‘I am caught!’ Sir Robert cried suddenly.
Owen hurried forward to retrieve his father-in-law from a thorny branch that had snagged the edge of his hood. ‘You will insist on a wide-brimmed hat beneath your hood, that is the problem,’ Owen said with little sympathy. ‘It makes you a wider target to snag.’
‘Mark his words, Sir Robert,’ Michaelo chimed in, ‘it is as I have been telling you.’
Sir Robert did not even turn in Michaelo’s direction. ‘I am a pilgrim,’ he said to Owen. ‘I must wear the garb. It is little enough I do.’
‘At your age the journeying itself is enough. Your daughter will have my head if any harm comes to you while in my company.’
‘Lucie is more reasonable than that.’
Perhaps. It seemed so long ago that they had said their farewells in York. And it would be so much longer before Owen heard news of his family — his wife and children. Sir Robert did not ease the loneliness; in truth Owen looked forward to seeing his father-in-law and Brother Michaelo safely to St David’s and returning with Geoffrey to Cydweli.
But first there was the matter of Carreg Cennen, truly an outpost among the Duke of Lancaster’s castles. Here they were to meet John de Reine, one of Lancaster’s men from Cydweli.
The purpose of the meeting was to plan their recruiting strategy. Charles of France was reportedly preparing for an invasion of England. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, planned a counter-attack in summer. To that end, he needed more archers, and hoped to find good recruits in his Marcher lordships. He had requested the assistance of Owen Archer, former captain of archers for the previous Duke of Lancaster; asked Owen to journey to his lordships in southern Wales and select two vintaines of archers. John de Reine would then march the recruits to Plymouth in time for a summer sailing. Geoffrey Chaucer accompanied Owen because he was to observe and report on the garrisoning of the Duke’s Welsh castles. The French always looked on the south-western coast of Wales as a good place for spies to slip into the country, and also as a possible landing area for an invasion army. Early in the year, King Edward had ordered that all castles along the coast were to be sufficiently garrisoned to defend themselves in an attack.
Owen and Geoffrey hoped to recruit a few archers from the area round Carreg Cennen and arrange for them to join the others in Cydweli later in the season. It would be good for the recruits to meet Reine, the one who would lead them to Plymouth.
The forest cover was thick, hiding the castle from view until it seemed suddenly to rear out of the valley of the River Cennen on its limestone crag.
‘God meant this site for a fortification,’ Sir Robert said, crossing himself. ‘But it is no place one wishes to stay long.’
‘Where is the village?’ Brother Michaelo asked. ‘On the far side?’
‘There is no village,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Carreg Cennen is a castle, no more. Only those essential to the garrison and, at present, those working on repairs live within the walls.’
‘God have mercy on us,’ Michaelo muttered. ‘How long do we stay?’
‘A day or two,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I confess it does not look inviting.’
Owen thought otherwise. He had reined in his horse to admire the castle, rising up from the bowl of the valley like a statue in a fountain. The Black Mountains cradled it, and yet the limestone crag with its crowning castle seemed alone, solitary, remote. Something from myth, something one might ride towards forever and never reach. He had forgotten how beautiful his country was, how full of a mystery that seemed the stuff of ballads.
But he did not share such thoughts with his companions. ‘How many in this garrison?’ he asked.
‘Twenty at present,’ Geoffrey said. ‘A crowd for such a remote place.’
‘The Duke believes the French will penetrate so far?’
‘It is unlikely, but if they did, they might find many sympathetic to their cause in these mountains.’
‘Ah. So Carreg Cennen protects itself against the countryside.’
Geoffrey glanced uneasily at Owen. ‘You know, my friend, you must take care else you begin to sound like one of your rebellious countrymen.’
Owen laughed. ‘Come. We were expected yesterday. John de Reine will return to Cydweli without us.’
They had been delayed by swollen streams between Monmouth and Carreg Cennen. And Sir Robert’s lagging energy. They did not speak of it, but they had slowed their pace as his cough worsened. The River Cennen had given them no trouble, but their climb to the castle was slow, as they followed the narrow track around the valley to the north-east approach, where the steep limestone outcrop gave way to a gentler slope. Such a slow progress gave the guards ample time to make note of a company of fourteen and identify their livery, and by the time they reached the outer gate the doors were opened.
As he dismounted and led his horse through the gateway, Owen paused to admire the design of the barbican. Immediately after entering the outer gateway the party was forced to turn right, which would give defenders on the north-east tower an excellent target as an intruder halted, confused. And as they turned right, a pivoting drawbridge was lowered by a man up above in a small gate tower.
‘They have little need for a garrison,’ Geoffrey said. ‘This castle defends itself.’
Beyond the small tower lay yet another drawbridge, guarded by an even larger, quite formidable tower. And again, they must turn sharply to enter into the inner ward.
‘Twenty men does seem too many,’ Owen said. ‘A man to control each drawbridge and one for the gate, they have need of few more.’
‘What could be so precious here?’ Michaelo asked.
‘Passage through the valley,’ Sir Robert said. ‘That is plain.’
‘Aye, to one trained in warfare it is plain,’ Brother Michaelo muttered. ‘I see an inhospitable place.’
‘This is naught compared with the mountains of Gwynedd,’ Owen said.
‘Then I thank God Lancaster has no holdings to the north.’
As the portcullis rose in a wheezy grumble, a large, rough-visaged man stepped through, better dressed than the rest and with an air of authority, though when he spoke he revealed blackened teeth, unusual in Lancaster’s captains. ‘Will Tyler,’ he said with a bob of the head, ‘constable of Carreg Cennen. I bid you welcome.’ Turning, he led them into the inner courtyard, where he invited Owen, Geoffrey, Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo into a modest room in which burned a most welcome fire. The rest of their company were escorted to the kitchen.
Owen was on his second cup of ale before he spoke, mentioning Lascelles’s man, John de Reine.
Tyler gave Owen a look of surprise. ‘Your accent. You are a Welshman?’
‘I am.’
‘Most unusual.’
‘Unusual? In what way? Are we not in Wales, where one might expect a multitude of Welshmen?’
‘I am not accustomed to dealing with any on — official business.’ Tyler shook his head. ‘But no matter. As to your question, we have welcomed only you since the workmen arrived from the east. Travellers with English names are ever welcome here, we turn none away.’
‘You have had trouble with the Welsh?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Not while I have been here, but we are always ready. And we have no Welsh in the garrison. They are a queer race, barefooted and barelegged most of the time, and the shiftiest shave their heads so they may run through the brush more easily, but leave hair on their upper lips to show it is their choice to be thus shorn. A sly, violent people. There is no telling when they will turn — begging your forgiveness, Captain. But you are Lancaster’s man or he would not have trusted you here, so I doubt you take it amiss.’