‘Do you know where Gruffydd ap Goronwy lives?’ Owen asked, interrupting an inventory of Gladys’s physical virtues. He had intended to ask his brother, but had thought better of it.
‘What? Gruffydd? Oh, aye. The steward gave his wife’s family a comfortable farm. It lies south of the castle, on a bluff above the marsh.’
‘Could I reach it by midday?’
‘Riding hard, aye.’ Simwnt turned in the saddle, gave Owen an appraising look. ‘Milady does not need your escort, Captain. The steward sent a messenger there early this morning. If he found her, she will be on her way home already, I should think.’
‘If someone is following us, I thought I might confuse him,’ Owen said. ‘Force him to choose between you and me.’
Simwnt glanced behind him. ‘You have noticed something?’
‘No. But if he is good, I would not, would I?’
‘Oh, aye.’ Simwnt gave Owen careful directions to Gruffydd’s farm.
Fourteen
A sullen rain kept Dafydd indoors with the injured intruders. Had it been a real storm — sooty clouds, howling wind, driving rain — Dafydd would have ventured forth to join in the drama, to absorb the energy, to revel in the presence of the Almighty. But a half-hearted rain merely dampened him both in body and spirit.
Dafydd withdrew to his writing chamber, where Nest and Cadwy noisily chewed on some bones, drowning out the dull patter of the rain on the thatch. Chin resting on hand, Dafydd grew melancholy as he listened to a memory — the drumming of the rain on the tiled roof of a wealthy patron, a house in which he had been exquisitely happy tutoring a lovely young woman, a woman who had loved him, thought him the fount of all knowledge, the champion of all beauty.
‘Master Dafydd,’ Mair softly called behind him, ‘forgive me for disturbing your work but the one you have awaited is come, the white monk Dyfrig.’
Dafydd rose quickly, turned to find the monk already standing behind him, a tall, narrow, solemn sentinel. Hooded head, hooded eyes. Dafydd wondered why he trusted Brother Dyfrig. Was it his silence that inspired confidence and confidences? It must be a strong impression to override those hooded eyes. The monk’s habit steamed as he stood near the brazier. It was not so white after travelling to St David’s and back. Nest had lifted her head from her bone to sniff him as he entered the room, but had not bothered to get up and greet him.
Dafydd remembered himself. ‘Mair, bring us some refreshment. Brother Dyfrig has had a long, damp journey.’
Mair bobbed a curtsey and slipped away.
‘Benedicte, Master Dafydd,’ Dyfrig bowed. ‘I see your hall has become a spital. Had you intended that?’
‘Criticism, Dyfrig? From a monk who breaks more vows than he keeps?’
‘I meant no criticism, Master Dafydd.’
Then he had not the wit to know when to flaunt his opinion, for he was right in criticising. ‘I confess that I had not considered the inconvenience. But then I did not expect such slaughter — how useless is the human carcass. It nourishes no one.’
Dafydd had hoped for an expression of disgust from the monk, but Dyfrig merely said, ‘Mother Earth is nourished by us, Master Dafydd.’
‘Ah. Then perhaps I should bury them in the garden.’
‘I was not aware that any were dead.’
So devoid of expression. Did they teach them that in the monastery? No, the monk had learned it elsewhere, for his fellow Cistercian had not that demeanour. Even the slightest impressions flickered across Brother Samson’s florid countenance for all to see.
‘All four are alive and look to fully recover, more’s the pity. But enough of my woes, let us sit and refresh ourselves while you tell me of your journey.’
Mair had returned with a tray laden with bowls, a jug of cider, cheese and bread. The two men settled at Dafydd’s table.
When Mair shut the door behind her, Dafydd said to Dyfrig, ‘Eat and then tell me what you learned about gifts from the sea.’
After thirstily downing two bowls of cider and devouring the better part of the cheese, Dyfrig leaned back in his chair, satisfied, and began his tale. And a troubling tale it was. Dafydd had known of John de Reine’s death, for the intruders had spoken of it. But somehow he had missed the fact that the man had been murdered on the beach at Whitesands. He rose from his chair, took his uneasiness to the window. The rain continued. ‘I had not heard about the sand in his clothes.’
‘Few have. From all accounts it is likely he was on the beach about the same time you found the pilgrim,’ Dyfrig said to Dafydd’s back. ‘I also learned of a young pilgrim missing from the bishop’s palace — one who had come petitioning the bishop. He, too, disappeared at the time you found your pilgrim.’
That cheered Dafydd. ‘So he is truly a pilgrim.’
‘Perhaps.’ Brother Dyfrig’s tone was doubtful. ‘Petitioners to the bishop often seek things other than indulgences and absolution — such as justice, patronage. .’
Dafydd did not like Dyfrig’s manner. He abandoned his contemplation of the rain and turned, regarding the monk with a stern expression. ‘Who is the source of your information?’
‘Everyone and no one.’ The monk’s smile was enigmatic. He enjoyed the role of sleuth. There was no dulling his spirit. ‘There is much activity in Castel Cydweli at the moment,’ Dyfrig continued. ‘Two of Lancaster’s men have journeyed from England to oversee the strengthening of the garrison. One of them is a one-eyed Welshman, formerly captain of archers to the old Duke, who has risen high in the present Duke’s favour — he is recruiting archers for King Edward’s next attempt at the crown of France.’
‘Had these men anything to do with the death of the steward’s son?’
‘It is difficult to say how the presence of such authority might affect an uneasy truce.’
Dafydd tired of the monk’s riddling. ‘Speak plainly.’
The monk’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. ‘This incident at Whitesands has the taste of Owain of the Red Hand about it, Master Dafydd.’
‘By the Trinity, you mean the Frenchman who thinks he is the rightful Prince of all Wales? Rhodri ap Gruffudd’s spawn?’
‘His grandson, yes. There are many who find hope in his claim.’
‘In every age there are many fools, Dyfrig.’ But Dafydd considered the monk’s suggestion. If the death of John de Reine had anything to do with Owain Lawgoch, the pilgrim was in grave danger, not simply from the ineffectual Cydweli warriors, but from either Lawgoch’s supporters or those loyal to King Edward. And it did not matter whether the pilgrim was innocent of the man’s death — he was suspected, and that was enough to bring him trouble. And bring trouble to any who offered him sanctuary.
But God had put the pilgrim in his path — surely He had intended Dafydd to help the injured man.
Dyfrig took the opportunity to finish the cheese and the cider.
‘You do not want for an appetite,’ Dafydd remarked.
‘As you said, I endured a long, wet journey to bring you my news,’ Dyfrig said.
‘Indeed. So you suggest that the pilgrim is one of Lawgoch’s supporters?’
Dyfrig nodded slowly, as if still considering the possibilities. ‘Or John de Reine might have been. His natural father did marry the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy, who has been accused of supporting Lawgoch.’
The monk enjoyed imparting bad news. ‘And these men sent by the constable of Cydweli?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Do you believe they are after a traitor to their King, not a thief?’
‘They may believe they seek both in the same man. It takes some wealth to mount an invasion. Lawgoch might well have thieves working for him.’