by Candace Robb
Bishop Houghton got to the point as soon as he learned Geoffrey knew of the situation. ‘How would you proceed in this business, Captain?’
What had transpired since Owen left Houghton? ‘Surely you have a coroner, Your Grace. And staff who assist you in keeping the peace?’
Houghton fussed with a sleeve, feigning distraction, as he said, ‘He wore Lancaster’s livery.’
‘I noted that.’
‘It is a delicate matter. The Duke of Lancaster and the Duchess Blanche, may God rest her soul, have provided me with the funds to build a college for the vicars. It is much needed. I cannot tell you the trouble the vicars manage to–– But that is not the point. The delicacy. You must see, I wish to keep it a secret . . .’
How like Thoresby he sounded. ‘It is too late for secrecy – all the city buzzes with the news of the corpse at the gate,’ Owen said.
Houghton seemed distracted by the hem of his sleeve. ‘I cannot keep the body a secret, of course. But who he was–– One of my vicars served as chaplain at Cydweli Castle a year past. He identified the body.’
So that was what had happened while Owen slept. ‘Then you have the information you need.’
‘His name is John de Reine,’ Houghton said, as if he had not heard Owen. ‘The man you were to meet at Carreg Cennen.’
‘John de Reine,’ Geoffrey muttered, as if testing the name against his memory. He stole a glance at Owen.
So he was right. But with the realisation came a twinge of unease. How much did the bishop know? Uncertain how to answer, Owen let the silence lengthen.
Houghton glanced from one to the other with a puzzled frown that suddenly brightened into an embarrassed smile. ‘In faith, I leap ahead without explaining,’ the bishop said. ‘Forgive me. Pray do forgive me. It is a fault with which I continually struggle. I am in the Duke’s confidence, gentlemen. You need not worry about what you say to me. The Duke thought it wise that another Marcher lord know of your purpose. Of his concerns about Owain Lawgoch’s supporters, whether Lascelles has gone over to their side, what that might mean to Cydweli.’
Looking much relieved, Geoffrey said, ‘Would that he had informed us.’
Owen might have used stronger words than Geoffrey’s, and his feeling was less relief than irritation.
‘What I wish to discover is why John de Reine was in my lordship. He had arranged to meet with you at Carreg Cennen,’ Houghton said.
‘A sudden urge to go on pilgrimage?’ Geoffrey suggested with a grin.
Houghton clenched his teeth and took a deep breath as if to keep himself from saying something he would regret later. ‘The man was brutally murdered, Master Chaucer.’
Owen’s companion blushed and bowed his head.
‘The Duke told you why we were to meet with Reine in particular?’ Owen asked carefully.
‘He did.’ Houghton nodded. ‘I confess to being uneasy about the young man’s intentions, betraying his father to the Duke.’
He did indeed know the heart of it. ‘His was a choice few sons would make out of love,’ Owen agreed. ‘But Lascelles’s choice of a wife seems unwise in these uneasy times.’
‘Of course. Still . . .’
‘Who was Lascelles’s father-in-law accused of harbouring?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘A known supporter of Lawgoch?’
‘One whom the people call merely the Fleming. Amusing, considering how the country round Haverfordwest is overrun by Flemings. As to the man’s supporting Lawgoch, he is an opportunist. It was the Earl of Pembroke’s mother, a Mortimer, who heeded the rumour, and when Lascelles gave Goronwy sanctuary in the Duke’s March, she made haste to inform Lancaster. She knows the Fleming because he has worked for the Mortimers in the past. I do not know what she knows of his present activities.’
‘And hence the ambiguity.’
‘Indeed. Was Gruffydd ap Goronwy harbouring a real traitor, or had he found himself on the wrong side of the Mortimers?’ Houghton rubbed his forehead. ‘I did not know it was the son of Cydweli’s steward who lay in the undercroft when I sent his fellows away.’
‘Whose fellows did you send away?’ Owen asked.
‘Reine’s fellows, Cydweli men.’
‘When?’
‘This morning. They rode up to Tower Gate and demanded to see the body that had been left there.’
The bishop was full of surprises. ‘Cydweli men came here today?’
Houghton nodded. ‘Demanding to see the body.’
‘What did they say when they saw it?’
‘They did not see it. They had no littera marchi. I sent them away. They had been sniffing round here earlier – several days ago – though not so boldly.’ Houghton paced. ‘I assure you, Captain, I am and always shall be the Duke’s ally. I would do nothing to impugn him, his authority or his honour. But I am lord here, and I cannot allow the Duke’s constable – or his steward – to order his men into my lordship and challenge my authority.’
‘I have no quarrel with that.’
‘But now it seems I behaved rashly. I had no idea it was John de Reine. He may have known of some danger and sent for the men, who came too late. But they gave me no explanation.’
‘Then I very much doubt he had sent for them,’ Owen said. ‘Yet it is strange, so many from Cydweli in St David’s.’
Houghton’s pacing became more vigorous. ‘Reine took a risk in writing to the Duke of his father’s inappropriate marriage. Was he silenced by his own father? Or those loyal to his father?’
‘You do not have a high opinion of Lascelles,’ Geoffrey remarked.
The bishop stopped. ‘You misunderstand me. I have never before had reason to distrust the man. In faith, I know almost nothing of Lascelles. But his natural son has been murdered and left at my doorstep, and I was one of the few people privy to his–– Well, you must see that many would consider Reine disloyal to Lascelles.’
‘Was the Duke wrong in trusting Reine?’ Geoffrey asked.
Houghton paused. ‘What?’ he asked distractedly. ‘Wrong to trust him? No. Not at all. Reine was the personal guard of the Duke’s late steward, Banastre, who chose his men with great care.’
‘A steward who kept personal guards?’ Owen said.
Houghton clasped his hands behind his back, nodded solemnly. ‘Banastre considered himself more lord than steward.’
‘You have heard nothing more than what the Duke has told you, the general rumour of Gruffydd ap Goronwy and the Fleming?’
‘Nothing more.’
‘What would you have us do?’ Geoffrey asked.
Owen thought that an ill-considered question. What they must do is tell the bishop that this was none of their concern.
‘You return to Cydweli soon?’ Houghton asked.
‘My intent was to depart in a few days,’ Owen said.
‘I would ask a favour of you.’
‘My lord bishop, our duty is––’ Geoffrey began, belatedly in Owen’s opinion.
‘Lawgoch’s followers and Lascelles’s loyalties,’ Houghton said, ‘and the more public issue of the garrisons and recruiting archers for the Duke’s campaign in France. About the latter I do not agree with the Duke’s plan: you take soldiers away from the Marches just as the King orders all to ensure the security of the ports in their lordships. But I honour the Duke’s orders and will not detain you. My request should prove a simple matter: I would have you slip away quietly, without any eyes to observe your departure, and bear John de Reine’s body back to Cydweli.’
‘A simple matter?’ Geoffrey muttered.
‘You fear the men who came today,’ Owen said.
‘I am uneasy about them. And about someone’s purpose in leaving Reine’s corpse at my gate. Caution seems the best approach. I shall provide you with some of my men, armed men, and a priest fittingly to accompany a funeral corte`ge.’
‘A priest?’ Owen asked.
‘He was lately chaplain of Cydweli – the vicar who identified the body. If Cydweli men meet you on the road they
will find no cause to complain about my treatment of their steward’s son. In fact, Edern volunteered to escort you when he identified Reine.’
‘Why should he care?’ Owen asked.
‘He is a devoted servant,’ Houghton said.
Owen doubted it was that simple. This turn of events made him uneasy. But it would be difficult to justify denying Houghton’s request. The body should return to Cydweli, and they were an armed party headed that way. ‘Can this Edern be ready in a day’s time?’
‘He can be ready in the morning.’
‘The morning? What is the haste?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Reine has been dead for some days,’ Owen said. ‘Already the body will be an unpleasant companion. The longer we wait, the worse it will be.’
Geoffrey made a face.
‘Where might I find this Edern?’ Owen asked. ‘I would speak with him before we set off on the road.’
Five
THE VICAR EDERN
‘Why should Father Edern wish to accompany us?’ Owen muttered as he and Geoffrey departed through the bishop’s hall. ‘What does he hope to gain?’
Geoffrey paused, turned on Owen. ‘You would have us wander in the wilderness with a corpse?’
‘Burdened as we shall be, it is the pilgrim road we shall travel, not the wilderness.’ But Owen could see by Geoffrey’s high colour how much their new mission preyed on his mind. ‘We do not need a guide.’
‘So the vicar hopes to see a maid he left behind or settle some business – what is the harm? Why must you question everyone’s motives?’
‘I have found it wise, is all. I pray the vicar proves trustworthy.’
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 t
o 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.’
