by Candace Robb
‘This Samaritan. Why did he help you and not Reine? And where was Gruffydd?’
‘I do not know.’ Rhys took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘But they told me later that someone had murdered Sir John’s son at Whitesands. I do not understand why Gruffydd did not help the man who came to his aid. I cannot see how I could have fought off both of them. I cannot think but that Gruffydd let the man die.’
It was strange. Owen had begun to think Gruffydd and John de Reine had acted together, to silence the one who threatened Sir John’s marriage. He remembered Gruffydd’s bandaged hand, the scar. ‘Gruffydd’s hand was badly cut – perhaps trying to grab your knife. But it was his left hand only. He might still have helped John de Reine.’
‘I will be hanged, I know,’ said Rhys. ‘But first I would see Tangwystl. Tell her I did not abandon her, but had gone seeking help. Will they let me see her?’
‘Tell Sir Robert your story, and I am certain he will bring her to you.’
‘And my son? Is he with her?’
‘No.’
‘At least to see her. Tell her.’
Father Edern shook Dafydd awake. ‘Your hands are loosed. Move slowly out of the firelight.’
Still confused from sleep, Dafydd massaged his wrists, wriggled his legs, his arms, then rose to a crouch. He was glad to move. And the first thing he wished was to relieve himself. He headed for the brush, with the priest hurrying after him.
When they were well into the brush, Edern asked, ‘Where is Rhys ap Llywelyn?’
‘Would that we knew,’ said Dafydd. ‘We might be safely home in bed, dreaming pleasant dreams. And pissing in private.’ The priest ignored the hint and stood behind Dafydd while he lifted his gown. So be it. Nature would not wait. His urine steamed in the cool, damp air. When he turned round, the priest was ready with the next question.
‘But these men were after him, were they not?’
‘They were indeed. Barbarians. They broke into my house to find him. And he, the ungrateful wretch––’
‘He is my brother.’
Dafydd raised his eyebrows at Madog, who had just joined them. ‘This priest is the pilgrim’s brother.’ He turned back to Edern. ‘That makes him no less ungrateful. I saved his life, granted him sanctuary in my home, and he murders the monk who nursed him and runs away.’
‘You exaggerate, Master Dafydd. Brother Samson is not dead, nor was he attacked – he was injured in a fall,’ Madog said. ‘Come. We must move quickly.’
‘What about Cadwal and Brother Dyfrig?’ Dafydd asked.
‘I have cut their bonds,’ said a dark-haired stranger. ‘But they must remain by the tree, so that if your captors look over, they suspect nothing.’
‘This is Gruffydd,’ said Edern. ‘He, too, seeks my brother.’ He told Gruffydd about Rhys’s escape.
The man stood there a moment, flexing his left hand and breathing hard.
‘Are you injured?’ Dafydd asked.
‘Do you know where Rhys was headed?’ Gruffydd asked, his manner brusque.
‘So much for offering sympathy.’ Dafydd shook his head. ‘How would I guess where the young man went? His grave, in the end.’
‘We believe he returned to St David’s, to finish his business there,’ Madog said.
Dafydd grabbed Madog by the sleeve and moved him away from the others. ‘You fool,’ he said under his breath, ‘you give these men too much information.’
‘We owe them our lives,’ said Madog. ‘And we now have no reason to head south. They will see to the young man. We are finished.’
Dafydd shook his head. ‘We are not.’ He noticed Gruffydd and Edern moving closer and said in a louder whisper, ‘I wish to complain to Bishop Houghton and the Archdeacon of Carmarthen about the treatment we have received from the hands of the Cydweli men. We demand recompense!’
‘We shall get none,’ Madog muttered.
‘We shall see.’ Dafydd nodded to Father Edern.
‘You two. Come help us plan our ambush,’ Edern said.
But Dafydd went his own way, towards the saddles and packs of his party, which had been piled near their tethered horses. He knelt to his pack, rummaged inside. ‘Deo gratias,’ he whispered. His torch heads had not been removed.
‘What did you draw from your pack?’ Gruffydd asked.
Dafydd did not like the man’s tone. ‘Why do you watch me?’
‘They are torch heads,’ said Madog. ‘Brimstone, saltpetre, Jew’s pitch, camphor, oil of Peter, terebentyne, and a goodly amount of duck’s grease.’
‘You would light torches and call attention to us?’ Gruffydd said.
Dafydd was not about to answer such a ridiculous question.
‘We shall create confusion so that we seem an army falling upon our captors,’ said Madog.
‘Slitting their throats would be quicker and quieter,’ Gruffydd said.
‘Can we trust him,’ Dafydd asked Edern, ‘this rude southerner who takes life so easily?’
‘Be at peace,’ said Edern. ‘We shall of course do your bidding, Master Dafydd.’
Rhys had grown quiet and Owen fought sleep when at last he heard the bolt being drawn on the other side. He shuttered the lantern, held his breath. Something might still have gone wrong. The door swung wide with a creaking that woke Rhys. He gripped Owen’s forearm.
Geoffrey’s form was a reassuring sight.
‘Dear God, I am thankful you found your way safely here,’ Geoffrey said. ‘When Edmund found Jared unconscious and Duncan gone we feared the worst.’
‘You feared rightly, but Duncan was no match for Iolo. How is Jared?’
‘He will recover, but he is in no condition to ride in the morning.’
‘Then Edmund must bring our horses and gear.’
‘I shall accompany him,’ Geoffrey said.
‘But you––’
‘The letters are delivered. Brother Michaelo is able to see to the rest.’
Owen had risen. He peered out into the corridor, saw only Brother Michaelo behind Geoffrey. ‘I thought to see Sir Robert here.’
Brother Michaelo cast his eyes downward. ‘He is confined to his bed, Captain.’
‘He is worse?’
‘He is very weak,’ said Michaelo. ‘The bishop’s physician can do nothing more than ease the pain and the coughing.’
Owen crossed himself. ‘Tell Sir Robert I am near, and that his message may save a life. Several lives. I will come to him as soon as I can.’
Rhys joined them. ‘You are not staying here?’ he said to Owen.
‘I must see to some things outside the city. But I will return soon.’
‘This is the man?’ Geoffrey said.
‘This is Rhys ap Llywelyn, brother to Father Edern, father of Mistress Tangwystl’s son.’ Owen explained to them Rhys’s injury, and his request to see his wife.
‘What things outside the city?’ Rhys asked.
‘They do not concern you,’ said Owen. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘You might do more good interceding for him while I am gone.’
‘Brother Michaelo will do just as well.’
To argue too much would merely make Geoffrey more wary. ‘So be it. Be waiting below Clegyr Boia after first light.’
‘What of Duncan?’
‘It would do him good to play hermit for a few days.’
Twenty-four
MYRDDIN AND THE ONE WHO SLEEPS
How peacefully the captors slept, heads on their saddles, feet close to the fire. All but one, who had just awakened, and now sat with arms wrapped round his knees, a blanket round his shoulders, staring up at the fading wisps of fog.
Dafydd stood a moment behind the standing stone, weighing one of the torch heads in his hands, considering his aim. But first, some drama for the wakeful one.
Inhaling deeply, Dafydd stalked out from behind the stone, arms outstretched, his eyes wide and staring. This was the signal for Cadwal and Dyfrig to leave the tree. Cadwal scurried to join Madog, Edern and Gruffydd; Dyfrig
took up a post opposite Dafydd. In his most bardic voice Dafydd now shouted, ‘Who trespasses in my sacred place!’
The wakeful one started, looked on Dafydd and cried, ‘What apparition is this?’
Now Dafydd raised his right hand yet higher, and, roaring, threw the torch head at the fire. A ball of light glowed within the fire, expanding with a loud crack. The flames roared towards the heavens, then fell in a fiery fountain. Burning cinders were stars in the night, landing on the surrounding grass, and the blankets of the Cydweli men, who, waking now, shrieked and scrambled along the ground like panicked crabs. A pity, Dafydd thought, for the fire was magnificent.
Now Cadwal, Gruffydd, Edern and Madog came striding out of the dark towards the frightened men, who were thrown into confusion. The fire, Dafydd and the standing stone, or the four attackers – which terrified them least? Two turned towards the fire. Dyfrig now stepped forth. Raising his good arm, he tossed in the second torch head.
This explosion was louder and more violent than the first. The four who descended on the captors hesitated, shielding their eyes, but quickly saw the advantage and pushed forward. The waking one had more of his wits about him and, getting to his feet, pushed past Gruffydd and seemed to be getting away.
Dafydd rushed towards him. Too late he saw the firebrand hurtling his way. He stepped aside, but tripped on the uneven ground. As he fell he felt a terrible heat near his head, smelled burning hair and duck grease. Had he mistaken God’s purpose? And was he thus struck down for his presumption?
Dyfrig was at Dafydd’s side at once. One handed, he rolled Dafydd through the damp grass, then told him that he should lie still a moment, the others had the battle in hand.
Dafydd gladly lay there, listening to the sounds of the fray across the clearing, thanking God for his life. At last he mustered the courage to feel his cheek. He rejoiced to feel skin, whole and unblistered.
With his good arm Dyfrig helped Dafydd sit up. ‘God watches over you. The brand caught only your hair.’
Dafydd touched the singed, brittle mass. A clump turned to powder in his hand. He began to laugh.
‘I thought you would howl over your loss, and you laugh.’ Dyfrig tried to smooth Dafydd’s damaged hair. ‘It might have been so much worse.’
‘But it was not. I shall from now on listen to Madog. He warned me I used too much duck grease. But I do love a great blaze.’
Madog joined them, shook his head at the sight of Dafydd’s hair. ‘We must cut the other side. A bard must not look like the King’s jester.’
‘The English might disagree,’ said Dafydd, ‘but shorn I shall be. I accept my penance without complaint.’
‘You have bound them all?’ Dyfrig asked Madog.
‘Bound them all together.’
Dafydd grinned at the thought of the wriggling, angry mass of limbs and foul breath.
But Madog was not laughing. ‘What do you know of these men who came to our aid, Brother Dyfrig? The Cydweli men know both of them.’
‘Do you now regret telling them so much?’ Dafydd asked.
‘Perhaps,’ said Madog.
‘You may trust them, for pity’s sake, they have saved us,’ said Brother Dyfrig. ‘They are known because Father Edern was chaplain to the Cydweli garrison not so long ago. The other is the new father-in-law of Lancaster’s steward.’
‘Is he not the one who took Rhys’s love and gave her to the Englishman?’ Dafydd said. ‘Why does Father Edern trust him?’
‘I do not trust him,’ said Madog. ‘And if they are all from Cydweli, why are either of them helping us?’
‘We have cause to trust Edern,’ said Dafydd, ‘he is our pilgrim’s brother. But Gruffydd – he is dangerous. And now he knows what we know. Clever, Madog.’
Owen gulped in the cool night air, said a prayer of thanks for a safe journey. The tunnel had seemed endless and had echoed with phantom footsteps that stopped when he stopped, whispering voices that hushed when he held his breath. It was far worse traversed alone. He did not think he had experienced such terror since childhood. The tunnel was haunted, he had no doubt of it.
Martin Wirthir sat on the boulder that had been rolled away from the entrance. ‘The fog has lifted.’
‘Where is Iolo?’ Owen asked, pleased that his voice did not betray his recent experience.
‘Guarding his catch. God forbid I should ever find him my enemy.’
‘Iolo has hungered for action. Escorting pilgrims was not to his liking.’
‘You know him well.’
‘He reminds me of my younger self.’ Owen leaned against the rock, lifted his head to the stars. ‘I thank God I am not a miner.’
‘I was glad you did not ask me to come with you. I have watched how the shepherds round here cross themselves as they pass this place. Though I have felt no terror out here, I would not like to have the darkness close behind me.’
‘I felt them there, all round me, the carvers of the ancient stones. I have never feared them before.’
‘Yours is an ancient country, full of mysteries, like Brittany.’
‘Rhys was glad to leave the tunnel.’
‘He is safe?’
‘He is. He told me his tale of that day at Whitesands.’
‘A strange, ugly tale, is it not?’
‘John de Reine’s part in it puzzles me. I begin to think he shadowed Gruffydd.’
‘And Gruffydd took the opportunity to eliminate him – with Rhys the unwitting executioner.’ Martin nodded. ‘This Gruffydd has no conscience.’
‘And was it he who brought the corpse to St David’s? To brand Rhys a murderer?’ Owen was quiet awhile, considering this new idea. Was it possible Gruffydd ap Goronwy was so cold blooded?
Martin broke through his thoughts to ask whether they would be joined by any more of Owen’s men in the morning.
‘One of my men, and Geoffrey Chaucer.’
Martin shifted on the stone. ‘King Edward’s man, Master Chaucer. I should not have chosen him to accompany us.’
‘I did not. He insisted. I am not pleased. I had thought Geoffrey would take care of Rhys and allow Brother Michaelo to tend to my father-in-law, who is very ill.’
‘Sir Robert is a brave man, to make such a journey at his age.’
‘I do not think he will leave this place.’
‘St David’s. It is a sacred place, is it not? It seems a good place to die. Sir Robert had a vision at St Non’s Well, did you know?’
‘A vision that gave him cheer?’
‘So it seemed to me.’
‘God is with him, then.’ But what of Lucie? Owen must write a letter to her, entrust it to the first person he met going east. Not that a journey was possible for her, but Lucie would wish to know how it went with Sir Robert and be with him in prayer.
‘I have been so long away from my people,’ Martin said. ‘As you had been. Has it brought you joy, returning to your people?’
‘I do not know how to answer that. But I think – were Lucie and my children not waiting for me in York, I would stay here a while.’ Owen sensed much behind Martin’s question. ‘Why are you here, Martin? Are you the Fleming for whom Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s family has suffered so much?’
‘They have suffered because of Gruffydd, not me,’ said Martin. ‘Your people have a tale about one who sleeps – is it in a cave? – and one day will wake from his slumber to save your people.’
‘Arthur.’
‘Sometimes he is called Owain.’
‘Owain Lawgoch? Tell me about him.’
‘We call him Yvain de Galles. His men believe he is the redeemer of your people. He has the courage, I do not doubt it. And he is like Bertrand du Guesclin in inspiring loyalty in his men.’
‘Why is he in France?’
‘His family sent him there to keep him safe while he grew and learned.’
‘Do you follow him because he will redeem my people?’
‘I am not a follower. He hired me because I was recommended. Do I d
isappoint you?’
‘Had you sworn allegiance to this man I would have called you a liar,’ said Owen.
‘A man can change.’
‘But you have not.’
Martin laughed. ‘Nor have you.’
Some would disagree. ‘Tell me this. When Gruffydd ap Goronwy decided to keep Lawgoch’s money, was it you betrayed him to Pembroke?’
‘Not to Pembroke, to his mother. In the past I have worked for the Mortimers. I expected Gruffydd to repent, come to me begging for help. Which would come at a price. But I underestimated Gruffydd’s greed, and John Lascelles’s passion for his daughter. The money vanished into Cydweli.’
‘Do you ride after him to retrieve the money?’
‘No, my friend. That is gone. I would not risk riding into Cydweli – the constable there is too challenging.’
‘He is a good soldier.’
‘Aye.’ Martin sighed. ‘But it is not such a loss. Already more pours in from your wealthier countrymen.’
‘So why do you pursue Gruffydd?’
‘King Edward will think well of the Mortimers – and Pembroke – if they deliver up one of Yvain’s men. And so I shall keep the Mortimers in my debt by presenting their scapegoat. Though I cannot appear with him, they will know how he comes to be in their hands.’
‘But what he did – he is not truly one of Owain Lawgoch’s men.’
‘No.’
‘Would not King Edward be doubly grateful if the Mortimers delivered you to him?’
‘Perhaps, my friend, but they still have need of me. I am very good at what I do.’
