‘How did the young man sleep?’ Michaelo asked, tiptoeing across the cold floor to check the fresh bandage.
‘Fitfully, with much muttering and moaning. He feels on fire. I rose twice to give him wine. You will be busy, with both of them.’
‘You did not concern yourself with my difficulties when you declared yourself Jared’s substitute,’ Michaelo said. He sensed an unspoken purpose in Chaucer’s determination to ride with the Captain.
‘The sooner we find Father Edern, the sooner Captain Archer may sit at Sir Robert’s bedside and make his peace with him.’
‘Will you watch my charges a little while?’ Michaelo asked. ‘I have an errand.’
‘Be quick about it.’
Brother Michaelo wished him Godspeed and hastened off, glad to escape and half-hoping Chaucer would be gone when he returned. He found him insufferable, smugly self-important, and imagined the man wooing new acquaintances at court with tales in which all the world came off as fools but himself.
Michaelo also thought Chaucer would disapprove of his present mission. He hastened through the great hall and through the corridor that led to the guest rooms in the east wing of the palace, leaning against the wall as a servant hurried past with a pot of night soil sloshing dangerously. There were privies in the palace, but in the middle of the night most pilgrims preferred to stay in their chambers.
At the door of the chamber shared by Tangwystl and several other noble ladies, Michaelo knocked. He asked a servant to tell Mistress Tangwystl that she was needed in Sir Robert D’Arby’s chamber.
With that, Michaelo turned to retrace his steps, expecting Mistress Tangwystl would be long in dressing herself. But he had just stepped into the great hall when he heard the whisper of silk behind him.
‘God be with you, Brother Michaelo.’ Tangwystl caught up with him, her colour high. ‘Sir Robert is worse?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘He had a difficult night?’
‘Bless you for your haste, Mistress Tangwystl. I did not mean to alarm you with my summons.’ For in addition to her breathlessness she looked about to burst into tears. He had not intended that. ‘The patient did toss and turn, and I thought he might find comfort in your gentle company.’
‘I shall gladly sit with him,’ she said.
Michaelo slowed his pace as he escorted her through the hall and into the short corridor that led to his chamber. At the door, Michaelo reached up to tidy Tangwystl’s veil, loosing a corner that had been caught up in the circlet round her head. She looked puzzled by the gesture.
‘Forgive me, Mistress Tangwystl. I do penance every day for my fussing. Come now.’ He opened the door, led her into the room, and when she would cross to Sir Robert’s bed, Michaelo called softly, ‘Mistress Tangwystl, would you be so kind as to look at this young man, tell me whether we ought to send for Master Thomas?’
‘My lady,’ Rhys said, ‘you outshine the sun.’
Tangwystl stood a moment, poised as if about to flee, then sat gingerly on the bed, reaching with trembling hand towards the soiled bandage. ‘My love, what has happened?’
Rhys took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and with a sob she bent to kiss him.
Smiling to himself, Brother Michaelo slipped over to take up his prayers at Sir Robert’s bedside. Chaucer had departed. All was going according to plan. God be praised.
Twenty-five
When next Dafydd woke it was Brother Dyfrig who disturbed his rest. Dafydd sat up, confused by the dawn light filling the clearing. But the sight of the four men tied together in a grim bundle and laid at the foot of the standing stone brought back the night.
‘Are we agreed we leave them here until such time as it pleases us to inform someone of their hermitage?’ Dafydd asked.
‘They are hardly hermits, with so much companionship,’ said Dyfrig.
‘Their what? Their barracks? Monastery?’
‘We must ride out while your men still keep their knives in their sheaths. We shall stop at a church, tell the priest we outfoxed a band of robbers — that he should send the sheriff to collect them.’
‘The sheriff. They will not like that.’
‘I would not think so.’
Dafydd noticed Gruffydd searching the packs of the vanquished. For food, he wondered, or for trouble? ‘Speaking of thieves, Gruffydd has busy fingers.’
‘That he has,’ said Dyfrig.
Shifting to show Dyfrig the scattered items, Dafydd was confused to find the ground clean. He pulled the pack from beneath his saddle, found the items tucked away. ‘Did I dream?’ he wondered aloud.
‘No,’ said Dyfrig. ‘He crept back and returned it all to the pack. I was glad of that. It is best if he does not know we watch.’
As Dafydd pulled on his riding boots he experimented with phrases extolling the virtues of this monk, with his hooded eyes and devious mind. He was considering to what heroic ancestor he might compare Dyfrig when his subject drew a sharp knife from the sheath on his girdle. Dafydd had always admired the tooling on the leather, thought it a most unmonkly accessory.
‘You contemplate some violence against Gruffydd after all?’
‘I thought I might trim your hair. I shall need Madog’s assistance, since I have but one arm.’ Dyfrig laughed. ‘Do not look so worried! I have much practice in cutting hair, though scissors are my usual tool.’
Dafydd reared back in mock horror. ‘I want no tonsure!’
Owen watched Martin going about his morning business. He managed well with but one hand, using the stub of his wrist when fingers or flexibility were not important. Owen thought it not as great a loss as that of his eye, but he guessed Martin would not agree. What we have lost we most cherish.
Geoffrey and Edmund awaited them at the foot of the path from the mound. Geoffrey addressed Martin in excellent French and commended him on his élan — ‘To call to yourself the very men from whom you would be wise to hide.’
Martin laughed. ‘I have no wish to live so long that I must suck my food and be carried round in a chair. But in truth I do not deserve your admiration. It is my Lord of Pembroke I serve in this. I would bring Gruffydd ap Goronwy to answer for his treachery.’
‘Gruffydd? Can it be true?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Has Sir John been such a fool to believe in him?’
Owen tried not to exhibit surprise at Martin’s half-truth.
Owen felt haunted by the ancient stoneworkers as the company rode north, past burial chambers and standing stones. And the crosses — were they the work of the same people, converted to Christianity? As a child in the mountains of LlŶn he had been accustomed to the stone monuments, had listened to tales of ancient priests, mythic giants, and believed them all to be true. It was long since he had thought of those legends. Had the stoneworkers disappeared into the Otherworld, leaving their artwork? Why? Had he truly heard their voices in the tunnel? Had they been calling to him?
Geoffrey rode up beside Owen. ‘Martin says we go to the home of a bard. What do you know of him?’ He leaned across his saddle, peering at Owen. ‘Jesu, but you look grim. Are you thinking of Sir Robert?’
Owen did not think it wise to tell Geoffrey his thoughts. Too Welsh, he would say. ‘Aye. You spent the night in the room. He is much worse?’
‘He is. I am sorry, Owen. But you have been good to him. You should have no regrets.’
Only the regret of losing Sir Robert. ‘You asked about the bard. Dafydd ap Gwilym is one of the greatest bards of our day, so they say, and an ardent lover. Are you eager to meet a fellow poet?’
‘I am not certain.’
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the company paused at a stream to let their horses drink and to wet their own dusty throats.
Iolo and Edmund commenced bragging about their love conquests, their skill with knives. Owen found himself envying them. Well he could remember taking part in such contests. And often considering himself the victor. He busied himself stringing his bow while he listened. Though he doubted they would encounter Gruffydd today, he meant to be ready.