by Candace Robb
‘And you, Sir Robert?’ Brother Dyfrig was saying. ‘You are of a venerable age to undertake such a pilgrimage. From York, you said?’
‘It is a long journey for me, but I have been singularly blessed in my old age. God has returned my only child’s affections to me. And spared all the family in the last visitation of the pestilence.’
‘So your purpose is to give thanks so that you may die in peace?’
‘That is my wish.’
‘I shall pray for you.’ As Michaelo moved away from the well, Dyfrig caught Sir Robert’s elbow and helped him drop to his knees on the stones at its edge. Sir Robert dipped his fingers in the well. The water was clear and cool. He crossed himself with his wet fingertips and was filled with a sense of peace. He prayed for Lucie and his grandchildren, and for Owen on his long journey home. When Sir Robert lifted his staff and planted it firmly so that he might use it to help him straighten up, he felt the monk’s supporting hand under his elbow. ‘You are good to me. God bless you, Brother Dyfrig.’ Up higher on the slope, the stranger still regarded them. ‘Do you know him?’ Sir Robert asked, but by the time Dyfrig glanced up, the man was walking away.
‘So many pilgrims. I should not wonder at meeting someone I know.’
They joined Brother Michaelo, who stood at the edge of the gently curving bowl in which sat the well and St Non’s Chapel, gazing down at the sea. Sir Robert had not yet been to the cliff’s edge. On either side stretched high, rocky cliffs ruffled with inlets, pocked with caves. Directly below them, a rock almost as high as the cliff had separated in some ancient time from the mainland and stood, a sentinel, in the inlet.
‘At high tide it is an island,’ Dyfrig said.
‘That cave on the far side – how comes it to be light within?’
‘Daylight from the other side,’ Michaelo said. ‘I can see why our King worries about pirates and smugglers along this coast. One would never lack a cave in which to hide.’
‘Such villains are rarer here than popular imagination would have it,’ Dyfrig said. He turned towards the north-west. ‘You should walk along the cliff when the sea is calm and the sky clear. From the north end of this finger of land you can see Ireland, just as Bendigeidfran, son of LlŶr, saw it when Matholwch’s thirteen ships came across the sea for Branwen.’
Owen had recently told Sir Robert the story of Branwen, and it had caught his interest. ‘Was this LlŶr’s kingdom?’ Sir Robert asked.
‘All this land was his kingdom. But he was not at St Non’s Bay when he saw the ships. He sat on a rock in Harddlech, in Ardudwy, at one of his courts.’
‘You people speak of the folk in your tales as if they were real,’ Brother Michaelo said with a smirk. ‘But they are full of too many marvels to be real.’
Brother Dyfrig bowed his head, shook it as if considering something sad. ‘What we now call marvels were once ordinary occurrences,’ he said softly, as if to himself. ‘How our glory has faded.’
Michaelo caught Sir Robert’s eye. ‘Dreamers,’ he muttered. More loudly he said, ‘If we are to visit St David’s Well before sunset, we must continue.’
Dyfrig glanced out at the westering sun. ‘You are right, my friend. Let us proceed.’
As they walked, Dyfrig kept one hand at Sir Robert’s elbow, ready to assist him if he stumbled. The paths down to the harbour of Porth Clais were well worn, but muddy with the spring rains, and as they headed down the monk was particularly attentive. While they walked, they talked. ‘The palace at St David’s – is it comfortable?’ Dyfrig asked.
‘Certainly we have been provided with everything we could wish for. Bishop Houghton has been most kind,’ said Sir Robert.
‘There must have been much gossip among the pilgrims concerning the body left at Tower Gate.’
‘Oh, indeed. Particularly as a young pilgrim had been missing for several days. Many feared evil had befallen him. They were much relieved to hear that it was not him.’
‘The young man returned in good health?’
‘Alas, so far he has not returned, nor has anyone come to claim his belongings.’ Sir Robert paused at the edge of the sand, bothered by Dyfrig’s question. ‘But surely you know that Father Edern identified the dead man? I understood you were acquainted with the vicar.’
Brother Dyfrig smiled. ‘I did know of it, to be sure. But the dead man also might have been considered a young man. I thought perhaps he had been the young pilgrim of whom you spoke.’
‘No. The missing pilgrim was a Welshman. Rhys ap Llywelyn, I was told.’
Brother Michaelo, who had already reached the chapel, retraced his steps to urge them on. ‘It grows late,’ he whispered.
Sir Robert was embarrassed by his rude companion when Dyfrig had been so kind.
But Dyfrig seemed indifferent. ‘Perhaps we should first go to the well, then the chapel if we have time.’ He led them towards a small gathering behind the chapel. ‘Has the bishop sent anyone out to search for the missing pilgrim?’ he asked as they walked through the marshy field.
‘I have heard nothing of a search for him,’ Sir Robert said.
‘But he left his belongings at the palace?’
‘Yes.’
‘He must be someone of stature to stay at the palace.’
‘He had requested an audience with the bishop,’ said Michaelo. ‘You would do better to ask His Grace about the lad.’
Brother Dyfrig dropped the matter.
For once Sir Robert was grateful for Michaelo’s rudeness. He did wish for some quiet in which to pray. The monk’s loquacity seemed inappropriate.
Later, as they rested on the climb from Porth Clais to the cathedral close, Sir Robert being short of breath, the monk resumed his chatter, this time asking about Owen Archer and Geoffrey Chaucer. He had been surprised to learn that the former was Sir Robert’s son-in-law. ‘Then you are privy to his purpose in coming to Wales?’
‘No secret has been made of his purpose. Wales is vulnerable to the French at a time when such weakness, both of fortifications and of spirit, is dangerous to the safety of the realm. He is recruiting archers for the Duke while his companion is inspecting the fortifications and the garrisons.’
‘Indeed.’
Brother Michaelo had been silent since his outburst at the harbour. But as soon as he and Sir Robert parted from Brother Dyfrig at the palace, Michaelo turned to his companion and hissed, ‘You lack all discretion. Do you not see that he is someone’s agent? Did you not perceive the thrust of his questions?’
Indeed, as Sir Robert lay in his bed trying to sleep, he thought back on his conversations with the monk with growing unease. In the morning he went in search of Brother Dyfrig. He, too, could ask questions. He would know more of this Father Edern with whom Owen journeyed to Cydweli. But he was told that Brother Dyfrig had departed.
A cloudy, drizzly day in the stone world of a castle seemed greyer to Owen than the same weather in any other place. He had thought to string a bow, work the stiffness out of his arms today. But with the chill damp came the ache in his shoulder. ‘I must do it when I dread it most,’ he muttered.
‘Are you penitential this morning?’ Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled. ‘Did you dream of Mistress Tangwystl?’
Geoffrey plainly thought Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd the paragon of women. Indeed, she exhibited all the standards of beauty – she was slender, pale, graceful in movement, sweet of voice, gentle of smile, all her features fair and even, her hair a lustrous, fiery gold.
‘If I do not work the shoulder, the stiffness will worsen.’
Geoffrey’s grin broadened. ‘I dreamed of her.’
His mood already sour, Owen found Geoffrey’s silliness irritating. ‘When was the last time you lifted a bow?’
‘Me?’ Geoffrey raised his short arms, looked at each in turn, then up at Owen with a comical expression. ‘Does my body bear witness to such a skill?’
Why did he so enjoy playing the ass? ‘You were raised in a royal household, you would have be
en drilled at butts.’
A chuckle, a nod. ‘And so I was. But it is a few years since I pulled back on a gut.’
‘Come, then.’
‘Is this my punishment for dreaming of the steward’s wife?’
‘It is my cure for giddiness.’
Geoffrey laughed at that, picked up his felt hat. ‘I accept the challenge.’
As they left the guesthouse, they saw their hosts and Gruffydd ap Goronwy step out from the hall. Gruffydd walked between Lascelles and Tangwystl, slightly hunched forward, beetle-browed, talking excitedly. Lascelles was shaking his head. Tangwystl merely walked and listened. Suddenly all three paused.
‘Oh, beauty, that you knew the spell you cast,’ Geoffrey murmured.
The steward’s lady stood tall, her long neck arched over her low-cut gown. She looked demurely away as one very white hand, her right, was lifted high by her father. He reached for Lascelles’s right hand.
‘It would seem that father has decreed a reconciliation,’ Owen said.
‘It is not working,’ Geoffrey said as Gruffydd joined their hands. ‘Look at their faces.’
Husband and wife both kept their eyes averted, as if disowning the hands Gruffydd held so firmly.
Owen put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Come. I doubt they want witnesses.’
But Geoffrey had other plans. ‘I would seek out Edern, see how he fares.’
‘You are lazy.’
‘I would hear what arrangements they have made for John de Reine.’
‘As you wish.’
Owen sought out the practice yard. He should see it soon, gauge Burley’s progress in gathering the requested archers. He did not expect the recruits to have arrived, but surely he might see a tun of arrow staves and bows for practice, some butts, and where there was a practice yard there would be a hungry soldier who knew his way around the kitchens. Sharing food often made a soldier talkative. Owen might learn more about John de Reine and his aborted journey to Carreg Cennen.
The outer ward of Cydweli Castle was D-shaped, with the straight line along the high bluff over the Gwendraeth, facing south-east. The inner ward was a square with towers at each corner. The main hall stretched along the south-east wall within the inner ward; the guesthouse sat opposite, in the shadow of the north-west wall. Owen guessed that the practice yard would be in the outer ward, which was a bow-shaped area within the arch of the outer walls. Since he had entered by the south gatehouse, he chose the opposite direction, leaving the inner ward by a doorway next to the north-east tower. There he found a north gatehouse, not as impressive as the one on the town side, but well guarded. One of the men directed him round the north-west tower to the practice yard.
It would have been difficult to miss, occupied as it was at the moment by a pair of grunting wrestlers. They were stripped to their leggings and well oiled with sweat, their muscles taut and their expressions fierce. One glanced up at Owen – a momentary shift in his attention that lost him the round as his opponent took advantage of his lapse and pinned him down. Owen nodded to the men and made his way to a wooden tun in a small, open-fronted shed behind them. He was about to lift the lid when a hand clamped firmly down on his forearm.
‘A curious stranger is a dead one in such times,’ a gruff voice warned in English with a strong Welsh accent. It belonged to the victor in the wrestling match.
‘Owen Archer,’ Owen said in Welsh. ‘Former captain of archers for the old Duke.’
‘Owen Archer?’ The man stepped back, considered Owen. ‘They did say you carried a scar. Welcome to you.’ He slipped his hand down to Owen’s, clasped it. ‘Simwnt is the name. Harold is the one shouting for another match. He cannot speak our language, so we had best continue in English.’
‘I was hoping this tun held bows and arrow staves,’ Owen said.
‘That it does, Captain.’ As Simwnt spoke, he pulled on a shirt and then proceeded to use the left sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘But we have no archers to show you yet.’
‘I can wait a while for that. Food is what I need at present.’
A broad grin that showed small, surprisingly perfect teeth. ‘We put aside a morsel of bread and sausage – we might truck the food with you for a good tale. A particular tale.’
‘And what tale might that be?’
‘The death of our friend John. John de Reine, whose requiem Mass we attend this day. They say you found him.’
‘No, but I have seen him. And I know something of the circumstance.’
‘Aye. That’s what we will be wanting. Harold here was his man, you see.’
God smiled on Owen. Simwnt and Harold seemed men with whom he could be easy. ‘I will gladly tell you what I know for some food.’ Owen eased down on a stone bench built into the wall.
After his carefully selective narrative of events, Owen grew quiet. Soon Harold was talking of Reine, his excellent character, his puzzling change of plans. ‘He said he would be gone a week, no more, and I was to be ready to ride with him to Carreg Cennen on his return. I did not like it, him riding off alone, but what could I do?’ His voice had grown gruff with emotion.
‘He was not ordered elsewhere?’ Owen asked.
‘Oh no. Burley was that mad when he found Reine gone and me still about. “A week. Where is he off to for a bloody week?” he shouted.’
‘St David’s,’ Owen said.
‘Aye,’ Harold whispered.
Later, after attending the Mass for John de Reine, Owen strolled over to watch the masons at work on the south gatehouse. Harold and Simwnt had bragged about it, calling it the grandest design, thanks to the good Duke, who saw fit to make his castle of Cydweli as grand as any in England. Owen did not mention how much larger and grander was the Duke’s castle of Kenilworth. Grand castles were for living; grand gatehouses were for defence. And as ever in this country the question was whether Lancaster fortified Cydweli against the Welsh or the French. Or both.
‘It will be a wonder when completed,’ said Gruffydd ap Goronwy, joining him where he stood gazing up the scaffolding. ‘Prison to one side, porter’s lodge to the other. Not one, but three murder holes.’ He chuckled. ‘They fear us, these English, eh?’
Had he read Owen’s thoughts? ‘It is the French that are feared at present,’ he said to cover his confusion.
Gruffydd dropped his eyes. ‘You have heard of my disgrace.’
It had slipped Owen’s mind. ‘Forgive me. I meant nothing by it.’
‘And why should we not allow the heir to the great Llywelyn to land on these shores? Stay – I know the answer. The French would use Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri to destroy the Marcher lords and then step over him to claim the victory. I am not such a fool as to think they wish us well.’
‘I am glad to hear that. I like to think that my countrymen are not so desperate they will act foolishly.’
Gruffydd turned to Owen, nodded as if approving what he had said. ‘Your countrymen. I am glad you still think of this as your country. Which brings me to the matter I wished to discuss. They say you entered the service of Henry of Grosmont from this very castle. Is that true?’
‘It is.’
‘Are your kin still here?’
‘They were here when I departed. My parents and siblings. They had come down from the north. Llŷn.’
‘I believe I may know your brother.’
Owen’s heart raced. ‘My brother Dafydd?’
‘No. Morgan. Morgan ap Rhodri ap Maredudd.’
His mother’s youngest child, still quite young when Owen left. ‘He would not know me.’
‘Then you did have a brother by that name. Dark, slight?’
‘It was feared he would not survive to manhood. He was a sickly child.’ An unpleasant child, difficult to love. What did it mean that he was the one Gruffydd mentioned? Surely the eldest would be most prominent in the area.
Gruffydd was nodding enthusiastically. ‘It is him. It must be him. I shall go to him. Invite him to the castle.’ Spoken as
if he were lord of Cydweli.
‘You have heard nothing of Dafydd?’
Gruffydd threw up his hands. ‘I did not know to ask. I shall. Who can say what wonders I shall uncover, eh?’
Nine
ANTICIPATION
Gruffydd had marched away with a purposeful stride. Perhaps he would bring not only Morgan to the castle but Dafydd, Angie, Gwen, Owen’s parents, Rhodri and Angharad.
As Owen walked back to the guesthouse, he tried to imagine how it would feel to see his family after all this time. He doubted he would recognise any of them. And what would they think of him, scarred and with an accent that testified to his years in the service of the English King? Though his parents would remember that he had saved the family by going into the Duke’s service, would his siblings remember? He feared this home-coming might prove a bitter draught.
Owen found Geoffrey slumped over a table beneath the window in their chamber, a cup of wine in one hand, his other hand stretched out across a parchment, touching a pen but not holding it, though he stared at it, his face a study in melancholy.
Owen had never seen Geoffrey in such a mood. ‘Are you unwell?’
Geoffrey sighed, lifted the pen and set it by his ink pot, pushed back his stool. ‘Would that I were, then I might have stayed here this afternoon and avoided humiliation.’ He did not look up at Owen, but spoke as if to the wall opposite.
‘You went to Edern?’
‘I did, but found I must wait until after the Mass to speak with him.’
‘And–– ?’
‘I found––’ Geoffrey shook his head.
‘He insulted you?’
‘No. I was the author of my own shame. Edern is unaware of it.’
‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘I found the vicar in the chapel committing–– By God! I am well aware such things go on, but never did I think to witness it.’
‘Geoffrey.’
‘I found him riding Mistress Lascelles’s maid. No, in truth she rode him, her breasts slapping against her waist. So huge and heavy they were. And she squealed and giggled as he moaned.’ Suddenly, Geoffrey turned to Owen, who had embraced the comical scene conjured by the words as a welcome relief from his thoughts of his family and now could not stop smiling in time. Geoffrey blushed. ‘Not that I find large breasts . . . And such enthusiasm . . . Sweet Jesu, in the chapel, Owen. After such a solemn Mass.’