Michaelo’s eyes focused on Sir Robert, then the lamp beside his bed. Still he trembled and would not look out into the room. ‘I saw him again, putting the cup to his lips.’ Michaelo crossed himself. ‘By all that is holy, how could I have done such a thing to that good man?’ Seven years past he had served Brother Wulfstan a poisoned drink, hoping by the infirmarian’s death to protect a friend.
‘He did not die by your hand, Michaelo. God was not ready for him.’ The poison had made Wulfstan very ill, but had not killed him. It was the pestilence the summer past that had stilled Wulfstan’s great heart. Sir Robert put a cup of wine in Brother Michaelo’s trembling hands. ‘Drink this.’ He turned away to cough.
‘My nightmares are making you worse. You should do to me what I meant to do to him.’
Sir Robert managed a smile as he fought another cough. ‘It is a tempting proposition, I assure you,’ he wheezed, ‘but I would not let you escape your pain so easily.’ He allowed another coughing fit. ‘Nor do I wish to risk my immortal soul with your blood on my hands.’
‘“
Evil shall slay the wicked: and they that hate the righteous shall be desolate
,”’ Michaelo whispered.
Sir Robert thought it a fitting psalm, but the monk had stopped too soon. ‘Then David said, “
The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants: and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate
.”’
‘I am not worth your concern,’ Brother Michaelo said.
‘Come. Drink the wine.’
Pliable in his need, Brother Michaelo gulped down the wine, shivered, then lay back down.
‘God forgave you long ago, as did Wulfstan,’ said Sir Robert. ‘“
Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered
.”’ He paused, realised that the monk already drifted back to sleep. Sir Robert took away the cup, poured himself some of the physick Owen had left for his cough, and took it to his own bed, where he burrowed beneath several blankets and a skin.
Warmth eluded him, but as Sir Robert sipped the physick he felt his throat relax. At least he might now lie quietly for a while. He closed his eyes and thought of his long dead wife, Amélie. He saw her as she had looked the day he presented himself at her father’s manor in Normandy and told Amélie’s mother that she might have her husband back, uninjured and in good temper, for a ransom. She had withdrawn with her elderly father-in-law, returned leading the bewitching young Amélie before her. The young woman, eyes modestly trained on her slippers, curtseyed before him, then stood silently with hands entwined in rosary beads. She was offered in exchange for her father. ‘A wife is of more use to you than a proud man who eats your food and drinks your wine while waiting for a chance to slit your throat,
n’est-ce pas
?’
Robert had loved Amélie, sweet
Jesu
how he had loved her. But he had not known how to show his love. As was his custom, he imagined a different ending to their tale, that she had not fallen in love with another, that she had awaited him and not Montaigne in the maze at Freythorpe Hadden on his return. How many times since Amélie’s death had Robert walked that maze, imagining what it must have been like to be the one awaited, to have her fly into his arms when he found her in the centre. Hot tears slid out the sides of his eyes and coursed along his temples. He was an old fool, to yearn so for another chance with her. God had for His own mysterious reasons chosen to delay Sir Robert’s happiness, to give it to him in the form of a loving daughter and two perfect grandchildren.
The unsettled weather of the day before gave way to a haze that promised sunshine later in the morning. Geoffrey took it as a sign that they had God’s blessing. They departed by the north gate of Cydweli Castle to avoid most of the town. Though it was early, the sound of horses would bring folk to their doors, and Owen did not wish to call attention to his party. For all he knew the chaplain’s murderer yet hid in the town. Let Burley deal with him.
Duncan and Iolo led the group, followed by Owen and Geoffrey, then the bishop’s men, and Jared brought up the rear. Owen had misgivings about the size of the company. After all, they pursued only an older man and his squire. Speed would stand them in better stead than numbers. But fussing now would only cause delay.
Sir Robert opened his eyes to behold a new day, and Brother Michaelo already dressing.
‘I was glad to see you sleeping peacefully,’ Michaelo said.
Sir Robert sat up slowly, expecting to feel drowsy – he feared he had taken too much of the physick. But he felt quite well. So well that he proposed they return to St Non’s.
‘I wish to pray once more for my family, and I thought perhaps you might pray for Wulfstan’s soul and a reprieve from your nightmares.’
Brother Michaelo agreed to the journey, though he made it plain that his own prayers would be for Sir Robert. ‘I keep you wakeful with my nightmares and because of that your cough has worsened.’
‘We are being too kind to one another,’ Sir Robert protested. ‘We become dull, frightened old men.’
‘Old?’
Sir Robert was pleased to see Brother Michaelo flare his nostrils and tuck in his chin in horror. He preferred the monk’s usual, self-centred self to the hovering companion.
The soft muzzle of a dog against Dafydd’s face brought a cheerful awakening in Maelgwn’s quiet farmhouse. It had a white coat so well brushed it almost shimmered and long ears so delicate the flush of blood showed through the white fur. Now it nuzzled beneath Dafydd’s arm – for warmth, a good rubbing, or in search of some treasure Dafydd could not guess. He chuckled and praised the beast as he rubbed its head.
But Cadwal, sleeping next to Dafydd on a large pallet near the fire, was not so pleased with the visitor. ‘Cwn Annwn!’ he hissed. ‘We face death on this journey.’ The Cwn Annwn were hounds belonging to Arawn, a king of the Otherworld, who tracked those who were to die within the year.
The other men sought to calm him. The dog’s ears might be called red, but that was because the dog’s fur was so pale. His eyes were not fire, he did not drip blood; he was gentle and quite real, and his name was Cant.
‘Had he approached you by night, and only you,’ Madog said, ‘ah, then we might cross ourselves and pray for your soul.’
Dafydd hissed at Madog to be quiet – his loose tongue would not help them calm Cadwal.
The farmer had entered the house as they spoke and stood shaking his head at Cadwal. ‘Such a giant and a coward?’
‘You would call me a coward?’ Cadwal roared. Within a breath he was afoot, towering over the smirking farmer. Madog tried to grab his fellow’s arms and pin them behind him, but he was no match for Cadwal’s strength.
It was Cant’s low growl that stayed Cadwal’s hands.
‘With a temper like that you may well be dead within the year,’ Maelgwn said. ‘Is this how you reward my assistance?’
Cadwal fell to his knees before the farmer and bowed his head. ‘I pray you, tell me that you have not seen a vision of my death.’
Dafydd should have known better than to bring Cadwal to the house of a seer. The giant man feared nothing material and all things spiritual.
‘I have not seen a vision of your death,’ Maelgwn said. ‘But we should all live in grace, for we never know when God will choose to call us.’
Still Cadwal knelt, his large hands clasped above his head in submission and prayer.
Dafydd touched the giant’s shoulder. ‘Be comforted. Maelgwn meant only to quiet your anger.’
In the end it was Maelgwn’s wife who calmed the giant with a skin of wine and some bread and cheese.
The sun rose behind Sir Robert and Michaelo as they left the shelter of the trees. It reached down to light the sea and dazzle their eyes. Sir Robert tipped his pilgrim’s hat lower over his eyes. Wind caught at their cloaks as they made their way with a host of other pilgrims down the path to the holy well. Sir Robert felt God’s breath in the wind, the light of faith in the sun-dappled sea. His own breath caught in his throat, tears ran down his face. God had granted him a most precious gift in permitting him the strength to make this journey.
For once Brother Michaelo was a silent companion. Though they waited long for their turn at the well, the monk said nothing, standing with head bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer.
When his turn came at last, Sir Robert removed his hat and eased himself down beside the stone-roofed well. The water was clear but dark in the roof’s shadow. A few early spring blossoms dressed the surface, offerings from pilgrims. A breeze shivered the water and moved the flowers to the edge. As the pool calmed, Sir Robert gasped and crossed himself, for his dead wife Amélie, her face pale and solemn, stared up at him, her dark hair a cloud that spread out to the edges of the pool.
‘Amélie my love,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me.’ She closed her eyes, opened them, and as the vision began to dissolve he saw for one brief breath her sweet mouth turn up into a smile. ‘My love!’ He touched the water with his fingertips, but he felt as if his whole body dipped beneath the calm surface. Had she drawn him in with her? He smiled as the water closed over him.
He awoke in the field beside St Non’s Chapel gazing up at the blue sky. Blinking rapidly against the brightness, he covered his eyes and fought the despair that had welled up within when he realised Amélie had not come for him. What gratitude was this, when he had been blessed with such a vision? When he withdrew his hand to welcome the light, a dark-eyed face filled the sky, a face vaguely familiar, though seen at an odd angle. Sir Robert must be lying with his head on the lap of the man who bent over him. The man’s lips were moving, but Sir Robert could not hear him over the roaring in his ears. He closed his eyes again, tried to breathe evenly and quiet his pounding heart. Gradually the roaring faded to the steady drumming of the waves on the rocks below. Sir Robert opened his eyes again. The face reappeared. The man was very like Owen. But not like.
‘Can you hear me now?’ the man asked. French. The man spoke Parisian French – though his accent was not that of a Frenchman. Sir Robert could not place it. But he was delighted to be thinking so clearly.
‘He may not understand.’ Brother Michaelo’s voice. He must be kneeling beside the stranger.
‘I can hear you,’ Sir Robert said in his best French. ‘I had a vision.’
‘A vision!’ Brother Michaelo whispered.
‘Ah. That explains the faint,’ the stranger said.
‘He has not been well,’ Michaelo explained.
The effort to speak had made Sir Robert cough. He struggled to sit up. A strong hand supported him as a wave of dizziness made the field spin round. ‘God bless you,’ Sir Robert said rather breathlessly.
‘God has blessed
you
, Sir Robert,’ the man said, ‘to see a vision at the holy well.’
Sir Robert could now see the man right side up, and more than his face. With the narrow beard, dark hair and earring one might mistake him for Owen – before the terrible scarring of his left eye had forced him to wear the patch. But on closer examination Sir Robert realised that the stranger’s hair was straighter and slightly lighter than Owen’s. He wore simple clothes, a dark tunic, cloak and leather leggings. It was the clothes that jogged Sir Robert’s memory. ‘I have seen you before. Here. At the well.’
The stranger tilted his head to one side. ‘There is nothing wrong with your memory. I have seen you here also.’
Brother Michaelo chose that moment to fuss, kneeling beside Sir Robert, feeling his forehead, his cheeks. ‘You are chilled.’ He took a flask from his scrip, handed it to Sir Robert. ‘Drink this.’
Sir Robert sniffed. ‘You carry wine in your pilgrim scrip?’
The stranger laughed. Judging from the network of lines at the corners of his eyes, he enjoyed merriment. ‘You talk to each other as old friends. You are the secretary of the Archbishop of York, is that not so?’
Michaelo beamed, always ready to acknowledge his importance. ‘I am indeed His Grace’s secretary. He kindly sacrificed his convenience to allow me this pilgrimage. Are you acquainted with His Grace?’
The stranger’s eyes lost some of their humour as he said, ‘We have met.’
Sir Robert wondered at the sudden chill in the stranger’s voice, obvious after such warmth.
Apparently Michaelo made note of it also. He did not sound so friendly as before when he asked, ‘How did you know who I was?’
‘When one travels alone, one enjoys gossip,’ said the stranger, the warmth once more in his voice. He rose, adjusted his clothing, then crouched and extended his left hand to Sir Robert. ‘And now, Brother Michaelo, I shall help you escort Sir Robert back to the palace. I am told that one is exhausted after a vision.’
As Sir Robert used the stranger’s hand and Michaelo’s shoulder to rise, he noticed that the former kept his right hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, even when it might assist him in balancing.
‘You are here to heal your hand?’ Sir Robert asked.
The stranger looked down at the hidden hand, back up at Sir Robert. ‘I am not worthy of such a miracle.’
As they walked slowly away from the sea and the crowd of pilgrims, the stranger kept his left hand on Sir Robert’s elbow. Brother Michaelo hovered on the other side.