by Candace Robb
Owen and Geoffrey hoped to recruit a few archers from the area round Carreg Cennen and arrange for them to join the others in Cydweli later in the season. It would be good for the recruits to meet Reine, the one who would lead them to Plymouth.
The forest cover was thick, hiding the castle from view until it seemed suddenly to rear out of the valley of the River Cennen on its limestone crag.
‘God meant this site for a fortification,’ Sir Robert said, crossing himself. ‘But it is no place one wishes to stay long.’
‘Where is the village?’ Brother Michaelo asked. ‘On the far side?’
‘There is no village,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Carreg Cennen is a castle, no more. Only those essential to the garrison and, at present, those working on repairs live within the walls.’
‘God have mercy on us,’ Michaelo muttered. ‘How long do we stay?’
‘A day or two,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I confess it does not look inviting.’
Owen thought otherwise. He had reined in his horse to admire the castle, rising up from the bowl of the valley like a statue in a fountain. The Black Mountains cradled it, and yet the limestone crag with its crowning castle seemed alone, solitary, remote. Something from myth, something one might ride towards forever and never reach. He had forgotten how beautiful his country was, how full of a mystery that seemed the stuff of ballads.
But he did not share such thoughts with his companions. ‘How many in this garrison?’ he asked.
‘Twenty at present,’ Geoffrey said. ‘A crowd for such a remote place.’
‘The Duke believes the French will penetrate so far?’
‘It is unlikely, but if they did, they might find many sympathetic to their cause in these mountains.’
‘Ah. So Carreg Cennen protects itself against the countryside.’
Geoffrey glanced uneasily at Owen. ‘You know, my friend, you must take care else you begin to sound like one of your rebellious countrymen.’
Owen laughed. ‘Come. We were expected yesterday. John de Reine will return to Cydweli without us.’
They had been delayed by swollen streams between Monmouth and Carreg Cennen. And Sir Robert’s lagging energy. They did not speak of it, but they had slowed their pace as his cough worsened. The River Cennen had given them no trouble, but their climb to the castle was slow, as they followed the narrow track around the valley to the north-east approach, where the steep limestone outcrop gave way to a gentler slope. Such a slow progress gave the guards ample time to make note of a company of fourteen and identify their livery, and by the time they reached the outer gate the doors were opened.
As he dismounted and led his horse through the gateway, Owen paused to admire the design of the barbican. Immediately after entering the outer gateway the party was forced to turn right, which would give defenders on the north-east tower an excellent target as an intruder halted, confused. And as they turned right, a pivoting drawbridge was lowered by a man up above in a small gate tower.
‘They have little need for a garrison,’ Geoffrey said. ‘This castle defends itself.’
Beyond the small tower lay yet another drawbridge, guarded by an even larger, quite formidable tower. And again, they must turn sharply to enter into the inner ward.
‘Twenty men does seem too many,’ Owen said. ‘A man to control each drawbridge and one for the gate, they have need of few more.’
‘What could be so precious here?’ Michaelo asked.
‘Passage through the valley,’ Sir Robert said. ‘That is plain.’
‘Aye, to one trained in warfare it is plain,’ Brother Michaelo muttered. ‘I see an inhospitable place.’
‘This is naught compared with the mountains of Gwynedd,’ Owen said.
‘Then I thank God Lancaster has no holdings to the north.’
As the portcullis rose in a wheezy grumble, a large, rough-visaged man stepped through, better dressed than the rest and with an air of authority, though when he spoke he revealed blackened teeth, unusual in Lancaster’s captains. ‘Will Tyler,’ he said with a bob of the head, ‘constable of Carreg Cennen. I bid you welcome.’ Turning, he led them into the inner courtyard, where he invited Owen, Geoffrey, Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo into a modest room in which burned a most welcome fire. The rest of their company were escorted to the kitchen.
Owen was on his second cup of ale before he spoke, mentioning Lascelles’s man, John de Reine.
Tyler gave Owen a look of surprise. ‘Your accent. You are a Welshman?’
‘I am.’
‘Most unusual.’
‘Unusual? In what way? Are we not in Wales, where one might expect a multitude of Welshmen?’
‘I am not accustomed to dealing with any on – official business.’ Tyler shook his head. ‘But no matter. As to your question, we have welcomed only you since the workmen arrived from the east. Travellers with English names are ever welcome here, we turn none away.’
‘You have had trouble with the Welsh?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Not while I have been here, but we are always ready. And we have no Welsh in the garrison. They are a queer race, barefooted and barelegged most of the time, and the shiftiest shave their heads so they may run through the brush more easily, but leave hair on their upper lips to show it is their choice to be thus shorn. A sly, violent people. There is no telling when they will turn – begging your forgiveness, Captain. But you are Lancaster’s man or he would not have trusted you here, so I doubt you take it amiss.’
Owen had meant to keep his counsel, but this rotten-toothed man with his foul-smelling breath and rude manner was more than he could bear. ‘You look equally unsavoury to my people, Constable. And as you were never invited into our land, I cannot see why you would expect courteous co-operation. But no, I do not take it amiss, for I am sure that rather than thinking for yourself you merely echo the opinion of others.’
The constable nodded towards Geoffrey as if to say, ‘You see what I mean about them?’
‘My son-in-law is testy after breaking up countless disputes between myself and Brother Michaelo,’ Sir Robert said. ‘But we cannot deny that we English arrived uninvited and robbed the people of their sovereignty.’ Sir Robert raised his hand as the constable opened his mouth to protest. ‘I say this not for the sake of argument, but rather to understand. Is that why your numbers here at Carreg Cennen have swelled? Because you expect the Welsh to turn traitor to us if the French get this far?’
Looking slightly frazzled by the shifting mood of the group, Tyler replied to Sir Robert. ‘Oh aye. This has ever been a difficult place for us.’
Sir Robert smiled at Owen’s puzzled expression and nodded slightly, as if to warn him to desist. Which was good advice, though less satisfying than shocking the constable out of his complacency.
‘You have seen nothing of a contingent from Cydweli?’ Owen asked Tyler again. ‘Nor received a messenger?’
Tyler shook his head. ‘Rivers swell this time of year. He may be delayed. But you will be in Cydweli soon, eh? Time enough. I have no spare archers to offer you in any case. Come now. My man will show you where you will rest your heads. And tonight we shall have a merry feast of it. I am eager to hear all the gossip of the realm.’ Tyler nodded at Brother Michaelo. ‘We would be grateful for a Mass while you are here, Father. It has been some time now since we lost our chaplain. The good bishop has been slow in sending us another.’
Michaelo, who had closed his eyes and tucked his hands up his sleeves as soon as he had quenched his thirst, looking for all the world like a monk lost in prayer (to those who did not know him), frowned now at the constable. ‘Lost your chaplain? How?’
‘He tumbled down the crag trying to follow his hound.’
Michaelo crossed himself. ‘Your chaplain had need of a hound’s protection?’
‘Nay, Father, he loved the hunt, he did.’
Michaelo glanced at Owen. ‘I begin to see your point.’ To Tyler, he said, ‘Not “Father”, but “Brother”. I am not a priest.
’
Looking more uneasy by the moment about playing host to this party, the constable nodded and said briskly, ‘An honest mistake – Brother. God go with you gentlemen. You are most welcome here. My man will show you to your chambers now.’
The travellers rose reluctantly, loath to part with the fire.
‘Watch where you step in the ward,’ Tyler’s man warned as they walked out into drizzle.
It was good advice. The rock on which the castle sat crested here in the inner ward, rising in a shallow, uneven dome. No one apparently saw the need to chip it down and smooth it out. It was a small ward, and in less than a dozen steps they were climbing a stairway to the rooms in the east wall; they were given sleeping chambers on either side of the chapel – narrow, dark, damp and chilled by the wind that rose up the cliff and past the lime kiln, giving the air a chalky scent. But each room had a brazier, already lit, and the pallets were piled with blankets and skins.
‘Jumping with fleas, no doubt,’ Michaelo said as he lifted one gingerly. ‘The constable and his men smell like beasts in a stable.’
‘You expected courtiers?’ Geoffrey said with an exaggerated bow. ‘In an isolated outpost?’
‘A Mass. I am surprised they noticed their chaplain’s absence.’
‘Fighting men are ever concerned about their souls,’ Sir Robert said. ‘You will not notice their odour when they are saving your neck.’
‘You saved our necks with your softening of Owen’s tirade,’ Michaelo said. ‘I am eager to leave this wilderness and continue on to St David’s.’ The archbishop’s secretary was the only one in the group who had but a single purpose, to complete his pilgrimage to St David’s in a belated rush of penitence for a past sin. Though Sir Robert seemed the most earnest pilgrim he also hoped to help Owen and Geoffrey with what had been meant to be a secret aspect of their mission, ascertaining where the loyalties of the Welsh lay. Not that Owen had confided in his father-in-law, but Sir Robert was adept at feigning sleep in order to eavesdrop.
‘We will wait a few days for Reine,’ Owen said. Tyler was right. Just as they had been delayed by the wet weather, so might Reine and his men be delayed in their journey from Cydweli. ‘And so that we might enjoy peace in our party, I propose that Geoffrey and Michaelo share a room, and I sleep with Sir Robert,’ Owen said.
Geoffrey thought it an excellent suggestion.
Owen and Sir Robert moved on to the room opposite. As soon as the door was closed, Owen expressed his surprise at the last part of Sir Robert’s comment to the constable, that there had been some truth in what Owen had said about the English and the Welsh.
As his father-in-law eased down on to the side of the cot closest to the lit brazier, he glanced at Owen with a fierce scowl that was not that of a man who considered himself complimented. ‘You have listened too long to my daughter, who believes soldiering robbed me of any ability to contemplate mankind’s state.’ Sir Robert’s voice was a weary whisper, but his expression kept Owen from interrupting to offer him comfort. ‘I have noticed much that has dismayed me about the treatment of the folk as we have journeyed into Wales. I do not, however, believe it wise to express one’s views too openly. You have come here as Lancaster’s man. It is not your place to criticise his actions.’
‘You are right.’
‘You made us all uneasy.’
‘That was not my purpose. I wished only to make Tyler uneasy.’
‘Which you did. Is that wise? If there is trouble, we might depend upon him for our safety. I hardly think your people, as you call them, would consider you one of them while wearing the Duke’s livery and a Norman beard.’
‘I am neither one of them nor one of you, aye. So it will ever be for me.’
Sir Robert looked surprised. ‘You are one of us, Owen.’
A few weeks earlier Owen might have agreed. He had truly begun to believe he belonged in York. But this journey was making him feel more and more exiled. ‘Come. Let me help you off with your boots so you might rest before we sup.’
‘You have come far, my son. Have a care. That is all I ask.’
Owen and Geoffrey sat up in the hall after the others had retired for the night. Neither was eager to go to his room until his sleeping companion slept peacefully.
Geoffrey sat back, contentedly patting his stomach. ‘This may be an isolated pile of rock, but such food! I shall be sad to leave this table.’ His legs stuck out comically, the chair oddly constructed, too deep for his short legs.
Will Tyler did manage to feed his men well, stews generously meaty and fatty, breads hearty and fresh, and seemingly unlimited ale. It was a wonder more of the castle’s inhabitants had not shared the fate of the chaplain. ‘I should think you would find this food simple compared to that at court,’ Owen said.
Geoffrey wrinkled his nose. ‘I am ever suspicious of a heavily spiced dish – what sins are hidden with such effort, eh? Now your lord, His Grace the archbishop, he knows the value of fresh, simple foods.’
‘I would thank you not to call him my lord.’
Geoffrey studied Owen silently for a moment. ‘Forgive me. And the constable made you Lancaster’s man.’
‘Do I look anyone’s man but my own?’
‘Everyone is someone’s,’ Geoffrey said, smiling at Owen’s growl. ‘And you were fortunate enough to have a choice, so they tell me.’
When Henry of Grosmont died, Owen had been given the opportunity of going either into the service of the new Duke, John of Gaunt, or John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and then Lord Chancellor of England.
‘Do you regret choosing the archbishop over the Duke so many years ago?’
‘I chose the man I thought it would be most honourable to serve. Perhaps I was a fool.’ Owen shook his head as Geoffrey opened his mouth to tease. ‘And yet I cannot say with any surety that your Duke is worthier.’
‘You would do well to court him. You must forge a new alliance. John Thoresby looks pale of late. He behaves as one making his peace with God, preparing for the next world. What will you do when he is gone?’
What indeed? Thoresby was seventy-five – a venerable age, and a vulnerable one. But Owen did not wish to confide his doubts about his future to Geoffrey. He was not yet so good a friend as to be trusted with such knowledge of Owen’s insecurities, too in love with his own wit to resist using the information if it would entertain the right people or win him some coveted honour. ‘You make too much of his mood. Thoresby is merely in mourning. The Queen’s death deprived the archbishop of his closest friend.’ It bothered Owen that Geoffrey had noticed Thoresby’s failing health. It must be more obvious than he had thought. ‘I shall be content to assist Lucie in the shop and the garden when His Grace passes on.’ Owen’s wife was a Master Apothecary in York, and had trained him to assist her.
Geoffrey made a mocking face. ‘Content? I predict that so quiet a life would be such a penance to you it would gain you enough indulgences to wash away all your sins – or it would poison your heart and set you on the path to damnation.’
Another observation too close to the mark, too close to Lucie’s prediction. ‘It is no fors. Thoresby lives.’ Owen was not deaf to Geoffrey’s advice. Lancaster was young, his power growing apace with his ambition. But Owen did not like the thought of such a lord – quick to laughter, quick to take offence. And he did not wish to discuss it tonight. ‘I am concerned about John de Reine.’
Geoffrey was suddenly serious. ‘Indeed. If someone has learned of his correspondence with the Duke – someone loyal to John Lascelles – he may be in danger.’
When Archbishop Thoresby had told Owen of Lancaster’s request, he had alluded to a sensitive issue that would be explained by the Duke himself. He would tell Owen only that it touched on a piece of Charles of France’s treachery.
In London, Owen and Geoffrey met with the Duke at his palace of the Savoy. Owen had not seen John of Gaunt since the deaths the year before of both his wife, the beautiful Blanche of Lancaster, and his moth
er, Queen Phillippa. The Duke was thirty now, and although his fair hair showed no signs of grey and he was yet broad in the shoulders and straight backed, there were shadows beneath his arresting eyes. There was also a wariness about those eyes and a tension in the jaw that the forked beard did not quite hide. The war with France was not going well, and the Duke had been blamed for some of the recent disappointments. Unjustly, according to Geoffrey. For the first time, Owen felt a sympathy for the Duke. He seemed ever to shoulder the blame for the King’s mistakes.
But as the Duke began to speak, Owen’s momentary sympathy faded. It was with a chilling calm that the Duke described the latest treachery of Charles of France. The French king harboured in his court a Welsh mercenary, Owain Lawgoch, or Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri ap Gruffudd, sometimes called Owain of the Red Hand, who had an impeccable Welsh pedigree – he was a great-nephew of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, Llywelyn the Last, who had once united most of Wales, the last of the great kings. Owain Lawgoch was also a soldier of considerable experience, had the confidence of leading French commanders such as Bertrand du Guesclin, and most importantly the support of King Charles. It was said that the French King had loaned Lawgoch some spies to stir up the Welsh and encourage them to betray the English to the French. In exchange, Lawgoch would have a chance to return to Wales as a ruler friendly to his allies across the Channel. King Edward and the Duke of Lancaster wanted Owen and Geoffrey to find out whether Lawgoch was making inroads in Wales. But the Duke had an additional concern.
