‘You are wet through. I thought you were with the bishop.’
‘I was. And then I took a walk in the close.’
‘The bishop has told you about the body left at the gate this morning — that is why he sent for you, is it not?’
Owen hung his wet cloak on a hook, sank down on to the bed he was to share with Geoffrey, pulled the patch off his scarred eye, closed his good one. ‘You itch to tell me something of this.’
Sir Robert dragged a stool over, sat down. ‘We heard of a young man, a fellow pilgrim, who left the palace abruptly. He has been gone some days — five, they say — but he left his belongings. Folk think it was hisbody. .’
They would people the entire courtyard with corpses by tomorrow. Anyone who did not appear at the communal table. ‘You may rest easy about your pilgrim.’
‘Who was he then?’
Should Owen tell him when the bishop wished to keep his identity a secret? But how futile was that wish? If the man was known to a vicar in this tiny city, he was probably known to others. ‘He was from the Cydweli garrison.’
Sir Robert was quiet so long Owen opened his eyes. The old man was praying.
‘They say he had been murdered,’ Brother Michaelo said. He was perched on the bed opposite.
‘Indeed,’ Owen muttered.
‘Sweet Heaven.’ Brother Michaelo drew one of his lavender-scented cloths from his sleeve, pressed it to his temple.
Sir Robert pulled himself from his prayers to look on Michaelo with disgust. ‘He took ill at the news, though it has nothing to do with him.’
Michaelo considered himself to have a delicate constitution — cold and dry, melancholic. Indeed, one of Owen’s greatest concerns regarding his presence in the company had been the monk’s distaste for fresh air and activity. He had expected the man to wrap himself in heavy cloaks and complain about venturing forth in any but the most clement weather. But Michaelo had proved no worse than Sir Robert.
‘His head pains are harmless enough,’ Owen said.
Sir Robert, the former soldier, sniffed. ‘Will you carry the body back to Cydweli?’
‘You leave me no news to divulge. Aye, I leave at dawn. A priest accompanies us.’
‘So soon?’ Sir Robert looked stricken.
‘We would have departed in a day or two. Rest easy, the bishop sends some of his own men with us. Armed. And he assures me the priest is trustworthy.’
‘May God grant you a safe journey,’ Sir Robert whispered. He was very pale.
‘In this holy place, prayers go quickly to God. You must remember me in yours.’
Bishop Houghton had been generous in providing accommodations for Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo, a large chamber with a fireplace just beyond the great chapel in the north wing of the palace. The floor was tiled in yellow and black, matching the servants’ liveries, and a wall painting depicted King Henry’s crossing of Llechllafar. A second bed had been added for Geoffrey and Owen’s stay, and in an antechamber eight of their retainers were comfortably bedded for the night — the other two, who would stay behind, were down below with other pilgrims’ servants. Owen’s only reservation about the arrangements was the necessity to pair Brother Michaelo and Sir Robert — he could not imagine their constant bickering ceasing merely because they had arrived in St David’s. But it was rare for any but royal guests to be granted a private room; indeed it was quite an honour for the two to be allowed so much space without sharing.
Owen slept well, despite the upsets of the day and an ache in the back of his left thigh and hip that forced him to sleep on his right side, which he had not done willingly since losing the use of his left eye. His wife Lucie thought it a foolish rule — while he slept, what did it matter whether or not his good eye were pressed into the pillow. But the bedding was soft and clean, the wine had been excellent, and Owen slept as if he had not a care in the world.
Nevertheless, on waking he fell to worrying.
What did John de Reine’s death mean for his mission? There were and always had been rumours that French spies prowled the coast of Pembroke and Dyfed. Had one of them heard that Reine was to march archers to Plymouth? He discarded that theory. In that instance Reine’s death would resolve nothing, for a new captain would be chosen. No, the man’s death most likely had nothing to do with Owen’s mission, God be thanked. And yet it would almost certainly complicate his efforts.
Houghton had asked why Reine’s body was brought to Tower Gate. Although Owen had chosen to ignore the bishop’s question, he thought it one that demanded a response for the residents of this close. What made it important also made it difficult to answer: there was no apparent reason why someone would have brought the body here. If someone had discovered it and worried that they might be accused of murder, they need only walk away. The murderer had presumably managed to commit the deed and disappear; so why would he return and call attention to his crime? Unless he meant it for a warning. A mute warning, which seemed of little use.
Sir Robert stirred on his bed near the fire. Owen propped his head on his hand and looked at his father-in-law. His thin white hair escaped in lank wisps from beneath the cap he wore to keep his head warm at night. One bony, blue-veined hand rested atop the blanket, fingers slightly curled. More claw than hand. Age brought such frailty, even to an old soldier. But until his recent illness, Sir Robert had been hardy. Whenever he stayed in their house in the city he spent most of the day helping with garden chores. The summer before he had fallen into a pond at his manor of Freythorpe Hadden — whilst playing at jousts with Owen’s young daughter Gwenllian. A chill had settled on his lungs. Though he had the best care, with his sister Phillippa hovering and Lucie prescribing medicines, it was plain he had suffered some permanent damage. And yet he had insisted on this journey.
The subject of Owen’s thoughts suddenly opened his eyes. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
Sir Robert sat up, precipitating a coughing fit. Owen rose and helped his father-in-law to a few mouthfuls of honey water. When the fit eased, Sir Robert closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his palms to his ribs, took several cautious breaths. A grimace, then a nod.
‘Better now. You would think I would have the sense to keep a cup beside my bed, eh?’ His attempt at a smile was unconvincing.
Owen felt Sir Robert’s hands and feet. Cold and dry. That was not helpful to a cough. He pulled the blankets from his own bed, laid them over Sir Robert’s feet, though the old man protested.
‘I am the most pampered pilgrim.’
‘Save your strength for prayer, Sir Robert.’
Geoffrey, bereft of blanket, stirred in his bed, sat up. ‘Is it time to rise?’
‘Aye. We must ready ourselves,’ Owen said.
As Owen dressed, a servant came with bread, cheese and ale, a most fortifying breakfast. The men in the outer room were likewise fed. Another servant soon arrived to stoke the fire. As the smoke curled round the room before finding the chimney, Brother Michaelo rose, wiping his eyes and complaining.
‘You see, Sir Robert, you are not the most pampered pilgrim,’ Owen said.
‘I would go to the chapel before I break my fast,’ Sir Robert said, ‘but I fear you might depart before I return.’
‘If we are to leave before dawn, we must depart soon, aye.’
Brother Michaelo rose. ‘I shall go to the chapel and pray for the Captain and his men, Sir Robert. You take your ease and make your farewells.’
‘A pretty courtesy,’ said Owen. ‘I speak for us both in thanking you.’
Michaelo shook his head. ‘Less a pretty courtesy than a selfish plot to avoid listening to your pretty speeches.’
Geoffrey grabbed a hunk of bread and a cup of ale. ‘I shall come with you to the chapel for a little while.’
When Geoffrey and Michaelo had departed, Sir Robert and Owen sat down to their meal and spoke of Lucie and the children, wondered how Jasper, their adopted son, was managing as both Lucie’s apprentice and the strong back in the garden. Jasper was thirteen years old, tall for his age and strong from his work in the garden and five years of training at the butts with Owen. They passed the time thus pleasantly until they heard a sharp knocking on the outer door and the noise of men gathering their belongings.