by Candace Robb
‘She fears that whoever murdered the chaplain will also wish to murder her. I do not know who committed the deed, so how can I know to whom I might entrust her? It will be on my conscience if anything happens to her.’
‘Why?’ Elen asked. ‘What have you to do with it?’
‘She asked for my protection. I am duty bound to do what I can.’ Was he a fool? She had also begged Geoffrey’s protection – he had not felt so bound.
Morgan sniffed. ‘You express fine feelings for such a woman.’
‘I would welcome some help,’ Elen said softly.
‘You would accept such a woman in our house?’ Morgan asked.
‘What if we judge her unjustly, Morgan? Then she is twice injured, by those who spread lies and by us, who believe them without allowing her to defend herself.’
‘Gossip. Aye.’ Morgan stared down at his hands.
Miraculously, Morgan was softening. Owen could see that Elen’s gifts of persuasion were his best hope. ‘I shall step without and allow you privacy in which to discuss this.’
Owen did not go far. He crouched down just without the shuttered windows to play with an obligingly friendly cat. He had to stay close to the window to hear the conversation over the shouts of the three children at play in the yard.
‘If the rumours are true, Gladys is no worse than her mistress,’ Elen was saying to Morgan. ‘And yet you do not condemn Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd.’
‘Bringing a child to her marriage is not the same as being the castle whore,’ Morgan said. ‘They say Gladys even lies with the priests.’
A brief silence, then Elen spoke again. ‘We might be the agents of her redemption. With whom can she sin in our house?’
‘I do not like it.’
‘If we send her back and she dies . . . Oh, Morgan, you could not bear to have her death on your conscience. I know you could not.’
‘How is it my conscience now, wife? I did nothing. I did not ask my brother to bring her here. It is on his conscience.’
Slowly, patiently, Elen managed to wear Morgan down. Young she might be, but Elen had a clear head and stood her ground. Owen thought Lucie would like her.
At last Morgan stepped out into the yard. ‘Come, brother. Let us go to the barn. I shall relieve you of your burden.’
As he rode away, Owen said a prayer for Elen, the peacemaker. He asked God for a small favour – that for Elen’s sake Gladys did nothing to offend Morgan.
Harold hummed a melancholy tune as he drove the cart, his hood up against the rain that had begun abruptly as they reached the track beyond the farm.
Simwnt rode beside Owen. ‘You and your brother are good men to help Gladys. I have never known her so fearful. She is not a woman who takes fright easily.’
Owen was only half-listening, his thoughts on the conversation he had overheard. Tangwystl had a child. He had not heard of it at the castle. Did that mean the child was elsewhere? It was common enough, to send a child to foster parents. Is that where she had gone with the priest? He opened his mouth to ask Simwnt what he knew of it, but changed his mind. Poor Simwnt and Harold had already been burdened with what might be dangerous knowledge. He would involve him no further. But there was a place he might learn more.
‘Do you know where Gruffydd ap Goronwy lives?’ Owen asked, interrupting an inventory of Gladys’s physical virtues. He had intended to ask his brother, but had thought better of it.
‘What? Gruffydd? Oh, aye. The steward gave his wife’s family a comfortable farm. It lies south of the castle, on a bluff above the marsh.’
‘Could I reach it by midday?’
‘Riding hard, aye.’ Simwnt turned in the saddle, gave Owen an appraising look. ‘Milady does not need your escort, Captain. The steward sent a messenger there early this morning. If he found her, she will be on her way home already, I should think.’
‘If someone is following us, I thought I might confuse him,’ Owen said. ‘Force him to choose between you and me.’
Simwnt glanced behind him. ‘You have noticed something?’
‘No. But if he is good, I would not, would I?’
‘Oh, aye.’ Simwnt gave Owen careful directions to Gruffydd’s farm.
Fourteen
DYFRIG SOWS SEEDS OF DOUBT
A sullen rain kept Dafydd indoors with the injured intruders. Had it been a real storm – sooty clouds, howling wind, driving rain – Dafydd would have ventured forth to join in the drama, to absorb the energy, to revel in the presence of the Almighty. But a half-hearted rain merely dampened him both in body and spirit.
Dafydd withdrew to his writing chamber, where Nest and Cadwy noisily chewed on some bones, drowning out the dull patter of the rain on the thatch. Chin resting on hand, Dafydd grew melancholy as he listened to a memory – the drumming of the rain on the tiled roof of a wealthy patron, a house in which he had been exquisitely happy tutoring a lovely young woman, a woman who had loved him, thought him the fount of all knowledge, the champion of all beauty.
‘Master Dafydd,’ Mair softly called behind him, ‘forgive me for disturbing your work but the one you have awaited is come, the white monk Dyfrig.’
Dafydd rose quickly, turned to find the monk already standing behind him, a tall, narrow, solemn sentinel. Hooded head, hooded eyes. Dafydd wondered why he trusted Brother Dyfrig. Was it his silence that inspired confidence and confidences? It must be a strong impression to override those hooded eyes. The monk’s habit steamed as he stood near the brazier. It was not so white after travelling to St David’s and back. Nest had lifted her head from her bone to sniff him as he entered the room, but had not bothered to get up and greet him.
Dafydd remembered himself. ‘Mair, bring us some refreshment. Brother Dyfrig has had a long, damp journey.’
Mair bobbed a curtsey and slipped away.
‘Benedicte, Master Dafydd,’ Dyfrig bowed. ‘I see your hall has become a spital. Had you intended that?’
‘Criticism, Dyfrig? From a monk who breaks more vows than he keeps?’
‘I meant no criticism, Master Dafydd.’
Then he had not the wit to know when to flaunt his opinion, for he was right in criticising. ‘I confess that I had not considered the inconvenience. But then I did not expect such slaughter – how useless is the human carcass. It nourishes no one.’
Dafydd had hoped for an expression of disgust from the monk, but Dyfrig merely said, ‘Mother Earth is nourished by us, Master Dafydd.’
‘Ah. Then perhaps I should bury them in the garden.’
‘I was not aware that any were dead.’
So devoid of expression. Did they teach them that in the monastery? No, the monk had learned it elsewhere, for his fellow Cistercian had not that demeanour. Even the slightest impressions flickered across Brother Samson’s florid countenance for all to see.
‘All four are alive and look to fully recover, more’s the pity. But enough of my woes, let us sit and refresh ourselves while you tell me of your journey.’
Mair had returned with a tray laden with bowls, a jug of cider, cheese and bread. The two men settled at Dafydd’s table.
When Mair shut the door behind her, Dafydd said to Dyfrig, ‘Eat and then tell me what you learned about gifts from the sea.’
After thirstily downing two bowls of cider and devouring the better part of the cheese, Dyfrig leaned back in his chair, satisfied, and began his tale. And a troubling tale it was. Dafydd had known of John de Reine’s death, for the intruders had spoken of it. But somehow he had missed the fact that the man had been murdered on the beach at Whitesands. He rose from his chair, took his uneasiness to the window. The rain continued. ‘I had not heard about the sand in his clothes.’
‘Few have. From all accounts it is likely he was on the beach about the same time you found the pilgrim,’ Dyfrig said to Dafydd’s back. ‘I also learned of a young pilgrim missing from the bishop’s palace – one who had come petitioning the bishop. He, too, disappeared at the time you found your pilgrim.’
That cheered Dafydd. ‘So he is truly a pilgrim.’
‘Perhaps.’ Brother Dyfrig’s tone was doubtful. ‘Petitioners to the bishop often seek things other than indulgences and absolution – such as justice, patronage . . .’
Dafydd did not like Dyfrig’s manner. He abandoned his contemplation of the rain and turned, regarding the monk with a stern expression. ‘Who is the source of your information?’
‘Everyone and no one.’ The monk’s smile was enigmatic. He enjoyed the role of sleuth. There was no dulling his spirit. ‘There is much activity in Castel Cydweli at the moment,’ Dyfrig continued. ‘Two of Lancaster’s men have journeyed from England to oversee the strengthening of the garrison. One of them is a one-eyed Welshman, formerly captain of archers to the old Duke, who has risen high in the present Duke’s favour – he is recruiting archers for King Edward’s next attempt at the crown of France.’
‘Had these men anything to do with the death of the steward’s son?’
‘It is difficult to say how the presence of such authority might affect an uneasy truce.’
Dafydd tired of the monk’s riddling. ‘Speak plainly.’
The monk’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. ‘This incident at Whitesands has the taste of Owain of the Red Hand about it, Master Dafydd.’
‘By the Trinity, you mean the Frenchman who thinks he is the rightful Prince of all Wales? Rhodri ap Gruffudd’s spawn?’
‘His grandson, yes. There are many who find hope in his claim.’
‘In every age there are many fools, Dyfrig.’ But Dafydd considered the monk’s suggestion. If the death of John de Reine had anything to do with Owain Lawgoch, the pilgrim was in grave danger, not simply from the ineffectual Cydweli warriors, but from either Lawgoch’s supporters or those loyal to King Edward. And it did not matter whether the pilgrim was innocent of the man’s death – he was suspected, and that was enough to bring him trouble. And bring trouble to any who offered him sanctuary.
But God had put the pilgrim in his path – surely He had intended Dafydd to help the injured man.
Dyfrig took the opportunity to finish the cheese and the cider.
‘You do not want for an appetite,’ Dafydd remarked.
‘As you said, I endured a long, wet journey to bring you my news,’ Dyfrig said.
‘Indeed. So you suggest that the pilgrim is one of Lawgoch’s supporters?’
Dyfrig nodded slowly, as if still considering the possibilities. ‘Or John de Reine might have been. His natural father did marry the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy, who has been accused of supporting Lawgoch.’
The monk enjoyed imparting bad news. ‘And these men sent by the constable of Cydweli?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Do you believe they are after a traitor to their King, not a thief?’
‘They may believe they seek both in the same man. It takes some wealth to mount an invasion. Lawgoch might well have thieves working for him.’
‘If you are right, my granting the pilgrim sanctuary might be misinterpreted.’
‘But he is no longer here, is he?’
‘No. But the Cydweli men returned – I do not think they would have bothered had they not been tolerably certain he had been here. My name is now linked with him. Even though I know not who he is.’
Dyfrig picked up his bowl, found it empty. ‘I would welcome a brief rest,’ he said.
And Dafydd would welcome time to think. He rose. ‘If you encounter any of the Cydweli men, claim another house than yours, Dyfrig. I would not have them finding your presence a key to the pilgrim’s whereabouts.’
‘So he is on his way to Strata Florida with Brother Samson?’
‘He may be.’
Dyfrig was almost out the door when he turned, head tilted, and said softly, ‘All nature conforms to patterns, and so does man mimic nature in his activities. Mark you – John de Reine was the natural son of John Lascelles, who married the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy, accused of giving shelter to a Fleming working for Lawgoch. And this daughter’s name is the one name we know is somehow connected with the pilgrim – Tangwystl.’ Dyfrig touched fingertips together, forming a circle with his hands. With a slight smile and a nod, he withdrew.
Dafydd put his head in his hands and prayed God that Dyfrig was wrong, that the pilgrim had no connection with Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri ap Gruffudd.
Dafydd did not welcome death. Not yet. And not as the result of a charitable gesture. Sweet Heaven, what was God about, to visit this danger upon him? Of all Welshmen, why was he drawn into Lawgoch’s trouble? He had no faith in the man’s honour. Rhodri ap Llywelyn, brother of Llywelyn the Last, had been the weakest of the brothers. How could one believe anything noble of his grandson?
Owen reined in his horse as he caught sight of a substantial farmhouse tucked in a cluster of oaks and willows. He wished to catch his breath and gather his wits about him. Through an opening in the trees he could see that the house was set safely back from a bluff that must dramatically drop off to the marshland below. Lascelles had been generous with his father-in-law; this was no common farmhouse.
A pretty young woman with Gruffydd’s dark hair and handsome features opened the door, peered at Owen with curiosity.
He introduced himself.
Her eyes brightening, she bobbed a hurried curtsey and exclaimed in Welsh, ‘They say you have journeyed to the edge of the world, Captain Archer.’
Owen laughed. ‘Tales have a way of growing with the telling. I have sailed across the sea to France, but no farther.’
‘They say that an Amazon took your eye.’
‘And died for it,’ Gruffydd said, joining the girl. ‘My youngest daughter, Awena.’ She bobbed again, ducked beneath her father’s extended arm and scurried into the house. ‘I am honoured, Captain, but I assure you that Tangwystl is not here, nor was she here yesterday.’ The words were courteous but firm, the tone slightly strained. Gruffydd wore a simpler garb than he favoured at Cydweli, and his hair was not so carefully combed.
‘I am here on my own business, not the steward’s,’ Owen said. ‘I wished to thank you for reuniting me with my brother Morgan.’
Gruffydd closed his eyes, nodded. ‘Forgive me. The earlier messenger from Cydweli alarmed my wife. But I should have guessed your purpose might be a different one. Come in, come in.’
As Owen had guessed from without Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s house, this was the residence of a wealthy farmer, with a comfortable hall, a tiled fire circle, and above the far end, a solar. A boy in rougher garb than Awena’s, a servant, Owen guessed, helped her ease a board on to trestles. A tall, exceedingly thin woman with the pale brows of a redhead carried a tray of bowls and a pitcher to the table. She wore a simple gown and the starched head-dress of a Welsh farmwife. She was barefoot.
Gruffydd led Owen to the table, sat him nearest the fire from which came a welcome heat after the long, damp ride.
‘My wife, Eleri,’ Gruffydd said, gesturing to the slender woman. Owen wondered at the marked difference in garb between Eleri and her husband and children. ‘My love, this is Owain ap Rhodri, the former captain of archers about whom we have heard so much.’
Eleri stood at one end of the table, fussing with the bowls, spreading them all out, then stacking them, then spreading them out again. She seemed not to hear him.
Gruffydd put his hand on one of hers. ‘Eleri.’ His knuckles were swollen and raw. He must do more work on the farm than Owen would have guessed.
Eleri wiped her hands on her apron, lifted her chin, then her eyes, as if someone had forced the motion. Her eyes lit on Owen for the briefest time, then dropped to the bowls once more. ‘There is wine,’ she said in Welsh, and began to turn away.
Hands on her bony shoulders, Gruffydd turned her back to the table. ‘Sit down and enjoy our guest, Eleri.’
Awena moved to her mother’s side, began to pour the wine.
‘Come,’ Gruffydd guided Eleri to a bench.
She sat down, then at once began to fuss with he
r gown, shaking out the wrinkles, smoothing her skirt. She patted her head-dress. When she had completed what seemed a ritual, she met Owen’s gaze with momentary clarity. ‘Are you from the castle?’
‘I am staying there at the moment.’
‘Why are you not out searching for my daughter?’
‘Eleri, he is a guest at the castle, not one of the garrison.’
Eleri touched her shoulder, frowned at the hand that lay there, lifted it to her face, studied it. ‘They said she brought a priest to visit me because of my illness. But I am not ill.’
‘They were mistaken, my love,’ Gruffydd said.
Dropping her hand, Eleri looked up at Owen with a twinkle of conspiracy in her sunken eyes. ‘She never came. Nor the priest.’ She leaned towards Owen and whispered, ‘Is it true that Father Edern has come?’
‘Eleri!’ Gruffydd thundered.
Startled, the woman reared back and drew in her breath sharply, bowed her head. Awena put her arm round her mother, whispered something.
Gruffydd shook his head sadly. ‘My wife is easily confused, Captain.’ He raked a hand through his thick dark hair. Owen noticed an angry-looking, partially healed scar on the palm of the hand, remembered that the hand had been bandaged when they first met. ‘She hears a name once and then believes it is familiar. How did you find your brother?’
Was it the abrupt change of subject or did Owen simply find it implausible that Eleri would ask after a priest she had never met? ‘My brother looks prosperous and fortunate in his wife and children. I am happy for him.’ How might he take Eleri aside and speak with her? Her husband and daughter kept such close guard.
Eleri suddenly rose with a jolt that shook the table, and gathering her skirts about her she went quickly across the hall and up the steps to the solar. Neither of her guards hurried after.
Gruffydd simply looked after his wife, his face sad, and said, ‘You must forgive her. She is beset by demons.’
Awena seemed more appropriately concerned. ‘Shall I go to her?’ she asked her father.
Gruffydd shook his head, lifted his bowl. ‘You must take your ma’s place with our guests. Pour us more wine.’
