For Dafydd had known the men would return, and this time would avoid the front gate. Discourteous but shrewd of them.
Now the thuds and shouts came close together. Dafydd cursed himself for leaving Nest and Cadwy shut in the kitchen. He prayed some of the other men would free the dogs and join Cadwal.
Whilst he stood like a timid old man clutching a stool. Was he a man? Well, he was not as young as he had once been. And he had never been skilled at arms — women’s arms, yes; weapons had never interested him. He must think. What might he do to give Cadwal even more advantage than his size? Light. Indeed. For it was certain the intruders had not walked in boldly bearing torches. Dafydd reached for the shuttered lantern beside his bed, halted with his empty hand in the air. No. A light would be the very worst thing he could bring to the fray. Cadwal’s advantage was knowing the corridor so well, even in the dark. The intruders would not know where to step, where to duck, what doors opened inward. Ah.
Dafydd took the stool firmly in one hand and with a roar to boost his courage, raced to the door, yanking it open with as much speed as he could manage. Someone fell in, praise God, making far too timid a thud to be Cadwal. Dafydd swung the chair, made contact with something soft. With an oath the man on the floor grabbed for the stool. Dafydd yanked it away, swung it again. With little effect this time, for the man was struggling to his knees.
‘Stand aside,’ Madog shouted in Welsh, ‘I am for him!’ The tall man seemed to fly through the doorway, landing at just the right angle and force to knock the rising intruder to the floor. The intruder’s head hit with an unpleasant sound — slate floors were much harder on bones than either wood or packed earth.
Out in the corridor Dafydd heard the dogs barking, and oaths and cries in Welsh, Irish, English and French. The Welsh and Irish oaths were louder, and the Welsh were shouted in more voices. God be praised, the dogs and all Dafydd’s men had come to Cadwal’s aid, and it sounded as if they were winning.
In a short while things had quieted enough for Dafydd to consider it safe to reach for the lantern and open the shutters wide. ‘By my mother’s mother’s bones,’ Dafydd muttered as he viewed the carnage. ‘I thought these men were from a garrison.’
‘So they are,’ Madog said, standing over the man who lay suspiciously still in Dafydd’s doorway as Nest pushed forward and sniffed him, ‘but they let down their guard, thinking you an old, helpless man.’
‘I had introduced them to Cadwal on their last visit, as well as Nest and Cadwy.’
‘One giant and a brace of dogs — they thought themselves ready for them, I suppose. But not for five more men. What English bard has a personal guard to protect him from angry cuckolds?’
Cadwal, bloody mouthed and with a swollen eye, nodded happily. ‘Will there be more?’
Dafydd came forward, counted four men lying on the floor. ‘I think not. Have you not had enough excitement for one night?’
Patrick sat athwart the largest of the men, wiping clean the blade of his knife. ‘I was beginning to think this poor blade would never feel living flesh again,’ he said. ‘God has been merciful.’
‘Six against four,’ Madog said. ‘It was never a challenge.’
The servants now crept from hiding and wandered wide eyed among the bodies. The hounds sat proudly in their midst, tongues lolling in smiles.
Mair dropped down by the man in Dafydd’s doorway, crossed herself. ‘He is dead?’ she whispered. Already her eyes glistened with tears.
‘Dead? Not unless the dead wheeze,’ Madog said. ‘He might pray to die when he wakes and feels his head. And his groin — our master has a terrifying aim.’ He grinned at Dafydd.
‘You talk too much,’ Dafydd muttered. ‘Gather them up, take them into the hall and clean their wounds, make them comfortable. We shall play Samaritans now we have made safe our home.’
Dafydd knelt beside Mair and said quietly, ‘Use the sheets stained by the pilgrim’s blood to wrap them. Then if one should manage a search, he will see nothing to suggest we had an earlier bloodied visitor.’
Mair smiled. ‘He is safely at the abbey by now?’
Dafydd had noticed her affection for the handsome young pilgrim. ‘Not yet, but very soon. And this night my men have guaranteed his safe passage.’
‘I am glad of that, Master Dafydd.’ She rose and followed the others.
Dafydd sat on the floor thinking of the light in Mair’s eyes. Oh to be young again and inspire such desire.
Twelve
‘How can you sleep at such a time?’ Geoffrey said as he dropped his second boot to the floor with an even greater clatter than the first.
He had wakened Owen with the door banging against the wall, prior to his loud mutterings and the clattering boots. Owen hoped the man would give up and allow him to sink back into sweet slumber. A foolish hope; he knew Geoffrey well enough by now to know how persistent he could be.
‘Edern cannot be found. They have searched the entire castle and found no trace of him.’ Geoffrey paused.
Owen could feel the man’s eyes on him. He fought to keep his breathing steady, deep.
‘The porter remembers Father Francis departing with Mistress Lascelles. He says that even had he not recognised the priest’s cloak he would have known it to be the chaplain because Mistress Lascelles called him by name, saying her mother was ill and Father Francis would be a comfort to her. As you will recall, when I asked after Tangwystl’s mother’s health Sir John said she was not ill.’
Owen did indeed remember. And he found Geoffrey’s chatter intriguing. But now he had begun the cat-and-mouse game he was loath to give it up. And at this rate he would know all the news without bothering to sit up and open his eyes.
The priests had exchanged cloaks. So that Edern might pass through the gates? Why could he not pass through in his own cloak? Who had cause to stop him? Had he beaten Father Francis? But why? And where had he gone with Tangwystl? Owen fought a quickening of breath.
‘You cannot fool me, Owen. I know the difference between the breathing of a sleeper and the breathing of one pretending sleep.’ Geoffrey was moving about the room, disrobing, no doubt. ‘Poor Francis. The priesthood is a dangerous undertaking in your country.’
With a groan, Owen sat up, propping himself on his elbow. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I knew you were awake.’ Geoffrey sat at the edge of his bed grinning and dangling his stockinged feet in the air. At such a moment, he seemed oddly childlike to Owen, despite the neat beard he had grown during the journey. Geoffrey had thrown one of the sheepskins over his shoulders, covering his fine linen shift — he must intend to keep up the chatter for quite a while. ‘I knew you would come to the defence of your people. But you will have difficulty defending their treatment of their priests.’
Had he news of Edern? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember the priest at Carreg Cennen?’
‘There was none.’
‘Precisely. Fell down a cliff. Remember?’
‘Are you proposing that the deaths of the two priests are connected?’
‘No.’
‘Then save your energy for useful musings.’
‘You begin to sound like my wife.’
‘I begin to pity her.’
‘Perhaps I do suggest a connection.’
‘I think it unlikely.’
‘What about the obvious connection?’
Owen frowned.
‘John de Reine.’
‘He is dead.’
‘He failed to appear at Carreg Cennen.’
‘And he failed to appear here alive? You see a pattern in that? Stop bobbing your feet!’
Geoffrey obeyed with an insulted grimace. ‘I merely suggest,’ he said quietly, ‘that John de Reine is the key to all that has happened. You remember that Edern came forth with the offer to escort John de Reine’s body to Cydweli, do you not?’