by Candace Robb
‘And that is what has brought on this melancholy?’
‘Father Francis, the chaplain, found me in the doorway. What must he think?’
Owen fought to regain a solemn expression. ‘Unfortunate.’
‘Mine was an honest mistake. As I approached, a man hurried from the chapel, muttering to himself – would that I had been closer, perhaps he would have seen me and warned me away.’
‘And thus you sit so, unable to write.’
‘Worse was to come.’
‘Worse? Perhaps I ought to visit the chapel . . .’
‘You would not – You make merry of me.’
‘In faith, I thought to put you at ease.’
‘You choose an odd method of easement.’
‘I pray you, tell me what caused your melancholy.’
‘The chaplain – what he told me. Gladys – that is Mistress Lascelles’s maid – lies with any and all men in the castle, but particularly John Lascelles.’ Geoffrey spoke the last four words slowly, watching for a reaction.
Owen thought it a pity that the steward’s eye wandered so early in marriage, but such men were sadly common. And yet . . . ‘I thought Sir John worshipped his young wife. Else why risk union with the family of a man accused of treason?’
‘A woman adored is not always a woman bedded.’
‘Aye. And ladies’ maids have betrayed their mistresses before.’
‘At their mistress’s bidding?’
Now he had Owen’s full attention. He eased down on to the seat opposite Geoffrey. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said. She has encouraged Gladys and her husband.’
‘Should the chaplain have spoken of any of this?’
‘It grows complicated.’
‘Indeed.’
‘He – Father Francis, the chaplain – is certain that Edern has been brought back to resume his duties as chaplain – because Francis – a most pathetic, paunchy, mewling creature – was discovered with Gladys much as I discovered Edern this day. So he wishes me to reveal to Sir John what I witnessed. That Edern is no better than he should be, or at least no better than Francis.’
‘But why would he tell you about Sir John and the maid?’
‘I protested. I would not disturb Sir John, and through him his lady, for anything. And in any case, Edern was not brought back to resume duties as chaplain.’
‘You are a gentle heart, Geoffrey. This chaplain could learn much from you about Christian charity.’
‘He did not see it so.’
‘Did you agree to speak with Sir John?’
‘I muttered a curse in Italian in such a tone he believed me to be promising my help.’
‘You made good use of your wit.’
‘It is only a halfwit who walks into trouble and then reasons himself out of it.’
Tonight Gruffydd ap Goronwy wore a simple gown befitting a man of his stature, but made of silk, which caught the light and called attention to him. Quite a peacock, Tangwystl’s father. Was that why his wife did not accompany him to the castle – because she was busy at home working on his extensive wardrobe?
Gruffydd’s dark eyes swept the room. When he saw Owen, he lifted his chin and eyebrows in a mute greeting and moved towards him through the crowd. As he drew near, Gruffydd grew sombre. Owen guessed he had been wrong about the man he had thought to be his brother Morgan.
‘You are looking well this evening,’ Owen said.
‘God has ever blessed my line with good health, Captain.’ Stepping closer, Gruffydd bowed his head slightly and said in a quieter voice, ‘I have spoken with your brother.’
Owen’s heart gladdened. ‘I had thought, when you arrived alone . . .’
A shake of the head. ‘He would not come to the castle.’
‘Why not?’
‘He did not explain. But he invites you, indeed, implores you to come to him.’
‘He is unwell? He cannot travel?’
‘You will find him well. I shall tell you how to find him.’
Owen could not bring himself to ask about the others.
Dafydd ap Gwilym watched the sunrise, remembering how a spring sunrise long ago caught his love’s hair and warmed it slowly from a pale yellow to red–gold, each strand burnished anew as the sun climbed the heavens. She, too, had warmed with the morning, as if kindled by the sun.
Not by his ardour, though he had foolishly thought she loved him. They never loved him well enough to defy their kin and run away with him. A woman loves a poet’s praises, the promise of fame and immortality in his songs. But she lusts for a soldier and marries a man of property.
He blinked at the melancholy thoughts. Whence came such shadows on this exquisite morning? Perhaps it was his imminent departure from this beloved place that darkened his mood and his memories. He must shrug off this gloom else he would be no good at convincing the men from Cydweli – whose return was inevitable – that the house had been as empty when last they came as it was now, and that Dafydd had no other goal in the world than his work.
Brother Samson and the pilgrim had departed yesterday for Strata Florida. A good three days’ journey on horseback, perhaps four, considering how Samson worried over the young man. Was Samson so old in spirit he had forgotten the resilience of youth? How quickly bones knit, wounds closed, scars faded, muscles eased? Ah, to be young again. It had been nothing for Dafydd to walk over mountains to revisit a lake noted in passing, to refresh his memory as he strove to describe a tree under which he had napped, a glade he had enjoyed with a sweetheart. He would give anything to trade places with the pilgrim.
Enough of that. He would soon prove his mettle when he followed on their trail. But first he would have some sport with the Cydweli men. He awaited their return. Had he gone with Samson and the pilgrim, the men would have found a house empty and would seek the pilgrim’s trail. But if they returned to see everything as it had been before – as far as they knew – they might be less diligent about seeking that trail.
Dafydd looked forward to another round with the men. He had precious few diversions beyond his poetry these days. Each one was to be savoured.
Stretching to his full height, Dafydd took one last look at the sunlit Irish sea and turned towards the house, whistling for his dogs. Nest and Cadwy abandoned their explorations in the gorse and followed. Dafydd walked slowly, making note of the crocuses, the birdsong, the budding trees. When he returned from Strata Florida, where he intended to spend some time in prayer, summer would be full blown – or worse, he might be delayed until the autumn. Who knew what adventures lie ahead?
For he knew not the truth of the pilgrim’s story. He knew not whether the armed bullies from Cydweli were right to claim him. He knew not how safe Brother Samson was, travelling with only a young lay brother and the pilgrim.
And it was just that uncertainty that made it worth a temporary absence from this beloved spot. He felt alive, and younger than before he had encountered the pilgrim on Whitesands.
God be praised.
Ten
KIN
Morgan ap Rhodri’s house stood on a slope at the narrow end of a valley that rose just beyond to a mountain striped with rushing streams. This was not the homestead of Owen’s latter youth; indeed, the setting put him more in mind of LlŶn. How quickly the land changed in just a few hours’ ride from Cydweli. The house was long and low, a modest farmhouse, whitewashed and neatly thatched. Chickens pecked in the yard and a nanny goat and her kids gave him a slit-eyed examination from a paddock next to the house.
A woman sat in the doorway mixing something in a large bowl and rocking a cradle with her bare foot. She rose to greet Owen, but as she ceased her rocking the baby cried out in protest. The woman quickly set down the bowl and retrieved the wailing child. By now Owen was close enough to see a pleasant, very young face peering out from the intricately folded wimple. She was quick and compact in movement.
‘Owain ap Rhodri?’ she asked.
He was glad he had no
t come here before his ear had readjusted to the language, for her accent was strong. ‘Forgive me for coming unannounced,’ he said in Welsh, ‘I did not wish to wait until a messenger might arrange a meeting.’
‘And so you should not, being kin!’ She touched her left eye with her free hand. ‘So the tales about your eye are true. By a woman’s hand, they say. Was it for looking at her?’ Her eyes teased.
‘She was not a beauty. I had no joy in the struggle.’
‘I am sorry for that.’ A dimpled smile.
Owen found her charming. ‘I do not know your name.’
‘I am Elen.’
‘When did you hear of my scarred eye?’
‘Your arrival at Cydweli has been the talk of the valley for days.’
‘Has it indeed! That is a wonder, for I swear I have never set foot in this valley before.’
‘We have several youths who hope to be chosen archers for the Duke.’
‘Ah. I hope they do not regret their eagerness.’
Elen looked puzzled by his words.
‘It is no matter. Why would Morgan not come to see me at Cydweli?’
Elen ducked her head. ‘I leave that to my husband to explain. Come. He is near, mending a fallen wall.’
As they began to walk, Owen peered down at the baby, who was preparing to make a fresh clamour. ‘And who is this, with a shock of red fuzz to rival my brother Dafydd’s?’
‘Your youngest nephew, Luc.’
The baby clasped the forefinger Owen offered and held firm, inspiring both adults to laughter.
‘He is a strong one,’ Owen said.
‘Stubborn, is more like.’ Elen’s giggle was merry and disarming.
They had skirted the paddock and now turned towards the mountain. A low wall encircled an orchard that held perhaps threescore trees of varying age.
‘The orchard was wild when Morgan came here,’ Elen said. ‘My father thought an orchard a gentleman’s endeavour, not worth a farmer’s time. But Morgan loves the trees and the fruit.’
He took after their mother in that. ‘So this is your family’s farm?’
‘Aye.’
‘It is beautiful.’
‘It was not always so.’ Elen stopped, pointed to a figure in the distance, at the far end of the orchard, crouching by the wall. ‘There he is. Go, then. He will be glad to see you.’
A breeze with a touch of ice in it swept down from the mountain, making the orchard cool even in the sunlight. Owen’s boots made sucking noises in the grass. Boggy for an orchard. But it looked healthy. Owen’s mother had once told him that no matter how experienced and hard-working the farmer, if he did not believe in the earth he tilled he would reap poor harvests.
In his infancy Morgan had suffered from a stomach flux and recurrent rashes. It had stunted his growth, his mother believed. She had coaxed Rhodri into allowing her to take the boy to St David’s and the holy wells surrounding it, hoping that the healing waters might cure him. Owen, thirteen years old, had accompanied her to the far west. Morgan had suffered much of the way with a terrible rash. He would wake in the morning bloody from scratching in his sleep. At one point Owen’s mother hesitated, wondering whether it was safe to take the boy farther, but a dream convinced her that her son would be cured by the waters. At St Non’s Well, they dipped bandages into the water and wrapped Morgan’s raw forearms, one thigh that was seeping. Then they continued on to the cathedral city, where Owen’s mother prostrated herself in the central aisle of the nave after praying before the shrine of her eldest son’s patron saint.
In the morning, Morgan’s rash was gone. Within three days, his stomach quieted. By summer’s end he had grown three fingers taller.
Such a cure would make a man staunch in his faith. For certain that faith was at work in this orchard.
Now he was close, Owen wondered yet again what he should say to this brother he hardly knew. Begin with an apology for his years away? Explain why he was there? But Gruffydd had likely told him that. Compliment him on his lovely wife? She seemed young, but then Morgan was twelve years younger than Owen; he might be ten years older than his wife. Had he married late? Many men did if they could not afford their own land. Had he married Elen for this farm? It was an unusual thing for a Welsh family, to give such a farm to a daughter and her husband.
Morgan’s head jerked up. He had at last noticed that he was not alone in the orchard. He lowered the stone he had been fitting into the crumbling wall, rose slowly, brushed off his hands on his tunic. Unlike many of his countrymen, he wore leggings, though like Elen his feet were bare. He did not look much taller than his wife, and was slender as a boy, with hair as dark as Owen’s. He shaded his eyes and stared at Owen, then began to nod.
‘You look like the Devil himself, brother.’
Morgan had blue eyes so pale some folk at the wells had thought him blind, skin so pale it showed every welt, every emotion. All still the same. But there were deep ridges in his face from nose to chin, and his voice had a huskiness to it that did not sound healthy.
‘I should look like the Devil,’ Owen said. ‘It has been a long journey to this day.’
Morgan stepped forward, held out his hand. ‘That it has.’
They clasped hands, then embraced. Morgan was even thinner than he looked. He stepped back first, gazed up into Owen’s face.
‘You have not had an easy time of it, then.’
‘It is not for that a man goes soldiering.’
‘You have the Duke of Lancaster’s trust. You have done well.’
‘It is my wife and children who make me proud.’
‘She is English?’
‘She is.’
‘Is that why you wear that beard?’
Owen touched his chin. ‘She has never seen me without it.’
‘Then it would be best not to shave it off and frighten the children.’
Owen grinned, thinking Morgan made a joke. But his brother was not smiling. ‘Elen tells me that you have transformed this orchard.’
Morgan gazed at him quietly for a moment, then shook his head as if just noticing Owen had spoken. ‘Her father did not think an orchard a fitting thing for this valley. God felt otherwise.’
Owen had never known how to respond to such comments from anyone. Could a mortal be so sure of God’s purpose? Owen considered the mountain above with its rushing streams, the boggy soil. He could understand why someone might abandon an orchard in this place. And yet some of the trees were quite old, which proved survival was possible here. Perhaps that was what his brother meant, that the trees were a sign that God had blessed this improbable place.
‘God has been good to you.’
Morgan nodded.
Owen grew uncomfortable under his brother’s intense gaze. ‘Why did you not come to the castle with Gruffydd ap Goronwy?’
‘I must think of my family. Our honour.’
‘It would be dishonourable to dine with me at the castle?’
‘With him. Gruffydd. He is a traitor.’ The blue eyes burned into Owen.
‘To the English King, perhaps. But our countrymen might think otherwise.’
‘A traitor is a traitor, no matter whose side he betrays.’
‘Ah.’ So Morgan was quite the moralist. ‘And those in power might remember that you had accompanied him.’
‘Why have you befriended him?’
‘I do not know that I have. But I thought that he might know our family, who were also settled on escheated land. I see that you have risen above that trouble.’
‘I was fortunate in my first wife. The youngest daughter of an old family much respected.’
‘First wife? Then Elen is—’
‘My second wife. My first died giving birth to our third child. But I forget my manners. Come to the house. You must try Elen’s cider.’
They walked slowly through the orchard as Morgan talked about the trees, pointing out the heavy bearers, telling their ages. He sounded a happy man despite his frailty.
Morgan paused, scratched his head. ‘You have heard nothing?’
‘You are the first one I have seen.’
‘And I shall be the last. You should have come sooner if you hoped for more.’
It was a cool way to impart such terrible news to kin. Granted, it was something Owen had feared, but had it been his ill fortune to give Morgan such news he would have found a way to soften the blow. ‘God grant them peace.’
‘Gwen still lives,’ Morgan said as he resumed his slow pace. ‘In a convent in Usk.’
‘Gwen? A nun?’ Owen’s voice cracked with relief and a sudden, nervous inclination to laugh.
Morgan sniffed. ‘You should be proud.’
‘I am. Proud and full of gladness to hear she is alive.’ And wishing he were in Usk now, not walking beside this cold brother.
‘The others are all gone. I shall do my best to answer your questions in the house.’
Elen had moved the cradle inside and greeted them at the door with foaming cups of cider. As she handed Owen a cup she searched his eye, touched his shoulder. ‘I see that my husband has rushed ahead with all the sad news you must have dreaded to hear.’
‘You would be wrong in that, wife,’ Morgan said. ‘I have not told him the tale of our father’s passing.’
They had but sat down on facing benches placed near the sole window when Morgan said, ‘You should know that our father was struck by lightning while working in the fields.’
‘God’s blood.’ Did his brother enjoy imparting bad news with such a blunt thrust?
‘Aye, it was a sudden bolt, no warning. No storm approached, nor did one all that day. All of Cydweli talked about it for years – I am surprised no one told you of this. I think that is what softened their hearts towards us, our father’s terrible death.’
