‘An unwelcome reminder of our mortality,’ Geoffrey said when Owen wondered aloud whether they would ever wash the odour from their hair and clothes.
Poor Tom had the task of driving the cart for the afternoon.
All were glad to see Haverfordwest rise out of the fields ahead; the priory was just south of the town. They rode in solemn procession along the busy road that led south between the town walls and the Western Cleddau River, past the Dominican friary. Folk covered their faces and stood aside to let the company pass. But despite the grim burden the company was welcomed by the hospitaller at St Thomas’s, the Augustinian priory. And so the first day of their journey ended around a table in the guesthouse, the wooden box safely tucked away in a shed built against the far wall of the enclosure. Much to his relief, Owen found that a cup of the canons’ strong ale masked the bad taste in his mouth sufficiently to kindle his appetite.
The second morning brought a cool drizzle, which all welcomed. With a good night’s sleep and a respite from the stench of their burden, they began the day’s journey with more goodwill than the day before. And having found no fault in either Edern’s behaviour or that of any of the bishop’s men, Owen’s men began to relax about the strangers in their company.
The road east from Haverfordwest was empty of pilgrims. In the early morning the company passed farmers approaching the town with carts of produce, and later in the day they met an occasional messenger or small group of weary travellers. The men settled into the slow, steady progress and talked quietly among themselves. They reached their rest at Whitland Abbey without incident, although the abbot told a tale of armed guards from Cydweli who had disturbed the peace of the abbey two nights earlier. He had refused them hospitality until they surrendered their weapons. They told a desperate tale of the theft of the exchequer. The abbot had assured them that there were no thieves in Whitland Abbey, and no weapons. For the sake of a dry bed and plentiful food, the men had at last given up their weapons to the porter.
On the third day Owen’s company started out with cautious cheer, hoping that by early evening they should be freed of their burden in Cydweli. Clouds hung low overhead and a cool wind stirred the branches heavy with buds. But by late morning the clouds darkened ominously and the wind whipped their cloaks about them. As the company drew near St Clears, Edern advised a halt at the abbey, perhaps until morning.
‘You do not want to ride the Llansteffan ferry during a storm or just afterwards, when the river is swollen. Not with a cart,’ he warned.
The men were huddled in their cloaks, fighting against the wind and yet disappointed about the delay, when Iolo, riding vanguard, cried out that a small armed party approached on horseback, wearing Lancaster’s livery. Edern nodded towards a hefty presence on the forward mount. ‘Burley himself. We are honoured.’ An encounter long anticipated, and dreaded.
Owen called to the company to stop. Burley’s company, three men in all, halted a horse’s length from Iolo. Owen and Geoffrey rode forward.
The one pointed out by Edern straightened in the saddle and barked, ‘Richard de Burley, Constable of Cydweli.’ Solidly cast, though Owen guessed he would prove short when dismounted, and the chain-mail he wore no doubt padded him slightly. He had a nose much broken so it lay flat against his face, an upper lip shortened by a tight scar beneath his nose, a strong chin, and glowering eyes under pale brows. He looked the part of a constable.
‘Captain Owen Archer and Master Geoffrey Chaucer,’ Owen said. The man would know their names.
Burley nodded. ‘Some in your party wear the livery of Bishop Houghton.’ His men dismounted in response to a slight gesture from the constable. ‘Are they also bound for Cydweli?’
‘They are.’
Burley’s men came forward. Owen nodded, and his men dismounted. Burley’s men paused.
‘We welcome you to accompany us to St Clears, where we mean to wait out the storm,’ Owen said. ‘There we shall answer your questions as best we may.’
‘What do you carry concealed beneath the canvas?’ Burley demanded, nodding at the cart. Not by the slightest tick did he acknowledge Owen’s invitation.
‘I wonder you need ask,’ Owen said. ‘Surely the perfume of decay surrounds our party?’
Burley sniffed, but his expression remained frozen, his eyes unmoving. Owen grudgingly admired the man’s discipline. But to what purpose did he make such effort? ‘One of your men?’ Burley asked.
Owen could see no benefit to answering more questions at the moment. ‘As I said, we shall gladly tell you all when we are safely within the abbey.’ He motioned his men forward, separating and riding round Burley and his two companions, the cart rattling by with Edern guarding the rear. The constable and the vicar eyed each other with mutual hostility.
‘You show poor judgement in your choice of clerics, Captain,’ Burley shouted as he turned his men round to follow.
St Clears was a small Cluniac foundation, two monks and a few lay servants — an unexpected company of sixteen would be difficult to accommodate, but Owen preferred talking of John de Reine’s mysterious death within the walls of an abbey, where it was hoped Burley would feel constrained by the sanctity of the place. Not that the monks of St Clears often felt so constrained — Edern had entertained Owen and Geoffrey since they decided to stop with tales of the colourful inhabitants and their notoriety since the foundation.
‘They will offer good ale and perhaps wine,’ Edern had said, ‘which will help the men ignore the filthy accommodations.’
It seemed an appropriate place in which to confer with Richard de Burley.
Burley had taken the best chair in the room, the only one with both back and arms, and rested his muddy boots on the edge of the bench on which Geoffrey perched. The constable did not interrupt Geoffrey’s statement of the few facts he had concerning the death of John de Reine, and in what wise the corpse had arrived at St David’s. When Geoffrey was finished, Burley sat back in his chair, hands gripping the arms, and frowned at the ceiling while moving his head slowly from side to side. ‘Reine was to meet you in Carreg Cennen,’ he muttered as if to himself. ‘He left before the thief struck the exchequer at Cydweli. And yet — had he word on the road that the thief was in flight to St David’s? No, no, how could that be? What took him westward?’
‘We, too, found it a riddle,’ Geoffrey said. ‘The constable of Carreg Cennen had received no word of a change of plans.’
They sat in the main room of what was generously called the guesthouse, a farmhouse with a roof much neglected and a mud floor that sucked at their boots. Owen had suggested they talk in this quiet moment while the rest of their parties were busy in the stables with the horses, some frightened by the lightning, and the abbot and one monk in residence had not yet joined them.
Burley gave up his contemplation of the waterfalls between the sagging ceiling timbers and squinted at Geoffrey. ‘I wondered at your choice of Reine to head the recruits,’ he said. ‘I predicted you would wish you had consulted me.’
‘Reine was not up to the task?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Who recommended him to you?’ Burley asked.
Owen sat beneath the one window, using the light to mend a fraying saddle strap. ‘The matter was fixed before we were assigned this mission,’ he said, not bothering to look up at Burley.
Burley grunted, then grew quiet as a bolt of lightning was followed quickly by a clap of thunder that shook the roof. Men shouted without, geese squawked, a horse neighed in terror. ‘Why does Father Edern travel with you?’ Burley asked suddenly.
Now Owen glanced up. ‘The bishop wished to show his respect by providing an escort befitting the son of Cydweli’s steward.’
‘Admirable, if true,’ Burley said as they were interrupted by the entrance of a train of servants bearing boards and benches.