by Candace Robb
And all the while, darkness slowly spread over the wall before him like a plague of ants.
While Dafydd was thus absorbed, Mair appeared at his side, her lovely face darkened with worry. ‘Forgive me, Master, but you did not hear my knock. You have taken no food, no drink since this morning. Are you unwell?’
‘Unwell?’ He considered his pounding heart, the dampness at the nape of his neck. ‘My soul aches. Bring me a cup of cider.’ As Mair hastened to obey, Dafydd called after her, ‘God has answered me in your concern. Bless you.’
After Dafydd had refreshed himself, a wan late afternoon sun at last lured him into the garden. He breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation of a spreading calm.
And then Brother Dyfrig stepped out into the garden. Though the cowl shadowed Dyfrig’s face, Dafydd sensed the monk’s eyes on him. The author of his earlier anxieties, Dyfrig was the last person with whom Dafydd wished to speak, but he could think of no courteous escape. So he spread out his arms and bowed to the monk. ‘Benedicte, Brother Dyfrig.’
Dyfrig bowed, uncovered his head. ‘Benedicte, Master Dafydd.’
The hooded eyes considered Dafydd closely. It was not Dyfrig’s way, this direct gaze. Dafydd dreaded more distressing revelations. ‘You are now rested?’
‘Dry and rested. God bless you for your generous hospitality.’ Brother Dyfrig made the sign of the cross over Dafydd and the garden.
Perhaps it was the time to voice his concern. ‘I have thought long on what you suggested,’ Dafydd said, ‘the connections – Tangwystl, my pilgrim, Lawgoch . . .’
Dyfrig nodded brusquely. ‘You see the pattern.’ He then glanced away, and in a quieter voice began, ‘Master––’
‘Worse!’ Dafydd interrupted, not wanting to lose his train of thought. ‘I see the danger. My intention was to offer the pilgrim sanctuary until he healed. I believed God put him in my path for that purpose. I did not intend to offer my life for him – by the Trinity, I do not even know his name. His family.’
‘But I––’
‘His politics is the only thing I do know.’
Dyfrig looked surprised. ‘Do you?’
‘You implied he supported that red-handed fool, Lawgoch.’
‘No. I suggested a connection, not precisely what it was. Is the pilgrim a supporter of Lawgoch? Or did he murder Lawgoch’s supporter? Was he the companion of the dead man, and if so, were they supporters of Lawgoch or King Edward?’ Dyfrig shook his head. ‘You still know nothing of the man. But––’
‘But that he has brought me much danger. What of my honourable name?’ Dafydd raised his voice when Dyfrig would speak. ‘Knowing now how dangerous is the pilgrim’s company, I am concerned for Brother Samson and his party. I would hasten to join them, provide an armed escort, but how can I leave my servants with these Cydweli men?’ There. He had followed his thought to the conclusion.
Brother Dyfrig was shaking his head. ‘You sent no armed escort with Brother Samson?’
Now the criticism began. ‘I thought an armed escort would draw attention to them. A monk, his servant, and an ailing pilgrim – no one would make note of them.’
‘No one but thieves. They think all men of the Church carry bags full of gold chalices and pilgrims’ offerings.’ Dyfrig dropped his gaze, softened his voice. ‘But it is not of that I wish to speak. My conscience will not let me rest, Master Dafydd. I have kept something from you.’
Here it was, the dreaded revelation.
‘The name of the man Cydweli men seek – it is Rhys ap Llywelyn, is it not?’
‘It is.’
‘That is the man you sheltered. Your pilgrim.’
Did Dyfrig think Dafydd would not have guessed that? ‘I suspected it was so. He was too cleverly confused when we called him by that name. And for the Cydweli men to return in such a way, they must have been very certain of his identity.’
Dyfrig did not look up, showed no sign of relief at Dafydd’s lack of surprise.
It set Dafydd to thinking. ‘But what are you saying? You know him?’
‘I know his kinsman.’
Dafydd felt his dread warming to anger. ‘How do you know his kinsman?’
‘He once did a favour for my family.’
A favour? By the rood, he knew him well. ‘And Rhys’s politics? Do you know them?’
‘I do not. I believe that his difficulties are of a personal nature, not political. But of course if he did murder John de Reine . . .’
To become flustered with emotion was not the behaviour of a bard. Dafydd kept his voice calm by moving the anger downward. He rocked on his feet. ‘How long have you known his name?’
‘From the beginning.’
‘Why did you not tell me?’ Dafydd rocked a little faster.
‘At first it did not seem important. I have never heard ill of Rhys. As far as I knew his greatest sin was that of loving a woman against her father’s wishes. Such a sin did not alarm me.’
‘Tangwystl is his beloved?’
Dyfrig said nothing.
‘Of course she is – it was by her name that you knew him.’
‘I imagined Rhys had been wounded in a fight over a cow, or defending a woman. But the death of John de Reine – that changed the game.’
‘Indeed it should.’
‘All the way from St David’s I intended to confess my omission and tell you to whom you had given sanctuary. But when I learned the Cydweli men had returned, I thought it best you did not know. They would read only innocence in your eyes, your voice.’
‘You fool. If they had believed my professed ignorance of the man the first time they would not have returned.’
‘So it has turned out. They are shrewder than I had thought.’
‘So why tell me now?’
‘I cannot live with the deceit.’
‘You cannot?’ Dafydd heard his voice echo off the house, lowered it. ‘You managed it well enough before.’
Now, at last, Dyfrig raised his head. He looked – Dafydd could not believe it. He stopped his rocking. The monk’s face was yet blank. Was there some flicker of contrition in those hooded eyes? He thought not.
‘Forgive me,’ Dyfrig said softly.
‘What does it matter whether I forgive you? You have no soul. What are you that you can confess such a thing to me and show no emotion?’
Dyfrig began to drop his head.
‘Look at me, not the soil at your marble feet.’
Dyfrig complied. Was it better to be regarded by those cold, hooded eyes?
‘I now understand the danger involved,’ said Dafydd. ‘What must I do?’
‘We must go after Brother Samson, protect him. We do not know whether the Cydweli men have comrades who knew their destination. Even now they might be on their way to this house.’
Dafydd had not thought of that. ‘But my servants.’ Mair had just stepped into the garden. Dafydd motioned for her to stay where she was.
‘Your servants will be safe,’ Dyfrig said quietly. ‘What cause do the men have to harm them? Until they are recovered they depend on your servants for care and comfort.’
‘We shall talk more of this over the evening meal.’ Dafydd motioned for Mair to come forward. He was sorry for the shadows beneath her eyes, the frown that creased her high forehead. When would his household be at peace again?
‘Maelgwn’s youngest son has come with a message for you, Master Dafydd.’
Maelgwn farmed the land adjacent to Dafydd’s property. He was an odd little man, fancied himself a vessel of prophecy. ‘He wishes to tell my future, does he?’
‘Not this time, Master. The boy says there are murderers in the wood.’
The barefoot lad bowed to Dafydd, stretched out his arms and bowed his head to Brother Dyfrig. ‘May I have your blessing, Father?’
Dyfrig made the sign of the cross over the boy.
‘What is this about murderers, lad?’ Dafydd asked.
‘My da says you are to come.’ He was staring at Dyfrig.
‘It is one of your kind we found.’
‘You found a monk?’ Dafydd asked.
The boy nodded.
‘Tell me, for pity’s sake, lad, in what condition did you find him?’
‘Left for dead. His servant wept over him.’
‘Was there another? A young man, a pilgrim?’
The lad shook his head.
‘Do you know the monk’s name?’
‘His man calls him Brother Samson.’
Heartsick, Dafydd turned to Dyfrig. ‘You knew no ill of him?’
‘It was you sent them without armed escort,’ Dyfrig hissed. To the boy he said, ‘We shall come after sunset, lad. Tell your father we shall come.’
When the boy was gone, Dafydd turned on Dyfrig. ‘We must find Rhys ap Llywelyn.’
‘We must see to Brother Samson. You sent him off with your pilgrim.’
‘The kinsman of your friend.’
‘We must go to him.’
‘Of course we must.’ Make sure of Maelgwn’s care, then go in search of the pilgrim. ‘We shall take Cadwal and Madog with us. And food and drink.’
‘You should bind the captives so they cannot follow us.’
‘They are injured. I shall leave enough men to guard them. And the dogs.’
‘They are soldiers.’
‘We have twice bested them.’
‘Listen to me, Master Dafydd. I find it passing strange the Cydweli men lie so quietly in your hall. They are watching, waiting. You may be angry with me, but it was your refusal to behave as others would that has brought this trouble on your house and on Brother Samson. Another would have taken the wounded man back to St David’s. That is an appropriate sanctuary. Not the house of a bard.’
‘God put him in my path.’
‘Perhaps you misinterpreted His purpose.’
Owen stood atop Cydweli’s chapel tower and let the mist cool his head. The day had moved along too quickly, forcing him to make what might prove to be a rash decision. He prayed that he had not made a mistake, that he had not lost his knack for judging fighting men, that for all Burley’s ‘flawed soul’ he could be trusted in his loyalty to Lancaster and Cydweli. In faith it was Father Edern who had referred to Burley’s soul – it seemed he was hardly one whose judgement was to be trusted.
Someone came through the tower door. Owen drew his knife and glanced round, ready to defend himself.
‘It is Iolo.’
Owen slid the knife back in its sheath. ‘You are certain you were not followed?’
‘I am,’ Iolo said with confidence.
Owen was reassured, for he knew Iolo could steal through a place like a cat, from shadow to shadow, seemingly not even disturbing the air round him.
‘Is this about Duncan?’ Iolo asked.
‘Aye. You are to watch him closely. Any move to attack any of us, or those we pursue, you know what to do.’
‘I do, Captain.’ Iolo also attacked like a cat – in a flash of movement and with deadly precision.
Dafydd, Brother Dyfrig, Madog and Cadwal led their horses from the stable under cover of darkness. All but Dyfrig knew well the trackway to Maelgwn’s farmhouse, a muddy path worn low in the tall grasses and gorse that crowned the headland, then dipped down into willowy woods along a stream. The weather had turned yet again and a soft rain fell. The low clouds veiled the moon. The wood was quiet, and thinking on the wounded Samson, the four crept along on cat feet. Dafydd drew his hood over his hair to quiet the soft music of his ornaments – it was not the time to bell the cat. But the whisper of their horses’ breath could not be stilled. When at last a soft lantern light welcomed them from the doorway of the farmhouse, Dafydd said a prayer of thanksgiving.
But Maelgwn’s wife received Dafydd and Dyfrig with such a solemn countenance that they asked if Samson yet lived. She bowed her white-veiled head as she spread her arms and asked for Brother Dyfrig’s blessing. He quickly gave it, then repeated his question.
‘He lives, Father,’ she said. ‘But he burns with fever and his leg is broken. His man, you will notice, is unharmed.’ She spoke the last as she stood over Samson’s servant, who sat with head bowed beside his master’s pallet.
Oil-lamps flickered on shelves by either end of the pallet. As Dafydd and Dyfrig approached, Brother Samson waked, blinking as if opening his eyes brought a shock of light. He lifted a trembling hand to his eyes to shield them. His breathing was uneven and painful to hear. His bald head was wrapped round with a clean bandage.
Aled, the servant, held a spoon of wine to his master’s cracked lips. Samson opened his mouth, let the wine trickle in.
‘Was it the pilgrim?’ Dafydd asked. Aled nodded. Dafydd dropped to his knees beside the bed and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Brother Samson.’
‘This man was the attacker?’ Maelgwn’s wife hissed. She took a step towards the bed as if to protect her patient.
‘No,’ said Brother Dyfrig, staying her with a hand. ‘But it was he who asked Brother Samson to escort the pilgrim to Strata Florida.’
‘Brother Samson, can you hear me?’ Dafydd whispered.
The monk moaned.
‘It is Master Dafydd and Brother Dyfrig.’
Samson opened his eyes wide, looked at one, the other, then let his lids fall.
‘Look at his servant, will you? Not a mark on him,’ Maelgwn’s wife said with a sniff.
Aled looked up, and spoke in a voice shrill with indignation. ‘Brother Samson took off after the pilgrim.’ Now that he showed his face, Dafydd could see the signs of much weeping.
‘Tell us, Aled,’ Dyfrig said sternly. ‘We cannot know the truth of it unless you help us see it.’
Farmer Maelgwn had been sitting in the deep shadows in the corner of the room. Now he shifted, moved a stool close. His bushy brows knit together as he frowned down at the young man.
Aled wiped his nose on his sleeve and eyed his audience warily, but as Dyfrig opened his mouth to command him he nodded and began, ‘We had not come far. The oak wood that is just beyond this farm. The pilgrim began to moan and fall forward over his horse. I dismounted and rushed to help him. He kicked me in the head –’ the young man turned his head towards the light so all could see the bruise on his left temple ‘– and whipped my horse so he bolted, then rode off like the wind. Brother Samson spurred his horse and went after him. What was I to do with no horse?’ Aled sniffed and searched the faces of his audience.
‘Continue your tale,’ Dyfrig said.
‘I know not how long I searched, nor how far I walked before I discovered my horse at a stream. When I had calmed him I sat and wondered what to do . . .’ Aled droned on and on, through indecisions, muddy accidents, a torn habit and a rumbling stomach until at last he came to his discovery of Brother Samson the following morning, soaked and shivering beside the stream, his horse grazing nearby. ‘From the gash in his head and his broken leg, I think he rode beneath a low branch and fell from his horse. He said he rolled into the stream to cool the pain of his leg, but then he rolled too far.’
‘The chill is in his bones,’ Maelgwn said. ‘And the pilgrim has gone south.’
‘Is this one of your prophecies?’ Dafydd asked.
Maelgwn raised his eyes upward, lifted his arms and declaimed in a deep voice, ‘The well filled with light, and then rising from the water came Carn Llidi, then Penmaen Dewi.’
St David’s Head and the burial chamber above it. And where else would Rhys head but back to his unfinished business? Dafydd glanced over at Dyfrig. ‘We must pursue him.’
‘I shall sit with Brother Samson tonight.’
‘And in the morning––’
‘We shall decide what we must do.’
Seventeen
ST NON’S BENEFICENCE
Brother Michaelo sat up with a cry. ‘Wulfstan!’ He stared wildly at the far wall. Sir Robert was by his side at once, soothing him, reassuring him that he had only seen Brother Wulfstan in a dream. There was no ghostly monk in the room. It was the th
ird time Michaelo had had such a nightmare. Sir Robert feared it was his own incessant coughing that disturbed the monk’s sleep and brought on bad dreams.
Michaelo’s eyes focused on Sir Robert, then the lamp beside his bed. Still he trembled and would not look out into the room. ‘I saw him again, putting the cup to his lips.’ Michaelo crossed himself. ‘By all that is holy, how could I have done such a thing to that good man?’ Seven years past he had served Brother Wulfstan a poisoned drink, hoping by the infirmarian’s death to protect a friend.
‘He did not die by your hand, Michaelo. God was not ready for him.’ The poison had made Wulfstan very ill, but had not killed him. It was the pestilence the summer past that had stilled Wulfstan’s great heart. Sir Robert put a cup of wine in Brother Michaelo’s trembling hands. ‘Drink this.’ He turned away to cough.
‘My nightmares are making you worse. You should do to me what I meant to do to him.’
Sir Robert managed a smile as he fought another cough. ‘It is a tempting proposition, I assure you,’ he wheezed, ‘but I would not let you escape your pain so easily.’ He allowed another coughing fit. ‘Nor do I wish to risk my immortal soul with your blood on my hands.’
‘“Evil shall slay the wicked: and they that hate the righteous shall be desolate,”’ Michaelo whispered.
Sir Robert thought it a fitting psalm, but the monk had stopped too soon. ‘Then David said, “The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants: and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.”’
‘I am not worth your concern,’ Brother Michaelo said.
‘Come. Drink the wine.’
Pliable in his need, Brother Michaelo gulped down the wine, shivered, then lay back down.
‘God forgave you long ago, as did Wulfstan,’ said Sir Robert. ‘“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.”’ He paused, realised that the monk already drifted back to sleep. Sir Robert took away the cup, poured himself some of the physick Owen had left for his cough, and took it to his own bed, where he burrowed beneath several blankets and a skin.