Geoffrey looked as if about to argue, but he walked in silence for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his words surprised Owen. ‘The tale you told about the bridge – the red-handed man who was to mortally wound the king – is not Lawgoch also known as Owain of the Red Hand?’
Owen felt a chill on his neck. Could Owain Lawgoch truly be a saviour? But he had heard a different explanation, one not as appealing. ‘By “red hand” is meant “Lawgoch”, or murderer. His sword-hand is red with blood.’
Still Geoffrey pursued it. ‘The Irish consider a red birthmark on the hand the sign of a Messiah.’
Owen waved the subject aside, though he did not feel as indifferent as he hoped he appeared. He left an anxious Geoffrey pacing the great hall of the palace.
Outside, an icy drizzle had emptied the courtyard. Owen paused on the great porch and lifted his face to the sky, finding the soft rain refreshing. He would not find it so for long; soon it would seep through his clothes and chill his joints. He had looked forward to a few days of rest before mounting his horse again. He ached just thinking of resuming his saddle in the morning. He supposed this was what it meant to grow old.
He left the palace gate and stepped out on to the well-worn path to the cathedral. The rain intensified the loamy scent of the soil beneath his feet and the chalky odour of the stones above. He was alone as he crossed Llechllafar and rounded the west end of the cathedral. Here lay the cemetery, in the shadow of the great cathedral and close to the river. The drizzle and the river damp created a charnel fog that appeared to rise from the graves. The soggy ground gave off an odd odour besides loam; bone perhaps, stripped clean by the worms.
Worms that even now worked their way into the corpse in the palace undercroft. Wrapped in several shrouds and enclosed in a good wood coffin, the corpse would still make a grim and unpleasant companion. Such a burden was not new to Owen; in the field, after his blinding, he had devoted himself to the dead and dying. He had foolishly thought that behind him.
He would have his fill of death in the next few days; he hurried across the graves to the lane that led to the houses of the vicars, stone dwellings tucked into the hill that slanted up from the River Alun to the curving close wall. The bishop had described a small house in the far corner, which incorporated the close wall into its fabric. Owen hoped that the vicar was at home and alone.
Here the odours were more domestic, a welcome sign that Owen was back among the living. The sour stench of beer, cooking fires, sweat, urine. A woman stood in a doorway rocking a baby.
Bishop Houghton had felt it necessary to warn Owen that he would see much that was inappropriate in the vicars’ close. The Welsh were slow to accept the rule of celibacy in holy orders, and in fact treated many of their vows lightly. Houghton hoped with Lancaster’s backing to construct a residential college for the vicars where he might better control their behaviour. Owen had found that amusing; Houghton was naïve if he thought that the collegial setting would wipe out all occasion for sin. The Welsh abbeys were hardly chaste. The most the bishop could hope for was that the vicars would be moved to find separate lodgings for their mistresses and bastards.
The small house built into the wall was easy to find. A man in a dark cleric’s gown sat on a wooden bench before the house, back erect, hands tucked in sleeves, eyes closed, moving his lips in prayer. Beside him sat a white-robed Cistercian, head flung back, snoring peacefully.
The dark-robed cleric opened one eye as Owen approached, closed it, bowed his head, crossed himself, then rose to greet his visitor.
‘Captain Archer?’ he said. He was of average height and average appearance, a man one would not mark in a crowd.
‘Father Edern?’
The man bowed slightly. ‘If we are to travel together, “Edern” is less cumbersome.’
The white monk woke with a snort.
‘Brother Dyfrig, of Strata Florida,’ Edern said with a nod towards his companion. ‘He is lately arrived and weary from the journey.’ The vicar glanced up at the sky. ‘The rain begins in earnest. Let us go within.’ He opened the door, stepped aside to follow his visitor.
Brother Dyfrig rose. He was a tall, slender young man, narrow faced, with hooded eyes. He nodded to Owen, shuffled into the house.
‘I hoped we might privately discuss your proposal to accompany my party to Cydweli,’ Owen said.
Edern toyed with a smile, discarded it. ‘Dyfrig knows what I know, Captain. I cannot think what we might discuss to which he could not be privy. And I doubt he will pay us much heed. His only concern is that I do indeed make this journey so that he might enjoy the privacy of my home while I am away.’
‘A Cistercian who travels alone and stays in a private home?’
‘Brother Dyfrig is a singular monk, it is true.’
They moved inside, where the dark, windowless room proved brighter than Owen had expected, with a multitude of candles and oil-lamps.
‘Sweet Jesu, I shall pay dearly for this extravagance,’ Edern muttered. ‘I had lit these to pack. Dyfrig interrupted me.’ He moved round the long room, blowing out all the candles. ‘Oil is dear enough, but candles . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You think nothing of such things, I suppose, being Lancaster’s man.’
‘When not on a mission for the Duke I have my own household in York,’ Owen said. ‘I know the cost of such forgetfulness.’
Now there were only four oil-lamps and a small fire in the middle of the room. Dyfrig had pulled a stool close to the fire, and sat warming his hands and feet.
Edern motioned Owen to a bench across from the white monk. He filled a wooden bowl from a pitcher, offered it to Owen. ‘Welcome to my home, Captain.’
Owen took the bowl, drank. A strong, sour ale.
‘You have a wife?’ Edern asked as he settled beside Owen. ‘And children?’
‘I do.’
‘It must be difficult to be so far from them.’
‘It is. If we arrive quickly and safely in Cydweli I shall be well pleased.’
‘The first I can almost promise, God willing and our strength holding. But the latter is partly yours to ensure, Captain. You and your men.’
‘I spoke of floods and hobbled horses, not danger from thieves. The roads seemed free of them – or at least of thieves desperate enough to attack armed men.’
‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Edern.
Enough of this dancing round one another. ‘Why did you offer to escort us to Cydweli?’
Dyfrig glanced over, frowning. Edern shook his head as if warning him to be silent. The vicar took his time replying. Hands on thighs, he stared into the fire with a peaceful expression. Then, in an almost sleepy voice, he said, ‘For reasons I never knew, I was made to feel unwelcome in Cydweli by most of the men. John de Reine was one of the few who befriended me and attended Mass, sought me out to hear his confessions. I would see him safely delivered to his father, properly buried.’
Brother Dyfrig listened to this explanation with eyes closed, head bowed. When Edern had finished, the monk rocked back and forth slightly, as if nodding his approval.
It was plain to Owen that Edern lied.
‘You must excuse me if I find such selfless devotion doubtful under the circumstances,’ Owen said. ‘It is not pleasant, travelling with a corpse already foul.’
With a sigh, Edern shifted and crooked his left leg on the bench, so facing Owen. ‘You are a wary fox, Captain. And I am glad of it, considering our mission. I thought myself clever. I thought I might convince you I was an honourable soul. So be it. My selfless devotion, as you call it, is half the tale. I have a favour to ask the bishop. Undertaking this mission for him should assist my cause.’
‘The favour?’
Edern bowed his head, raised his folded hands to his forehead, as if considering the question. ‘I have told you what you have a right to know,’ he said softly.
‘Did you leave Cydweli of your own accord?’
Edern glanced up, puzzled. ‘By order of the bishop. I came to take up new duties as vicar choral here at St David’s.’
Owen nodded. ‘You say you were not welcome at the castle. What about John Lascelles? How did he behave towards you?’
‘With courtesy. He is a man who respects a man of God.’
‘And the constable?’
A snort. ‘Burley respects no one but himself and the man who holds him at knife point, Captain.’
‘You never gained his respect?’
‘No. More’s the pity. I should have liked to draw his blood.’
‘I am told that you identified the body left at Tower Gate.’
‘I did.’
‘John de Reine was to have been at Carreg Cennen, not St David’s.’
Dyfrig had begun to snore. Edern shook him.
Owen thought the monk awakened too easily, with too little confusion. ‘The warmth in here makes you drowsy after your journey,’ Owen said. ‘Perhaps you should get some air.’
Smiling slightly, Dyfrig rose, bowed to Owen, wished him a safe journey, and then departed.
Edern had observed the exchange in silence. When the door closed behind the monk, Edern said, ‘You had only to say.’
‘I did.’
‘So you did. Forgive me. So. Let us continue. Bishop Houghton turned away some armed men in Cydweli livery today, did you know?’
‘Aye. Because they had been sent into his jurisdiction without the necessary courtesies,’ said Owen.
‘Precisely.’
‘But what brought them to St David’s? Any of them?’
‘He did not tell you that? I can see by your look that he did not. Bishop Houghton, for all his chatter, is fond of informing in partial measures. You say Reine was expected at Carreg Cennen. How do you know?’
The time had passed for secrecy. Owen told Edern of his mission, Reine’s part in it.
Edern shook his head. ‘Rhodri ap Gruffudd ap Llywelyn ab Iorwerth’s grandson. Who would have thought Lawgoch would cause such a stir?’ There were many Welshmen who laughed at the thought of Rhodri’s grandson being the saviour of the Welsh. Rhodri himself had fought in King Edward’s army against his brother Llywelyn, and had died in his bed, an English knight, known as Sir Roderick de Tatsfield.
But Owen’s purpose was not to discuss Lawgoch’s pedigree. ‘Now tell me what brought Cydweli men to St David’s.’
‘They were Constable Burley’s men,’ Edern said. ‘They say the exchequer was robbed. They pursued a man described by Roger Aylward, the receiver who was injured by the thief. When they heard that a body had been found in their livery, they thought perhaps the thief had cleverly stolen livery as well as gold.’
Owen was not pleased to hear of another complication. ‘Why would they not guess it was Reine? Or might be?’
‘They did not care to say?’ Edern suggested, his expression indifferent.
‘Was Reine not also Burley’s man?’
‘I do not know. When last I met Reine, he was the former steward William Banastre’s personal guard. But I would be surprised to learn he was Burley’s man now. I would guess him Lascelles’s man.’
‘Trust family before a stranger.’
‘Sir John might be wise. Though from what you tell me, the son was not so fond of his father.’
‘We may never know what motivated him to write to the Duke. But no matter what is behind Reine’s death, it means trouble.’
‘Where Richard de Burley is, there is trouble, Captain. He is a man with a flawed soul.’
‘What sort of flaw?’
‘You will see.’
‘You do not care for Burley.’
‘I do not care for Englishmen, Captain. Do you?’
‘My wife is English.’
A raised eyebrow. ‘Then she has taught you tolerance.’
Owen smiled to think how Lucie would respond to that comment. ‘She would not say so.’
Edern slapped his thighs. ‘Do I pass your inspection, Captain?’
Owen rose. ‘You do. I thank you for your hospitality.’
‘Until the morning, Captain.’
‘God grant you a good night’s rest,’ Owen said. He ducked through the door and out into steadily falling rain.
He was of two minds about the vicar. Edern still hid something, but he had a confident air about him and knew far more of the situation than Owen had expected. He might prove of more use than a mere clerical escort. Still, Owen would keep him closely watched.
As Owen entered the room he shared with Sir Robert, Michaelo and Geoffrey, the former grasped his son-in-law’s arm with surprising strength, then drew back.
‘You are wet through. I thought you were with the bishop.’
‘I was. And then I took a walk in the close.’
‘The bishop has told you about the body left at the gate this morning – that is why he sent for you, is it not?’
Owen hung his wet cloak on a hook, sank down on to the bed he was to share with Geoffrey, pulled the patch off his scarred eye, closed his good one. ‘You itch to tell me something of this.’