‘But he left his belongings at the palace?’
‘Yes.’
‘He must be someone of stature to stay at the palace.’
‘He had requested an audience with the bishop,’ said Michaelo. ‘You would do better to ask His Grace about the lad.’
Brother Dyfrig dropped the matter.
For once Sir Robert was grateful for Michaelo’s rudeness. He did wish for some quiet in which to pray. The monk’s loquacity seemed inappropriate.
Later, as they rested on the climb from Porth Clais to the cathedral close, Sir Robert being short of breath, the monk resumed his chatter, this time asking about Owen Archer and Geoffrey Chaucer. He had been surprised to learn that the former was Sir Robert’s son-in-law. ‘Then you are privy to his purpose in coming to Wales?’
‘No secret has been made of his purpose. Wales is vulnerable to the French at a time when such weakness, both of fortifications and of spirit, is dangerous to the safety of the realm. He is recruiting archers for the Duke while his companion is inspecting the fortifications and the garrisons.’
‘Indeed.’
Brother Michaelo had been silent since his outburst at the harbour. But as soon as he and Sir Robert parted from Brother Dyfrig at the palace, Michaelo turned to his companion and hissed, ‘You lack all discretion. Do you not see that he is someone’s agent? Did you not perceive the thrust of his questions?’
Indeed, as Sir Robert lay in his bed trying to sleep, he thought back on his conversations with the monk with growing unease. In the morning he went in search of Brother Dyfrig. He, too, could ask questions. He would know more of this Father Edern with whom Owen journeyed to Cydweli. But he was told that Brother Dyfrig had departed.
A cloudy, drizzly day in the stone world of a castle seemed greyer to Owen than the same weather in any other place. He had thought to string a bow, work the stiffness out of his arms today. But with the chill damp came the ache in his shoulder. ‘I must do it when I dread it most,’ he muttered.
‘Are you penitential this morning?’ Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled. ‘Did you dream of Mistress Tangwystl?’
Geoffrey plainly thought Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd the paragon of women. Indeed, she exhibited all the standards of beauty — she was slender, pale, graceful in movement, sweet of voice, gentle of smile, all her features fair and even, her hair a lustrous, fiery gold.
‘If I do not work the shoulder, the stiffness will worsen.’
Geoffrey’s grin broadened. ‘I dreamed of her.’
His mood already sour, Owen found Geoffrey’s silliness irritating. ‘When was the last time you lifted a bow?’
‘Me?’ Geoffrey raised his short arms, looked at each in turn, then up at Owen with a comical expression. ‘Does my body bear witness to such a skill?’
Why did he so enjoy playing the ass? ‘You were raised in a royal household, you would have been drilled at butts.’
A chuckle, a nod. ‘And so I was. But it is a few years since I pulled back on a gut.’
‘Come, then.’
‘Is this my punishment for dreaming of the steward’s wife?’
‘It is my cure for giddiness.’
Geoffrey laughed at that, picked up his felt hat. ‘I accept the challenge.’
As they left the guesthouse, they saw their hosts and Gruffydd ap Goronwy step out from the hall. Gruffydd walked between Lascelles and Tangwystl, slightly hunched forward, beetle-browed, talking excitedly. Lascelles was shaking his head. Tangwystl merely walked and listened. Suddenly all three paused.
‘Oh, beauty, that you knew the spell you cast,’ Geoffrey murmured.
The steward’s lady stood tall, her long neck arched over her low-cut gown. She looked demurely away as one very white hand, her right, was lifted high by her father. He reached for Lascelles’s right hand.
‘It would seem that father has decreed a reconciliation,’ Owen said.
‘It is not working,’ Geoffrey said as Gruffydd joined their hands. ‘Look at their faces.’
Husband and wife both kept their eyes averted, as if disowning the hands Gruffydd held so firmly.
Owen put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Come. I doubt they want witnesses.’
But Geoffrey had other plans. ‘I would seek out Edern, see how he fares.’
‘You are lazy.’
‘I would hear what arrangements they have made for John de Reine.’
‘As you wish.’
Owen sought out the practice yard. He should see it soon, gauge Burley’s progress in gathering the requested archers. He did not expect the recruits to have arrived, but surely he might see a tun of arrow staves and bows for practice, some butts, and where there was a practice yard there would be a hungry soldier who knew his way around the kitchens. Sharing food often made a soldier talkative. Owen might learn more about John de Reine and his aborted journey to Carreg Cennen.
The outer ward of Cydweli Castle was D-shaped, with the straight line along the high bluff over the Gwendraeth, facing south-east. The inner ward was a square with towers at each corner. The main hall stretched along the south-east wall within the inner ward; the guesthouse sat opposite, in the shadow of the north-west wall. Owen guessed that the practice yard would be in the outer ward, which was a bow-shaped area within the arch of the outer walls. Since he had entered by the south gatehouse, he chose the opposite direction, leaving the inner ward by a doorway next to the north-east tower. There he found a north gatehouse, not as impressive as the one on the town side, but well guarded. One of the men directed him round the north-west tower to the practice yard.
It would have been difficult to miss, occupied as it was at the moment by a pair of grunting wrestlers. They were stripped to their leggings and well oiled with sweat, their muscles taut and their expressions fierce. One glanced up at Owen — a momentary shift in his attention that lost him the round as his opponent took advantage of his lapse and pinned him down. Owen nodded to the men and made his way to a wooden tun in a small, open-fronted shed behind them. He was about to lift the lid when a hand clamped firmly down on his forearm.
‘A curious stranger is a dead one in such times,’ a gruff voice warned in English with a strong Welsh accent. It belonged to the victor in the wrestling match.
‘Owen Archer,’ Owen said in Welsh. ‘Former captain of archers for the old Duke.’
‘Owen Archer?’ The man stepped back, considered Owen. ‘They did say you carried a scar. Welcome to you.’ He slipped his hand down to Owen’s, clasped it. ‘Simwnt is the name. Harold is the one shouting for another match. He cannot speak our language, so we had best continue in English.’
‘I was hoping this tun held bows and arrow staves,’ Owen said.
‘That it does, Captain.’ As Simwnt spoke, he pulled on a shirt and then proceeded to use the left sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘But we have no archers to show you yet.’
‘I can wait a while for that. Food is what I need at present.’
A broad grin that showed small, surprisingly perfect teeth. ‘We put aside a morsel of bread and sausage — we might truck the food with you for a good tale. A particular tale.’
‘And what tale might that be?’
‘The death of our friend John. John de Reine, whose requiem Mass we attend this day. They say you found him.’
‘No, but I have seen him. And I know something of the circumstance.’
‘Aye. That’s what we will be wanting. Harold here was his man, you see.’
God smiled on Owen. Simwnt and Harold seemed men with whom he could be easy. ‘I will gladly tell you what I know for some food.’ Owen eased down on a stone bench built into the wall.
After his carefully selective narrative of events, Owen grew quiet. Soon Harold was talking of Reine, his excellent character, his puzzling change of plans. ‘He said he would be gone a week, no more, and I was to be ready to ride with him to Carreg Cennen on his return. I did not like it, him riding off alone, but what could I do?’ His voice had grown gruff with emotion.