by Candace Robb
‘Not with weapons.’
‘There has been some trouble here?’ Geoffrey asked.
The gatekeeper hesitated. ‘I should not be talking of the castle’s troubles.’
Geoffrey began to turn away. ‘It is no fors, I shall hear it soon enough.’
The gatekeeper sniffed at that. ‘Aye, you will learn far more than I can tell you. It was theft at the castle, you see. Guards have gone forth to catch the thief. That is all we know.’
‘Par Dieu! A theft at the castle? Now that was a bold thief.’
The gatekeeper warmed to Geoffrey. ‘They do say poor Roger Aylward lost a tooth in the attack.’
‘And who is this poor man who must eat soft food for some days?’
‘The Duke’s receiver in Cydweli, and a worthy burgher of this town, milord.’
‘Poor man. It is one thing to be injured protecting your own goods, but for the Duke’s . . .’
‘He will have a good tale to trade, and a gap to show for his honour. It will ease the pain for Master Aylward. But you understand the danger. You see why I count it wise to be wary of strangers bearing blades at such a time.’
‘I do indeed. And I shall tell the steward of your wise caution.’
‘Er – the cart, milord. What do you carry?’
Geoffrey pulled off his cap, held it to his heart as he bowed his head. ‘The body of a noble soldier from the garrison.’
The gatekeeper frowned, took a few rocking steps towards the cart, wrinkled his nose. ‘God’s blood. It is no wonder the mighty Burley left it to you.’
‘And you will equally understand why we wish to deliver our burden as soon as may be.’
The gatekeeper bowed them through the gate. All dismounted and passed through, Edern guiding the donkey and cart.
‘That was well done,’ Owen said to Geoffrey when they were well within.
Geoffrey bowed slightly and put a finger to his nose. ‘I despair of learning your skills, but I have some of my own I thought to put to good use.’
At first Lascelles stared unblinkingly at the vicar, as if still waiting for him to speak. The steward of Lancaster’s Marcher lordships was tall and slender, with the pinched lips and stiff shoulders of a man much given to self-discipline. His eyes were pale and cold, his speech and manners those of one brought up to rule with disdain. And yet while Edern had told the tale of the body left at the gate and the bishop’s insistence that his own men accompany the corpse, Owen noted a cast to those cold eyes that belied Lascelles’s control.
Geoffrey, Edern and Owen had been led into the great hall of the castle and served refreshments. Lascelles had joined them abruptly, alone, obviously aware that they bore unhappy news.
‘I understand that he was your natural son,’ Owen said.
Lascelles tilted his head back and drained his cup. A servant came forward, refilled his cup. This, too, he drained in one gulp. The servant filled the cup a third time. Lascelles set it on the table beside him. ‘John departed for Carreg Cennen. He had no business in St David’s.’ He looked oddly pale for the amount of wine he had just consumed, and so quickly. ‘But why should that disturb the bishop?’
‘We might leave that for later,’ Owen said. ‘After––’
‘Now,’ Lascelles said, lifting his cup. ‘I shall hear all now.’
‘We merely thought business should wait,’ Geoffrey said quietly.
‘I prefer to hear it now.’
‘Very well.’ Owen nodded to Edern.
The vicar sat with folded hands and spoke quietly. ‘My lord Bishop wants your reassurance that it was not by your orders that Reine and shortly afterwards four other armed men from this garrison came riding into his lordship without first requesting his permission.’
‘Is that his concern? That I challenged his authority in his lordship? Well, he may rest assured that I did not. As if I did not know he would run to the Duke––’ Suddenly the steward passed a hand across his eyes, shook his head. ‘You must forgive me. It is a shock, this news. You are right, Captain. We shall discuss the bishop’s concerns at a more appropriate time.’ He rose clumsily, gave a curt nod. Sweat glistened on his pale face, his eyes did not focus on his company. ‘I forget myself, gentlemen, offering you a paltry cup of wine as comfort upon your arrival. My wife has arranged for warm water to be sent to your rooms so that you might wash the dust from you. And a more substantial refreshment.’ He turned and hurried from the hall.
Edern wiped his brow.
Geoffrey slapped the table and rose, tugging up his sagging girdle. ‘I have enjoyed warmer welcomes, but in the circumstances he behaved with excellent courtesy.’ He glanced round, nodded to the servant hovering in the doorway. ‘We would retire to the guest chambers.’
Owen did not share Geoffrey’s satisfaction with the steward’s welcome. What he had witnessed seemed not the reaction of a man who had just received grievous news, but the behaviour of a man who faced at last what he had long dreaded. For the first time Owen wondered whether Lascelles had a hand in John de Reine’s death. Could he have ordered his son silenced?
Edern was to stay with the present chaplain of Cydweli in the chapel tower. Geoffrey and Owen were led across the inner bailey to the guesthouse, where they were to share a room. Servants and soldiers stood about in doorways and corners of the yard, heads together, talking quietly but excitedly. Several glanced up curiously as the two passed. Already the news of Reine’s death spread.
Owen dismissed the servant as soon as the young man had helped him off with his boots. The room was large, with a window that looked out towards the great hall and another that faced a small tree valiantly struggling to grow in the shadow of the castle wall. The chamber walls were painted white with yellow and red flowers. It was well furnished, with a brazier in the corner between the two windows, two fair-sized beds, a rack of pegs on which to hang their clothes, a trunk for storage, and a table and two chairs.
‘We should be comfortable here,’ Owen said. He removed his eye-patch and rubbed the scar beneath.
‘Something troubles you,’ Geoffrey said.
Owen poured wine from the hospitably large jug on the table and settled down on the bed which smelled of lavender and felt free of lumps. He might sleep well here if he could quiet his mind. ‘Sir John did not behave like a grieving father. Or a grieving steward.’
Geoffrey stood looking out the small window that faced on the inner bailey. Without turning, he said, ‘He hides his emotions before strangers. A common courtesy.’
‘Oh, aye, he would do that. He looks a man who has done everything everyone expected of him, from squire to steward.’
‘What of his natural son? There at least was proof of a night of passion.’
‘That, too, was expected.’
‘You are never satisfied. If he had been Welsh you might have called him perfect.’
‘You think I consider my people perfect? If we had been so, we would not be under your thumb.’
Geoffrey sighed, sank down on his bed. ‘I consider him a generous host.’
Eight
THE LADY OF CYDWELI
As soon as Owen entered the great hall for the evening meal, he noted John Lascelles, his tall frame draped in a blue silk gown with flowing sleeves, contrasting with the tight gold sleeves of the shift beneath. A richly embroidered gold hat hid his balding head.
Geoffrey, who had arrived earlier and already could put names to many of the faces, joined Owen and nodded towards a man and woman who made their way through the crowd towards Lascelles. ‘Mistress Lascelles,’ Geoffrey whispered. ‘Is she not one of the loveliest women you have ever seen?’
So this was the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. She had red–gold hair, pulled up in intricate coils exposing a long neck and delicate ears. Her softly rounded form was exquisitely displayed in a low-cut gown in the latest court fashion, made of costly silk and velvet. ‘Indeed,’ Owen said. ‘Who is the man?’ He was older than she, though no less handsome.
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br /> ‘I do not know.’
‘Gruffydd ap Goronwy?’ Owen wondered aloud. The older man was also dressed in elegant clothes, though subtler than the woman’s, dark browns and deep blues free of ornament. He had dark hair with a wing of silver over the right temple. Proud of it he must be, for he wore his blue velvet hat tilted to show the silver wing to advantage. His features were regular, perhaps heavy in the brow, his eyes dark as his hair, his expression amiable. His posture emphasised a prosperously wide middle. Owen guessed that the width had been on his shoulder in youth. His left hand was bandaged and he held it as if he still had pain.
‘Handsome father, handsome daughter,’ Geoffrey said. ‘God’s blood, you must be right.’
‘A chilly welcome,’ Owen said as Lascelles caught sight of his wife, stiffened, lifted his chin. As she curtseyed to him, Lascelles appeared to sniff and give a hardly courteous nod.
‘How did such an angel alight in this gloomy place?’ Geoffrey whispered.
‘Let us not forget that she was her father’s salvation,’ Owen said.
They approached their host, his wife and the stranger.
Mistress Lascelles raised her eyes to the newcomers and smiled. Her eyes were a pale green.
Lascelles was first to speak. ‘Master Chaucer, Captain Archer. I do not think I thanked you for escorting my son’s body from St David’s. You are our most welcome and honoured guests this night. Ask for whatever delicacies you wish after your long and difficult journey.’ His voice did not echo the warmth of his words.
‘You are most kind,’ Geoffrey said, bowing. Owen bowed likewise.
‘My wife,’ the steward said, inclining his head slightly towards the beauty at his side.
Owen bowed low and greeted her in Welsh, expressing his regret for having brought such sorrow to her family this day. Her smile faded, she bowed her head, and in her own language she said, ‘I shall miss John de Reine. He was a kind and gentle man.’
‘This is most unfair,’ Geoffrey said, ‘for I would greet you but have no knowledge of your tongue.’
Mistress Lascelles glanced up. ‘Forgive me, Master Chaucer.’ Her voice was slightly hesitant in her husband’s language. ‘May I introduce to you my father, Gruffydd ap Goronwy.’
The handsome man stepped forward. ‘Master Chaucer, Captain Archer.’ He bowed. ‘All of Cydweli is abuzz with your coming. Young men are honing their skills to impress you so that they might join the Duke’s forces in the great war.’
Owen happened to glance towards the fair Mistress Lascelles as her father spoke, and was intrigued by the look of surprise on her face. And indeed Gruffydd’s voice carried a note that warred with his seemingly genuine smile.
Despite Geoffrey’s efforts to keep the conversation light and pleasant, the ensuing meal was an assay of wills: everyone seemed at war – John Lascelles spoke curtly to Burley, who joined them at the table, and seemed irritated by his wife’s occasional lapses into Welsh when addressing Owen or her father; Richard de Burley lectured the company at large about the foolishness of the Duke’s contradictory orders to reinforce the garrisons while at the same time recruiting archers from their ranks; Mistress Lascelles chided the constable on his poor manners. Gruffydd was the only one in the Cydweli party who seemed determined to enjoy the evening, asking Owen and Geoffrey about their travels and their impressions of Carreg Cennen and St David’s. Mistress Lascelles graced her father with an affectionate smile whenever their eyes met.
As it grew late, Owen’s mind wandered back to the day’s events and he thought of Edern, searched the diners for his face, but saw him not. In Welsh he asked Mistress Lascelles why the priest who had escorted John de Reine’s body was not included in their company at the high table.
Mistress Lascelles’s white skin flushed as she glanced at her father, then Owen. ‘Father Edern of St David’s?’
Owen nodded.
‘He is here?’ she whispered.
‘He seemed a suitable choice.’
‘No doubt he put himself forward as such,’ Gruffydd said. He made no effort to soften the words with a smile.
‘I fear my question was clumsy,’ Owen said. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Lascelles.’
‘You were right to ask about your companion,’ she said, but she seemed to withdraw into herself. In a little while she rose and begged leave to retire.
Lascelles bowed to her. ‘I shall join you later,’ he said.
Gruffydd rose to follow his daughter, who already walked away. ‘Tangwystl,’ he called.
She paused, turned. ‘I pray you, stay and entertain our guests in my stead.’ She smiled. ‘You should enjoy your evenings away from the farm.’
Gruffydd bowed to her and resumed his seat, though he watched her departure with anxious eyes.
Once Mistress Lascelles had departed, Geoffrey complained how weary he was. Soon he and Owen also took their leave of Lascelles. Gruffydd accompanied them to the door of the hall.
‘Neither you nor the constable seems fond of Father Edern,’ Owen commented. ‘He seemed pleasant enough on the journey from St David’s.’
‘I do not know the constable’s mind in this, Captain. My feelings about the man go back many years. They would not interest you.’ He stretched, gazed up at the stars. ‘The weather has turned in our favour. I bid you good-night, Captain, Master Chaucer. May you sleep well.’ He strode away.
‘A pleasant man,’ Geoffrey said.
‘He would certainly have us think so,’ Owen said. ‘It cannot be an easy thing, to know that all look on him and wonder whether he is a traitor to his king.’
‘At least he does not hide.’
‘I think his daughter is too fond to allow that. But he dines without his wife. Perhaps she finds it more difficult to face the questions in everyone’s eyes.’
‘Tangwystl,’ Geoffrey said softly. ‘A lovely name.’
‘Aye, that it is.’
Dafydd ap Gwilym stepped to the edge of the cliff, his robes billowing in the up-draft, and opened his arms to embrace the day. The sea mist kissed his hair, beaded on his lashes, cooled his face. God’s morning was magnificent. As he drew his eyes down from the heavens, he saw no break between the grey sky and the grey sea, which this morning appeared to lie placidly in the great arch of Cardigan Bay. A dangerous imagining, a placid sea. Dangerous to one who believed it. The white-tipped waves were merely veiled by the early morning fog, which also muted the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below with a power mightier than any man might counter.
‘I do not think we should take him so near the edge,’ Brother Samson said in his low, booming tones. Dafydd had never noted how like the sea breaking on the rocks was Samson’s voice.
‘It is quite level here.’ Dafydd held out his arm to the pilgrim, still unnamed, who limped towards him in the protective shelter of the monk’s guiding hands.
The monk spoke softly to the young man, encouraging his efforts, but he glowered at Dafydd. ‘You push him too far too quickly.’
Were all healers fretters? Was that what drew them to their calling? The pilgrim walked with a limp, to be sure, and the bandage round his head reminded Dafydd of his terrible injury. He looked weary already, head bowed and shoulders rounded, though he had made a good effort, taken perhaps a hundred steps from the house. Yet his expression, when he lifted his head to Dafydd’s, was unchanged – resigned, despairing, ready to give up the effort as soon as permitted.
‘Good lad,’ Dafydd said. ‘You will see, all this effort will prove worthwhile.’ To Samson he whispered, ‘We agreed that our pilgrim must build his strength for the journey.’
‘Build his strength, yes. Such must be done gradually.’ Samson, on the other hand, looked overfed and nervous, as if he needed a good month in the fields, preferably behind a plough.
Dafydd wearied of the monk’s contrariness. ‘You fret that the Duke’s men will return, that we must hide our pilgrim, that we must make plans, and yet you wish to take your time readying him?
Whence comes this sudden confidence that the Duke’s men are not just down the hill?’
The short monk looked up at his charge, steadied him, then moved alone towards Dafydd. ‘I am wise enough to know that I cannot change nature. Why do you whisper? Do you fear we will be overheard?’
‘It is a morning for secrets and whispers. God sets the tone of the day – listen to the sea, how its voice is hushed by the fog.’ Dafydd nodded towards the pilgrim, who had stepped to the edge of the bluff. ‘You see? Is it as I said?’
He regretted his words at once as he saw the young man gaze down with such an expression of longing that Dafydd feared he had been unwise in trusting the pilgrim alone so near the edge. Dafydd took a step towards the young man. ‘Are you dizzy?’
‘I feel I could lean into the wind and go soaring out above the sea like a gull.’
‘I do not think that is God’s intention,’ Samson said, with a nervous gesture as if he might stay the young man with a wave.
‘I know I am not a gull.’
‘But what are you, then?’ Dafydd whispered. ‘Are you Rhys?’
The young man turned back to the sea as if he had not heard. Dafydd wished that Dyfrig would return with the gossip from St David’s.
Sir Robert had been most grateful to the white monk for his offer to escort him and Brother Michaelo on a circuit of the holy wells in the vicinity. Brother Dyfrig seemed a gentle soul with a ready laugh, and his familiarity with the countryside made him the perfect guide. At St Non’s Well, as they awaited their turn at the stone-lined grotto, Dyfrig had mentioned Owen. ‘It is a pity your one-eyed companion left in such haste. He might have found solace, perhaps even healing, here. Many eye afflictions have been cured by St Non.’
‘He wished to stop here,’ Sir Robert had told him. ‘But the bishop sped him on his way.’ Sir Robert watched as Brother Michaelo knelt on the stones, dipped his fingers in the well and pressed them to his temples. ‘My companion hopes to find relief from his head ailment.’ Feeling eyes on him, Sir Robert looked up, found a dark-haired man regarding him with a curious expression. He looked vaguely familiar.
