by Candace Robb
‘It has recently come to my attention that my steward in Wales, John Lascelles, has taken to wife the daughter of a man who fled his home in the March of Pembroke after being accused of harbouring a French spy. It is said that Lascelles offered the fleeing man, one Gruffydd ap Goronwy, sanctuary and land in the March of Cydweli in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
‘Traitors both?’ the Duke said. ‘One traitor and a besotted steward? Or is there no traitor, simply a man unjustly accused and a friend who keeps faith in him?’
John de Reine, the man Owen and Geoffrey were to meet at Carreg Cennen, had been one of the Duke’s sources of information on this topic, citing concern for Lascelles’s reputation and a strong distrust of Gruffydd ap Goronwy.
‘Reine’s concern is well motivated,’ explained the Duke. ‘He is Lascelles’s natural son, and owes his position to his father’s reputation.’
‘Which he impugns by this report,’ Geoffrey said.
‘It is Lascelles who risks his reputation by this marriage,’ the Duke said. ‘In his letter, Reine cites concern about his natural father’s neglect of his duties beyond Cydweli – he has not been in Carreg Cennen, Monmouth or back in England to see to his estates in nearly two years. Indeed, it is uncharacteristic of Lascelles to behave so.’
Owen had found this reasoning questionable. ‘I am with Geoffrey. Reine worries about Lascelles’s name and yet suggests to you, Lascelles’s lord, that his father is acting in a questionable, perhaps even treasonous manner. I would not call him a fond son.’
‘Lascelles need not have used his influence to get his son placed at Cydweli,’ the Duke said. ‘John de Reine acknowledges this in the letter and says he is grateful.’
‘Is he?’ Owen had not been convinced.
‘You must take the measure of this man I have entrusted with Monmouth, Carreg Cennen, and Cydweli,’ the Duke said, rising. ‘Reine is to meet you at Carreg Cennen. I hope he will be more at ease discussing his father at a distance from Cydweli – and safer.’
Hence their concern about Reine’s absence.
‘We know little about the man,’ Owen said.
Geoffrey shook his head and blinked, as if Owen’s words had pulled him from a reverie. ‘The good steward’s bastard? Seed sown in youth, reaped in middle age, eh?’
‘Here they make little note of whether a child was born within the bonds of marriage and often acknowledge their natural children. Does Sir John practise the Welsh custom to reassure the people he rules?’
‘I think not. Reine is reportedly a good soldier, so Sir John can make good use of him. But note he does not carry his father’s name. John Lascelles does not formally acknowledge him.’
‘Do you think he will come? Has he perhaps changed his mind?’
‘His letter to the Duke was that of a man discomfited by circumstances. Puzzled by Lascelles’s behaviour. He called him blinded by his wife’s beauty and strangeness, led into error by his obsession. Such are not the words of one who will change with the wind.’
Owen was not so sure.
‘And you know my suspicion, despite what he wrote in his letter – that the son is in love with the young wife,’ Geoffrey said.
Rising to stretch the stiffness out of his back, Owen studied the fire and pondered that possibility. Many a young man grew infatuated with his father’s young wife, but it would be a foolish man who involved the Duke in such a rivalry. ‘What do you know of John Lascelles?’
‘He worked hard for the Duke’s previous steward in Wales. He is a recent appointment – his predecessor Banastre died of plague, I believe. Sir John was considered a man worthy of the Duke’s trust. Until his marriage the only ill I heard of him was that his arrogant demeanour irritated many.’
Such a description was at war with Owen’s picture of Lascelles. He had imagined a man who lived impulsively and by the dictates of his heart. How else explain his welcoming Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s family to Cydweli without first consulting his lord Duke? Owen had imagined Sir John’s sympathy overriding his good sense when approached by Gruffydd, a man anxious for the family he had left behind in sanctuary in the church at Tenby – a family which included a beautiful daughter. No doubt Sir John might have reasoned that he owed a debt to Gruffydd, who, according to Reine’s information, he believed had saved him from drowning in the harbour two years earlier. But, as Reine reported the incident in less dramatic terms, the extent of Lascelles’s help begged more motivation than a debt repaid.
‘Does Sir John have any Welsh ancestry?’
‘No.’ Geoffrey watched Owen pace. ‘Would that excuse his behaviour? Would you marry the daughter of a traitor?’
Owen dropped back down on to the chair, stretched out his legs. ‘I do not think I would grant sanctuary to a traitor in order to gain his daughter’s hand in marriage. But you forget that we do not yet know whether Gruffydd ap Goronwy is a traitor. He was accused by the mother of the Lord of Pembroke. Though she married a Hastings, she will ever be a Mortimer, and the Mortimers are fond of accusing their enemies of treason. It is a tidy solution.’
Geoffrey nodded, but his eyes were troubled.
‘You do not like my answer.’
‘It makes me uneasy. As did your hot temper when Tyler spoke of the Welsh who live in the area.’
‘You knew that I was Welsh.’
‘Indeed. It is why I wished to have you here.’
‘Then what is wrong?’
Geoffrey lowered chin to chest, studied Owen through his eyebrows. ‘You itch for an argument? So be it.’ He raised his head, looked Owen in the eye. ‘You have changed since we crossed the Severn.’
‘Changed? It is true that hearing my language spoken all about me has reminded me of much I had forgotten. Do you know how long it has been?’
A roll of the eyes. ‘We speak so many languages.’
‘My people do not. And yours do not speak mine. Ever.’
‘Yours. You see?’ Geoffrey wagged his finger at Owen. ‘What will Lucie think, when you return a Welshman again?’
But Owen was in no mood for teasing. If Geoffrey wanted to know what was on his mind, he would hear it. ‘At first I was confused. I could not understand all the words. My own language.’
‘You will teach your children?’
‘I had already begun. And God grant, I may have new tales of my parents, my brothers and sisters to tell them. They may have cousins.’ Geoffrey had that wary look again. ‘Would I speak of my children if I meant to desert them? I tell you, I have not changed.’
‘Good,’ Geoffrey said, but he did not look convinced.
‘Enough of this. What of Cydweli’s constable? What can you tell me of him?’
‘Richard de Burley. A fighting man who sees courtesy as a fault, so I have been told. He is of an old Marcher family . . .’
‘. . . which means they are excellent judges of the direction in which the wind blows.’
Geoffrey chuckled, easing the tension between them. ‘I have no doubt of that. Lascelles and Burley should make a chilly pair. At such times I regret that my Phillippa cannot accompany me; she is excellent with difficult people.’
‘She must have felt the Queen’s passing sorely.’ The much-loved Queen Phillippa had died the previous summer. Geoffrey’s wife, who shared the name Phillippa, had been one of the Queen’s ladies-of-the-chamber.
Geoffrey wagged his outstretched hand. ‘Phillippa had some money from the Queen, and earned more assisting the Queen’s Receiver with the inventory of the household. Now she is busy with our young daughter Elizabeth, and believes she carries another child.’
‘God grant her a safe delivery.’
‘Phillippa thinks God has little to do with it, I fear. She boasts of her moderate habits and excellent health.’ Geoffrey pushed himself from the chair. ‘It is time we take ourselves to bed. It has been a long day and tomorrow we shall require our wits.’
Owen drained his cup, pushed back his chair. How cold the room had g
rown while they talked. He rubbed his hands together, blew on them. ‘I would welcome a sunny day.’
Geoffrey had moved towards the door. He turned now, shook his head at Owen. ‘You said you were tired.’
‘Aye.’ Owen joined him.
Geoffrey lifted a torch from a wall sconce, opened the heavy hall door. A draught made the flame dance and smoke. ‘Wretched place.’
Owen followed Geoffrey out the door. ‘If Reine does not appear, perhaps you should go straight to Cydweli with half our company.’
Geoffrey paused on the steps, turned, held the light up to Owen. ‘And you?’
‘Our pilgrims still need an escort to St David’s.’
‘We might find one for them in Cydweli.’
‘Sir Robert is already unwell. I cannot in good conscience prolong his journey. And I should wish to see him safely settled.’
For a moment, the wail of the wind through the tower and the hiss of the torch were the only sounds. Then Geoffrey nodded. ‘You are right. We shall continue as we planned. Reine knew our itinerary. He would not expect us to go straight to Cydweli.’
Owen put a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder, made him turn. ‘You do not trust me.’
Geoffrey laughed. ‘You have had too much ale.’ His eyes were not merry.
‘And too little sleep, aye.’
They climbed the stairs, parted at the landing in silence.
Tired as he was, Owen found it difficult to sleep. Geoffrey had placed a finger squarely on a tender spot, already rubbed raw by Owen’s own surprise at his feelings since he crossed the Severn. He should never have come.
Two
TO ST DAVID’S
Dafydd ap Gwilym and his men had ridden hard for two days to reach the bard’s home overlooking Cardigan Bay. A difficult journey for the injured pilgrim, and for Dafydd and his men, after a lazy fortnight in the hall of one of the bard’s generous patrons. But haste seemed wise. If the four from Cydweli were in pursuit, Dafydd preferred to defend the pilgrim on familiar ground. It was also most convenient that a skilled herbalist from Strata Florida Abbey was assisting him in enlarging his garden. The pilgrim had need of Brother Samson.
Dafydd glanced up from his harp as a servant showed Samson’s travelling companion into the room. Dafydd’s great, rough-coated hounds rose and padded over to sniff the monk’s robe. A pity that Dafydd’s moment of pleasure must be disturbed, but the monk was merely answering his summons. Dafydd needed a spy in St David’s and a Cistercian would blend in well. Better still, Dyfrig owed him a favour.
‘Benedicte, Master Dafydd,’ the monk bowed, hands up the sleeves of his white robe.
Did they train the monks to that attitude as novices, Dafydd wondered.
‘You have need of me?’ the monk asked.
‘Benedicte, Brother Dyfrig. God has granted us sunshine to lift our hearts. It seems we find favour with Him today.’ The monk’s eyes flickered uneasily towards the tall, shaggy dogs. Dafydd chuckled. ‘Be at ease. You should know by now that Nest and Cadwy are gentle creatures to all but the wolves and the deer. They are merely curious about you. You have seen the wounded pilgrim?’
‘A pilgrim, is he?’
The monk was bold enough. His doubt did not ring out, but it certainly whispered. ‘Why else does one journey to St David’s?’ Dafydd asked.
‘St David’s has some commerce, also, Master Dafydd. Both on land and sea.’ The ghost of a smile.
‘A pilgrim, Brother Dyfrig.’
Another bow. ‘You wish me to escort him back?’
‘Do you make a joke? Does the man look as if he might ride?’
Another uneasy flicker of the eyes, though the hounds had lost interest and returned to Dafydd. ‘No.’
‘You will go there with your ears pricked. Discover whether any other gifts from the sea have been found on Whitesands.’
‘Whitesands,’ the monk repeated. ‘You seek the one who severed the pilgrim’s ear? I thought that there were four in pursuit.’
‘None of them injured. My pilgrim had a blood-soaked sleeve – possibly his own blood, but I think not. His own would not have spattered so.’
The monk crossed himself. ‘Yet you call him a pilgrim.’
‘The holiest of men may defend themselves when attacked.’
‘The four. What if they learn of my mission?’
‘Are you such a fool as to announce it? I seek rumours or news, not the man. I doubt the man is of any use to me. Or to anyone in this world. You need not reveal yourself. Merely listen.’
‘It will be done, my lord.’
‘A name would also please me. A name for our pilgrim.’
‘He has said nothing?’
‘The name of a woman, that is all, a woman’s given name. He lies there mute as to his identity.’
‘Perhaps that is as he wishes it, my lord.’
‘It is not what I wish.’
‘The woman’s name might be of help.’
‘Tangwystl. It means peace pledge, did you know?’
‘Or peace hostage, Master Dafydd.’
What light lit up those dull eyes? The monk was enjoying this. ‘Indeed. Go in peace, Brother Dyfrig, you are no hostage here. God speed you on your journey.’
‘May God watch over your household. And over me, so it please Him.’
In Carmarthen, Owen’s company had word of John de Reine. He had passed through more than a week before, and was travelling alone – odd on both counts.
Odder still, in St Clears they again had news of him. He was travelling west; he should have headed east from Carmarthen.
‘What is he about?’ Geoffrey muttered as they mounted the following morning.
‘You might have known by now had you gone straight to Cydweli as I suggested,’ Owen said.
Geoffrey made a dismissive sound and rode first from the abbey yard.
Sir Robert brought his horse up beside Owen’s. ‘Have you argued with Master Chaucer?’
‘No.’ Owen took alarm as a deep, phlegmy coughing fit made Sir Robert curl in on himself, as if he had been punched in the stomach. ‘You must look to your health, Father. You should have taken the physick last night. Such a violent spell will bring up blood and weaken you.’
Sir Robert, unable to speak, waved away Owen’s concerns.
A chill rain persisted from St Clears to Llawhaden, where they were to spend the night at the bishop’s castle. Llawhaden Castle was not so impressive as Carreg Cennen, being more a fortified manor house than a castle, but it was imposing sitting on a rise overlooking the market town and fortified enough that the bishop’s prison resided in the base of the chapel tower. The town of Llawhaden was a prosperous borough with a weekly market and twice-yearly fairs; the East Cleddau River provided abundant salmon and sea trout. With the rental of the borough plots, market dues and tolls, and the leasing of the water-mill, fulling mill and fishery in the river, the town was a rich estate for the bishops of St David’s. Brother Michaelo thought it an improvement over the isolated Carreg Cennen.
Owen hoped to view the surrounding countryside from the castle towers. But when he mounted to the tower he saw little more than the castle precinct softened by mist. Sir Robert joined him in the cold, windy spot, holding his cloak tightly about his neck.
‘You are doing your best to worsen that cough,’ Owen grumbled.
‘I wished to speak with you away from the others,’ Sir Robert said, his voice hoarse.
‘You have something to say that they cannot hear?’
‘I wish to warn you, my son. Master Chaucer has watched you closely since Carreg Cennen.’
Owen leaned his elbow on the wall, looked out at the misty landscape. This was not something he wished to discuss, and he let his discomfort sharpen his voice as he said, ‘Do you think I have not noticed?’
‘Do you know why?’
So he was going to play the dog, worry at the bone until it snapped.
‘I have a good idea.’
‘He wonders wh
ere your loyalties lie.’
‘He has no need,’ Owen said through clenched teeth. If the old man were not so ill, and were not his father-in-law . . .
Sir Robert leaned so close Owen could smell his breath, made sour by his illness. ‘You have perhaps been indiscreet.’
‘Let us go below, I shall give you a tincture for your stomach and a hot drink for your cough. And tonight I shall––’
Sir Robert caught Owen’s hand, pulled it close to force his son-in-law to face him. ‘First admit to me that since crossing the Severn you have prickled whenever we speak of the strangeness of this country.’
‘You mean I have remembered that I am Welsh.’
Sir Robert studied Owen’s face. ‘It is more than that. You are questioning all that you have become since you left this place.’
‘Not questioning, Sir Robert. Realising what I had forgotten. And wondering what has become of the family I left here.’
‘You do not like the way your people are treated.’
‘My people?’
Sir Robert’s eyes were sad as he dropped his hand. ‘Forgive me. I am a meddling old fool who has opened a wound I had not even known was there.’
‘Do you fear that I might stay here and desert my family?’
‘No. No, my son.’ Sir Robert coughed, clutched the wall as if dizzy.
Owen put an arm round Sir Robert to support him, found the old man shivered despite his warm cloak. ‘Come. Let me see to that cough and your sour stomach.’
Sir Robert allowed himself to be helped down the steps and into Owen’s chamber in the west range. He was unusually silent while Owen worked on him, averting his eyes from his son-in-law as if fearful he might be tempted into a conversation he did not wish to have. What was it he did not want to say? Without his chatter, Owen was keenly aware of the old man’s laboured breathing, the unhealthy wheeze and intermittent gurgle as if water collected in his chest.
