Owen heard no change.
The rain diminished as they rode on towards Haverfordwest, and gradually a pale sun shone down on the riders. By midday Owen felt the gentle breath of spring in the air, but he found little joy in it for worrying about his father-in-law. Owen and Lucie had argued about the dangers of such a journey for a man of her father’s age. Sir Robert was ever vague about his birth date, but Dame Phillippa, his sister, estimated him to be close to fourscore years of age. It was true that when in his prime Sir Robert had been a formidable opponent in battle, but upon the death of Lucie’s mother he had gone on a long pilgrimage marked by illness, injury and long fasts. Though Sir Robert had been nursed back to health under his sister’s care, one never completely recovered from such a prolonged ordeal.
But Lucie had insisted that Sir Robert so wished for this pilgrimage it would do him harm to be denied it. Owen hoped she thought it worth the loss of him, for he much feared that a wet spring would be more than the old man could survive.
As they rode into Haverfordwest, the river damp aggravated Sir Robert’s cough. Owen hurriedly sought directions to St Thomas’s Priory, where Sir Robert might warm himself with a cup of mulled wine and a good fire. And tomorrow being Sunday, he would have an extra day of rest.
Three
His head wrapped in bandages, the pilgrim reminded Dafydd of an unfortunate doll that had belonged to his favourite niece. She had bitten off the doll’s ear in frustration, saying that the doll never listened to her and thus was she punished. Dafydd chuckled at the memory of the incident, and his sister’s careful mending, carried out with a delightful solemnity after the child had dissolved in tears of regret.
The monk who watched over the pilgrim frowned his disapproval. ‘A Goddes half, you might show more sympathy.’
‘I have given him sanctuary, Brother Samson. How might I be more sympathetic?’
‘You laugh at his pain.’
‘I laugh at a memory of a doll patched in such wise. Laughter as well as prayers are of use in a sickroom. You would do well to learn that.’ Dafydd bent down, felt the pilgrim’s forehead. Good. Still no fever. ‘You have brought him safely through the crisis. For that I thank you and pray you receive a heavenly reward.’ Still grinning at the monk’s discomfiture, Dafydd left the sick chamber, his hounds following, and collided with a servant.
‘My lord, there are soldiers at the gate.’
Dafydd was delighted. He had anticipated this moment. ‘Find Cadwal. Tell him to meet me there.’
‘What shall I tell the soldiers?’
‘Nothing. A wait will cool their heads, and their heels. I shall go to them anon.’
The servant hurried off in search of Cadwal.
Dafydd returned to his chamber, considered his appearance in a mirror. Acceptably bardic today, his white hair freshly washed and thus wild, fastened with silver rings and ornate combs. Ivy and holly intertwined in intricate arabesques on his long, flowing gown, embroidered by a former mistress. He heard a shout, nodded to his reflection. ‘Attend your guests, Dafydd.’
One hand resting on Cadwy’s head and with Nest on his other side, he walked slowly down the corridor. He was Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. He would not be hurried.
As Dafydd turned into the entry way, the light was blocked by a huge form.
‘Cadwal. We have guests.’
The giant bowed. ‘My lord, I am ever ready to dance at your bidding.’
‘Let us see if they are dancing men. Open the door.’ He motioned to the dogs to stay by his side. They were hosts, not hunters this morning.
In the night a soft rain had blown ashore, swirled by wild winds. Dafydd waved to the men huddled beneath the oak by the door. ‘Come, pilgrims, dry yourselves by the fire within.’ But the men hesitated, staring at Cadwal. It was ever so, of course. Cadwal’s mother had been frightened by an apparition at a standing stone and the child had grown to resemble one. ‘You stand in awe of Cadwal. God blessed this man with the appetite of a destrier, it is true. But never yet has he consumed human flesh. You are quite safe. God watches over all Christians in this house.’
One man stepped forward. ‘We need not intrude, my lord. As I told your servant, we seek the body of a thief and murderer who we believe died of his wounds on Whitesands three days hence.’
‘In God’s name, pilgrim, come within. You may not feel the dampness, but I do. Come within and we may pursue this story in the comfort of a warm fire.’
Cadwal laughed, a sound that came up from deep within his barrel chest and resonated through the courtyard. ‘You flatter me with your awe, pilgrims,’ he said in hesitant English. ‘But Lord Dafydd is master in this house. If he welcomes you, I am bound to welcome you.’
The men at last entered the house, warily. As soon as he closed the door behind them, Cadwal commanded, ‘Pilgrims, your weapons have no business with my master. If you would give them to me, I shall keep them safe until you have need of them.’
The spokesman whirled round, sword drawn. ‘A trap. I expected as much.’
A growling chord rumbled in the hounds’ throats. Dafydd shushed them.
Cadwal stretched out his empty hands, palms up, raised a craggy eyebrow, looked from side to side, then behind him. ‘Where are your attackers?’
The spokesman looked uncertain.
Dafydd spoke. ‘What would Lancaster think of your manners, you who wear his livery? And in the lordship of his dear brother, the Prince of Wales. It is simple courtesy to lay down your arms when entering the house of one who means you no harm, who has expressed no enmity towards you.’
The spokesman nodded to his men. They removed their sword belts, their daggers, handed them to Cadwal. He bowed over his burden, withdrew.
‘Now. If you will follow me.’ Dafydd led the men to the hall.
In the hall, chairs had been drawn up round the fire circle and on a table sat a pitcher of spiced wine and six cups.
‘Come. Take some refreshment. Cadwal will join us as soon as he has made safe your weapons.’
The men poured wine. A servant came forth and poured Dafydd’s. He took a seat and sipped calmly until the men were settled. Cadwy and Nest lay watchful at Dafydd’s feet.
‘Now if you would begin again,’ said Dafydd. ‘You seek a corpse?’
‘Perhaps a corpse, perhaps merely an injured man. Three days ago we saw you depart Whitesands with a burden on your horse. Your men prevented us from pursuing you.’
‘A burden?’
‘We believe it was the body of the man we pursue.’
‘Ah. And you have come to claim him?’
‘We have.’
‘To what end?’
‘If he is alive, to take him to Cydweli for trial, my lord. He stands accused of attacking the Receiver of Cydweli and robbing the exchequer. And a member of our guard is missing.’
‘And if this man whom you seek is dead?’
‘We shall see that his body has a proper burial.’
‘What is his name?’
‘We believe his name is Rhys ap Llywelyn. Of Pembroke.’
‘A Pembroke man stealing from Cydweli, eh? Did the Earl of Pembroke’s dam urge him on? Is she to benefit?’ John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, was in France with King Edward’s army. His mother, a Mortimer, had wrested control of the lordship while her son was away — it had been a topic of much amusing chatter at his patron’s hall. It was the Mortimer way, to steal what they wanted — power, riches — they never won it honestly. Which was how they came to be one of the oldest and most powerful Marcher families. It was said that Pembroke’s mother was a Mortimer through and through, devil’s spawn, taking offence at everything if only to enjoy destroying the offender — slowly. Had she been a handsome woman Dafydd might have written a poem to her.