Owen did not intend to speculate with Burley. ‘I am going after the three of them. I do not ask for your men. Mine will suffice. Nor do I need a shadow.’
‘Duncan would make an excellent guide.’
Duncan must be an excellent assassin. ‘He would crowd me.’
‘He will be ordered to keep his distance. You need not take all of your men, surely.’
‘No.’
‘What of Master Chaucer?’
Indeed. What of Geoffrey? ‘No doubt he will do what he pleases.’
Owen’s entrance made Geoffrey start and drop his pen. He cursed as a spot of ink trembled on the parchment, then slowly spread flat. ‘Devil’s own is what you are,’ Geoffrey muttered, blotting the stain with frantic energy. ‘Where have you been? Where is Gladys?’
‘Safe.’ Owen considered an apology, thought better of it. Geoffrey had much to answer for. ‘So you are assisting me in an investigation, eh? And what did you learn on your rounds?’
Geoffrey wiped his nose, smudging it with ink, faced Owen with a comically stern face. ‘I learned,’ he said quietly, ‘that Aylward gave a vague description which was then connected to someone who had been boasting in the tavern.’
‘A vague description. Aye. And one that does not fit the tale.’ Owen shook his head. ‘The man has the story by heart, did you note that? And he looks far too hale and hardy to be still abed from an attack eighteen days ago.’
Geoffrey dabbed at the stain on his nose with jerky anger. ‘What about the tooth?’
Owen hid a smile. ‘What do you know of Sir John’s disappearance?’
‘That Burley thinks it coincided too closely with yours. And that he rode out with only his squire.’
‘Roger Aylward thinks you are a bard.’
Geoffrey blushed. ‘I made no claim-’
‘Clever, that was.’ Owen rose to answer a knock at the door.
Iolo stood without. ‘You sent for me, Captain?’
‘You, Jared and the bishop’s men — prepare to ride out with me in the morning.’
‘But the others? And the archers?’
‘We shall return for them. We go to St David’s on an errand for the Duke. Burley’s man Duncan will accompany us.’
Geoffrey was right behind Owen when he turned from the door. ‘What intrigue is this?’
‘Burley has agreed that I am the best man to pursue Sir John and his lady. And Edern.’
‘To St David’s?’
‘It is the logical place for them to go.’
‘I am coming with you.’
‘What of your mission?’
‘It was my understanding that we shared the same mission. Has that changed?’
Sixteen
Unsettled by Brother Dyfrig’s information, Dafydd had spent the time since his conversation with the monk studying a growing patch of damp on the whitewashed wall above the garden window. The darkening patch seemed at first a simple matter, something about which to instruct the servants. But as the shape shifted, sending out tendrils of damp along unseen cracks in the plaster, he saw how insidious was this leak, how easily it might bring the wall down and the roof with it. How did such a disaster begin? Had a small animal nested in the thatch and worn away a portion by the wall? Had a cross-beam begun to rot? Was it merely God’s will that the wall should fall?
So too with the pilgrim. Had there been a moment in which Dafydd might have seen the danger in shielding him? Had he been arrogant in granting sanctuary in his house? Was God angry that he had not taken the pilgrim to a proper sanctuary? Back to St David’s, to the church of St David and St Andrew? Did God test Dafydd?
And all the while, darkness slowly spread over the wall before him like a plague of ants.
While Dafydd was thus absorbed, Mair appeared at his side, her lovely face darkened with worry. ‘Forgive me, Master, but you did not hear my knock. You have taken no food, no drink since this morning. Are you unwell?’
‘Unwell?’ He considered his pounding heart, the dampness at the nape of his neck. ‘My soul aches. Bring me a cup of cider.’ As Mair hastened to obey, Dafydd called after her, ‘God has answered me in your concern. Bless you.’
After Dafydd had refreshed himself, a wan late afternoon sun at last lured him into the garden. He breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation of a spreading calm.
And then Brother Dyfrig stepped out into the garden. Though the cowl shadowed Dyfrig’s face, Dafydd sensed the monk’s eyes on him. The author of his earlier anxieties, Dyfrig was the last person with whom Dafydd wished to speak, but he could think of no courteous escape. So he spread out his arms and bowed to the monk. ‘Benedicte, Brother Dyfrig.’
Dyfrig bowed, uncovered his head. ‘Benedicte, Master Dafydd.’
The hooded eyes considered Dafydd closely. It was not Dyfrig’s way, this direct gaze. Dafydd dreaded more distressing revelations. ‘You are now rested?’
‘Dry and rested. God bless you for your generous hospitality.’ Brother Dyfrig made the sign of the cross over Dafydd and the garden.
Perhaps it was the time to voice his concern. ‘I have thought long on what you suggested,’ Dafydd said, ‘the connections — Tangwystl, my pilgrim, Lawgoch. .’
Dyfrig nodded brusquely. ‘You see the pattern.’ He then glanced away, and in a quieter voice began, ‘Master-’
‘Worse!’ Dafydd interrupted, not wanting to lose his train of thought. ‘I see the danger. My intention was to offer the pilgrim sanctuary until he healed. I believed God put him in my path for that purpose. I did not intend to offer my life for him — by the Trinity, I do not even know his name. His family.’
‘But I-’
‘His politics is the only thing I do know.’
Dyfrig looked surprised. ‘Do you?’
‘You implied he supported that red-handed fool, Lawgoch.’
‘No. I suggested a connection, not precisely what it was. Is the pilgrim a supporter of Lawgoch? Or did he murder Lawgoch’s supporter? Was he the companion of the dead man, and if so, were they supporters of Lawgoch or King Edward?’ Dyfrig shook his head. ‘You still know nothing of the man. But-’
‘But that he has brought me much danger. What of my honourable name?’ Dafydd raised his voice when Dyfrig would speak. ‘Knowing now how dangerous is the pilgrim’s company, I am concerned for Brother Samson and his party. I would hasten to join them, provide an armed escort, but how can I leave my servants with these Cydweli men?’ There. He had followed his thought to the conclusion.
Brother Dyfrig was shaking his head. ‘You sent no armed escort with Brother Samson?’
Now the criticism began. ‘I thought an armed escort would draw attention to them. A monk, his servant, and an ailing pilgrim — no one would make note of them.’
‘No one but thieves. They think all men of the Church carry bags full of gold chalices and pilgrims’ offerings.’ Dyfrig dropped his gaze, softened his voice. ‘But it is not of that I wish to speak. My conscience will not let me rest, Master Dafydd. I have kept something from you.’
Here it was, the dreaded revelation.
‘The name of the man Cydweli men seek — it is Rhys ap Llywelyn, is it not?’
‘It is.’
‘That is the man you sheltered. Your pilgrim.’
Did Dyfrig think Dafydd would not have guessed that? ‘I suspected it was so. He was too cleverly confused when we called him by that name. And for the Cydweli men to return in such a way, they must have been very certain of his identity.’
Dyfrig did not look up, showed no sign of relief at Dafydd’s lack of surprise.
It set Dafydd to thinking. ‘But what are you saying? You know him?’
‘I know his kinsman.’
Dafydd felt his dread warming to anger. ‘How do you know his kinsman?’
‘He once did a favour for my family.’
A favour? By the rood, he knew him well. ‘And Rhys’s politics? Do you know them?’