by Candace Robb
But his stomach woke him before dawn. The sleeping accommodations in the stable were far more crowded than in the great hall of the palace. Tom picked his way through the prostrate forms with care, his gut burning. He had a terrible thirst, too, but he dared not quench it before reaching the privy, for fear his stomach would explode. He carried a jug of water with him.
So it was that he sat on the privy flushing himself out for quite a while. Long enough to be joined by a guard who wished to gossip as he sat beside Tom. Most of the guard’s chatter signified little to Tom, but one item caught his attention – Piers the Mariner had disappeared during the night. His guard had been found asleep outside Piers’s cell, stinking of ale. Tom’s privy companion had been awakened by his captain to search the stables.
Tom’s stomach burned anew. The escape might have been prevented had the porter at the east wing permitted Tom and Sam to warn the guard last night. Why was God playing such games with them?
By the time Tom returned to his companions, Jared and Edmund were awake and complaining of thirst. Sam had wandered off to learn more about the search.
‘I do not want the captain to see me like this,’ Edmund groaned. His complexion was mottled like mouldy cheese.
‘You need not worry,’ Tom said, ‘he is not in the city. Who did this to you?’
‘Did what?’ Jared’s hair stood on end and his eyes were crusty.
‘How could we know her ale would be so strong?’ Edmund whined weakly as he pressed his temples. ‘I did not think it possible to fell Jared with one tankard.’
‘Whose ale?’
‘Glynis. Piers’s woman. She brought ale for him and shared some with us. She is a good woman.’
‘Good at making fools of you,’ Tom said.
‘But he did not escape on our watch,’ Edmund said.
‘Aye,’ Jared agreed. ‘We might have been wrong to drink that woman’s ale, but at least we did no harm.’
‘I cannot believe you trusted her,’ Tom said.
Jared had been examining his swollen finger, but now he rose to confront Tom, who backed away from the tall man, though not far. ‘I would like to see you stand for half a day in a dark, damp cellar listening to water drip and feeling your joints stiffen, your nose grow numb. And then a pretty woman comes along with good ale and offers you a generous tankard of it. You would not say no to that.’
Tom thought he would, but he let it go. ‘What was she doing down there?’ he asked.
‘Seeing her man,’ Jared said. ‘What else?’
‘He was allowed visitors?’ Tom thought that strange.
‘We thought he must have been,’ Edmund said. ‘How else would she have appeared there, in the dungeon of the bishop’s wing of the palace?’
Sam had quietly joined them. ‘I have heard talk in the kitchen that the undercrofts are not watched closely unless the bishop is here.’
Jared looked at Sam. ‘I had not heard that.’
‘You prick your ears at the wrong gossip.’
‘Why am I the goat this morning?’
‘Calm yourself, Jared. No one called you a goat,’ said Edmund, always even-humoured. ‘We should go to the archdeacon. Tell him what she did.’
‘He will not believe us,’ Jared said.
‘We tried last night, but he would not see us,’ said Sam. ‘Nor were we permitted to go down to the guard who had relieved you.’
‘Have they found Piers?’ Tom asked Sam.
‘No. Not a sign of him anywhere.’
The four men rode out from the farm on three horses, Iolo and Deri sharing one, in early morning. Morgan led the way through the wood.
Owen did not know what he had expected, a lodge in the woods, a cottage, a hut. Not a colourful tent set up in the middle of a glade, opened to reveal a table and a man sitting at one end, his feet propped up on the edge. A half-dozen men stood before the tent, hands on swords and daggers, silently watching the four who approached. Apparently seeing no immediate threat, the man in the tent signalled to the others to hold off attack. Morgan and Deri each had an arm and shoulder occupied supporting Iolo, who had not the use of either hand. Only Owen might easily draw a weapon – but what was one against seven?
The man slid his feet off the table, stood and stepped out from the shadows of the tent. ‘Captain Archer,’ he said with a little bow, speaking Welsh, ‘we have expected you.’
He was dressed in soft leather from head to toe, well-fitted leather that showed off a muscular build. His hair was a dark, curly halo round his head. His complexion was pale against the black hair, his eyes narrow and dark, his nose and mouth elegantly slender. Owen stood at least a head taller, but he guessed they would tip the scales alike. A man who made much of his hair and physique. Owen thought of a cat arching and fluffing his fur to impress a potential challenger. This must be Hywel. The other men had weathered faces, mud-splattered tunics and leggings.
‘Bring the horse thieves to me,’ Hywel shouted to the men on his left. His voice was as deep as his chest was broad. The three men disappeared round the back of the tent. Now Hywel turned to the newcomers. ‘They were not to injure you or your man, Captain. Come, sit at my table, rest yourselves. You have suffered enough.’
‘You would be Hywel?’ Owen said.
The leather-clad man dipped his head in a gesture part bow, part nod. ‘You are well informed.’
‘Not as well as I thought I was.’ Owen looked round for trouble as he entered the tent. A servant stood in the far corner. Otherwise the tent was empty but for the table, set with wine and cups. ‘You did expect us,’ Owen said, taking a seat facing the opening. A tournament tent, he guessed. Who was this Hywel to sit in such a tent, entertaining visitors? Morgan and Deri helped Iolo on to the nearest bench, then withdrew to stand warily in the doorway, arms crossed.
Hywel walked over, eyed them up and down. ‘Wirthir’s men.’
‘They are,’ said Owen.
‘Serving the French king,’ Hywel said.
‘Nay,’ Morgan protested, ‘we serve Owain, rightful Prince of Wales.’
‘Whom do you serve?’ Owen asked Hywel.
The man bowed slightly. ‘I, too, serve Owain Lawgoch. I am gathering an army to support my prince’s coming.’ He joined Owen and Iolo at the table, motioned to his servant to pour wine. ‘Why is Wirthir not with you?’ Hywel asked as he leaned back, cup in hand, and propped up his feet once more.
‘I cannot answer for him,’ Owen said. He had noted the men in the clearing. None seemed familiar. He had not seen much of his attackers, but one had been larger than any of these. ‘You mentioned the men who attacked us and stole our horses. They were your men?’
‘My horse thieves. Not my fighters.’
‘They were not aware of the difference.’
‘They will be taught.’
‘You did not steal the horses of the archdeacon’s men who followed us.’
‘We had called enough attention to ourselves.’
‘What else did you intend, besides stealing our horses? Was the attack a warning?’
‘We wanted the horses. That is all. You are a worthy man from all accounts, Captain, but the prince has more need of the horses than you do.’
‘That might have been true before the attack. Now we must needs ride.’
‘For that I am sorry. Our people have suffered enough under the hands of the English. My prince would not thank me for the incident.’
‘You could sell your fine leather garments and raise money for horseflesh.’
Hywel laughed. ‘A leader of men must look the part.’
‘We want our horses,’ Iolo said.
‘Your horses?’ Hywel feigned puzzlement. ‘I thought they were Bishop Houghton’s, not the Duke of Lancaster’s.’
Iolo growled.
‘My companion is in pain, which makes him impatient with clever talk,’ said Owen.
There was a stir at the tent entrance, men’s voices, Morgan and Deri standing ground.
/> ‘Let my men pass,’ Hywel ordered, dropping his feet, sitting straight.
Morgan and Deri stood aside as three men were pushed into the tent, hands bound behind them. One of them was almost as wide as he was tall.
‘Here are your attackers,’ said Hywel to Iolo. ‘What would you have me do with them?’
Bruised and swollen faces, limping walks and the stench of fear – it was plain to Owen the men had already been beaten. Iolo must have thought so, too.
‘There is no pleasure in watching you beat them,’ said Iolo. ‘I want the satisfaction of doing it myself.’
‘With that injured foot, how would you lunge and parry? It is not in a man’s nature to stand still for a beating. Would you like them held for you?’ Hywel’s tone was sincere.
Iolo turned his head in disgust.
Hywel shook his head, turned to Owen. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘We followed your orders,’ one of the bound men said thickly.
Hywel showed no sign of having heard.
‘Is this how you treat those who would serve you?’ Owen asked.
‘When they purposefully misunderstand orders,’ said Hywel. ‘In battle they would endanger their fellows. In truth, what would you have me do with them?’
‘That is your decision. They are yours to discipline,’ said Owen. ‘For me, I would have your honesty. I would hear why you ordered the attack. Then I would like to hear what you know about Cynog’s murder.’
‘Take the thieves away,’ Hywel said to his men. ‘You and the others, return to your posts. Give the stolen horses to Wirthir’s men. Go and attend your horses,’ he said to Morgan and Deri.
The two began to protest. Owen nodded to them to go.
Hywel resumed his seat at the head of the table, propped up his feet once more. The servant refilled the cups. It was good wine, better than Owen had tasted since he dined with Bishop Houghton. He wondered whether this, too, had been stolen.
‘It is true that they were not to injure you,’ said Hywel. ‘You were to walk back to St David’s.’
‘Why?’
‘I do need the horses for the prince’s infantry.’
‘And?’
Hywel put down his cup, leaned his elbows on the table, hands steepled before him. ‘A man like you – Welsh, English, you are dangerous.’ His voice was hushed. ‘The people trust you. They talk to you.’
‘Oh, aye? Not of late.’ Owen sat back, resisting the gesture to speak confidentially.
Hywel nodded to himself. ‘That is the archdeacon’s fault, not your own. Glynis told me about you. You have been ill used by Adam Rokelyn.’
‘When did you speak to Glynis?’ Owen could not hide his interest.
Hywel ran his hands through his coarse hair, sat back, crossed his arms, studied Owen, then looked away as if deep in thought. Without turning back to Owen, he asked softly, ‘What is your interest in Glynis?’
‘I wished to speak with her.’
‘Why?’ Now Hywel returned Owen’s gaze.
‘It was you who mentioned her,’ said Owen. ‘Why now this riddling?’
‘I feel responsible for her.’
‘One of her lovers is accused of murdering the other. She might have much to say.’
‘Does Rokelyn want her? Does he require two in the bishop’s dungeon?’
Owen saw that they thought much alike, but Hywel did not see that. ‘I am not your enemy,’ Owen said.
‘No? How do I know that?’
‘I am looking for the murderer of one of your men.’
‘Cynog?’ Hywel sighed, shook his head sadly. ‘God granted him a wondrous gift. They tell me he was carving a tomb for your wife’s father.’
‘Aye, he was.’
Hywel tilted his head back, gazed up at the top of the tent. ‘Wirthir’s recommendation?’
‘You know much.’
‘So does Wirthir.’ He sat up suddenly. ‘Now there is a man dangerous to the prince’s cause.’
‘You are mistaken. He is working for Owain Lawgoch.’
Hywel laughed. ‘He is working for the French king. You know it, we all do. If King Charles turns on Owain Lawgoch, so will Wirthir.’
‘Martin is not King Charles’s man.’
‘He is no one’s, I know. Hence the danger. What he learns today about our cause he may use against us tomorrow.’
Owen could not deny that.
Hywel, ever restless, stood now with one foot on his chair, an elbow resting on his thigh. ‘What about you, Captain Archer? Your work for the Duke of Lancaster is finished. Whom are you presently serving?’
‘The Archdeacon of St David’s, as you know. He has delayed my departure.’
‘With Captain Siencyn, yes. Adam Rokelyn is enjoying his power, ordering you about. But do you wish to leave? Is this not your country, your people? Surely you do not prefer the English to us?’
‘My family is in England.’
‘So Cynog told me.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Join me. For a while. You have been away so long, a few months longer would go unnoticed by most.’
‘But the duke, the archbishop –’
Hywel held out a hand, silencing Owen. ‘What I want is your help in preparing an army to support Owain, Prince of Wales. Train his archers. Teach his men what you have learned in service with the duke and the archbishop. Redeem yourself. Redeem your people.’
‘Is my wife to worry that I have deserted her? I will not do that to her.’
‘Would your wife deny you this? Spy for your people, train archers for them, not the English who despise us.’
Owen fought to sound indifferent. ‘I know nothing of you, little enough about Owain. Yvain de Galles the French call him. Is he Welsh? Or is he now a Gaul?’
‘Many Welshmen find respect fighting in the free companies across the Channel. Owain will bring many of them with him. Trained soldiers.’
‘Then you do not need me.’
‘Come now, Owen Archer. The great bard Dafydd ap Gwilym has told me of your remarkable skill.’
‘He saw one performance.’
‘He is a fine judge of heroes, Captain. He has met his share. But you must of course take your time, consider my proposal. Meanwhile, in exchange for your horses –’
‘We owe you nothing,’ Iolo said.
Hywel feigned surprise. ‘I have groomed them, fed them. I ask you to deliver a letter for me. A simple task. The recipient is a pilgrim at St David’s.’
‘You are not so far from the city,’ said Owen. ‘Surely you might deliver it?’
Hywel laughed. ‘You suggest that a known commander of Owain’s supporters should openly ride into St David’s? The English consider me a traitor to their king. Houghton is lord in St David’s and he is English.’
‘One of your men might go.’
‘It is such a small thing I ask of you.’
It was Owen’s turn to laugh. ‘At this moment I am in pain caused by your men. Iolo cannot walk. And you ask for a favour.’ He shook his head as if disbelieving. In truth he was delaying.
Hywel dropped back down into the chair, folding his arms. ‘If you deliver the letter, I shall find passage for you. To England.’
‘You no longer wish to persuade me to stay?’
‘A generous commander never lacks men. You may change your mind. Return with your wife and children. I shall be here.’
This was the way a commander should behave. Despite his own injuries, Owen admired the man.
‘Well?’ Hywel drew a small parchment from a pouch sitting on the table. ‘As you see, it will not encumber you. Griffith of Anglesey would be most grateful. As would I.’
‘If it is so small a thing to ask, why would you be so grateful you would arrange passage for me?’
Hywel chuckled. ‘You catch me at every turn. I can see you make an excellent spy. A spy for Owain, Prince of Wales. What could be a more honourable use of your skills?’
Did th
e man know the questions in his heart? Owen hesitated. What would that be like, to turn what he had learned in the service of the archbishop to such a purpose?
Hywel saw his hesitation. ‘You asked how you might show you are not my enemy. Carry this letter.’
Owen said nothing.
‘Glynis is well, by the way.’
‘She came to you?’ Owen asked.
Hywel nodded. ‘She began to fear Piers the Mariner and his brother. With cause. I have no doubt that Piers hanged Cynog.’
‘What cause had he to take the man’s life? And in such wise?’
‘Ask him.’ Hywel held out the letter once more. ‘Will you take it?’
‘Why did Glynis fear him?’
‘Is it not plain? He is a violent man, Captain. So is Siencyn.’
Iolo sighed loudly. ‘If we tarry much longer, we shall miss the curfew at St David’s. We cannot ride fast.’
Hywel still held out the letter.
‘If you arrange passage, how should I hear of it?’ Owen asked.
‘I shall find a way to inform you. I give you my word.’ Hywel placed the letter on the table by Owen’s hands.
Owen nodded, tucked it into the top winding of the bandage beneath his tunic. ‘Iolo will need assistance to his horse.’
Hywel called for his men.
‘I hope to have the honour one day soon of introducing you to Owain Lawgoch,’ Hywel said as Owen rose.
‘We shall see.’ Owen bowed to him and left the tent.
‘Griffith of Anglesey,’ Hywel called after him. ‘A large man with a red beard.’
Owen heard, but did not acknowledge it. He expected Griffith would find him.
At the edge of the wood, Morgan and Deri took the extra horse and left Owen and Iolo. Until Wirthir’s men were out of sight, Owen sat his horse silently. Then he dismounted, pulled the rolled parchment from his tunic. A simple seal, wax on a string. With some heat, easily resealed.
‘You will read it?’ Iolo asked from his saddle.
‘I think it wise.’ The parchment was filthy, often used. Owen slipped his dagger beneath the seal. The writing surface had been scraped so often it had a sheen. Was it the condition of the parchment, or was it the nonsense that it looked? Long, curving lines, squiggles, splotches. No words, no signature. ‘He has fooled me. Why?’
