by Candace Robb
The sympathy begat tears.
‘Can you speak English? Or French?’ Owen asked.
‘A little,’ she said in English. ‘But you speak my tongue.’
‘Master Chaucer does not. If you are asking for his protection as well as mine, he must understand you. But from whom are we to protect you?’
Gladys wiped her nose on her cloak, looked round to Geoffrey. ‘They say you are the King’s man as well as the Duke’s.’
‘I am,’ he said with a hesitance more appropriate to a less certain response.
She hiccuped.
Geoffrey rose, checked the flagon on the table, found a bit of wine left in it, poured it into a cup, brought it to her. She blessed him and sipped daintily. He backed out of her reach.
‘Father Francis is dead, did you know?’ she said. ‘And she is gone. With the Welsh priest.’
‘Mistress Lascelles?’ Owen asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What has frightened you?’ Owen asked. ‘The chaplain’s death?’
Gladys’s bottom lip began to tremble, her eyes filled. ‘She pushed me into my master’s bed. She made Father Francis watch us. And now he is dead.’
‘So Father Francis told the truth,’ Geoffrey whispered.
Gladys looked at Geoffrey in alarm. ‘Why did he tell you? Did he know of the danger?’
‘What danger?’ Owen asked.
‘I did what she asked me to do,’ she sobbed. ‘She frightens me. The moment I saw her ride through the castle gate I feared for my master. She has the look of a demon, she does. I told the master I was no good as a lady’s maid, I would knot her hair and stain her dresses with my clumsiness. But he said she liked me, she chose me, and then she made me lie with him. Before it was different, but now he was married, and I was his lady’s maid. It was not right.’
‘What happened today, Gladys?’ Owen asked.
Gladys’s eyes filled again. She clutched the cup to her bosom. ‘She told me to meet her in the chaplain’s cell, told me that I was to be a witness. Was someone to be wed, I asked her, and she laughed, and when she laughs, she does so with her mouth and her voice but not her eyes, have you seen? It is like she is two people.’ She hiccuped again. Owen gently took the empty cup from her hands. She blotted her eyes with a corner of the cloak. ‘I went to the chaplain’s cell. I knew something was wrong and I thought it was the vicar crouching there, his back to me, like he had lost something on the floor. I called his name, but it was Father Francis’s voice that answered. His voice was so weak, I knelt beside him, tried to help him up, but he shook his head.’ She shook her head once, again. ‘And all that blood! I thought he had fallen. So I said I would get help, and then she was calling for me.’
‘Mistress Lascelles?’ Owen asked.
Gladys nodded. ‘And Father Edern, too. “Run, my child,” Father Francis told me. His eyes were so sad, he was dying, he used his last breath to warn me. “Run,” he told me. “Save yourself.”’ She began to sob again.
‘Save yourself from whom? Mistress Lascelles?’ Geoffrey asked, his tone sceptical.
‘I know not,’ she sobbed.
Her tears did not stop Geoffrey. ‘And why did you not get help for Father Francis?’
‘I was afraid!’
‘Of whom?’
But the tears were flowing freely now. They learned little more. It had been mid-afternoon when she had gone to the chaplain’s room. Since then she had hidden in the undercroft. She did not know how long Tangwystl and Father Edern had spent searching for her.
When Gladys was at last asleep in Owen’s bed, the two men crowded into Geoffrey’s bed. But sleep was gone for Owen. Scattered strands were joining in his mind. The unhappy marriage. The maid sent to the husband’s bed. She made Father Francis watch us. Owen had asked how many times the chaplain had observed. Gladys did not know. Thrice, he guessed. There was an old Welsh law, a way for Tangwystl to dispose of an unfaithful husband. Is that what Father Francis was to do? Write a letter stating what he had seen? But what would that do to Tangwystl’s family, who were here by the grace of her unwanted husband? And how could an old Welsh law bind John Lascelles, the Duke’s man? Why would Father Francis die for it? No. Owen grew confused. Father Edern had been the intended victim, not Francis. Which made even less sense.
Gladys began to snore. God’s blood, what were they to do with her?
In the morning, Gladys hid beneath one of the beds while the servant lit the brazier and set their morning ale, bread and cheese on the table. Geoffrey insisted on such luxuries when on official business. Today Owen was glad of it. The ale helped clear his mind. Gladys looked better for a bit of sleep; though the swelling around her eyes had gone down just slightly, she seemed calmer, not so close to tears, and she had a hearty appetite.
‘We cannot continue to hide her here,’ Geoffrey said.
‘You have a knack for stating the obvious,’ Owen said. He watched Gladys attack a small loaf of bread, devour it in three bites, then wash it down with mouthfuls of ale.
‘Gladys, why did your mistress ask you to lie with her husband? And I would be grateful if you would speak so that Master Chaucer might understand.’
Gladys put down her cup, wiped her mouth with her sleeve. ‘To prove to him she had not put a curse on his manhood.’
‘Why would he believe such a thing?’
‘Because he could not lie with her as he does with me. He never could. He says she put hawthorn leaves in the bed.’
‘Hawthorn is used in weddings to bring fertility,’ Geoffrey said.
‘It is,’ said Owen, ‘but the leaves are also used just in that way to safeguard a young maid’s virtue when temptation is near.’
‘I forget you have apprenticed in an apothecary.’
‘My wife would say such things are not the business of an apothecary, but folk will ask. And they pay good coin for the leaves.’ Yet Owen could not imagine Lascelles pulling up his mattress, much less recognising hawthorn leaves that had been crushed beneath it. He needed to drop back further. Why was the marriage so unhappy? He had a thought. ‘Is your mistress in love with another man?’
Gladys dropped her eyes to her hands. ‘I do not know.’
‘Why else would she continue to push her husband to your bed?’ Owen asked.
Gladys did not lift her head. ‘It is not my place to wonder such things.’
Owen shook his head as if to a child who had told an obvious, though harmless, lie. ‘You could not help but wonder, surely.’
Gladys silently examined her toes.
Geoffrey looked from one to the other, exasperated. ‘More to the point, considering he has been murdered, why did your mistress make Father Francis spy on you with Sir John?’ Owen had not told him his theory; he doubted Geoffrey would have credited it till now.
‘She called him her witness.’
‘Witness for whom?’
Gladys looked up, her bottom lip trembling. ‘I do not know such things, Master Chaucer. I am but a servant!’
Geoffrey threw up his hands. ‘None of this makes any sense, and none of it is benefiting the garrison.’ He rose. ‘The porter offered to show me round the south gatehouse this morning.’
Owen thought Geoffrey had chosen an odd time to remember his official business.
Owen was of two minds. He was here on the Duke’s business; the discord in Lascelles’s household was not part of that business. On the other hand, he could not swear that none of the trouble involved the mysterious Lawgoch, nor could Geoffrey be assured of the castle’s readiness if Lawgoch had supporters here. Indeed, even if the troubles had nothing to do with the Welshman, chaos in the castle jeopardised its military readiness.
And though Geoffrey could not support his suspicion that all the troubles were connected, he might very well be right.
Promising Gladys that he would consider what must be done, Owen took his leave of her and walked out into the courtyard of the inner ward. He was just in time to see two Benedicti
ne monks enter the ward, led by a servant. Heads bowed, they moved without curiosity through the ward to the hall and disappeared through the door. So Father Francis’s requiem Mass was to be said this morning. Owen guessed that it also meant Father Edern had not returned.
Owen fought to order his thoughts. Tangwystl and Edern. How might they have bonded together? He remembered his puzzlement when Tangwystl neglected to include the priest at their table. ‘Father Edern of St David’s?’ she had asked. She knew him. So did her father. It had been clear that Gruffydd disliked Edern; but Owen had been unable to judge his daughter’s feelings.
And what of Edern? As Geoffrey had pointed out, Edern had come forward to offer himself as John de Reine’s escort. What was their connection?
The time had come to put the skills to work that Owen had learned in Thoresby’s service. Nothing would be accomplished while the castle was in chaos. But first he must do something about Gladys.
Thirteen
AN ARGUMENT OVERHEARD
Owen’s pacing took him through the inner ward and towards the practice yard. Divine inspiration it must have been, for Harold and Simwnt were loading several empty barrels into a cart cushioned with a good mound of hay.
‘Are you going far?’ Owen asked, interrupting an argument about whose clumsiness had caused a barrel to drop out of the cart on to Harold’s foot.
Simwnt turned round at the sound of Owen’s voice, his face brightening. ‘Captain Archer! God go with you, Captain. We are on a mission for you, truth be told.’
Harold made a great show of leaning against the cart, yanking off his left boot, and rubbing his foot. ‘I will not hold you responsible, Captain,’ he muttered.
Owen laughed, recognising a friendly quarrel. ‘I am glad of that, for I know nothing of your mission.’
‘No?’ Harold eased his boot back on. ‘We are after the bows for your recruits.’
‘Aye,’ Simwnt agreed. ‘The constable is in a foul mood about the bowyer who is late with the bows we ordered. Turns out the bows are ready but the bowyer’s cart is missing a wheel. He will not be paid if he is much later, and being kin, I thought to give him a hand. He is a good man and a fine bowyer.’
‘And you enjoy riding out into the countryside,’ Owen added.
‘It is not such a pleasure as you may think,’ Harold said. ‘But with matters as they are here––’ He dropped his voice, shook his head. ‘The castle is a place to be clear of.’
‘There is a search?’
‘Aye,’ said Simwnt. ‘They have searched for the vicar, now the maid Gladys. No one saw her leave the castle, you see.’
‘She being one the porter would remember seeing,’ Harold said with a wink.
Owen was pleased to find them playing into his hands. ‘Would you welcome a companion on your journey?’ he asked.
‘You feel the gloom as well,’ Harold said.
‘I would not call it gloom.’ Owen motioned for both to step round to the far side of the cart. ‘Would two companions burden you? Myself riding alongside the cart and one snug in the hay?’
Simwnt frowned down at the ground. ‘You are proposing trouble, Captain.’
Owen could not deny that. ‘I am wrong to ask such a thing of you.’ He began to walk away.
‘Stay a moment,’ Simwnt said. ‘Would the other companion be the fair Gladys?’
Owen slowed, turned. ‘It might.’
‘She is one enjoys a nice bit of hay,’ Harold said, nudging Simwnt.
‘I wish to take her to safety,’ Owen said, ‘not toss her into your lustful arms.’
‘Why would you be sneaking her out?’ Simwnt asked. ‘You are not of the mind she was the murderer? It took strength to do so much damage.’
‘It is for her protection. More than that I cannot say.’
Simwnt and Harold exchanged glances. ‘How far would you be going?’ Harold asked.
‘Not far.’ Owen described the valley in which his brother lived.
Simwnt nodded. ‘We shall bring the cart round to the guesthouse shortly.’
Gladys threw her arms round Owen. She smelled of sweat and the morning’s ale. ‘I shall work hard for them, make them glad they have taken me in.’
Owen winced. Now that the first flush of a brilliant idea had faded, he was feeling less optimistic about her welcome in Morgan’s home. While not in her presence he was able to imagine it, but now, watching her suggestive movements, her pouting expressions, the flutter of her lashes. Sweet Jesu, how could he fool his brother? ‘We do not know that my brother will agree to this. If you are right about your danger, my brother may think it is too much of a risk to ask of him. His first duty is to his family.’
Head tilted, hip thrust to the side – in another woman such gestures suggested far less – Gladys pouted, then quickly smiled. ‘How could your brother be less Christian than you? Did you not suckle at the same breast?’
Owen felt his face grow hot at the last word. ‘Morgan goes his own way, Gladys. I do warn you of that.’
‘I have been warned. And I trust that God will continue to watch over me.’
As a man, no doubt the Lord would watch over her. But there were things Owen might suggest. ‘My brother is a very devout man, Gladys. You must not – flaunt yourself so with him.’ He felt his face redden. He was glad Geoffrey was still out.
But Gladys took his hand, pressed it firmly. ‘I swear to you that I shall be to him a chaste virgin with no thought of men, Captain.’ Her lashes fluttered.
He must be blunt. ‘You must meekly bow your head and keep your hands and body as still as possible.’
Gladys immediately took the stance.
‘Your gown. Do you have a scarf?’
Gladys surprised him by blushing as she raised her hands to cover her cleavage. ‘I have one, but I dare not return to my mistress’s apartment for it.’
They improvised with one of the squares of cloth with which Geoffrey cleaned his hands of ink.
Harold and Simwnt had been disappointed when Owen warned them that any conversation with Gladys might jeopardise her safety, and thus she must stay hidden in the hay throughout the journey. But Harold cheered himself and Simwnt with the observation that Gladys would be forever grateful to them.
Sitting high on the seat of the cart, their horses tethered behind, Harold and Simwnt whiled away the time with gossip of the garrison. Owen, riding close beside them, found one item of particular interest.
‘Bad luck if that priest has fled,’ Harold said. ‘We will lose our wager.’
‘Aye. I should know by now clerics are a sly lot,’ said Simwnt.
It seemed they had both expected the constable to attack Edern on his return, for the priest had persuaded Burley’s mistress to return to her husband a few years earlier.
‘He cannot forget her, you see,’ Simwnt explained. ‘Beautiful and spirited was Mererid. He says he has not seen her like since.’
Owen found it an odd thing for Edern to have done.
‘He won his comfortable post as a vicar in St David’s by the good deed,’ Harold said. ‘Mererid’s husband is brother to a white monk who has the ear of many of the archdeacons of St David’s.’
Owen remembered the white monk who had pretended sleep at the vicar’s house in the close. Had Edern now come on another mission for Brother Dyfrig?
When they arrived at the farm, Elen was puzzled by Owen’s request to take the cart into the barn.
‘You fear a thief might drive it away while we are within?’ She smiled. ‘I heard it long before I saw it.’ But at his insistence she tucked the baby Luc on to her hip and led them to the barn.
Once within, Owen called to Gladys to sit up. It took a bit of poking to find her, then some shaking to waken her. As she sat up and got her bearings, Owen explained her presence to a mystified Elen.
‘From the castle?’ Elen shook her head. ‘Morgan will not like this. He has little respect for the steward since he took to wife a traitor’s daughter.’
Owen had forgotten that in his concern about Gladys’s behaviour. Sweet Jesus, he had been a fool to begin this.
Gladys looked from Owen to Elen with a frightened expression. ‘I pray you, good lady, I cannot go back. It is the steward I fear, and his wife.’
Was she at last telling the truth, Owen wondered, or was she just a skilled manipulator?
Elen looked on Gladys with sympathy. ‘I shall try to convince my husband. Come within and have some refreshment.’
‘It is best that she stay in the barn until the three of us leave with the cart,’ Owen said. ‘And that Harold and Simwnt watch the barn while I talk to Morgan.’
It was a difficult meeting, to be sure.
As soon as Owen mentioned Gladys’s name and position at the castle, Morgan muttered a curse and Elen’s free hand went out to catch her husband’s arm and muffle the violence with which he brought his fist to the table. She told the older children to go outside.
‘You would ask us to harbour that Magdalen?’ Two red spots burned on Morgan’s pale cheeks.
‘Magdalen?’ Owen repeated, attempting innocence.
‘What do you know of this woman, husband?’ Elen asked.
‘Send her to the Devil,’ Morgan said.
‘Husband!’
‘What do you know of her?’ Owen asked.
‘I go to the Cydweli market, brother.’ Morgan hissed the last word as if it were a curse. His eyes were fixed on Owen’s good eye with frightening intensity, as if any moment now he would go into a fit. ‘She is known to all in the town as the castle whore.’
‘Holy Mary,’ Elen whispered. ‘Is this true, Owen?’
How could he deny it? ‘Elen, forgive me. I had hoped––’
‘To fool us, farmers that we are,’ Morgan said.
‘It is a rumour,’ Owen said. ‘I have seen no proof of such behaviour.’ It was no lie – Geoffrey had witnessed it, but not Owen. ‘I had hoped that you would remember Christ’s championing of Mary Magdalen.’
Morgan muttered to himself, but his stance had subtly softened.
‘What would happen to her if they found her?’ Elen asked.
