Bishop Adam de Houghton paced as he listened to Owen’s assessment. ‘He died of the knife wound?’
‘I believe he did, though how quickly I cannot say. It may have been a slow death. I believe his wound bled as he lay in the water. The crabs––’ He stopped, seeing the bishop blanch. ‘Forgive me, my lord bishop.’
‘You deserve your reputation. Whitesands.’ Houghton was quiet a moment but for the whisper of his costly gown and his velvet shoes on the tiles. ‘It is far to carry a body from Whitesands to Tower Gate. Why? Why was he brought to the bell tower?’
Owen neither knew nor cared. ‘Your Grace, do I have your permission to join my companions now?’
Houghton looked first surprised, then apologetic. ‘Of course. God help me, I am forgetting my duties as a host. You have ridden far, and I have kept you from a well-earned rest. Go in peace, Captain. And tonight, when we dine, we shall not speak of this, eh?’
‘Of course not, Your Grace.’
Owen must have slept, for his thoughts as he opened his eyes in drowsy confusion were of York. He had been telling his daughter Gwenllian the tale of the Water Horse of St Bride’s Bay, and now she shook him for another story. As he woke he realised it was Sir Robert who gently shook him.
‘His Grace sends for you.’
‘Again?’ Owen groaned, rose slowly, made his way to a table with an ewer and dish for washing.
‘I told the servant that you were resting. There is no need to hurry.’ Sir Robert sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes worried. ‘His Grace wishes a word before we dine tonight. With you and Master Chaucer. What is it about, my son?’
‘Houghton mistakenly believes that I care about his problems,’ Owen said, splashing water on his face. He departed before Sir Robert had a chance to ask more questions. Geoffrey waited in the main hall, speaking with much gesturing and wagging of the head to a woman who was richly dressed and fair of face. She covered her mouth daintily when she laughed.
‘We are summoned,’ Owen said to Geoffrey.
The woman’s eyes drank Owen in and she smiled brightly, forgetting to cover her bad teeth.
‘Mistress Somery of Glamorgan,’ said Geoffrey.
‘God go with you, Mistress,’ said Owen. ‘I pray you forgive me, but the bishop is expecting me and Master Chaucer.’
‘Captain,’ she said with a flirtatious tilt of her head, a flutter of her lashes. ‘I look forward to making your acquaintance.’
Geoffrey hurried away with Owen. ‘It is not fair how they look on you.’
The man had peculiar priorities. ‘Have you any idea why the bishop sends for us?’ Owen said.
‘Not the least.’ With his short legs, Geoffrey had practically to skip to keep up with Owen’s long strides, which made him breathless.
Owen relented, slowed down, told him of the body.
Geoffrey was fascinated, but did not see what it had to do with them.
That made a pair of them. ‘I cannot but think that the bishop has learned something to link the body with us. What of John de Reine? Do you know anything of his appearance?’
Geoffrey paused, understanding Owen’s suspicion. ‘I do not like to think––’
‘Neither do I. Was he fair?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Let us hope I am wrong.’
They marched in silence through the corridor leading from the great hall to the bishop’s hall.
Bishop Houghton got to the point as soon as he learned Geoffrey knew of the situation. ‘How would you proceed in this business, Captain?’
What had transpired since Owen left Houghton? ‘Surely you have a coroner, Your Grace. And staff who assist you in keeping the peace?’
Houghton fussed with a sleeve, feigning distraction, as he said, ‘He wore Lancaster’s livery.’
‘I noted that.’
‘It is a delicate matter. The Duke of Lancaster and the Duchess Blanche, may God rest her soul, have provided me with the funds to build a college for the vicars. It is much needed. I cannot tell you the trouble the vicars manage to–– But that is not the point. The delicacy. You must see, I wish to keep it a secret . . .’
How like Thoresby he sounded. ‘It is too late for secrecy – all the city buzzes with the news of the corpse at the gate,’ Owen said.
Houghton seemed distracted by the hem of his sleeve. ‘I cannot keep the body a secret, of course. But who he was–– One of my vicars served as chaplain at Cydweli Castle a year past. He identified the body.’
So that was what had happened while Owen slept. ‘Then you have the information you need.’
‘His name is John de Reine,’ Houghton said, as if he had not heard Owen. ‘The man you were to meet at Carreg Cennen.’
‘John de Reine,’ Geoffrey muttered, as if testing the name against his memory. He stole a glance at Owen.
So he was right. But with the realisation came a twinge of unease. How much did the bishop know? Uncertain how to answer, Owen let the silence lengthen.
Houghton glanced from one to the other with a puzzled frown that suddenly brightened into an embarrassed smile. ‘In faith, I leap ahead without explaining,’ the bishop said. ‘Forgive me. Pray do forgive me. It is a fault with which I continually struggle. I am in the Duke’s confidence, gentlemen. You need not worry about what you say to me. The Duke thought it wise that another Marcher lord know of your purpose. Of his concerns about Owain Lawgoch’s supporters, whether Lascelles has gone over to their side, what that might mean to Cydweli.’
Looking much relieved, Geoffrey said, ‘Would that he had informed us.’
Owen might have used stronger words than Geoffrey’s, and his feeling was less relief than irritation.
‘What I wish to discover is why John de Reine was in my lordship. He had arranged to meet with you at Carreg Cennen,’ Houghton said.
‘A sudden urge to go on pilgrimage?’ Geoffrey suggested with a grin.
Houghton clenched his teeth and took a deep breath as if to keep himself from saying something he would regret later. ‘The man was brutally murdered, Master Chaucer.’
Owen’s companion blushed and bowed his head.
‘The Duke told you why we were to meet with Reine in particular?’ Owen asked carefully.
‘He did.’ Houghton nodded. ‘I confess to being uneasy about the young man’s intentions, betraying his father to the Duke.’
He did indeed know the heart of it. ‘His was a choice few sons would make out of love,’ Owen agreed. ‘But Lascelles’s choice of a wife seems unwise in these uneasy times.’
‘Of course. Still . . .’
‘Who was Lascelles’s father-in-law accused of harbouring?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘A known supporter of Lawgoch?’
‘One whom the people call merely the Fleming. Amusing, considering how the country round Haverfordwest is overrun by Flemings. As to the man’s supporting Lawgoch, he is an opportunist. It was the Earl of Pembroke’s mother, a Mortimer, who heeded the rumour, and when Lascelles gave Goronwy sanctuary in the Duke’s March, she made haste to inform Lancaster. She knows the Fleming because he has worked for the Mortimers in the past. I do not know what she knows of his present activities.’
‘And hence the ambiguity.’
‘Indeed. Was Gruffydd ap Goronwy harbouring a real traitor, or had he found himself on the wrong side of the Mortimers?’ Houghton rubbed his forehead. ‘I did not know it was the son of Cydweli’s steward who lay in the undercroft when I sent his fellows away.’
‘Whose fellows did you send away?’ Owen asked.
‘Reine’s fellows, Cydweli men.’
‘When?’
‘This morning. They rode up to Tower Gate and demanded to see the body that had been left there.’
The bishop was full of surprises. ‘Cydweli men came here today?’
Houghton nodded. ‘Demanding to see the body.’
‘What did they say when they saw it?’
‘They did not see it. They had no
littera marchi
. I sent them away. They had been sniffing round here earlier – several days ago – though not so boldly.’ Houghton paced. ‘I assure you, Captain, I am and always shall be the Duke’s ally. I would do nothing to impugn him, his authority or his honour. But I am lord here, and I cannot allow the Duke’s constable – or his steward – to order his men into my lordship and challenge my authority.’
‘I have no quarrel with that.’
‘But now it seems I behaved rashly. I had no idea it was John de Reine. He may have known of some danger and sent for the men, who came too late. But they gave me no explanation.’
‘Then I very much doubt he had sent for them,’ Owen said. ‘Yet it is strange, so many from Cydweli in St David’s.’
Houghton’s pacing became more vigorous. ‘Reine took a risk in writing to the Duke of his father’s inappropriate marriage. Was he silenced by his own father? Or those loyal to his father?’
‘You do not have a high opinion of Lascelles,’ Geoffrey remarked.
The bishop stopped. ‘You misunderstand me. I have never before had reason to distrust the man. In faith, I know almost nothing of Lascelles. But his natural son has been murdered and left at my doorstep, and I was one of the few people privy to his–– Well, you must see that many would consider Reine disloyal to Lascelles.’
‘Was the Duke wrong in trusting Reine?’ Geoffrey asked.
Houghton paused. ‘What?’ he asked distractedly. ‘Wrong to trust him? No. Not at all. Reine was the personal guard of the Duke’s late steward, Banastre, who chose his men with great care.’
‘A steward who kept personal guards?’ Owen said.
Houghton clasped his hands behind his back, nodded solemnly. ‘Banastre considered himself more lord than steward.’
‘You have heard nothing more than what the Duke has told you, the general rumour of Gruffydd ap Goronwy and the Fleming?’
‘Nothing more.’
‘What would you have us do?’ Geoffrey asked.
Owen thought that an ill-considered question. What they must do is tell the bishop that this was none of their concern.
‘You return to Cydweli soon?’ Houghton asked.
‘My intent was to depart in a few days,’ Owen said.
‘I would ask a favour of you.’
‘My lord bishop, our duty is––’ Geoffrey began, belatedly in Owen’s opinion.
‘Lawgoch’s followers and Lascelles’s loyalties,’ Houghton said, ‘and the more public issue of the garrisons and recruiting archers for the Duke’s campaign in France. About the latter I do not agree with the Duke’s plan: you take soldiers away from the Marches just as the King orders all to ensure the security of the ports in their lordships. But I honour the Duke’s orders and will not detain you. My request should prove a simple matter: I would have you slip away quietly, without any eyes to observe your departure, and bear John de Reine’s body back to Cydweli.’
‘A simple matter?’ Geoffrey muttered.
‘You fear the men who came today,’ Owen said.
‘I am uneasy about them. And about someone’s purpose in leaving Reine’s corpse at my gate. Caution seems the best approach. I shall provide you with some of my men, armed men, and a priest fittingly to accompany a funeral corte`ge.’
‘A priest?’ Owen asked.
‘He was lately chaplain of Cydweli – the vicar who identified the body. If Cydweli men meet you on the road they will find no cause to complain about my treatment of their steward’s son. In fact, Edern volunteered to escort you when he identified Reine.’
‘Why should he care?’ Owen asked.
‘He is a devoted servant,’ Houghton said.
Owen doubted it was that simple. This turn of events made him uneasy. But it would be difficult to justify denying Houghton’s request. The body should return to Cydweli, and they were an armed party headed that way. ‘Can this Edern be ready in a day’s time?’
‘He can be ready in the morning.’
‘The morning? What is the haste?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Reine has been dead for some days,’ Owen said. ‘Already the body will be an unpleasant companion. The longer we wait, the worse it will be.’
Geoffrey made a face.
‘Where might I find this Edern?’ Owen asked. ‘I would speak with him before we set off on the road.’
Five
THE VICAR EDERN
‘
W
hy should Father Edern wish to accompany us?’ Owen muttered as he and Geoffrey departed through the bishop’s hall. ‘What does he hope to gain?’
Geoffrey paused, turned on Owen. ‘You would have us wander in the wilderness with a corpse?’
‘Burdened as we shall be, it is the pilgrim road we shall travel, not the wilderness.’ But Owen could see by Geoffrey’s high colour how much their new mission preyed on his mind. ‘We do not need a guide.’
‘So the vicar hopes to see a maid he left behind or settle some business – what is the harm? Why must you question everyone’s motives?’
‘I have found it wise, is all. I pray the vicar proves trustworthy.’