by Candace Robb
‘He needed a witness. Martin Wirthir did not wish to oblige.’
‘Come,’ Michaelo urged. ‘The porter will surely remember whether the wife of Lancaster’s steward arrived with the vicar.’
But the porter did not recall seeing Father Edern with a woman, though several women had arrived at the palace that morning.
‘It is no fors,’ Sir Robert said as they passed through the second doorway and into the great hall. ‘The letter will tell us whether to trust him.’
They went to their chamber, where Michaelo expressed delight to find the brazier still alight despite the warm afternoon. ‘We are fortunate they consider you old and infirm,’ Michaelo said as he set a pot of water over the fire. ‘We need the steam for the seal as well as for your lungs.’
Precisely. Because I am old and infirm, Sir Robert thought as he eased down on the bed. His head pounded and his limbs trembled. He had not coughed in a while, but his chest felt heavy and he experienced an unpleasant rumble with each breath. It seemed no time at all before Michaelo joined him, presenting the scroll without seal.
‘Shall I read it aloud?’ Michaelo asked.
‘My eyes are not so bad as that,’ Sir Robert said. But in truth he found the writing small and crabbed. ‘Perhaps so. I have a headache.’ He lay back on the pillows. Brother Michaelo tucked a few more behind him, slipped off his shoes.
A servant knocked, entered with a tray of wine, water and fruit. Michaelo took the tray and sent the servant away.
‘It would not do to give them bad example,’ Michaelo said. He was obviously enjoying the intrigue. He began to read aloud:
‘Right well beloved friend,
I recommend me to you and pray you take heed of my tidings. I have in my custody a man who may give good account of a certain incident on Whitesands. He is hunted by many, but his gravest danger is from one who seeks to silence him and whose treasonous act begat all this trouble. I have no doubt the traitor will follow hard upon two who arrive today. Come to me in the place at which you rose from the valley with your burden.
Godspeed.
Pirate.’
‘At least he does not hide his profession,’ Michaelo said. He looked up from the document. ‘I do not like this.’
‘Nor do I. But Owen must at least be warned that Martin Wirthir is here and knows of his interest in traitors to the King. We must send it.’ A messenger normally took three days from here to Cydweli, though it was said that a fast rider with fresh horses each day might make it in two. If the messenger left this afternoon he might be there by Sunday. And yet it was now mid-afternoon. ‘Summon Edmund. He will ride at first light.’
‘Not at once?’
‘What is the use? He would not get far by nightfall. Better he be fresh at the beginning.’
‘But time is of––’
‘––the essence. I know. And yet I have always found it wise to sleep on something as important as this missive. When I served the King I was respected for my thoroughness, which comes only by taking one’s time.’ Sir Robert smiled. ‘Besides, my friend, it will give you time to reseal this letter.’
Michaelo chuckled. ‘True enough. It takes a steady hand, and I am much excited.’
‘Does His Grace know of your skill with seals?’ Surely the Archbishop of York received documents meant for his eyes alone. He was sometime advisor to the King.
‘If His Grace guesses it, he keeps his own counsel. Will you tell the Captain of Brother Dyfrig’s prying questions about the missing pilgrim and the Captain’s purpose in Wales?’
‘God bless you for assisting my memory. Edmund shall tell Owen of the monk’s interest and who arrived today. Wirthir takes care to mention no one and no place by name.’
After Edmund had been informed of his journey and had been given the information to memorise and instructions to come at first light for the letter, Brother Michaelo urged Sir Robert to drink some soothing herbs in honey water and lie down to rest until the evening meal. Sir Robert refused to rest – he must go to the chapel and give thanks for the vision with which God had blessed him. Few men were granted such a gift, to be assured through such a vision that his prayers had been answered, that Amélie forgave him. He had delayed his thanks too long already, though surely God would see that it was important to read the letter and prepare Edmund. But to delay his thanks any longer would be unforgivable. Brother Michaelo acquiesced, but insisted on accompanying Sir Robert in case he felt faint and needed help. As the Fleming had said, to receive a vision was exhausting to a mortal man. And Sir Robert was already weak.
Weak, yes, Sir Robert thought. But with the messenger instructed and Amélie’s forgiveness assured, he felt at peace. He no longer feared death, nor did he wish to delay it. He did not confide these thoughts to Brother Michaelo for fear the monk would misinterpret his intentions and put a guard on him. Already he hovered too much.
‘I must give thanks for St Non’s beneficence, Michaelo. Not only for my vision, but for Martin Wirthir’s assistance.’
‘We shall see whether we ought to be grateful about his assistance.’
‘Why do you distrust him?’
‘Honesty is not his trade, Sir Robert. At best he has been a pirate, at worst a spy for the enemies of our King. Why should we trust him?’
‘Because he has been known to step out of his role – remember what he did for Jasper. But be that as it may, I wish to go to the chapel. Come.’
‘What was it that you saw in the waters of the well?’ Michaelo asked as they stepped out into the corridor.
Sir Robert described Amélie’s face, her fleeting smile. ‘It is the healing for which I prayed.’
Brother Michaelo crossed himself. ‘Truly you have been blessed, Sir Robert.’
‘I pray that you have been likewise blessed, that you will dream no more of Brother Wulfstan.’
‘Perhaps my bad dreams are a substitute for my conscience.’
At the door to the chapel Sir Robert stayed Brother Michaelo. ‘I know you mean well, my friend, but I would be alone in my devotions.’
‘What if you fall into a swoon? Who will find you?’
‘Come for me in a little while.’
The chapel was dim, though a jewelled light came through the stained-glass windows behind the altar and illuminated a slender woman who knelt on the floor. Candles burned on the altar and in a niche before a statue of St David. As the draught from the door made the flames flicker, the woman turned round. Sir Robert closed the door as gently as possible and, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, lowered himself to his knees by the statue of St David. The woman turned back to her devotions.
Sir Robert thought the psalms most appropriate, songs of praise for a beneficent God.
I will bless the Lord at all times: His praise shall continually be in my mouth.
. . . O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together.
I sought the Lord, and He heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.
. . . This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles . . .
But his mind wandered from his devotions. How difficult it was not to think of Amélie, to study the face so recently before him. He had never thought to see that face again, had feared that even after death they would be apart.
The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.
Sir Robert did not know that he was weeping until a woman’s voice asked with tender concern, ‘Are you unwell, sir?’
She smelled of exotic oils. He glanced up, puzzled.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you in your devotions. But I heard you weeping . . .’ Her veil shimmered in the candlelight. Silk? Cloth of gold? Sir Robert could not tell, but she seemed a vision, not a mortal woman.
He lifted his hands to his cheeks, felt the tears, shook his head. ‘An old man overcome by memories. It is I who must beg your forgiveness.’
‘I hope they are happy memorie
s.’
‘As of today, yes,’ he said. ‘By the grace of St Non. I went to the well to pray for my family, but I was blessed instead.’
‘Then I should leave you to your happy memories. You will be all right here?’
‘God bless you, yes, my lady.’ For surely she was a lady, though her accent was Welsh.
‘God go with you, my lord,’ she said, and rose with the rustle of silk.
Her scent lingered long in the chapel.
Dafydd and Dyfrig agreed that the pilgrim would likely return to St David’s. But they did not agree about their own destination. Brother Dyfrig felt duty bound to remain with Brother Samson and escort him to Strata Florida as soon as he might comfortably make the journey; Samson’s servant was not sufficient escort. His first impulse was to carry Samson back to Dafydd’s house and nurse him to health; then Dafydd and his men must escort the two monks to the abbey. ‘You have unleashed a violent criminal and must protect us from him.’
Dafydd was outraged. It was God who had set Rhys in Dafydd’s path. He must follow Rhys and help the pilgrim face his own duty – to give account in the bishop’s court of the incident on Whitesands. Who was Dyfrig to question God’s purpose in this? And Brother Dyfrig, who knew Rhys’s kinsman, should accompany Dafydd to St David’s. Brother Samson could await them here. Maelgwn believed he had already gained God’s grace from the monk’s presence in his household – he had been blessed with several visions since Samson’s arrival. And to return to Dafydd’s house was too much of a risk – the Cydweli men could not be fooled indefinitely. When Dafydd and Dyfrig returned from St David’s they would all provide a proper escort back to the abbey, to which Dafydd would repair to meditate on God’s purpose in testing him in such a manner.
It took little coaxing to engage Brother Dyfrig in Dafydd’s pursuit of Rhys. In private, away from the others, Brother Dyfrig agreed with Dafydd that Aled’s account of the attack and the monk’s wounds suggested that Samson was not injured intentionally, that he had foolishly pursued Rhys and suffered an accident. It might in faith be good for Samson to lie abed among these simple people and learn some humility.
Then Maelgwn insisted on a round of bargaining. In the end he agreed to a goat from Dafydd’s farm upon their return in exchange for Samson’s care.
And thus Dafydd, Brother Dyfrig, Madog and Cadwal departed in the early afternoon. They were almost a merry company, with food, water and a bit of wine to comfort them and a mission to fill them with purpose. The day had begun overcast but now the sun beat down and warmed their muscles, a soft wind cooled them as they rode. To join the road south it was necessary to circle back near Dafydd’s house, but they kept to the far side of the hill and joined the road when they were safely past. Madog advised a hard ride through the afternoon with no pause until sunset; they would all rest easier with a good distance between them and the four armed men from Cydweli, who being wounded would ride more slowly if they attempted to follow.
A warm, sunny day is a joy for a short distance, but soon the sun and the wind dried their eyes and parched their mouths, the dust from the road crept into every fold of their skin and clothing, clung to their hair.
On the first evening of their journey towards St David’s, Owen’s company had paused at St Clears Abbey. The abbot had not had the honour of playing host to John Lascelles, nor had he had word of the steward and his squire, but he did provide a valuable piece of news.
‘A tinker came by telling of a great procession moving from St David’s to Llawhaden. You know that Bishop Houghton is fond of the castle. So fond that he is building a new south wing – they say he lives in comfort there, watching the road between Carmarthen and Haverfordwest.’
Bishop Adam de Houghton was in Llawhaden. It was a climb from the main road and might cost them half a day, but Owen thought that if it was the bishop Lascelles was wanting – and he thought it was – the steward might alter his course to see whether Houghton was in residence at the castle.
Owen’s party rode hard, but a pause to assist a merchant with a crippled wagon delayed them, and they did not approach Llawhaden Castle until late afternoon on the second day of their journey.
They found the bishop in the yard by the stables surrounded by four fine, sleek hounds, their tails wagging as they competed for their master’s attention. Houghton himself was in leggings and a tunic that reached only to his knees, high boots and a short cape. His colour was high and the crown of his soft hat wet with sweat. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, you have caught me in sin, riding out to hunt in the Lenten season. But I tell you I did it to clear my mind. There is nothing like a swift chase to bring a man to his senses.’
Geoffrey’s eyes were merry as he bowed to the bishop. He had told Owen earlier that he welcomed another chance to observe the pilgrims at St David’s and the bishop himself, who seemed a singular character, far more interesting than the political churchmen who surrounded the King. Geoffrey hoped that on this visit they might dine in the great hall at St David’s bishop’s palace with the other well-born pilgrims rather than in the bishop’s hall. ‘I want to study the pilgrims so I might describe them in all their variety.’ But what he now found so amusing about Houghton, Owen could not guess.
Nor did he long think on it. For as the bishop tugged at his gloves he stepped between Owen and Geoffrey and said under his breath, ‘While your men take some refreshment, we must talk. And you will spend the night, of course.’
Adam de Houghton led Owen and Geoffrey round the new wing of Llawhaden Castle under construction. The dust of the stonework stung Owen’s eye – the brisk wind carried it even out of the lodge in which the apprentice masons worked at their benches. A chapel and chapel tower, far advanced in construction, were the first phase of the plan. Houghton intended the south range to extend round the yard and enclose it, so that the existing hall and kitchens would be protected by a gatehouse and a range with additional towers. The range would include suites of lodgings for his retinue and guests.
‘It shall be a sign to those who pass along the road between Carmarthen and Haverfordwest that the lord of this March, though he be a man of God, is yet a lord indeed.’
But Owen was restive. ‘My lord Bishop, I am but a plain soldier and know little of such works. You had news for us?’
‘Forgive me. I waste time when I have much to tell you. Come.’ He led them to a garden that used the rear wall of the kitchen, the west side of the hall, and the steep bank of the ditch as its enclosure. They settled on benches beneath a pair of apple trees, seemingly stunted by their confined home and yet pregnant with tight buds.
‘Now we need not fear someone will overhear,’ Houghton said.
They were indeed well situated away from the kitchen doorway and windows, away from any hedge or wall behind which someone might hide. But what was the need?
‘You have a spy in your household?’ Owen asked.
‘These are uneasy times, Captain. With King Charles of France eyeing our shores I prefer to be overcautious and thus ever ready.’
‘Is it of this you wished to speak?’
Houghton shook his head. ‘No, no. It is of another matter, one that has weighed on my mind all the day. And once again you arrive just as I have need of you. I need not have risked my soul in the hunt, for here you are, and God’s intention is clear to me. He has sent you to resolve the troubles in John Lascelles’s household, I am sure of it. Though I am surprised to see you. I should not have thought the Duke’s men had time to pursue runaway wives.’
Geoffrey drew in his breath. A man so conscious of his status did not like to be perceived as pursuing something trivial. ‘We are here on a far more serious matter.’
But Owen noted what had escaped Geoffrey. ‘We said nothing of runaway wives. Do you speak of Mistress Lascelles?’
Houghton nodded in response to Owen, ‘I do.’ But his eyes were on Geoffrey. ‘What is this matter you speak of?’
‘Father Francis, chaplain of Cydweli, has been murdered,�
� said Geoffrey. ‘I should say beaten – the attacker may not have known the result of his work. The chaplain was found wearing the cloak of your vicar, Father Edern. On that same day, Mistress Lascelles and Father Edern fled the castle. We are perhaps in pursuit of accomplices in murder.’
‘Holy Mother of God.’
‘What do you know of Sir John’s troubles?’ Owen asked.
Houghton took off his embroidered cap, ran a hand through his damp hair. The pale strands caught the setting sun. ‘What do I know? Certes we all know about the death of John de Reine, and now the flight of Mistress Lascelles.’ He set the cap lightly on his head. ‘And that Sir John pursues his wife.’
‘And we pursue him,’ Owen said. ‘But how has the news reached you here?’
‘By the man himself.’
‘Sweet Jesus, he is here?’ Owen sprang up.
The bishop raised a hand to halt him. ‘He arrived early this morning and departed before midday.’
Owen yet stood. ‘We might have caught him had we stayed on the road.’
‘You might have indeed. But what you gain from stopping here the night will be of value to you. Both parties have had much to say of their troubles.’
‘You have news of Mistress Lascelles as well?’ Geoffrey asked as Owen eased himself down, most unwillingly.
The bishop gazed at Geoffrey for a moment, his eyes friendly but remote, as if choosing his words. ‘More than that,’ he said at last. ‘I know precisely where she is, for I sent her there. With that cunning vicar.’ A twig dropped in the bishop’s lap. He picked it up, twirled it between his beringed fingers, studying it. ‘I knew when Brother Dyfrig and the Archdeacon of Cardigan recommended Edern for a vicar choral that I should have made inquiries. But my mind was on other matters. How we come to regret such sluggishness.’ He shook his head. ‘Edern is a sly one. Too sly for me.’
Sluggishness indeed. Owen wished the bishop’s tongue were more sluggish. ‘What has Father Edern done?’
Houghton tossed the twig, shook his head at Owen as if chiding him. ‘But you know. He has assisted Mistress Lascelles in escaping from her husband. Though why she trusted such a rogue as Edern I cannot imagine. Such a beauty! One can see why Sir John is so desperate to win her back. He will not. I do not see it happening. He will not win her heart.’