‘Forgive me for not rising to welcome you,’ he said in Welsh, ‘but my head still feels as if it is being ground to flour when I stand. I hope you understood why I did not invite you to our house when you arrived — that you had heard of the theft, my attack. .?’ The gap in his teeth was evident when he spoke — in truth, the only visible evidence of his having been assaulted.
Why should the man apologise for neglecting what had never been expected? ‘I had heard about your misfortune, Master Aylward.’
‘But I am glad you came. I love to think about your father, my old friend Rhodri ap Maredudd. Please, sit. The girl will bring cider as soon as she has time.’
Old friend? The unexpected connection was Owen’s second gift this day. And why not speak of his family — it would make the rest all the easier. He took a seat on a comfortably cushioned bench at his host’s bedside. ‘I did hope to hear of him, and my mother.’
‘You have been to Morgan’s house?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then you know that they are both with God.’
‘My brother saw no need to delay the telling,’ Owen said. If the man knew his family, he knew Morgan’s character.
‘Indeed. My wife thought perhaps we should do the telling, but I thought it best coming from your kin. Of course your ma’s going was a peaceful one, went to bed and did not wake. But Rhodri’s-’ Roger bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘I confess I did not wish to be the one to describe it to you.’ He clapped his hands as the serving girl backed into the room with a tray. ‘Now I shall show you some hospitality and we can talk of your father’s joys.’
Owen’s heart lightened to hear of his father’s pride in his being chosen one of Lancaster’s archers, and how the family were at last accepted into the community, largely because of his mother’s skill with herbs and his father’s with ailing livestock. ‘They were generous with the talents God gave them,’ Roger said, ‘and your friend Master Chaucer told me of your talents — how you have become indispensable to both the Archbishop of York and our Duke.’
‘Chaucer? You have met?’ Aylward seemed a master of surprise.
Aylward gestured to the serving girl, who sat quietly with some needlework in the light from the window, to pour him more cider.
‘Yes, yes,’ Aylward said as he held up his cup to be filled, ‘it has been a day of pleasant meetings, good for the spirits of one so confined. And a day of sorrow. I have great sympathy for John Lascelles. He did a good deed, granted a heroic kindness to a beleaguered family to my mind, and he has had nothing but sorrow from it. Such a beauty she is, but so unfit to be the wife of one of Lancaster’s stewards. Even so, you will not find me linking her with the beating of Father Francis. It will be the churchman, mark my words. Though I do not like to think it of Father Edern. I was fond of him when he was chaplain at the castle.’
His mind reeling with the effort to follow the track of Aylward’s easy tongue, Owen remained quiet for a moment, though he nodded solemnly now and then to encourage his host. Had Geoffrey told him all this? To what purpose?
‘I confess I was disappointed that you had sent your comrade to me,’ Aylward continued. ‘So I am glad that you had additional questions, though I swear by St David I can think of no reason Mistress Lascelles would take up with Father Edern.’
‘Master Chaucer told you he was assisting me in an investigation?’
‘He was wrong to admit that? But why should a man confide if he does not know to what purpose-’ Aylward stopped as Owen waved aside the argument.
‘I am glad that he was open,’ Owen said. He was thinking fast. ‘Did he tell you that we believe the steward’s recent troubles — the theft, the deaths of John de Reine and the chaplain, and Mistress Lascelles’s disappearance — have some common source?’
The ruddy face registered puzzlement, then amusement. Aylward tried to hide the smile by lifting the cup to his mouth, but Owen had seen it.
‘You find that unlikely?’ Owen asked.
Aylward took his time setting his cup on the table beside him, dabbing his lips with a cloth. ‘Forgive me. I know nothing of these things. I merely- My good wife, you see, would like your theory. She is fond of blaming all her troubles on one source. And when you said- Well, in truth, it reminded me of her.’
If Roger Aylward was not telling the truth, he was a clever liar with a quick wit, for his explanation was credible in its singularity.
‘I hope that you are not considered the source of all her problems,’ Owen said with a smile.
Aylward chuckled. ‘No, we are content in one another. And I do sincerely hope that you do not consider me the source of John Lascelles’s troubles.’
‘I should be a fool to sit here partaking of your hospitality if that were so,’ Owen said, lifting his cup. ‘But I do ask a favour, that you tell me in your own words all you remember about the night of the theft.’
The receiver closed his eyes, leaned his head back on the bounteous pile of pillows. ‘Such a cursed night, and you wish to hear of it over and over again.’
So this, too, Geoffrey had requested. What was the man up to? ‘One last time, Master Aylward. I should be grateful. I might then rest assured that I know all that can be known of it.’
Aylward opened one eye. ‘You do not trust Master Chaucer’s memory? But you should, you know. He recited a long and most excellent tale of Seys and Alcyone that he is using in a poem of his own making, in honour of our Duke’s fair Duchess so sadly gone from us.’
So that was how Geoffrey had won the man’s friendship — by playing the bard. Owen would admire his ingenuity if he were not so angry. What was Geoffrey thinking, to come here and question the Duke’s receiver? What did he know of the cunning necessary for such things? Well, he knew something, Owen could not deny it. ‘I worry that he might not heed the finer details.’
Aylward sighed and began a recitation — for that was precisely how it sounded, a rehearsed description of the event. Aylward had sat alone at a table in the castle treasury having a cup of wine after a long session with his secretary, dictating letters to Lancaster and his Receiver General. During the past autumn Aylward had arranged shipping for the Duke’s coming expedition, travelling to various ports in south Wales to do so, and he owed an accounting of his activities, results, expenses. Whilst he sat at the table, his back to the door, a stranger entered the room, grabbed him from behind, dragging him from his chair — which toppled backward and crashed with such a noise he had hoped to see guards at the door at once. But fortune was not with him that evening. With a knife to Aylward’s throat the intruder made him open a chest, then flung the receiver from him with such force Aylward was thrown forward over the toppled chair — which is when he lost his tooth. When he stood up to throw himself upon the thief he was flung to the wall. And that is all he remembered.
Considering the heft of the man, at least what Owen could guess from the parts visible beneath the bedclothes, the thief must have been a man of some considerable strength. And yet Aylward’s vague description of the intruder made him of average weight and height.
‘He had no accomplice?’ Owen asked, frowning.
‘No.’
‘You called him a stranger. You saw his face?’
Aylward shook his head. ‘He wore a mask and no livery.’ He shook his head again, then moaned and called for the serving girl. ‘My head,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, as if weakened by the gesture.
‘A cold compress, soaked in lavender water if you have it,’ Owen said, ‘and some feverfew in his cider. That should soothe him.’
The maid looked puzzled. Even Aylward opened his eyes.
‘My wife is a master apothecary. I have learned much from her. It is the least I can offer, having been the cause of your present discomfort. God go with you, Master Aylward. You have been more than kind.’