‘A pilgrim, Brother Dyfrig.’
Another bow. ‘You wish me to escort him back?’
‘Do you make a joke? Does the man look as if he might ride?’
Another uneasy flicker of the eyes, though the hounds had lost interest and returned to Dafydd. ‘No.’
‘You will go there with your ears pricked. Discover whether any other gifts from the sea have been found on Whitesands.’
‘Whitesands,’ the monk repeated. ‘You seek the one who severed the pilgrim’s ear? I thought that there were four in pursuit.’
‘None of them injured. My pilgrim had a blood-soaked sleeve – possibly his own blood, but I think not. His own would not have spattered so.’
The monk crossed himself. ‘Yet you call him a pilgrim.’
‘The holiest of men may defend themselves when attacked.’
‘The four. What if they learn of my mission?’
‘Are you such a fool as to announce it? I seek rumours or news, not the man. I doubt the man is of any use to me. Or to anyone in this world. You need not reveal yourself. Merely listen.’
‘It will be done, my lord.’
‘A name would also please me. A name for our pilgrim.’
‘He has said nothing?’
‘The name of a woman, that is all, a woman’s given name. He lies there mute as to his identity.’
‘Perhaps that is as he wishes it, my lord.’
‘It is not what I wish.’
‘The woman’s name might be of help.’
‘Tangwystl. It means peace pledge, did you know?’
‘Or peace hostage, Master Dafydd.’
What light lit up those dull eyes? The monk was enjoying this. ‘Indeed. Go in peace, Brother Dyfrig, you are no hostage here. God speed you on your journey.’
‘May God watch over your household. And over me, so it please Him.’
In Carmarthen, Owen’s company had word of John de Reine. He had passed through more than a week before, and was travelling alone – odd on both counts.
Odder still, in St Clears they again had news of him. He was travelling west; he should have headed east from Carmarthen.
‘What is he about?’ Geoffrey muttered as they mounted the following morning.
‘You might have known by now had you gone straight to Cydweli as I suggested,’ Owen said.
Geoffrey made a dismissive sound and rode first from the abbey yard.
Sir Robert brought his horse up beside Owen’s. ‘Have you argued with Master Chaucer?’
‘No.’ Owen took alarm as a deep, phlegmy coughing fit made Sir Robert curl in on himself, as if he had been punched in the stomach. ‘You must look to your health, Father. You should have taken the physick last night. Such a violent spell will bring up blood and weaken you.’
Sir Robert, unable to speak, waved away Owen’s concerns.
A chill rain persisted from St Clears to Llawhaden, where they were to spend the night at the bishop’s castle. Llawhaden Castle was not so impressive as Carreg Cennen, being more a fortified manor house than a castle, but it was imposing sitting on a rise overlooking the market town and fortified enough that the bishop’s prison resided in the base of the chapel tower. The town of Llawhaden was a prosperous borough with a weekly market and twice-yearly fairs; the East Cleddau River provided abundant salmon and sea trout. With the rental of the borough plots, market dues and tolls, and the leasing of the water-mill, fulling mill and fishery in the river, the town was a rich estate for the bishops of St David’s. Brother Michaelo thought it an improvement over the isolated Carreg Cennen.
Owen hoped to view the surrounding countryside from the castle towers. But when he mounted to the tower he saw little more than the castle precinct softened by mist. Sir Robert joined him in the cold, windy spot, holding his cloak tightly about his neck.
‘You are doing your best to worsen that cough,’ Owen grumbled.
‘I wished to speak with you away from the others,’ Sir Robert said, his voice hoarse.
‘You have something to say that they cannot hear?’
‘I wish to warn you, my son. Master Chaucer has watched you closely since Carreg Cennen.’
Owen leaned his elbow on the wall, looked out at the misty landscape. This was not something he wished to discuss, and he let his discomfort sharpen his voice as he said, ‘Do you think I have not noticed?’
‘Do you know why?’
So he was going to play the dog, worry at the bone until it snapped.
‘I have a good idea.’
‘He wonders where your loyalties lie.’
‘He has no need,’ Owen said through clenched teeth. If the old man were not so ill, and were not his father-in-law . . .
Sir Robert leaned so close Owen could smell his breath, made sour by his illness. ‘You have perhaps been indiscreet.’
‘Let us go below, I shall give you a tincture for your stomach and a hot drink for your cough. And tonight I shall––’
Sir Robert caught Owen’s hand, pulled it close to force his son-in-law to face him. ‘First admit to me that since crossing the Severn you have prickled whenever we speak of the strangeness of this country.’
‘You mean I have remembered that I am Welsh.’
Sir Robert studied Owen’s face. ‘It is more than that. You are questioning all that you have become since you left this place.’
‘Not questioning, Sir Robert. Realising what I had forgotten. And wondering what has become of the family I left here.’
‘You do not like the way your people are treated.’
‘My people?’
Sir Robert’s eyes were sad as he dropped his hand. ‘Forgive me. I am a meddling old fool who has opened a wound I had not even known was there.’
‘Do you fear that I might stay here and desert my family?’
‘No. No, my son.’ Sir Robert coughed, clutched the wall as if dizzy.
Owen put an arm round Sir Robert to support him, found the old man shivered despite his warm cloak. ‘Come. Let me see to that cough and your sour stomach.’
Sir Robert allowed himself to be helped down the steps and into Owen’s chamber in the west range. He was unusually silent while Owen worked on him, averting his eyes from his son-in-law as if fearful he might be tempted into a conversation he did not wish to have. What was it he did not want to say? Without his chatter, Owen was keenly aware of the old man’s laboured breathing, the unhealthy wheeze and intermittent gurgle as if water collected in his chest.
When Owen could bear the silence no longer he asked, ‘What is it? What silenced you up on the tower?’
‘I would not speak of it.’
‘We have ever been open with each other. I pray you, tell me what lies so heavy on your heart.’
‘You brought to mind my wife, Amélie. Once, when I was out of humour with her, I shouted that I would send her home to her people. She said, “My people? You are my people now.” Her voice was so sad. I beat her for being ungrateful.’ Sir Robert had taken to wife the daughter of a captured Norman noble in lieu of his ransom. ‘I believed I had given her a better life than she would have had among the defeated, and she dared to mourn them.’ He passed a shaky hand across his eyes. ‘I was cruel in my ignorance. What prayer did I neglect in my youth that God allowed me to treat her so, and then, when it was too late, to gain the understanding I had lacked? I do not know.’
Owen knew his father-in-law was not asking now for a comfort he did not believe he deserved. ‘I had forgotten my people were defeated,’ Owen said. ‘Perhaps Amélie had also.’ He turned away from the old man’s bowed head and put away his medicines.
‘The bishop’s constable says John de Reine did not come through here,’ Sir Robert said hollowly.
‘Perhaps he rode through to Haverfordwest. We should reach it tomorrow.’ Owen returned to sit beside his father-in-law. ‘The bond of blood is strong. Your daughter forgave you all. What breach, what festering sore caused Reine to question his father’s loyalty to his lord in such a public, damaging way?’
‘He was given a position, not a name?’ Sir Robert suggested.
‘And so he ruins that name denied him. Perhaps.’
‘Do you not think it likely the agent of his failure to meet you at Carreg Cennen was his troubled conscience?’
‘He left it too late.’
‘As did I.’ Sir Robert raised the cup to Owen, drank down the remainder of the tisane for his throat. ‘God bless you for this. Already my voice is stronger.’
Owen heard no change.
The rain diminished as they rode on towards Haverfordwest, and gradually a pale sun shone down on the riders. By midday Owen felt the gentle breath of spring in the air, but he found little joy in it for worrying about his father-in-law. Owen and Lucie had argued about the dangers of such a journey for a man of her father’s age. Sir Robert was ever vague about his birth date, but Dame Phillippa, his sister, estimated him to be close to fourscore years of age. It was true that when in his prime Sir Robert had been a formidable opponent in battle, but upon the death of Lucie’s mother he had gone on a long pilgrimage marked by illness, injury and long fasts. Though Sir Robert had been nursed back to health under his sister’s care, one never completely recovered from such a prolonged ordeal.
But Lucie had insisted that Sir Robert so wished for this pilgrimage it would do him harm to be denied it. Owen hoped she thought it worth the loss of him, for he much feared that a wet spring would be more than the old man could survive.
As they rode into Haverfordwest, the river damp aggravated Sir Robert’s cough. Owen hurriedly sought directions to St Thomas’s Priory, where Sir Robert might warm himself with a cup of mulled wine and a good fire. And tomorrow being Sunday, he would have an extra day of rest.
Three
A SPIRAL DANCE
H
is head wrapped in bandages, the pilgrim reminded Dafydd of an unfortunate doll that had belonged to his favourite niece. She had bitten off the doll’s ear in frustration, saying that the doll never listened to her and thus was she punished. Dafydd chuckled at the memory of the incident, and his sister’s careful mending, carried out with a delightful solemnity after the child had dissolved in tears of regret.
The monk who watched over the pilgrim frowned his disapproval. ‘A Goddes half, you might show more sympathy.’
‘I have given him sanctuary, Brother Samson. How might I be more sympathetic?’
‘You laugh at his pain.’
‘I laugh at a memory of a doll patched in such wise. Laughter as well as prayers are of use in a sickroom. You would do well to learn that.’ Dafydd bent down, felt the pilgrim’s forehead. Good. Still no fever. ‘You have brought him safely through the crisis. For that I thank you and pray you receive a heavenly reward.’ Still grinning at the monk’s discomfiture, Dafydd left the sick chamber, his hounds following, and collided with a servant.
‘My lord, there are soldiers at the gate.’
Dafydd was delighted. He had anticipated this moment. ‘Find Cadwal. Tell him to meet me there.’
‘What shall I tell the soldiers?’
‘Nothing. A wait will cool their heads, and their heels. I shall go to them anon.’
The servant hurried off in search of Cadwal.
Dafydd returned to his chamber, considered his appearance in a mirror. Acceptably bardic today, his white hair freshly washed and thus wild, fastened with silver rings and ornate combs. Ivy and holly intertwined in intricate arabesques on his long, flowing gown, embroidered by a former mistress. He heard a shout, nodded to his reflection. ‘Attend your guests, Dafydd.’
One hand resting on Cadwy’s head and with Nest on his other side, he walked slowly down the corridor. He was Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. He would not be hurried.
As Dafydd turned into the entry way, the light was blocked by a huge form.
‘Cadwal. We have guests.’
The giant bowed. ‘My lord, I am ever ready to dance at your bidding.’
‘Let us see if they are dancing men. Open the door.’ He motioned to the dogs to stay by his side. They were hosts, not hunters this morning.
In the night a soft rain had blown ashore, swirled by wild winds. Dafydd waved to the men huddled beneath the oak by the door. ‘Come, pilgrims, dry yourselves by the fire within.’ But the men hesitated, staring at Cadwal. It was ever so, of course. Cadwal’s mother had been frightened by an apparition at a standing stone and the child had grown to resemble one. ‘You stand in awe of Cadwal. God blessed this man with the appetite of a destrier, it is true. But never yet has he consumed human flesh. You are quite safe. God watches over all Christians in this house.’
One man stepped forward. ‘We need not intrude, my lord. As I told your servant, we seek the body of a thief and murderer who we believe died of his wounds on Whitesands three days hence.’
‘In God’s name, pilgrim, come within. You may not feel the dampness, but I do. Come within and we may pursue this story in the comfort of a warm fire.’