‘If you are right, my granting the pilgrim sanctuary might be misinterpreted.’
‘But he is no longer here, is he?’
‘No. But the Cydweli men returned — I do not think they would have bothered had they not been tolerably certain he had been here. My name is now linked with him. Even though I know not who he is.’
Dyfrig picked up his bowl, found it empty. ‘I would welcome a brief rest,’ he said.
And Dafydd would welcome time to think. He rose. ‘If you encounter any of the Cydweli men, claim another house than yours, Dyfrig. I would not have them finding your presence a key to the pilgrim’s whereabouts.’
‘So he is on his way to Strata Florida with Brother Samson?’
‘He may be.’
Dyfrig was almost out the door when he turned, head tilted, and said softly, ‘All nature conforms to patterns, and so does man mimic nature in his activities. Mark you — John de Reine was the natural son of John Lascelles, who married the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy, accused of giving shelter to a Fleming working for Lawgoch. And this daughter’s name is the one name we know is somehow connected with the pilgrim — Tangwystl.’ Dyfrig touched fingertips together, forming a circle with his hands. With a slight smile and a nod, he withdrew.
Dafydd put his head in his hands and prayed God that Dyfrig was wrong, that the pilgrim had no connection with Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri ap Gruffudd.
Dafydd did not welcome death. Not yet. And not as the result of a charitable gesture. Sweet Heaven, what was God about, to visit this danger upon him? Of all Welshmen, why was he drawn into Lawgoch’s trouble? He had no faith in the man’s honour. Rhodri ap Llywelyn, brother of Llywelyn the Last, had been the weakest of the brothers. How could one believe anything noble of his grandson?
Owen reined in his horse as he caught sight of a substantial farmhouse tucked in a cluster of oaks and willows. He wished to catch his breath and gather his wits about him. Through an opening in the trees he could see that the house was set safely back from a bluff that must dramatically drop off to the marshland below. Lascelles had been generous with his father-in-law; this was no common farmhouse.
A pretty young woman with Gruffydd’s dark hair and handsome features opened the door, peered at Owen with curiosity.
He introduced himself.
Her eyes brightening, she bobbed a hurried curtsey and exclaimed in Welsh, ‘They say you have journeyed to the edge of the world, Captain Archer.’
Owen laughed. ‘Tales have a way of growing with the telling. I have sailed across the sea to France, but no farther.’
‘They say that an Amazon took your eye.’
‘And died for it,’ Gruffydd said, joining the girl. ‘My youngest daughter, Awena.’ She bobbed again, ducked beneath her father’s extended arm and scurried into the house. ‘I am honoured, Captain, but I assure you that Tangwystl is not here, nor was she here yesterday.’ The words were courteous but firm, the tone slightly strained. Gruffydd wore a simpler garb than he favoured at Cydweli, and his hair was not so carefully combed.
‘I am here on my own business, not the steward’s,’ Owen said. ‘I wished to thank you for reuniting me with my brother Morgan.’
Gruffydd closed his eyes, nodded. ‘Forgive me. The earlier messenger from Cydweli alarmed my wife. But I should have guessed your purpose might be a different one. Come in, come in.’
As Owen had guessed from without Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s house, this was the residence of a wealthy farmer, with a comfortable hall, a tiled fire circle, and above the far end, a solar. A boy in rougher garb than Awena’s, a servant, Owen guessed, helped her ease a board on to trestles. A tall, exceedingly thin woman with the pale brows of a redhead carried a tray of bowls and a pitcher to the table. She wore a simple gown and the starched head-dress of a Welsh farmwife. She was barefoot.
Gruffydd led Owen to the table, sat him nearest the fire from which came a welcome heat after the long, damp ride.
‘My wife, Eleri,’ Gruffydd said, gesturing to the slender woman. Owen wondered at the marked difference in garb between Eleri and her husband and children. ‘My love, this is Owain ap Rhodri, the former captain of archers about whom we have heard so much.’
Eleri stood at one end of the table, fussing with the bowls, spreading them all out, then stacking them, then spreading them out again. She seemed not to hear him.
Gruffydd put his hand on one of hers. ‘Eleri.’ His knuckles were swollen and raw. He must do more work on the farm than Owen would have guessed.
Eleri wiped her hands on her apron, lifted her chin, then her eyes, as if someone had forced the motion. Her eyes lit on Owen for the briefest time, then dropped to the bowls once more. ‘There is wine,’ she said in Welsh, and began to turn away.
Hands on her bony shoulders, Gruffydd turned her back to the table. ‘Sit down and enjoy our guest, Eleri.’
Awena moved to her mother’s side, began to pour the wine.
‘Come,’ Gruffydd guided Eleri to a bench.
She sat down, then at once began to fuss with her gown, shaking out the wrinkles, smoothing her skirt. She patted her head-dress. When she had completed what seemed a ritual, she met Owen’s gaze with momentary clarity. ‘Are you from the castle?’
‘I am staying there at the moment.’
‘Why are you not out searching for my daughter?’
‘Eleri, he is a guest at the castle, not one of the garrison.’
Eleri touched her shoulder, frowned at the hand that lay there, lifted it to her face, studied it. ‘They said she brought a priest to visit me because of my illness. But I am not ill.’
‘They were mistaken, my love,’ Gruffydd said.
Dropping her hand, Eleri looked up at Owen with a twinkle of conspiracy in her sunken eyes. ‘She never came. Nor the priest.’ She leaned towards Owen and whispered, ‘Is it true that Father Edern has come?’
‘Eleri!’ Gruffydd thundered.
Startled, the woman reared back and drew in her breath sharply, bowed her head. Awena put her arm round her mother, whispered something.
Gruffydd shook his head sadly. ‘My wife is easily confused, Captain.’ He raked a hand through his thick dark hair. Owen noticed an angry-looking, partially healed scar on the palm of the hand, remembered that the hand had been bandaged when they first met. ‘She hears a name once and then believes it is familiar. How did you find your brother?’
Was it the abrupt change of subject or did Owen simply find it implausible that Eleri would ask after a priest she had never met? ‘My brother looks prosperous and fortunate in his wife and children. I am happy for him.’ How might he take Eleri aside and speak with her? Her husband and daughter kept such close guard.
Eleri suddenly rose with a jolt that shook the table, and gathering her skirts about her she went quickly across the hall and up the steps to the solar. Neither of her guards hurried after.
Gruffydd simply looked after his wife, his face sad, and said, ‘You must forgive her. She is beset by demons.’
Awena seemed more appropriately concerned. ‘Shall I go to her?’ she asked her father.
Gruffydd shook his head, lifted his bowl. ‘You must take your ma’s place with our guests. Pour us more wine.’
‘Forgive me,’ Owen said. ‘My coming here was ill advised on such a day.’
Gruffydd pressed his fingers to his temples as if weary. ‘You are not to blame. It takes little to trouble my wife.’
From the solar came a child’s laughter, low and throaty. Owen raised his head in the direction of the sound, thinking how like his daughter Gwenllian it sounded. Eleri appeared once more, called to Awena to assist her.
Gruffydd rose with Awena, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Keep the child up above, Awena,’ he said quietly.
But Eleri had already begun to descend the narrow steps with a child in her arms. When she set him on his feet in the hall, the plump boy ran directly to the table to stare up at Gruffydd.