Who was left? ‘Angie?’
Morgan looked straight into Owen’s eye, still showing no emotion. ‘Sweet Angie. She died giving birth to a stillborn child.’ The pale eyes blinked once. ‘I am sorry to give you so much sadness, but I do not think it is kinder in the end to tell the tale more slowly.’
Owen turned to stare out the window at the gentle rise that led to the house. ‘How long ago did Dafydd and Angie die?’ he whispered.
‘Dafydd a few years ago. Angie died six years ago.’
At least his mother had not outlived her children, which was said to be a mother’s curse. It gave Owen little comfort. Had he returned but three years ago he might have seen Dafydd, told him how often he thought of him. One thing was certain, Dafydd would have had little patience with Morgan.
As soon as courtesy allowed, Owen took his leave of his brother and Elen and rode back to Cydweli. Apprehensive he had been on his riding out; now he saw that his dread had not been inappropriate. What cruel gift was this to reunite him with the one member of his family he found it difficult to love, impossible to like? God tested him harshly. To hear of one death would have been difficult enough, but four, and one of them so terrible as his father’s. Owen’s stomach churned as he remembered Morgan’s suspicion, for what terrible sin. God help him, but he did not see how he could ever forgive his brother for those words.
Weary and heavy-hearted, Owen wished a good day to the guard at the south gate of the castle. He was rewarded with the news that Burley awaited him in the guesthouse hall. He knew better than to ask the constable’s purpose. Burley gave orders; he did not explain.
Geoffrey already sat with the constable, and from the droop of his eyelids and the ruddiness of his nose Owen guessed they had sat so for quite a while, shared several cups of wine or ale.
Burley rose at Owen’s approach and was surprisingly courteous, offering wine, asking after his brother, apologising for taking his time. His rough voice and abrupt phrases made it plain he found the courtesy unfamiliar and difficult. Owen wondered at his game. But he responded in kind, settled down on a chair and stretched his legs out to the fire burning smokily in the middle of the room, told them of his brother’s fine orchard, lovely wife, son who had Dafydd’s magnificent hair.
‘But you have not come to while away the time talking of my family,’ Owen said when he had told them all he cared to. ‘Are you here to talk of archers? The garrison?’
Burley wagged his head from side to side. ‘My plan was to recruit archers after you arrived. I can tell you that word has already spread among the young men in the March of Cydweli, and they are eager. We shall have no difficulty providing you with the number you require.’
‘I am glad of it.’
‘As for the garrison, I have encouraged Master Chaucer to move freely among the men, ask what he will, observe them at their stations. I have already provided him with numbers and watches.’
Geoffrey nodded, tapped a parchment beneath his elbow.
‘Of course you are also free to move among them,’ Burley added.
‘I thank you, Constable.’ Owen glanced from Geoffrey to Burley, felt a tension between them that had yet to be explained. ‘Well, then, you have completed your work without me,’ he said, pretending to rise.
‘Stay a moment,’ said Burley. ‘If you would,’ he added more softly. ‘There is one more item.’
‘Is there?’ Owen eased back in his chair, propped his feet on the bench opposite.
‘The death of John de Reine. What more can you tell me of the event? You say he was left at a gate to the cathedral close in St David’s. Did anyone see who left him? Where had he been? How had he died?’
‘No one had come forward to say they had seen him left there,’ Owen said. ‘There was a quantity of sand in Reine’s clothes. White sand. But when he had been on the beach, why, how he died, other than the knife wound in his gut-’ Owen shook his head. ‘I can tell you no more.’
‘Why was he in St David’s?’
‘We do not know. Nor did Bishop Houghton, so I would doubt he had yet been in the city.’
‘If not St David’s, where?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps in the hospice at Llandruidion if he went there as a pilgrim.’
‘He was to meet you in Carreg Cennen,’ Burley said. ‘Why should he suddenly embark on a pilgrimage instead?’
‘I did not know him,’ Owen said. ‘I had hoped you might know his heart.’
‘I was his commander, not his confessor,’ Burley said. He dropped his gaze to the table, shook his head, and said nothing for a while. Then with a sigh and another shake of the head he looked at Geoffrey, then Owen, and asked, ‘Was Whitesands his goal? Or Porth Clais? He did not take his man with him. Had he something to hide, did he await a ship?’
Owen wondered whether the constable’s purpose was to sow seeds of doubt about Reine, or whether he asked the question in innocence. ‘You suggest he was one of Owain Lawgoch’s supporters?’
‘It is possible, is it not?’
‘Being an Englishman, he is not likely to have supported Lawgoch,’ Geoffrey said. ‘What say you, Owen?’
‘I doubt it. What would be his purpose?’
Burley took a deep breath, nodded as if satisfied. ‘I am glad to think well of him. You can tell me nothing else?’
‘I can think of nothing,’ Owen said.
‘Indeed,’ Geoffrey said, ‘Father Edern was commissioned by Bishop Houghton to learn why Reine and four more of your men were in the bishop’s March without permission.’
Owen and Geoffrey exchanged glances as Burley dipped his head and cleared his throat. They had agreed, with Edern’s blessing, that they would wait until Burley was alone to confront him about the men. As Lascelles did not seem to interfere in Burley’s command they assumed the constable was the one who had sent them.
‘How did you hear of them?’ Burley fought hard to control his voice, but a vein pulsed in his temple, revealing his agitation.
‘They pounded on the bishop’s door and demanded to see the body delivered up to him,’ Geoffrey said. ‘One might say they rudely announced themselves.’
‘Ah.’ Burley’s hands clenched the edge of the table. ‘And they were permitted to see him?’
‘No,’ Geoffrey said. ‘They had no letters of safe conduct. An unfortunate omission.’
Burley made a dismissive gesture. ‘I saw no need for such letters. My men were told to move discreetly along the trail of the thief.’
‘Doing what, Constable?’ Owen asked. ‘Pounding on the bishop’s door was hardly a discreet move. What is the vicar to tell the bishop?’
Burley had managed to compose himself. His hands relaxed, the pulse quieted. ‘That my men were after the thief of the exchequer.’
‘In St David’s?’ Owen asked.
‘They followed the trail of a man heard boasting in a Cydweli tavern that he would soon embarrass the entire garrison, and sweeten the victory with a fistful of gold.’
Interesting. The bishop had been told that the injured receiver had identified his attacker. ‘Who was this man?’ Owen asked.
‘A stranger. A Welshman.’
‘Might Edern speak with the man who reported this?’ Geoffrey asked.
Burley rose. ‘I am sorry to say he is one of the men who so disturbed the bishop. They have not yet returned. I thank you for taking the time to talk of this. I shall seek out the vicar and assure him that my men meant no disrespect.’
‘That will mean little to the bishop,’ Geoffrey said. ‘You sent men into his lordship without his permission to remove a felon. You have no such authority.’
Owen was puzzled by Geoffrey’s uncharacteristically sharp tone.