‘Good lad,’ Dafydd said. ‘You will see, all this effort will prove worthwhile.’ To Samson he whispered, ‘We agreed that our pilgrim must build his strength for the journey.’
‘Build his strength, yes. Such must be done gradually.’ Samson, on the other hand, looked overfed and nervous, as if he needed a good month in the fields, preferably behind a plough.
Dafydd wearied of the monk’s contrariness. ‘You fret that the Duke’s men will return, that we must hide our pilgrim, that we must make plans, and yet you wish to take your time readying him? Whence comes this sudden confidence that the Duke’s men are not just down the hill?’
The short monk looked up at his charge, steadied him, then moved alone towards Dafydd. ‘I am wise enough to know that I cannot change nature. Why do you whisper? Do you fear we will be overheard?’
‘It is a morning for secrets and whispers. God sets the tone of the day — listen to the sea, how its voice is hushed by the fog.’ Dafydd nodded towards the pilgrim, who had stepped to the edge of the bluff. ‘You see? Is it as I said?’
He regretted his words at once as he saw the young man gaze down with such an expression of longing that Dafydd feared he had been unwise in trusting the pilgrim alone so near the edge. Dafydd took a step towards the young man. ‘Are you dizzy?’
‘I feel I could lean into the wind and go soaring out above the sea like a gull.’
‘I do not think that is God’s intention,’ Samson said, with a nervous gesture as if he might stay the young man with a wave.
‘I know I am not a gull.’
‘But what are you, then?’ Dafydd whispered. ‘Are you Rhys?’
The young man turned back to the sea as if he had not heard. Dafydd wished that Dyfrig would return with the gossip from St David’s.
Sir Robert had been most grateful to the white monk for his offer to escort him and Brother Michaelo on a circuit of the holy wells in the vicinity. Brother Dyfrig seemed a gentle soul with a ready laugh, and his familiarity with the countryside made him the perfect guide. At St Non’s Well, as they awaited their turn at the stone-lined grotto, Dyfrig had mentioned Owen. ‘It is a pity your one-eyed companion left in such haste. He might have found solace, perhaps even healing, here. Many eye afflictions have been cured by St Non.’
‘He wished to stop here,’ Sir Robert had told him. ‘But the bishop sped him on his way.’ Sir Robert watched as Brother Michaelo knelt on the stones, dipped his fingers in the well and pressed them to his temples. ‘My companion hopes to find relief from his head ailment.’ Feeling eyes on him, Sir Robert looked up, found a dark-haired man regarding him with a curious expression. He looked vaguely familiar.
‘And you, Sir Robert?’ Brother Dyfrig was saying. ‘You are of a venerable age to undertake such a pilgrimage. From York, you said?’
‘It is a long journey for me, but I have been singularly blessed in my old age. God has returned my only child’s affections to me. And spared all the family in the last visitation of the pestilence.’
‘So your purpose is to give thanks so that you may die in peace?’
‘That is my wish.’
‘I shall pray for you.’ As Michaelo moved away from the well, Dyfrig caught Sir Robert’s elbow and helped him drop to his knees on the stones at its edge. Sir Robert dipped his fingers in the well. The water was clear and cool. He crossed himself with his wet fingertips and was filled with a sense of peace. He prayed for Lucie and his grandchildren, and for Owen on his long journey home. When Sir Robert lifted his staff and planted it firmly so that he might use it to help him straighten up, he felt the monk’s supporting hand under his elbow. ‘You are good to me. God bless you, Brother Dyfrig.’ Up higher on the slope, the stranger still regarded them. ‘Do you know him?’ Sir Robert asked, but by the time Dyfrig glanced up, the man was walking away.
‘So many pilgrims. I should not wonder at meeting someone I know.’
They joined Brother Michaelo, who stood at the edge of the gently curving bowl in which sat the well and St Non’s Chapel, gazing down at the sea. Sir Robert had not yet been to the cliff’s edge. On either side stretched high, rocky cliffs ruffled with inlets, pocked with caves. Directly below them, a rock almost as high as the cliff had separated in some ancient time from the mainland and stood, a sentinel, in the inlet.
‘At high tide it is an island,’ Dyfrig said.
‘That cave on the far side — how comes it to be light within?’
‘Daylight from the other side,’ Michaelo said. ‘I can see why our King worries about pirates and smugglers along this coast. One would never lack a cave in which to hide.’
‘Such villains are rarer here than popular imagination would have it,’ Dyfrig said. He turned towards the north-west. ‘You should walk along the cliff when the sea is calm and the sky clear. From the north end of this finger of land you can see Ireland, just as Bendigeidfran, son of LlŶr, saw it when Matholwch’s thirteen ships came across the sea for Branwen.’
Owen had recently told Sir Robert the story of Branwen, and it had caught his interest. ‘Was this LlŶr’s kingdom?’ Sir Robert asked.
‘All this land was his kingdom. But he was not at St Non’s Bay when he saw the ships. He sat on a rock in Harddlech, in Ardudwy, at one of his courts.’
‘You people speak of the folk in your tales as if they were real,’ Brother Michaelo said with a smirk. ‘But they are full of too many marvels to be real.’
Brother Dyfrig bowed his head, shook it as if considering something sad. ‘What we now call marvels were once ordinary occurrences,’ he said softly, as if to himself. ‘How our glory has faded.’
Michaelo caught Sir Robert’s eye. ‘Dreamers,’ he muttered. More loudly he said, ‘If we are to visit St David’s Well before sunset, we must continue.’
Dyfrig glanced out at the westering sun. ‘You are right, my friend. Let us proceed.’
As they walked, Dyfrig kept one hand at Sir Robert’s elbow, ready to assist him if he stumbled. The paths down to the harbour of Porth Clais were well worn, but muddy with the spring rains, and as they headed down the monk was particularly attentive. While they walked, they talked. ‘The palace at St David’s — is it comfortable?’ Dyfrig asked.
‘Certainly we have been provided with everything we could wish for. Bishop Houghton has been most kind,’ said Sir Robert.
‘There must have been much gossip among the pilgrims concerning the body left at Tower Gate.’
‘Oh, indeed. Particularly as a young pilgrim had been missing for several days. Many feared evil had befallen him. They were much relieved to hear that it was not him.’
‘The young man returned in good health?’
‘Alas, so far he has not returned, nor has anyone come to claim his belongings.’ Sir Robert paused at the edge of the sand, bothered by Dyfrig’s question. ‘But surely you know that Father Edern identified the dead man? I understood you were acquainted with the vicar.’
Brother Dyfrig smiled. ‘I did know of it, to be sure. But the dead man also might have been considered a young man. I thought perhaps he had been the young pilgrim of whom you spoke.’
‘No. The missing pilgrim was a Welshman. Rhys ap Llywelyn, I was told.’
Brother Michaelo, who had already reached the chapel, retraced his steps to urge them on. ‘It grows late,’ he whispered.
Sir Robert was embarrassed by his rude companion when Dyfrig had been so kind.
But Dyfrig seemed indifferent. ‘Perhaps we should first go to the well, then the chapel if we have time.’ He led them towards a small gathering behind the chapel. ‘Has the bishop sent anyone out to search for the missing pilgrim?’ he asked as they walked through the marshy field.
‘I have heard nothing of a search for him,’ Sir Robert said.