by Candace Robb
Warmth eluded him, but as Sir Robert sipped the physick he felt his throat relax. At least he might now lie quietly for a while. He closed his eyes and thought of his long dead wife, Amélie. He saw her as she had looked the day he presented himself at her father’s manor in Normandy and told Amélie’s mother that she might have her husband back, uninjured and in good temper, for a ransom. She had withdrawn with her elderly father-in-law, returned leading the bewitching young Amélie before her. The young woman, eyes modestly trained on her slippers, curtseyed before him, then stood silently with hands entwined in rosary beads. She was offered in exchange for her father. ‘A wife is of more use to you than a proud man who eats your food and drinks your wine while waiting for a chance to slit your throat, n’est-ce pas?’
Robert had loved Amélie, sweet Jesu how he had loved her. But he had not known how to show his love. As was his custom, he imagined a different ending to their tale, that she had not fallen in love with another, that she had awaited him and not Montaigne in the maze at Freythorpe Hadden on his return. How many times since Amélie’s death had Robert walked that maze, imagining what it must have been like to be the one awaited, to have her fly into his arms when he found her in the centre. Hot tears slid out the sides of his eyes and coursed along his temples. He was an old fool, to yearn so for another chance with her. God had for His own mysterious reasons chosen to delay Sir Robert’s happiness, to give it to him in the form of a loving daughter and two perfect grandchildren.
The unsettled weather of the day before gave way to a haze that promised sunshine later in the morning. Geoffrey took it as a sign that they had God’s blessing. They departed by the north gate of Cydweli Castle to avoid most of the town. Though it was early, the sound of horses would bring folk to their doors, and Owen did not wish to call attention to his party. For all he knew the chaplain’s murderer yet hid in the town. Let Burley deal with him.
Duncan and Iolo led the group, followed by Owen and Geoffrey, then the bishop’s men, and Jared brought up the rear. Owen had misgivings about the size of the company. After all, they pursued only an older man and his squire. Speed would stand them in better stead than numbers. But fussing now would only cause delay.
Sir Robert opened his eyes to behold a new day, and Brother Michaelo already dressing.
‘I was glad to see you sleeping peacefully,’ Michaelo said.
Sir Robert sat up slowly, expecting to feel drowsy – he feared he had taken too much of the physick. But he felt quite well. So well that he proposed they return to St Non’s.
‘I wish to pray once more for my family, and I thought perhaps you might pray for Wulfstan’s soul and a reprieve from your nightmares.’
Brother Michaelo agreed to the journey, though he made it plain that his own prayers would be for Sir Robert. ‘I keep you wakeful with my nightmares and because of that your cough has worsened.’
‘We are being too kind to one another,’ Sir Robert protested. ‘We become dull, frightened old men.’
‘Old?’
Sir Robert was pleased to see Brother Michaelo flare his nostrils and tuck in his chin in horror. He preferred the monk’s usual, self-centred self to the hovering companion.
The soft muzzle of a dog against Dafydd’s face brought a cheerful awakening in Maelgwn’s quiet farmhouse. It had a white coat so well brushed it almost shimmered and long ears so delicate the flush of blood showed through the white fur. Now it nuzzled beneath Dafydd’s arm – for warmth, a good rubbing, or in search of some treasure Dafydd could not guess. He chuckled and praised the beast as he rubbed its head.
But Cadwal, sleeping next to Dafydd on a large pallet near the fire, was not so pleased with the visitor. ‘Cwn Annwn!’ he hissed. ‘We face death on this journey.’ The Cwn Annwn were hounds belonging to Arawn, a king of the Otherworld, who tracked those who were to die within the year.
The other men sought to calm him. The dog’s ears might be called red, but that was because the dog’s fur was so pale. His eyes were not fire, he did not drip blood; he was gentle and quite real, and his name was Cant.
‘Had he approached you by night, and only you,’ Madog said, ‘ah, then we might cross ourselves and pray for your soul.’
Dafydd hissed at Madog to be quiet – his loose tongue would not help them calm Cadwal.
The farmer had entered the house as they spoke and stood shaking his head at Cadwal. ‘Such a giant and a coward?’
‘You would call me a coward?’ Cadwal roared. Within a breath he was afoot, towering over the smirking farmer. Madog tried to grab his fellow’s arms and pin them behind him, but he was no match for Cadwal’s strength.
It was Cant’s low growl that stayed Cadwal’s hands.
‘With a temper like that you may well be dead within the year,’ Maelgwn said. ‘Is this how you reward my assistance?’
Cadwal fell to his knees before the farmer and bowed his head. ‘I pray you, tell me that you have not seen a vision of my death.’
Dafydd should have known better than to bring Cadwal to the house of a seer. The giant man feared nothing material and all things spiritual.
‘I have not seen a vision of your death,’ Maelgwn said. ‘But we should all live in grace, for we never know when God will choose to call us.’
Still Cadwal knelt, his large hands clasped above his head in submission and prayer.
Dafydd touched the giant’s shoulder. ‘Be comforted. Maelgwn meant only to quiet your anger.’
In the end it was Maelgwn’s wife who calmed the giant with a skin of wine and some bread and cheese.
The sun rose behind Sir Robert and Michaelo as they left the shelter of the trees. It reached down to light the sea and dazzle their eyes. Sir Robert tipped his pilgrim’s hat lower over his eyes. Wind caught at their cloaks as they made their way with a host of other pilgrims down the path to the holy well. Sir Robert felt God’s breath in the wind, the light of faith in the sun-dappled sea. His own breath caught in his throat, tears ran down his face. God had granted him a most precious gift in permitting him the strength to make this journey.
For once Brother Michaelo was a silent companion. Though they waited long for their turn at the well, the monk said nothing, standing with head bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer.
When his turn came at last, Sir Robert removed his hat and eased himself down beside the stone-roofed well. The water was clear but dark in the roof’s shadow. A few early spring blossoms dressed the surface, offerings from pilgrims. A breeze shivered the water and moved the flowers to the edge. As the pool calmed, Sir Robert gasped and crossed himself, for his dead wife Amélie, her face pale and solemn, stared up at him, her dark hair a cloud that spread out to the edges of the pool.
‘Amélie my love,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me.’ She closed her eyes, opened them, and as the vision began to dissolve he saw for one brief breath her sweet mouth turn up into a smile. ‘My love!’ He touched the water with his fingertips, but he felt as if his whole body dipped beneath the calm surface. Had she drawn him in with her? He smiled as the water closed over him.
He awoke in the field beside St Non’s Chapel gazing up at the blue sky. Blinking rapidly against the brightness, he covered his eyes and fought the despair that had welled up within when he realised Amélie had not come for him. What gratitude was this, when he had been blessed with such a vision? When he withdrew his hand to welcome the light, a dark-eyed face filled the sky, a face vaguely familiar, though seen at an odd angle. Sir Robert must be lying with his head on the lap of the man who bent over him. The man’s lips were moving, but Sir Robert could not hear him over the roaring in his ears. He closed his eyes again, tried to breathe evenly and quiet his pounding heart. Gradually the roaring faded to the steady drumming of the waves on the rocks below. Sir Robert opened his eyes again. The face reappeared. The man was very like Owen. But not like.
‘Can you hear me now?’ the man asked. French. The man spoke Parisian French – though his accent was not that of a
Frenchman. Sir Robert could not place it. But he was delighted to be thinking so clearly.
‘He may not understand.’ Brother Michaelo’s voice. He must be kneeling beside the stranger.
‘I can hear you,’ Sir Robert said in his best French. ‘I had a vision.’
‘A vision!’ Brother Michaelo whispered.
‘Ah. That explains the faint,’ the stranger said.
‘He has not been well,’ Michaelo explained.
The effort to speak had made Sir Robert cough. He struggled to sit up. A strong hand supported him as a wave of dizziness made the field spin round. ‘God bless you,’ Sir Robert said rather breathlessly.
‘God has blessed you, Sir Robert,’ the man said, ‘to see a vision at the holy well.’
Sir Robert could now see the man right side up, and more than his face. With the narrow beard, dark hair and earring one might mistake him for Owen – before the terrible scarring of his left eye had forced him to wear the patch. But on closer examination Sir Robert realised that the stranger’s hair was straighter and slightly lighter than Owen’s. He wore simple clothes, a dark tunic, cloak and leather leggings. It was the clothes that jogged Sir Robert’s memory. ‘I have seen you before. Here. At the well.’
The stranger tilted his head to one side. ‘There is nothing wrong with your memory. I have seen you here also.’
Brother Michaelo chose that moment to fuss, kneeling beside Sir Robert, feeling his forehead, his cheeks. ‘You are chilled.’ He took a flask from his scrip, handed it to Sir Robert. ‘Drink this.’
Sir Robert sniffed. ‘You carry wine in your pilgrim scrip?’
The stranger laughed. Judging from the network of lines at the corners of his eyes, he enjoyed merriment. ‘You talk to each other as old friends. You are the secretary of the Archbishop of York, is that not so?’
Michaelo beamed, always ready to acknowledge his importance. ‘I am indeed His Grace’s secretary. He kindly sacrificed his convenience to allow me this pilgrimage. Are you acquainted with His Grace?’
The stranger’s eyes lost some of their humour as he said, ‘We have met.’
Sir Robert wondered at the sudden chill in the stranger’s voice, obvious after such warmth.
Apparently Michaelo made note of it also. He did not sound so friendly as before when he asked, ‘How did you know who I was?’
‘When one travels alone, one enjoys gossip,’ said the stranger, the warmth once more in his voice. He rose, adjusted his clothing, then crouched and extended his left hand to Sir Robert. ‘And now, Brother Michaelo, I shall help you escort Sir Robert back to the palace. I am told that one is exhausted after a vision.’
As Sir Robert used the stranger’s hand and Michaelo’s shoulder to rise, he noticed that the former kept his right hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, even when it might assist him in balancing.
‘You are here to heal your hand?’ Sir Robert asked.
The stranger looked down at the hidden hand, back up at Sir Robert. ‘I am not worthy of such a miracle.’
As they walked slowly away from the sea and the crowd of pilgrims, the stranger kept his left hand on Sir Robert’s elbow. Brother Michaelo hovered on the other side.
‘I am better now,’ Sir Robert assured them. But they did not move away. ‘Are you always so attentive to ailing strangers?’ he asked, curious about the man.
‘Long ago I had the pleasure of befriending your daughter and her husband, Sir Robert,’ the stranger said.
‘You did?’ Sir Robert was amazed.
‘You are acquainted with quite a few people in York,’ said Michaelo, frowning.
‘I had business in your fair city for a time. Captain Archer and Mistress Wilton were kind to me. And to a lad of whom I was fond – Jasper de Melton. What has become of the boy?’
Although he could sense Michaelo’s unease, Sir Robert saw nothing threatening in the stranger’s knowing his family. Indeed, it made him far more comfortable about the man’s attentions. ‘Jasper is my daughter’s apprentice in the apothecary.’
The man was quiet a moment. Sir Robert glanced over, saw a tender expression on the man’s face.
‘Jasper was a great help to Lucie when the pestilence returned to York,’ said Sir Robert.
‘I am glad he has found his place in the world,’ said the stranger, his voice thick with emotion.
Something nudged at Sir Robert’s memory. But it was Michaelo who said quickly, ‘I know who you are. The Fleming Martin Wirthir.’
‘Ah!’ Sir Robert nodded eagerly, recognising the name. Though if the man had not asked after Jasper he would have spent hours, perhaps days trying to remember where he had heard it. He had never met the man who had saved the boy’s life, but he had heard much about him. Not all of it good.
‘His Grace would be interested to know you are here,’ said Michaelo, no friendlier than before. ‘Is the musician with you?’
‘You remember me so well. I am honoured,’ said Wirthir. ‘No, the musician is not with me. Ambrose now resides in Paris and often performs for King Charles.’
‘When I next see my daughter and her husband, I shall tell them of your kindness to me,’ said Sir Robert. He found Michaelo’s hostility embarrassing.
‘Forgive my boldness, Sir Robert,’ said Wirthir, ‘but I would ask whether you have the means to send a messenger to Captain Archer.’
‘A messenger? Why?’
‘I have an urgent letter for the Captain. Do you have someone you might send to Cydweli?’
‘How did you know where he is?’
‘Gossips took interest in his escorting the body of John de Reine back to Cydweli.’
‘Ah.’ Of course they would have talked of it. Sir Robert could see no point in pretending Owen was elsewhere. ‘You mentioned a letter?’
Wirthir drew a roll of parchment from his purse. Once again he suffered awkwardness in using only his left hand. ‘I believe that Captain Archer will wish to ride to St David’s at once when he reads this.’ He held it out to Sir Robert, who noted that it was wrapped in a string and sealed.
‘Why would you wish to draw Captain Archer here?’ Brother Michaelo asked.
Sir Robert shook his head. ‘Peace, Michaelo.’
But Martin Wirthir bowed to Brother Michaelo. ‘You deserve what little explanation I can give, to be sure. I know something about the death of John de Reine. And there are two nearby, arrived today, with whom the Captain would wish to speak.’
‘But this is not the business on which the Captain has come,’ said Sir Robert.
‘It has to do with the other business. A question of treason. A dangerous liaison.’
‘How do you know of this?’ Brother Michaelo asked. ‘Were you the Fleming involved in the troubles in Pembroke?’
Wirthir grinned. ‘Pembroke is full of Flemings, Brother Michaelo, planted there by your wise King.’
‘But––’
‘I said peace, Michaelo!’ Sir Robert snapped. If for no other reason than to alert Owen to Wirthir’s knowledge of his interest in Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s trouble, he must now send the messenger. To add a letter could do no harm – provided Sir Robert read it first. He bowed to Wirthir. ‘I do have a man I might send. He is trustworthy. But you have not explained. The two who arrived – why is that important to Owen? Who are they?’
‘The wife of the steward of Cydweli. And the priest who travelled to Cydweli with the Captain. It is best that I say no more. One of them may be in danger. But I would ask you to tell no one of our meeting save the messenger and Captain Archer.’
‘Presumptuous––’ Brother Michaelo clamped his mouth shut as Sir Robert gave him a dark look.
‘You can trust us,’ Sir Robert said.
Wirthir handed him the letter. ‘God bless you.’
Sir Robert tucked the letter into his scrip. ‘May God watch over the messenger.’
They were now at Patrick’s Gate. Martin Wirthir bowed, wished them Godspeed, and withdrew into the crowd.
‘He has none,’ Michaelo said. ‘Do you not remember? Beware that one, Sir Robert.’
Eighteen
THE PIRATE’S WARNING
As he walked down the slope towards the cathedral, Sir Robert felt sweat trickling down his back. High up on the cliff over St Non’s Bay the breeze had been chilly despite the bright sun; but here in the valley there was no breeze. He pushed back his hat, plucked at his pilgrim’s gown, its rough cloth beginning to itch as the sweat made it stick to his skin. And such a weakness in his legs. He was embarrassed how he leaned on Brother Michaelo’s shoulder for support.
‘You do not need to suffer in that coarse gown,’ Michaelo said, putting an arm round Sir Robert. Michaelo’s habit was of a very fine, soft wool cloth from Flanders, sewn by a tailor in Paris. ‘You are wretched enough with the cough.’
‘Your parents did no favour to the Church when they gave you to God,’ Sir Robert muttered as he wriggled in his clothing, ‘you who devote yourself to the delicate art of balancing just on the edge of your vows.’ Perhaps it was good they walked so close together, for Sir Robert’s voice was so weak his companion might not hear him if he stood upright and at a normal distance.
Rather than returning the insult, Brother Michaelo asked, ‘You do intend to read the letter?’
Sir Robert felt it a risk to send the messenger without knowing the contents of the letter – what if he was being used to lure Owen into a trap? But would Owen trust a letter with a broken seal? ‘It is sealed.’
‘A seal can be eased open and resealed if one has the skill.’
‘And you do?’
Michaelo bowed slightly. ‘Some failings are useful.’
God bless him. ‘What was it that he did, Michaelo? To lose the hand?’
‘It was a madman who did it. It has nothing to do with us.’
‘What did Archbishop Thoresby want with him?’
