfrig made the sign of the cross over Dafydd and the garden.
Perhaps it was the time to voice his concern. ‘I have thought long on what you suggested,’ Dafydd said, ‘the connections – Tangwystl, my pilgrim, Lawgoch . . .’
Dyfrig nodded brusquely. ‘You see the pattern.’ He then glanced away, and in a quieter voice began, ‘Master––’
‘Worse!’ Dafydd interrupted, not wanting to lose his train of thought. ‘I see the danger. My intention was to offer the pilgrim sanctuary until he healed. I believed God put him in my path for that purpose. I did not intend to offer my life for him – by the Trinity, I do not even know his name. His family.’
‘But I––’
‘His politics is the only thing I do know.’
Dyfrig looked surprised. ‘Do you?’
‘You implied he supported that red-handed fool, Lawgoch.’
‘No. I suggested a connection, not precisely what it was. Is the pilgrim a supporter of Lawgoch? Or did he murder Lawgoch’s supporter? Was he the companion of the dead man, and if so, were they supporters of Lawgoch or King Edward?’ Dyfrig shook his head. ‘You still know nothing of the man. But––’
‘But that he has brought me much danger. What of my honourable name?’ Dafydd raised his voice when Dyfrig would speak. ‘Knowing now how dangerous is the pilgrim’s company, I am concerned for Brother Samson and his party. I would hasten to join them, provide an armed escort, but how can I leave my servants with these Cydweli men?’ There. He had followed his thought to the conclusion.
Brother Dyfrig was shaking his head. ‘You sent no armed escort with Brother Samson?’
Now the criticism began. ‘I thought an armed escort would draw attention to them. A monk, his servant, and an ailing pilgrim – no one would make note of them.’