by Candace Robb
‘The greatest sinner of us all must ride,’ Edern said, nodding towards Gruffydd.
‘Would you prefer to bear him on a litter?’ Geoffrey asked.
Twenty-six
ELERI’S COURAGE
On Monday, in the early afternoon, the weary company dismounted at Bonning’s Gate – even Gruffydd, who all felt had been pampered enough. They led their horses slowly past the houses of the bishop’s archdeacons and the Treasurer of St David’s. At the gate to the bishop’s palace, they were given a message from Brother Michaelo urging Geoffrey and Owen to come at once to the house of William Baldwin, the Archdeacon of Carmarthen.
Owen yearned for refreshment and a chance to cool his feet in some scented water. He was envious of the others, surprised when Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig declared that they, too, would attend the archdeacon.
‘And what of the injured man?’ asked the porter. ‘Do you need assistance with him?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, ‘the archdeacon will wish to see him.’
Dafydd, however, felt no need to attend the meting out of justice. ‘I shall speak with the archdeacon anon, concerning the Cydweli men and their affront to me.’ He strode regally through the gate with his men and Owen’s.
Geoffrey stood beside Owen, watching Dafydd. ‘I wish you had not praised his poetry. I should like to think he is all show and no substance.’
‘Perhaps you shall look back on him when you are his age and think him not so strange.’
‘For that I would need to be Welsh.’
Laughing, Owen turned to follow the others. Geoffrey hurried to join him. Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig walked on either side of Gruffydd, steadying him when he stumbled. Their halting procession was watched by many as they crossed Llechllafar.
The Archdeacon of Carmarthen’s was a grand house, set off from the other archdeaconries in a meadow across the river from the palace, towards Patrick’s Gate. Their unexpected numbers flustered the archdeacon’s clerk, who left them standing at the door while he hurried off to consult with his master. But he soon returned, leading them into the archdeacon’s hall and seating them in the rear.
A group of petitioners were apparently there before them. Brother Michaelo stood to one side, listening. But as Owen’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he was astonished. That Rhys ap Llywelyn, John Lascelles and Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd stood before the Archdeacon of Carmarthen did not surprise him. But they were accompanied by Eleri ferch Hywel, the maid Gladys and Richard de Burley.
It was Burley who spoke. ‘. . . Gladys had come forth, fearing God’s wrath over the murderer’s, and told me she had heard loud voices, ran to Father Francis’s room. Gruffydd shouted, “You shall pay for this,” as he shook Father Francis. The chaplain shouted a curse. Gruffydd hit him, then threw him to the floor.’
‘Who tells such lies of me?’ Gruffydd cried out, rising from his seat at the rear of the hall. ‘Who tells such lies?’
At the sound of his voice, Eleri had stiffened. She now turned, walked slowly towards the voice.
‘Eleri?’ Gruffydd sank back down. ‘What have they done to you? Who brought you here?’
‘Who?’ She cocked her head. Her gait was slow and halting, like that of a sleepwalker. ‘Who brought me here?’ she asked in calm voice. ‘But my husband, you did. You tore us from our home, tore our daughter from her husband and her child. But that was nothing. Nothing compared to what I have heard today, husband.’ She stood over him. ‘You killed the son of the man who tried to help us.’
‘I did not kill him, Eleri.’ Gruffydd’s voice was suddenly gentle, caressing. ‘It was Rhys. And you would have him marry our daughter?’
‘What did I marry?’ she cried, clenching her fists. ‘Who did I marry?’
Gruffydd looked round at the others. ‘In God’s name, she should not be here.’
Father Edern moved towards Eleri. ‘Come. I will––’
‘No.’ The word came from deep in Eleri’s throat. ‘No,’ she moaned, and threw herself upon her husband, tipping him to the ground. She grabbed his hair, lifted his head, and brought it down hard on the stone floor.
‘Mother!’ Tangwystl cried, running to her.
Eleri pounded Gruffydd’s face with her fists.
Owen pulled Eleri away. Dyfrig knelt to Gruffydd, who breathed raggedly.
‘Hang him! Hang him for all to see!’ Eleri shrieked as Owen picked her up and carried her from the room.
Owen lay on a bench staring unseeing at the sky. His thoughts were with the Archdeacon of Carmarthen. If it were Owen’s to rule on Gruffydd, would he send him to Pembroke? Or hang him at the crossroads, as Eleri wished?
‘They tell me that your wife is a beauty and a Master Apothecary.’ Dafydd’s face displaced the sky.
Owen sat up.
Dafydd joined him on the bench with a sigh. ‘It is a pity she did not accompany you.’
‘I feel her absence keenly.’
‘You left the deliberations. You are displeased with the archdeacon’s judgement?’
‘He had not as yet come to any decisions. In truth I withdrew because Master Chaucer clearly needs no assistance. He understands the law and has the honeyed tongue of a poet.’
‘Geoffrey Chaucer a poet? He looks like a cleric and behaves like the King’s fool. Surely he is no poet.’
Should Owen tell him that Geoffrey thought Dafydd a proper fool? He thought not. ‘It is true Geoffrey does not play the bard. But he is cunning. And his jesting distracts folk so they do not notice how closely he studies them. We shall all be in his poems some day, mark me.’
‘You describe a lawyer, not a poet.’
‘What do I know of such things?’ Owen motioned towards the archdeacon’s door. ‘It opens.’
First came Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig, then Gladys.
‘Sweet angel,’ Dafydd said.
Rhys and Tangwystl came forth, followed by a servant carrying Hedyn. Rhys leaned heavily on Tangwystl. Sir John followed, his eyes on Tangwystl. Burley accompanied him, talking with great animation.
‘I think we can judge from this that Tangwystl has prevailed,’ said Owen.
‘It is a good law, that a woman may denounce her husband for being such a fool as to be caught by her thrice with another wench,’ said Dafydd.
‘I would not have thought you a supporter of such a law.’
‘He is a fool, who is caught once. But thrice, and with the same maid,’ Dafydd shook his head. ‘He deserves no woman.’
‘Sir John thought he did her bidding.’
‘Doubly a fool. Look at her – so proud. And beautiful. What need had he of another?’
They grew quiet as Sir John approached. His age sat heavily on his features, gouging lines of sorrow. Owen pitied him.
‘God’s blessing on you, Captain Archer, for bringing the Devil to justice,’ said Sir John.
Owen could not think what to say to him.
Burley had come up behind. ‘I would talk with you, Captain.’
‘By and by,’ Owen said. He rose, led Lascelles towards the river, away from Dafydd and Burley. ‘I do not feel I have earned your blessing, Sir John. But I am glad I have cleared both your name and that of your son.’
They stood by the bank. The sound of water was soothing.
‘The archdeacon has declared your marriage null?’ Owen asked, for it was in the air between them.
‘I did not give him the opportunity. When I saw them together, and he with the child––’ Lascelles closed his eyes, took a deep breath, faced Owen. ‘She was never mine.’
‘No. She was not.’
‘But I had a son. A son who loved me, who braved my anger to warn me against Gruffydd. He urged me to leave him to the Mortimers. And I would not. Could not, God help me, for I loved her so.’ Lascelles was silent a moment. ‘John must have come after Gruffydd, hoping to find proof.’ He pulled a cloth from his scrip as he turned away, blotting tears.
Rhys and Tangwystl were crossing Ll
echllafar. Owen and Lascelles silently watched them passing. After a while, Lascelles nodded to Owen and walked on.
The serving maid Rhonwen curtseyed to Owen and withdrew to the corner. He sat, took Sir Robert’s hand. It was dry and cold, his skin felt thin as a flower petal.
‘God granted me a vision,’ said Sir Robert.
‘Tell me, Father.’ Owen bent close, Sir Robert’s voice was so weak.
‘Amélie. She forgives.’
Owen squeezed Sir Robert’s hand. ‘I am glad of it.’
‘And you? Did you find your family?’
‘My youngest brother, Morgan.’
‘No others?’
‘All gone but for Morgan and my sister Gwen, who is at the convent in Usk.’
‘You must go there, see her. Lucie would think it fitting.’
‘I shall try.’
‘Tell me about your brother.’
So Owen told him of Morgan, and of Elen. How it was Morgan who convinced Gladys to tell Constable Burley that she had seen Gruffydd ap Goronwy shake Father Francis and throw him to the floor, Morgan who had escorted her to the castle. He described Elen. ‘Lucie would like her.’ Owen stopped, thinking Sir Robert had drifted off to sleep smiling. But when he began to rise, Sir Robert clutched his hand.
‘Brother Michaelo has been good to me, Owen. Remember that.’
The house reeked of onions and beer. A child and a puppy rolled in the rushes. Owen had taken off his boots and propped his feet on the edge of the table. Geoffrey sat on the table, back against the wall, legs stretched out before him. Burley and the alewife shared a bench – they seemed unable to keep their hands off each other. All held large bowls of good thick beer. Father Edern had brought them to this place, in the midst of the vicars’ houses, after Burley had sent Edmund and Iolo off to retrieve Duncan.
‘The alewife will be chased out when the bishop arrives tomorrow for the remainder of Passiontide,’ Edern had told them, ‘best drink all you can tonight.’
Owen intended to, though he hoped he might keep his wits clear enough to find out more about how it was that Burley had escorted Eleri and the boy to the city.
‘Your brother had been at Gladys, you see, not in the usual way––’ Burley kissed the round breasts pushing up from the alewife’s bodice, ‘––but preaching at her about mending her ways. It wakened her conscience, she says. You were too gentle with her, you see. A bit of preaching, a bit of threatening was what she needed.’
‘Threatening?’
‘I would wager your brother threatened to throw her out if she did not accompany him to the castle and tell me what she knew.’
‘But what of Eleri?’
‘I took Gladys with me when I went to Gruffydd’s house, demanding to see him. And while I talked to Eleri, Gladys was in the kitchen with the servants, spilling all she knew and weeping and saying she was for the nunnery. The daughter Awena heard it all, came running in to her mother. The lady went quiet, watching her hands in her lap, and then she looked up, looked me square in the eye and said Gruffydd had gone to St David’s, he knew what Tangwystl was about, and we must go after him. She meant her and the boy. She said she feared what lengths Gruffydd would go to in order to keep Sir John content – as if murdering Rhys and Tangwystl would ever bring contentment. She withdrew for a while, returned with a pack. Coins, gold, a treasure. Owain Lawgoch’s treasure. Gave it to me. For safe keeping, she said.’
‘You will restore your debt to the exchequer?’
‘Sweet Jesus, it was more than enough for that. I gave the rest of it to Sir John, to use as he saw fit. I believe he has given it to Mistress Tangwystl. I pray she gives none of it to that mad, self-important bard who attacked my men and left them for dead.’
‘They had twice attacked him,’ said Geoffrey, ‘once in his home. Certes they are safely in the sheriff’s gaol, not lying on the road.’
‘A sheriff’s gaol, God’s blood––’ Burley was stilled by a consoling kiss.
Twenty-seven
‘. . . A VERRAY, PARFIT GENTIL KNYGHT’
Leaving Burley and the alewife to their lust, Owen and Geoffrey walked out among the vicars’ houses. Light from lamps and hearth fires showed through the chinks round the doors and shutters. From one house came such a snoring that the two laughed. The night was clear, with bright stars. Tonight, the cemetery seemed to Owen a peaceful place, the rich scent of the earth comforting. A willow beckoned them towards the river, where the stars shimmered and danced.
‘Will Sir Robert lie here?’ Geoffrey asked, leaning against the willow.
‘He asks to be buried in the cathedral.’
‘You will commission a monument?’
‘Aye. Martin told me of a stonecutter who does fine work.’
‘Martin. You should be more careful about your loyalties.’
‘He is a good man.’
‘He is an enemy of our King.’
‘Now and then, and sometimes his ally. Did you mention Martin to the archdeacon?’ For all Owen knew, Baldwin, too, might be a Lawgoch supporter.
‘No.’ Geoffrey glanced over at Owen. ‘I could not think how I might do so without betraying you. I was vague about who had befriended Rhys.’
‘Martin served us well.’
‘Have a care you do not return the favour.’ Geoffrey straightened. ‘After Easter I shall leave with Brother Michaelo.’
‘You are satisfied with the garrisons?’
‘They will hold against the French. You will stay with Sir Robert, then return to Cydweli?’
‘Do you doubt me?’
‘I think that in this country you have found that which you had lost, a sense of your own honour. Mayhap it is enough to have it rekindled. I pray that is so.’
Is that what Owen had found here?
‘What of this monument?’ Geoffrey said in a heartier tone. ‘Will Sir Robert be a knight or a pilgrim?’
‘A knight. But with a pilgrim’s hat at his feet.’
‘A truly perfect, courteous knight. It is fitting. You are sending Brother Michaelo away with a letter for Lucie, telling her all that has come to pass here?’
‘Several letters. I have carried her with me.’
‘You are fortunate in your marriage. Come. It has been a long day.’
In the morning, Sir Robert rallied a little, and used the time to talk to Owen of the things that had worried him as he lay there.
‘What of my sister Phillippa?’ As a widow she had returned to Sir Robert’s household years before. ‘She will be lonesome at Freythorpe.’ The manor was within a day’s ride of York, but the road was often impassable in winter storms.
‘We shall bring her to live with us. She will enjoy the children, and they her.’
‘What of Freythorpe Hadden? Lucie will not give up her work to live there. Who will live there and keep it for your son Hugh?’
‘I shall find a steward I trust to live there. And Lucie will insist on a good accounting.’
Sir Robert was satisfied. ‘Then I can rest.’
Shortly after the angelus bells, Sir Robert fell into a pleasant dream of Lucie and Amélie in the garden at Freythorpe. He was awakened by an unfamiliar sound, a delicate jingling. He found a white-haired man at his bedside, sipping wine in an elegant mazer. A most amazing man, with rings and combs in his white hair. He wore a white gown embroidered in silver and gold thread. Was this St Peter?
‘Ah, you waken, Sir Robert.’
‘Am I at Heaven’s gate?’
‘St David would be gratified to hear his church called that.’
‘You are not St Peter?’
The man tilted his face to the ceiling and laughed like a madman. When he was quiet, wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, ‘I have been called many things, Sir Robert, but never a saint.’
‘Who are you?’ Sir Robert asked.
‘Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse.’
And a delightful bragga
rt, Sir Robert thought. ‘It was you who took Rhys off to sanctuary?’
‘It was. But I came to honour you, not boast of my goodness. It is said that God granted you a vision at St Non’s Well. I pray you, tell me all.’
Sir Robert talked of Amélie until he was exhausted. The bard was a most attentive audience. As was Geoffrey Chaucer, who joined them halfway through the tale.
When Brother Michaelo discovered Sir Robert hoarse from talking, he asked the two poets to leave. Geoffrey and Dafydd departed the chamber together.
‘A God-fearing, gentle knight,’ said Geoffrey.
‘God-fearing? Gentle? He was a soldier,’ said Dafydd. ‘I lost many a sweet mistress to a soldier’s arms. And each time I mourned them, knowing how ungentle their new lover would be. You heard his tale. By the Trinity, how I would have loved the fair Amélie.’
‘But Sir Robert did love her. I wept to hear his tale. What he lost! It is no wonder he spent so much of his life thereafter on pilgrimage.’
Dafydd considered the short-legged man walking beside him. His eyes did show traces of tears. He had a heart then, but had he the soul of a poet? ‘Are you married, Master Chaucer?’
‘I am. To one of our late Queen’s ladies of the chamber.’
Death to a poet, marriage. The match had helped the man’s career, no doubt. ‘What does she think of your poetry?’
‘She despairs of the ink stains.’
In the late afternoon, Owen returned from his audience with Bishop Houghton, just arrived in the city for the remainder of Passiontide, to find Brother Michaelo kneeling at the foot of Sir Robert’s bed, praying the rosary. The maid Rhonwen knelt there, hands folded, head bowed.
Dear God, was Sir Robert already gone? Owen hurried to the side of the bed, said a prayer of thanks as he heard the dying man’s uneven breaths.
Noticing Owen standing there, Michaelo and Rhonwen rose.
‘God prepares to take him,’ Michaelo said. His eyes were red with weeping. ‘He has not complained, not once in all––’ The monk’s voice broke. He ducked his head and turned away to blot his eyes.
