Geoffrey, who had arrived earlier and already could put names to many of the faces, joined Owen and nodded towards a man and woman who made their way through the crowd towards Lascelles. ‘Mistress Lascelles,’ Geoffrey whispered. ‘Is she not one of the loveliest women you have ever seen?’
So this was the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. She had red-gold hair, pulled up in intricate coils exposing a long neck and delicate ears. Her softly rounded form was exquisitely displayed in a low-cut gown in the latest court fashion, made of costly silk and velvet. ‘Indeed,’ Owen said. ‘Who is the man?’ He was older than she, though no less handsome.
‘I do not know.’
‘Gruffydd ap Goronwy?’ Owen wondered aloud. The older man was also dressed in elegant clothes, though subtler than the woman’s, dark browns and deep blues free of ornament. He had dark hair with a wing of silver over the right temple. Proud of it he must be, for he wore his blue velvet hat tilted to show the silver wing to advantage. His features were regular, perhaps heavy in the brow, his eyes dark as his hair, his expression amiable. His posture emphasised a prosperously wide middle. Owen guessed that the width had been on his shoulder in youth. His left hand was bandaged and he held it as if he still had pain.
‘Handsome father, handsome daughter,’ Geoffrey said. ‘God’s blood, you must be right.’
‘A chilly welcome,’ Owen said as Lascelles caught sight of his wife, stiffened, lifted his chin. As she curtseyed to him, Lascelles appeared to sniff and give a hardly courteous nod.
‘How did such an angel alight in this gloomy place?’ Geoffrey whispered.
‘Let us not forget that she was her father’s salvation,’ Owen said.
They approached their host, his wife and the stranger.
Mistress Lascelles raised her eyes to the newcomers and smiled. Her eyes were a pale green.
Lascelles was first to speak. ‘Master Chaucer, Captain Archer. I do not think I thanked you for escorting my son’s body from St David’s. You are our most welcome and honoured guests this night. Ask for whatever delicacies you wish after your long and difficult journey.’ His voice did not echo the warmth of his words.
‘You are most kind,’ Geoffrey said, bowing. Owen bowed likewise.
‘My wife,’ the steward said, inclining his head slightly towards the beauty at his side.
Owen bowed low and greeted her in Welsh, expressing his regret for having brought such sorrow to her family this day. Her smile faded, she bowed her head, and in her own language she said, ‘I shall miss John de Reine. He was a kind and gentle man.’
‘This is most unfair,’ Geoffrey said, ‘for I would greet you but have no knowledge of your tongue.’
Mistress Lascelles glanced up. ‘Forgive me, Master Chaucer.’ Her voice was slightly hesitant in her husband’s language. ‘May I introduce to you my father, Gruffydd ap Goronwy.’
The handsome man stepped forward. ‘Master Chaucer, Captain Archer.’ He bowed. ‘All of Cydweli is abuzz with your coming. Young men are honing their skills to impress you so that they might join the Duke’s forces in the great war.’
Owen happened to glance towards the fair Mistress Lascelles as her father spoke, and was intrigued by the look of surprise on her face. And indeed Gruffydd’s voice carried a note that warred with his seemingly genuine smile.
Despite Geoffrey’s efforts to keep the conversation light and pleasant, the ensuing meal was an assay of wills: everyone seemed at war — John Lascelles spoke curtly to Burley, who joined them at the table, and seemed irritated by his wife’s occasional lapses into Welsh when addressing Owen or her father; Richard de Burley lectured the company at large about the foolishness of the Duke’s contradictory orders to reinforce the garrisons while at the same time recruiting archers from their ranks; Mistress Lascelles chided the constable on his poor manners. Gruffydd was the only one in the Cydweli party who seemed determined to enjoy the evening, asking Owen and Geoffrey about their travels and their impressions of Carreg Cennen and St David’s. Mistress Lascelles graced her father with an affectionate smile whenever their eyes met.
As it grew late, Owen’s mind wandered back to the day’s events and he thought of Edern, searched the diners for his face, but saw him not. In Welsh he asked Mistress Lascelles why the priest who had escorted John de Reine’s body was not included in their company at the high table.
Mistress Lascelles’s white skin flushed as she glanced at her father, then Owen. ‘Father Edern of St David’s?’
Owen nodded.
‘He is here?’ she whispered.
‘He seemed a suitable choice.’
‘No doubt he put himself forward as such,’ Gruffydd said. He made no effort to soften the words with a smile.
‘I fear my question was clumsy,’ Owen said. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Lascelles.’
‘You were right to ask about your companion,’ she said, but she seemed to withdraw into herself. In a little while she rose and begged leave to retire.
Lascelles bowed to her. ‘I shall join you later,’ he said.
Gruffydd rose to follow his daughter, who already walked away. ‘Tangwystl,’ he called.
She paused, turned. ‘I pray you, stay and entertain our guests in my stead.’ She smiled. ‘You should enjoy your evenings away from the farm.’
Gruffydd bowed to her and resumed his seat, though he watched her departure with anxious eyes.
Once Mistress Lascelles had departed, Geoffrey complained how weary he was. Soon he and Owen also took their leave of Lascelles. Gruffydd accompanied them to the door of the hall.
‘Neither you nor the constable seems fond of Father Edern,’ Owen commented. ‘He seemed pleasant enough on the journey from St David’s.’
‘I do not know the constable’s mind in this, Captain. My feelings about the man go back many years. They would not interest you.’ He stretched, gazed up at the stars. ‘The weather has turned in our favour. I bid you good-night, Captain, Master Chaucer. May you sleep well.’ He strode away.
‘A pleasant man,’ Geoffrey said.
‘He would certainly have us think so,’ Owen said. ‘It cannot be an easy thing, to know that all look on him and wonder whether he is a traitor to his king.’
‘At least he does not hide.’
‘I think his daughter is too fond to allow that. But he dines without his wife. Perhaps she finds it more difficult to face the questions in everyone’s eyes.’
‘Tangwystl,’ Geoffrey said softly. ‘A lovely name.’
‘Aye, that it is.’
Dafydd ap Gwilym stepped to the edge of the cliff, his robes billowing in the up-draft, and opened his arms to embrace the day. The sea mist kissed his hair, beaded on his lashes, cooled his face. God’s morning was magnificent. As he drew his eyes down from the heavens, he saw no break between the grey sky and the grey sea, which this morning appeared to lie placidly in the great arch of Cardigan Bay. A dangerous imagining, a placid sea. Dangerous to one who believed it. The white-tipped waves were merely veiled by the early morning fog, which also muted the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below with a power mightier than any man might counter.
‘I do not think we should take him so near the edge,’ Brother Samson said in his low, booming tones. Dafydd had never noted how like the sea breaking on the rocks was Samson’s voice.
‘It is quite level here.’ Dafydd held out his arm to the pilgrim, still unnamed, who limped towards him in the protective shelter of the monk’s guiding hands.
The monk spoke softly to the young man, encouraging his efforts, but he glowered at Dafydd. ‘You push him too far too quickly.’
Were all healers fretters? Was that what drew them to their calling? The pilgrim walked with a limp, to be sure, and the bandage round his head reminded Dafydd of his terrible injury. He looked weary already, head bowed and shoulders rounded, though he had made a good effort, taken perhaps a hundred steps from the house. Yet his expression, when he lifted his head to Dafydd’s, was unchanged — resigned, despairing, ready to give up the effort as soon as permitted.