Houghton paused. ‘What?’ he asked distractedly. ‘Wrong to trust him? No. Not at all. Reine was the personal guard of the Duke’s late steward, Banastre, who chose his men with great care.’
‘A steward who kept personal guards?’ Owen said.
Houghton clasped his hands behind his back, nodded solemnly. ‘Banastre considered himself more lord than steward.’
‘You have heard nothing more than what the Duke has told you, the general rumour of Gruffydd ap Goronwy and the Fleming?’
‘Nothing more.’
‘What would you have us do?’ Geoffrey asked.
Owen thought that an ill-considered question. What they must do is tell the bishop that this was none of their concern.
‘You return to Cydweli soon?’ Houghton asked.
‘My intent was to depart in a few days,’ Owen said.
‘I would ask a favour of you.’
‘My lord bishop, our duty is-’ Geoffrey began, belatedly in Owen’s opinion.
‘Lawgoch’s followers and Lascelles’s loyalties,’ Houghton said, ‘and the more public issue of the garrisons and recruiting archers for the Duke’s campaign in France. About the latter I do not agree with the Duke’s plan: you take soldiers away from the Marches just as the King orders all to ensure the security of the ports in their lordships. But I honour the Duke’s orders and will not detain you. My request should prove a simple matter: I would have you slip away quietly, without any eyes to observe your departure, and bear John de Reine’s body back to Cydweli.’
‘A simple matter?’ Geoffrey muttered.
‘You fear the men who came today,’ Owen said.
‘I am uneasy about them. And about someone’s purpose in leaving Reine’s corpse at my gate. Caution seems the best approach. I shall provide you with some of my men, armed men, and a priest fittingly to accompany a funeral corte`ge.’
‘A priest?’ Owen asked.
‘He was lately chaplain of Cydweli — the vicar who identified the body. If Cydweli men meet you on the road they will find no cause to complain about my treatment of their steward’s son. In fact, Edern volunteered to escort you when he identified Reine.’
‘Why should he care?’ Owen asked.
‘He is a devoted servant,’ Houghton said.
Owen doubted it was that simple. This turn of events made him uneasy. But it would be difficult to justify denying Houghton’s request. The body should return to Cydweli, and they were an armed party headed that way. ‘Can this Edern be ready in a day’s time?’
‘He can be ready in the morning.’
‘The morning? What is the haste?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Reine has been dead for some days,’ Owen said. ‘Already the body will be an unpleasant companion. The longer we wait, the worse it will be.’
Geoffrey made a face.
‘Where might I find this Edern?’ Owen asked. ‘I would speak with him before we set off on the road.’
Five
‘Why should Father Edern wish to accompany us?’ Owen muttered as he and Geoffrey departed through the bishop’s hall. ‘What does he hope to gain?’
Geoffrey paused, turned on Owen. ‘You would have us wander in the wilderness with a corpse?’
‘Burdened as we shall be, it is the pilgrim road we shall travel, not the wilderness.’ But Owen could see by Geoffrey’s high colour how much their new mission preyed on his mind. ‘We do not need a guide.’
‘So the vicar hopes to see a maid he left behind or settle some business — what is the harm? Why must you question everyone’s motives?’
‘I have found it wise, is all. I pray the vicar proves trustworthy.’
Geoffrey looked as if about to argue, but he walked in silence for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his words surprised Owen. ‘The tale you told about the bridge — the red-handed man who was to mortally wound the king — is not Lawgoch also known as Owain of the Red Hand?’
Owen felt a chill on his neck. Could Owain Lawgoch truly be a saviour? But he had heard a different explanation, one not as appealing. ‘By “red hand” is meant “Lawgoch”, or murderer. His sword-hand is red with blood.’
Still Geoffrey pursued it. ‘The Irish consider a red birthmark on the hand the sign of a Messiah.’
Owen waved the subject aside, though he did not feel as indifferent as he hoped he appeared. He left an anxious Geoffrey pacing the great hall of the palace.
Outside, an icy drizzle had emptied the courtyard. Owen paused on the great porch and lifted his face to the sky, finding the soft rain refreshing. He would not find it so for long; soon it would seep through his clothes and chill his joints. He had looked forward to a few days of rest before mounting his horse again. He ached just thinking of resuming his saddle in the morning. He supposed this was what it meant to grow old.
He left the palace gate and stepped out on to the well-worn path to the cathedral. The rain intensified the loamy scent of the soil beneath his feet and the chalky odour of the stones above. He was alone as he crossed Llechllafar and rounded the west end of the cathedral. Here lay the cemetery, in the shadow of the great cathedral and close to the river. The drizzle and the river damp created a charnel fog that appeared to rise from the graves. The soggy ground gave off an odd odour besides loam; bone perhaps, stripped clean by the worms.
Worms that even now worked their way into the corpse in the palace undercroft. Wrapped in several shrouds and enclosed in a good wood coffin, the corpse would still make a grim and unpleasant companion. Such a burden was not new to Owen; in the field, after his blinding, he had devoted himself to the dead and dying. He had foolishly thought that behind him.
He would have his fill of death in the next few days; he hurried across the graves to the lane that led to the houses of the vicars, stone dwellings tucked into the hill that slanted up from the River Alun to the curving close wall. The bishop had described a small house in the far corner, which incorporated the close wall into its fabric. Owen hoped that the vicar was at home and alone.
Here the odours were more domestic, a welcome sign that Owen was back among the living. The sour stench of beer, cooking fires, sweat, urine. A woman stood in a doorway rocking a baby.
Bishop Houghton had felt it necessary to warn Owen that he would see much that was inappropriate in the vicars’ close. The Welsh were slow to accept the rule of celibacy in holy orders, and in fact treated many of their vows lightly. Houghton hoped with Lancaster’s backing to construct a residential college for the vicars where he might better control their behaviour. Owen had found that amusing; Houghton was naïve if he thought that the collegial setting would wipe out all occasion for sin. The Welsh abbeys were hardly chaste. The most the bishop could hope for was that the vicars would be moved to find separate lodgings for their mistresses and bastards.
The small house built into the wall was easy to find. A man in a dark cleric’s gown sat on a wooden bench before the house, back erect, hands tucked in sleeves, eyes closed, moving his lips in prayer. Beside him sat a white-robed Cistercian, head flung back, snoring peacefully.
The dark-robed cleric opened one eye as Owen approached, closed it, bowed his head, crossed himself, then rose to greet his visitor.
‘Captain Archer?’ he said. He was of average height and average appearance, a man one would not mark in a crowd.
‘Father Edern?’
The man bowed slightly. ‘If we are to travel together, “Edern” is less cumbersome.’
The white monk woke with a snort.
‘Brother Dyfrig, of Strata Florida,’ Edern said with a nod towards his companion. ‘He is lately arrived and weary from the journey.’ The vicar glanced up at the sky. ‘The rain begins in earnest. Let us go within.’ He opened the door, stepped aside to follow his visitor.
Brother Dyfrig rose. He was a tall, slender young man, narrow faced, with hooded eyes. He nodded to Owen, shuffled into the house.