by Candace Robb
‘I have a son,’ she said in such a sad tone Sir Robert thought she might be about to correct herself and say ‘had’. But she did not. She described a fair, chubby boy with a laugh so rich that all who heard must laugh with him.
‘Sir John must be proud,’ said Sir Robert.
‘No. He is not. For Hedyn is not his son.’ She changed the subject to the bleak, treeless character of this westernmost part of Wales.
Brother Michaelo paced impatiently as he waited for Sir Robert, who was taking his time saying good-night to the fair Tangwystl. He had walked her to her chamber and was rewarded with an invitation to accompany her on the morrow to St David’s Well at Porth Clais. Sir Robert could feel the monk’s eyes boring into his back but he did not care. He had found a way to help Owen and he felt rejuvenated.
‘You are playing the fool with her. She is beautiful, I grant you – but she is your enemy.’ His hands tucked up his sleeves, Michaelo leaned slightly forward as he walked, head bowed. He walked too fast for Sir Robert, who paused and waited for Brother Michaelo to realise he was alone.
When the monk turned back with an impatient sigh, Sir Robert said, ‘I would empty my bladder before retiring.’ They headed for the privy in silence. But as soon as they had done their business and were back on course, Sir Robert took up the argument. ‘You are being the fool. How is she my enemy?’
‘Her father is a traitor to the King. Have you forgotten?’
‘We do not know that he was. John Lascelles did not think so. Surely he would not have taken her to wife if he had.’
‘Lascelles.’ Brother Michaelo nodded vigorously. ‘Did you note? She is not using his name.’
‘By all that is holy, why do you persist in this? Many women choose what name they will.’
‘And of all men, who would be the one to follow her here, but her husband? Can it be he is the traitor of whom the Fleming speaks?’ Brother Michaelo tilted his head, awaiting a reply.
Could it be so? ‘Would Sir John be so blatant in his treachery? Marrying the daughter of one of his accomplices? One who had been caught in his treachery?’
‘It might explain the woman’s flight, had she discovered it,’ said Michaelo. To escape a father who was traitor only to discover she had married another.’
‘She is Welsh. She may not count it treason.’ Sir Robert was tired and confused. ‘She told me something passing strange. She has a son, but Sir John is not the father.’
‘You see? A Godless family.’
Sir Robert did not wish to pursue that. ‘You looked disappointed when you returned to the table. The Benedictines knew nothing?’
‘I wonder whether I should tell you what I learned. Will my words be repeated to Mistress Tangwystl?’
They had reached their chamber. Sir Robert opened the door. ‘You tire me, Michaelo. Keep your news to yourself.’
As Michaelo was about to shut the door, a young man in the bishop’s livery slipped from the shadows in the corridor. ‘I come from the Pirate,’ he said softly. ‘With urgent news.’
Michaelo pulled him into the room, shut the door.
The young man was dishevelled and breathless.
‘How did the Pirate get a message to you?’ Sir Robert asked.
‘He has his ways. I cannot say, my lord. He tells me to say only this. Father Edern has left the palace. The traitor follows him. The Captain must hasten to his aid.’ The young man dropped his head.
‘That is it?’
A nod.
Sir Robert dug in his purse, gave the young man a groat. ‘Go swiftly to my man Edmund, summon him here.’ He told him where he might find him.
Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo awaited Edmund in sombre silence, except for a begrudging ‘Thank God you insisted on delaying his departure’ from Michaelo.
It was not until Edmund had gone and they lay quietly side by side that Sir Robert remembered their argument in the corridor.
‘What did you learn from your brethren?’
The monk lay on his side. ‘We would not share a room, much less a bed, you know, but that I am to help you should you weaken. It is my duty to be quiet now, allow you your rest.’
How was the monk to be borne? ‘I cannot rest but you tell me.’
‘You threaten like a child. And now we go on so, you think I have much to tell you. I do not. They knew of Dyfrig, that his house is Strata Florida, a nest of Welsh rebels, they say. Though they have not heard Brother Dyfrig himself mentioned in that way. They say the monk used his influence to get Father Edern his position as vicar. But the most interesting part is no longer news: that Father Edern is already gone from the city.’
At dawn Owen’s party gathered in the courtyard to receive Bishop Houghton’s blessing, then mounted and rode from Llawhaden.
They now carried Tangwystl’s letter requesting annulment and a letter from the bishop, to be delivered to the Archdeacon of Carmarthen in St David’s. ‘I shall follow you to St David’s anon, but in such a circumstance it is comforting to know these documents are in a company of seven armed men,’ Houghton had said. He had also asked that Owen ensure no more blood was shed over the matter. ‘I would not have St David’s in turmoil during Passiontide.’
‘God forgive me, but to that I cannot swear,’ Owen had said. ‘We can but pray that we find a peaceful resolution.’
Geoffrey had taken exception to Owen’s reply, though he waited until they were alone to voice his disapproval. As Owen set his boots by the brazier to dry overnight and shook out his clothes, beat off some of the dirt, Geoffrey had paced with hands behind his back. ‘Why could you not swear that you would do all you could to prevent further violence?’
‘Why should I lie to the bishop? Peace or violence may not be in my keeping.’
Geoffrey stopped at the bench where Owen sat, looked down on him with an impatient shake of the head. ‘You have no tact. He will remember what you said.’
‘And blame me if anyone is wounded? You speak nonsense. Houghton is a reasonable man.’
‘He is a powerful man. A friend to the Duke. You would do well to impress him.’ The last point was emphasised by a wagging finger.
Owen pushed the finger away and bent down to his pack. ‘I am not looking for a bishop to serve. I have had enough of Thoresby. You would do well to undress and rest for tomorrow’s hard ride.’
Geoffrey sighed loudly and sat down to remove his boots.
Owen sank down on the bed. ‘With all this, Sir John sounds more and more like the murderer.’
‘If he is, he is a clever player,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And we were his unwitting audience.’
‘But why did Edern and Tangwystl say nothing of the chaplain’s injuries?’
Geoffrey had slumped down on to the bed with a groan. ‘I do not like to think it of them. But it is troublesome. Mistress Tangwystl had called Gladys to the chaplain’s room to witness his letter. Gladys heard them calling her. Surely they would have returned to that room seeking her.’
‘That is what I am thinking.’
Geoffrey suddenly pounded the bed with his fist. ‘But Gladys said nothing of them looking into the room. Therefore––’
‘They did not. Why not?’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Aye.’
Owen thought of that now as they rode off in pursuit of the three. Was Sir John a clever player? Or were Edern and the fair Tangwystl the dangerous ones?
Twenty
A TENDER HEART
In the middle of the night, a knee to his back woke Brother Michaelo. Sir Robert tossed and thrashed in bed, gasping for air. Michaelo sat up, mounded the pillows that had been thrown round the bed, and pulled Sir Robert up to a seated position against them. A hand dug into Michaelo’s shoulder.
‘Blow out, Sir Robert,’ Michaelo coaxed, as Owen had taught him. ‘Blow out and you will remember how to breathe in.’ He demonstrated with a hearty, puffy exhale.
Sir Robert’s face creased up, and with a gasp he began to laugh. T
he laughter led to coughing, and breathing.
‘I am glad to be so amusing,’ Brother Michaelo said. The cloth Sir Robert held to his mouth was flecked with blood. ‘Rest here a moment while I bring the steam.’ On the brazier sat a pot of water in which sage leaves simmered all the night. Michaelo tiptoed over the cool tiles, pulled down the sleeves of his linen shift to pad his hands, lifted the pot and carried it to the bed. Sitting it on Sir Robert’s blanket-covered lap, he told him to bend over it and breathe deep. Sir Robert obeyed. At first his breath creaked and wheezed, but gradually it quieted. When the cough began, Michaelo moved the pot to the floor and brought a pan for the flux. So much blood. The blood-speckled flux of the past few nights was now heavily streaked with crimson, though still watery. Or was that the weakness of Sir Robert’s blood? Brother Michaelo held Sir Robert’s head while he coughed. A physick of herbs and poppy juice in honey water to quiet him and allow his sleep, a compress over his hot cheeks and forehead of soothing lavender water, and soon Sir Robert closed his eyes, breathing evenly.
Michaelo returned the sage water to the brazier, shoved the pan beneath the bed, and washed his own face and hands with lavender water, then sat up in bed with a cup of wine. He did not expect it to calm him enough. He knew that he would sleep no more. His heart was too heavy. When he had finished the wine, he drew out his rosary beads and began to pray.
At last dawn turned the sky to a dull grey in the high window above the bed, and Michaelo rose, dressed as quietly as he could, and took up a post in the doorway to wait for Edmund. Though he thought he had given Sir Robert enough of his physick to allow him to sleep for a few more hours, he feared that the expected knock on the door might wake him.
Edmund soon appeared, garbed for a journey and flushed with anticipation. Michaelo put his finger to his mouth as he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door to the room behind him.
‘You are ready?’
‘The groom is even now leading my horse to the North-west Gate.’
‘You remember all we told you?’
Edmund opened his mouth to recite. Michaelo motioned for him to whisper it in his ear. The corridor appeared empty, but a clever spy could make it seem so. Edmund duly whispered his messages. Michaelo was impressed how thoroughly the young man had them by heart. He was quicker than he looked.
‘You have a safe place for the letter?’ Michaelo asked as he drew it from his sleeve.
Edmund pulled a bag from beneath his tunic. It hung from his neck on a strong leather thong. Deeming it sufficient, Michaelo handed him the precious letter. Edmund placed it in the bag, pushed it back down his tunic.
‘And there it shall remain until I hand it to Captain Archer, I swear that to you on my life,’ Edmund whispered with a pounding of his chest.
Brother Michaelo smiled at the young man’s dramatic flair. Better to be so excited than frightened. ‘God watch over you on your journey, Edmund, and lend you wings. In nomine Patris . . .’
Edmund bowed his head to receive Brother Michaelo’s blessing.
The monk prayed that God still accepted him as a vessel of His blessing. His task accomplished, Michaelo returned to the chamber to sit beside the bed and recite his office. He would be there to reassure Sir Robert that Edmund was on his way.
Waking from a dreamless slumber, Sir Robert found Brother Michaelo, head bowed, praying at his bedside. The aroma of fresh baked bread drew his eyes to a table beside the bed. A flagon, bread, apples and cheese. His stomach fluttered. He had awakened anxious. Slowly he remembered. The letter. Edmund was to come at dawn for the letter. Sir Robert looked up at the window. It was clearly past dawn.
‘Holy Mary Mother of God,’ he said as he pushed back the covers.
Brother Michaelo looked up from his prayers, smiled. ‘You awake with energy. You must have slept well.’
‘Edmund. The letter.’
‘All is well. I saw him off at dawn. He has the message by heart and the letter tucked beneath his tunic.’
Feeling his heart begin to pound, his face grow hot, Sir Robert leaned back on the pillows and took a deep breath. ‘What right had you to do it for me?’
‘You had a difficult night. You need your rest.’
‘I needed to do this for Owen!’
‘You have. I was merely your go-between.’
Sir Robert closed his eyes, fighting tears of rage. An old man’s tears. An old, feeble man. When had Brother Michaelo become his nurse?
‘Forgive me, Sir Robert,’ Brother Michaelo was saying. ‘I have not meant to offend you.’
When Sir Robert trusted himself to move without the tremors brought on by anger, he sat up and began to help himself to some honey water. When Brother Michaelo leaned forward to assist him, Sir Robert slapped his hand.
‘And you will not accompany me on my excursion with Mistress Tangwystl. I have not missed the end of Mass in the cathedral?’ That was when Tangwystl was to come to the porch to meet him.
‘No, you have not. But do you think you have the strength?’
‘If you allow me to break my fast in peace, I shall.’
By mid-morning a mist hid the sun and the painted stones of the palace beaded with the damp. Sir Robert stood in the porch of the great hall, one hand on the wall beside him, looking out at the courtyard, hoping that it was merely the air in the hall that had brought on the dizziness. But still his head pounded and he felt as if he pulled each breath from the hands of a demon set on suffocating him. The porter hovered solicitously.
‘How terrible you sound, Sir Robert. Ask for a pitcher of hot, spiced wine and a good fire in your chamber. Do not go abroad on such a day. You are not well. The damp will worsen your chest. Let me send for Master Thomas, the physician who attends the bishop when he is in residence. He will attend you. He is from Cardiff.’
‘Do not trouble yourself,’ Sir Robert said, fighting the demon for each word. ‘I await a friend.’ But how would he manage the long walk to St David’s Well, and especially the long upward climb back?
The porter summoned a servant. ‘Help Sir Robert to his room. Find his companion, Brother Michaelo, if he is not in their chamber. And bring Sir Robert hot, spiced wine. Make sure his fire is kept burning all the day.’
Sir Robert tried to refuse, but he managed merely to shake his head and say, ‘I must await her.’
‘You were not nearly so bad as this when Captain Archer departed,’ said the porter. ‘He will blame us, he will. To whom should I make your apologies?’
‘Mistress Lascelles of Cydweli.’
‘Aye, Sir Robert. I shall tell her you have been taken ill.’
‘No, I pray you.’ But what could the porter say instead? Sir Robert gave in and nodded. ‘Of course you must.’
He burned with humiliation as he was led away. How awful was old age, to be too weak to defend one’s right. But where was Mistress Lascelles? Surely the bells had long since rung? Had she left without him? Or was his mind as crabbed and useless as his body? Had he imagined she had invited him to accompany her to St David’s Well?
Satisfied that the physician seemed sufficiently attentive to Sir Robert, Brother Michaelo took a break from the stifling atmosphere in his chamber and the terrible sounds of Sir Robert’s laboured breathing. He kept trying to breathe for his friend, and the effort had left him light-headed.
Though the great hall was not empty, folk inhabited it in clusters, ignoring all but their own companions. In such a crowd Michaelo felt sufficiently invisible. He paced about, muttering not prayers but complaints. ‘Strike me down, Lord, for I am the sinner, not Sir Robert. What is the use of holy wells and pilgrimages if the good are not rewarded? For he is a good man, Lord. Did he not devote years of his life to performing penance – and for what terrible sin? That he treated his wife as most other men do theirs? With indifference born from ignorance? Was this such a sin that he cannot be forgiven? What of the pride of kings? Archbishops? Bishops? What of these Welsh clerics who openly break their vow of c
hastity? When shall they suffer?’ As Michaelo elaborated on his complaint, his pacing grew more energetic until one of the Benedictines from the previous evening approached with concern.
‘Is it your friend, Brother? Has God called him?’
Michaelo crossed himself. ‘No, God be praised. I am worried for him, that is all.’
‘He is in God’s hands, Brother. Be at peace.’
Chastened, Michaelo retired to a corner, keeping an eye on the door through which the physician would come. He wished to speak with him away from Sir Robert, find out the truth, how ill he was.
Perhaps that was why he did not notice Mistress Lascelles until he heard the rustle of her silk gown as she settled on the bench beside him.
‘Benedicte, Mistress Lascelles.’ Shimmering silk and a gossamer veil – was this her garb for a walk to Porth Clais? Even Brother Michaelo felt shabby beside her. ‘Sir Robert wished very much to accompany you to St David’s Well.’
‘There will be another day.’
Would there? Brother Michaelo prayed that she was right.
‘Forgive me for intruding on your thoughts,’ she said. In her voice, Michaelo heard sympathy. ‘I saw you here and I thought you might wish for a companion. Sir Robert is very ill?’
‘I fear that he is, Mistress Lascelles.’
‘I pray you, my name is Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd. Would you call me Tangwystl?’
Brother Michaelo bowed his head. ‘Mistress Tangwystl. It is pleasing on the tongue.’
‘Such shadows beneath your eyes. You have watched the night with him?’
‘He woke in the middle of the night in great distress. After that I could not quiet my thoughts. I shall wear out my rosary beads before he strengthens.’
‘I had such a time, not long ago. My family was forced to seek sanctuary in St Mary’s Church in Tenby. You know the story, of course.’
‘I do.’
‘Would you prefer to pray?’
‘No. No, please, distract me from my fears.’