by Candace Robb
Owen’s journey to St Non’s Well was ill timed, that was certain. He had conceived the plan yesterday, while rejoicing in the stretch of warm, sunny weather that had dried the puddles in the roads and allowed his small company to make good progress from Cydweli Castle. His three companions had been making wagers about how many days the same journey had taken their comrades, Jared and Sam, who had departed Cydweli two weeks earlier in a drenching rain that had continued for several days. The two were to arrange passage for Owen’s company on a ship out of Porth Clais, St David’s harbour. A ship set for England.
In case Jared and Sam had met with quick success, Owen had stopped at St Non’s Well on his way to St David’s. In truth, he had little hope for a miracle. He had never doubted God’s hand in his partial blinding. That had been his hardest lesson in humility. He had taken much pride in his skill with the bow and in his judgement of men. He had been wrong about the Breton jongleur whose leman had blinded him. His own pride had robbed him of his skill and his confidence in his judgement in one slash of a knife. He could think of nothing he had done in the intervening years to earn reparation for his past sins, unless it was his service to the archbishop. Perhaps he should have complained less, practised more humility. But who was he to think he could predict God’s judgement?
The rain had begun as the company approached St Non’s. But as it might be Owen’s last chance to visit the well, he persisted. He had dismounted, handed his reins to Iolo, and directed him, Tom and Edmund to ride on into the city. Owen would continue on foot, a proper pilgrim. The rain had been but a drizzle then.
Still, this was a most holy well. It had sprung from the ground to mark the site on which Non gave birth to David, who became the greatest saint of Wales – his coming had been foretold by St Patrick. St David had been born out here, in this meadow, in the midst of a terrible tempest that shielded his mother from the clutches of Sant, the arrogant tyrant who had raped her. Owen could not remember whether the legend told that Sant wished to claim the boy or whether he still lusted after the mother. In the pain of her labour, Non clutched a stone, which ever after carried the imprint of her hands. The stone, now in two pieces, was buried beneath the chapel.
Was it a good omen that Owen had come to the well in a tempest? Had it been such a day when his father-in-law was blessed with a vision in the holy waters?
Owen found it difficult to keep his mind on St David and St Non. He wondered how his men fared in the city. Had the three found Jared and Sam? Did a ship even now lying at anchor in Porth Clais await them? That would be good news indeed. Owen needed only enough time to inspect the tomb he had commissioned for his father-in-law in St David’s Cathedral and to attend the burial service.
He was not the only one eager to return to England. Tom and Edmund had talked of little else on the journey from Cydweli. Owen had never heard York so praised.
Iolo, the fourth member of their company, had been quiet on the journey. He was Welsh and would remain here in Wales. He had joined Owen’s company in February at Lancaster’s castle of Kenilworth, where he had been sent by Adam de Houghton, Bishop of St David’s, the previous autumn. The young man had seemed overjoyed to find a company travelling west. Owen would miss Iolo, who had an uncanny ability to appear when Owen had need of him. He was a good fighter and true to his word.
As if conjured by Owen’s thoughts, Iolo stood before him. A murmur rose from the folk behind Owen, who thought this newcomer was pushing ahead. ‘Peace,’ Iolo called to them in Welsh. ‘I am come to see my captain and wait on him on his return to the city.’ As Iolo turned back to Owen he shook rain off his cloak.
‘You might be dry and warm had you obeyed my order to wait at the palace,’ Owen said.
‘Something does not feel right, Captain. I thought you might need me.’
Owen knew Iolo well enough to accept his explanation. ‘You found Sam and Jared?’
‘Aye. They have bad news. The stonecutter Cynog has hanged himself.’
Owen bowed his head and crossed himself, though he also muttered a curse. Cynog was the stonemason he had hired to carve Sir Robert’s tomb.
An elderly pilgrim admonished Owen for cursing in this holy place.
‘And Sir Robert’s tomb is unfinished, no doubt,’ Owen growled with a dark glance at the pilgrim who had chastised him.
‘I do not know how far Cynog had got,’ said Iolo. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to draw you from your prayer. The tale can wait.’ He bowed his head.
Nine pilgrims still ahead of Owen, his dripping clothes creating puddles beneath him and, after all, he might have waited for a dry day – who knew how quickly he would find another mason. He might be in St David’s for some time. Owen moved forward one man. Water trickled down his back. He hunched forward. The gesture reminded him of Cynog.
Of whom he should be thinking. Cynog, a gentle man with a God-given gift for turning cold stone into things of beauty. Owen remembered wondering whether Cynog sensed the soul of the stone, if that was how he made it come alive. Hanged himself. There were men whose deaths were little mourned, men who had made little difference while on this mortal soil. Not Cynog. Many would mourn him. Those who had witnessed his gift. What could have caused him such despair he committed a sin that damned his soul to the fires of hell for all eternity?
At last it was Owen’s chance to descend to the stone-roofed well. He knelt, prayed for his soul and those of his family. And for Cynog’s soul. Then, after removing the leather patch from his left eye, Owen scooped up the clear, icy water in his already cold hands and pressed it to the puckered lid.
Tom, Sam, Jared and Edmund all gazed on Owen’s patch with disappointment when he and Iolo entered the great hall of the bishop’s palace.
‘I was unworthy of a miracle,’ he said simply. ‘Get me some ale and move away from that fire. I am soaked through. And nothing to show for all that.’
When Owen had slaked his thirst and warmed his belly with the ale, he felt ready to hear about Cynog’s death.
‘They found Cynog at dawn, four days ago, hanging from an oak among the graves,’ Jared said. Tall, gaunt, with brown, wildly curling hair, Jared was the gossip of the group.
‘What could have happened to drive such a man to hang himself?’ Owen wondered aloud.
‘Some say his lady found another,’ Jared said.
‘There are many say he did not kill himself,’ soft-spoken Sam chimed in. ‘In truth, most say it.’ He kept his gaze from Jared as he spoke.
Owen turned his other side towards the fire and nodded to the shy man. ‘Why do they say that?’
‘The knot on the tree was a mariner’s knot,’ said Sam. ‘Cynog was no seaman.’
Iolo snorted. ‘We are near the sea. Many round here know how to tie such a knot. I do.’
‘Such a wonder you are,’ Jared muttered.
Iolo’s devotion to Owen had not gone unnoticed by the others in the company. Nor had the conversations in Welsh, which they could not understand. Owen had meant for Iolo to accompany Jared to St David’s, so that the negotiations for sea passage could be conducted in Welsh, if necessary. But it had not been worth the aggravation.
Jared thrust his face close to Iolo’s. ‘If you are so –’
Owen quit the fire to pull Jared away. ‘We are speaking of a man’s death. If he died by his own hand, he is now burning in hellfire. Think on that.’ Owen turned to Sam. ‘Was Cynog working on Sir Robert’s tomb when it happened?’
‘He had much of it finished,’ said Sam. ‘But he awaited you to advise him on the face and hands.’
What had happened? Owen had confounded himself by lingering in Cydweli. ‘So I shall need to find another stone carver. How soon does our ship sail?’
‘Soon,’ said Jared. ‘Captain Siencyn awaits news of your arrival.’
Passage home. So near and yet – how could he face Lucie if he did not stay to see to the completion of her father’s tomb? Owen sank down on a stool by the fire. ‘God is not smiling
on me this day.’ It was a day for penitence.
Owen had tarried at Cydweli Castle to await an expected party from the convent at Usk, hoping that his sister, Gwenllian, would be among them. He had not seen her since he left Wales twenty years before. Eagerly he had watched the arrival of the party, rushing down from the tower to greet them in the outer court. Behind the priest stood a tall, freckle-faced nun, beaming, waiting for him to notice her. As Owen met her eyes, she stretched out her arms and hurried towards him.
‘God is merciful,’ Sister Gwenllian had cried as she embraced him.
‘Gwen.’
Later, they had found time to talk.
It filled Owen with joy to look on her. His brother Morgan was so frail. Not Gwen. Her wide smile displayed a full set of healthy teeth, her skin was unblemished, her walk straight and unhampered, her embrace as bone-crushing as ever. ‘You look happy, Gwen.’
‘Sister Gwenllian, I remind you.’ She laughed. ‘You are surprised? Did you think I had been sent off to the nunnery against my will?’
In truth, he had. She had always seemed the sort to marry and fill a house with freckle-faced children. ‘Morgan said only that you were there. So it was your choice to devote your life to God?’
‘To live a comfortable life in a convent, truth be told. My devotion to God came later.’
‘And is the convent comfortable?’
‘Not so much as I had imagined, but it is a good life. It suits me. And what of you, brother? What of your poor eye? Can you see nothing from it? Was it an enemy arrow? Or a brawl over a beauty?’ She laughed. ‘Oh dear, of course it is the question all ask you.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Lancaster’s livery and a Norman beard – you are a Welshman only in your language.’
‘In my heart, too.’
‘It is good to be back?’
‘I am so glad to see you well, Gwen. And happy.’
There had been much talk in the following days. Owen enjoyed Gwen’s tales of the family he had left behind so long ago. And she plied him with questions about his life since he went off to be an archer in the old duke’s service.
He had thought it a worthwhile delay. Now he cursed himself for it. He prayed that at least Brother Michaelo had reached York with the letters Owen had written. But how had Lucie received the news? Would she close the shop and allow herself time to mourn her father? He prayed that the letters had found her well. And the children.
A servant stood at the edge of the group with the air of someone waiting to be noticed. Owen asked his business.
The young man begged Owen’s pardon for interrupting, but he had been sent by Archdeacon Rokelyn. ‘My lord the Archdeacon of St David’s invites Captain Archer to sup with him.’
Rokelyn was second in command to the bishop in this holy city. Owen doubted the archdeacon craved his company. What now?
‘I shall attend him,’ Owen replied evenly. The lad should not get a red ear for the message he brought.
Three
FREYTHORPE HADDEN
In the end, Roger Moreton’s new steward did accompany Lucie to her father’s manor. York was abuzz with tales of outlaws on the roads and Lucie had to agree that though Harold Galfrey was not trained as a soldier he looked sufficiently strong to be threatening. His presence reassured Tildy, Lucie’s nursemaid, never a willing traveller, but determined to help Lucie during this difficult time. Lucie had confided to Tildy that she feared Phillippa might collapse at the news – though her aunt had always been a robust woman, she was getting on in years and had been devoted to her brother. Tildy could be trusted to keep the household at Freythorpe together while Lucie saw to her aunt. The company riding out from York also included Brother Michaelo, who had kindly offered to tell Phillippa all that he had told Lucie. His offer required neither sacrifice nor permission from the archbishop for he would easily continue on from Freythorpe Hadden to Bishopthorpe, where Archbishop Thoresby was in residence.
It was a beautiful spring day. Lucie wished she might enjoy this ride, this brief moment in the midst of all her duties. There would be tears enough at Freythorpe. But she had awakened with a yearning to see her father once more so that she might tell him how much she had enjoyed his company in his last years. She had told him so on his departure, but she wondered whether she had said enough. She lifted her head to the sun, shining round puffs of cloud. A gentle breeze set the spring leaves trembling against the blue and white sky. The meadows were already blooming. Labourers sang in the fields. ‘God’s blessing is on this day,’ she said.
‘God is certainly smiling on the land,’ Harold said beside her.
Lucie started. She had not noticed he rode so close. ‘Do you fear I shall fall off my mount?’
He had a hesitant smile, as if uncertain it was appropriate to a steward. ‘In faith, Mistress Wilton, you seemed so lost in thought I feared you paid little heed to keeping your seat.’
‘Do I look like an inexperienced rider?’
‘Not at all. Forgive me.’
They rode in silence for a while.
‘I am the one who should apologise,’ Lucie said. ‘I was steeling myself against the task before me. It will be difficult for my aunt.’
‘Made more difficult by a stranger in your midst.’
‘You must not think of it. You are here at my request, and I am grateful.’
‘I was thrust upon you.’
‘I am quite capable of refusing Master Moreton.’
Harold smiled with more assurance. Lucie fell back into her thoughts of her aunt. Phillippa had been widowed within a few years of her marriage. She had come to Freythorpe Hadden at the invitation of her brother, who was then unmarried and needed someone to represent him at the manor he rarely visited. Phillippa had been straight-backed and strong, with her feet squarely on the ground and a determination to order the world around her to her liking. As far as Lucie knew, Phillippa had nothing from her marriage. Sir Robert had mentioned his sister’s husband only once that Lucie could recall, referring to him as a man too fond of his ale. Phillippa’s only child had died in the same year as her husband. But God had looked after her. When Sir Robert brought Lucie’s mother to Freythorpe Hadden, Amélie had no wish to wrest control from Phillippa. For forty-five years Phillippa had ruled the manor. And if she wished, and was able, Lucie thought to leave it that way. She had no intention of giving up her apothecary or her house in the city to live at Freythorpe, and her son Hugh, heir to the property, was but a baby.
Indeed, Lucie hoped her aunt would choose to continue acting as mistress of Freythorpe. It would be difficult to find another she could trust so completely. But Lucie would accept whatever decision her aunt made. She had much to thank Phillippa for, including her life in York. Phillippa had encouraged Lucie’s marriage to the apothecary Nicholas Wilton, believing that the wife of a respected member of a York guild, trained to assist her husband in the shop, would have a more secure widowhood than would the wife of a knight, which would more properly have been Lucie’s lot.
Wrapped in melancholy, Lucie watched Harold ride forward, bend close to speak to Tildy. He was a thoughtful man. Roger Moreton had chosen wisely.
Shortly before the company passed on to the demesne lands, Brother Michaelo asked whether Lucie needed to rest and refresh herself. She declined, eager to reach the manor house.
Brother Michaelo glanced over at Harold. ‘What do you know of that man?’
‘No more than that Roger Moreton has hired him as household steward on the recommendation of John Gisburne.’
‘John Gisburne? The man who believes a man should be judged by his deeds, not his family connections? So he has seen this man at work?’
Gisburne was a member of the class of rich merchants in York trying to wrest the governance of the city from the old ruling families. It was proving to be a long struggle. Thirteen years ago Gisburne’s election to bailiff had been overturned by the mayor, John Langton, a member of the old families. The animosity between the two groups grew, occa
sionally spilling out into the streets, often ending in violence. With each outburst the two sides became more rigid in their positions. Gisburne’s party preached that a man should be judged by what he did, not by whom he knew or to whom he was related, for obvious reasons. ‘I assume that John Gisburne lives by his professed creed,’ Lucie said.
Michaelo looked doubtful. ‘For all his talk of the common man, Gisburne prefers to dine with nobles and influential clerics. He hopes to be mayor, you know.’
‘I had heard.’
‘Let us pray that he does judge men by their deeds. For once it would be useful.’
‘You find something in Harold Galfrey to distrust?’
‘It is perhaps a petty complaint – but he does not look like a steward. I should have taken him for a soldier.’
‘All the better for our purposes.’
‘You are right, of course. But watch him on your return to the city, when I am not with you.’
‘Did my father ask you to watch over me?’
‘He would have wished me to voice my concern.’
‘I am grateful. But I assure you that Master Moreton’s opinion is to be trusted.’
‘Forgive me, I did not mean to cast doubt on Roger Moreton’s judgement.’
By the time the company reached the gatehouse of Freythorpe Hadden the steward, Daimon, had been alerted and stood ready to challenge or receive the four. The relief on his young, barely bearded face alarmed Lucie.
‘You expect trouble?’
He mentioned recent trouble at a nearby farm – a band of outlaws, a theft, injuries.
‘Deus juva me,’ Michaelo muttered, crossing himself.
‘I might not be so wary,’ said Daimon, ‘but that two days ago some workers in the field spied a man in a tree, watching the hall. He took flight when he knew himself discovered. Had a fast horse tethered near. Aye, I do expect trouble, Mistress Wilton.’ Daimon’s pleasant face did not lend itself to a threatening look, but he was well-muscled and held the sword in his hand with an air of fierce assurance. He would do, Lucie thought. He had grown quite like his father, Adam, Sir Robert’s former sergeant and late in life the steward of the manor. Trouble had usually backed away from Adam.
