When Henry of Grosmont died, Owen had been given the opportunity of going either into the service of the new Duke, John of Gaunt, or John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and then Lord Chancellor of England.
‘Do you regret choosing the archbishop over the Duke so many years ago?’
‘I chose the man I thought it would be most honourable to serve. Perhaps I was a fool.’ Owen shook his head as Geoffrey opened his mouth to tease. ‘And yet I cannot say with any surety that your Duke is worthier.’
‘You would do well to court him. You must forge a new alliance. John Thoresby looks pale of late. He behaves as one making his peace with God, preparing for the next world. What will you do when he is gone?’
What indeed? Thoresby was seventy-five — a venerable age, and a vulnerable one. But Owen did not wish to confide his doubts about his future to Geoffrey. He was not yet so good a friend as to be trusted with such knowledge of Owen’s insecurities, too in love with his own wit to resist using the information if it would entertain the right people or win him some coveted honour. ‘You make too much of his mood. Thoresby is merely in mourning. The Queen’s death deprived the archbishop of his closest friend.’ It bothered Owen that Geoffrey had noticed Thoresby’s failing health. It must be more obvious than he had thought. ‘I shall be content to assist Lucie in the shop and the garden when His Grace passes on.’ Owen’s wife was a Master Apothecary in York, and had trained him to assist her.
Geoffrey made a mocking face. ‘Content? I predict that so quiet a life would be such a penance to you it would gain you enough indulgences to wash away all your sins — or it would poison your heart and set you on the path to damnation.’
Another observation too close to the mark, too close to Lucie’s prediction. ‘It is no fors. Thoresby lives.’ Owen was not deaf to Geoffrey’s advice. Lancaster was young, his power growing apace with his ambition. But Owen did not like the thought of such a lord — quick to laughter, quick to take offence. And he did not wish to discuss it tonight. ‘I am concerned about John de Reine.’
Geoffrey was suddenly serious. ‘Indeed. If someone has learned of his correspondence with the Duke — someone loyal to John Lascelles — he may be in danger.’
When Archbishop Thoresby had told Owen of Lancaster’s request, he had alluded to a sensitive issue that would be explained by the Duke himself. He would tell Owen only that it touched on a piece of Charles of France’s treachery.
In London, Owen and Geoffrey met with the Duke at his palace of the Savoy. Owen had not seen John of Gaunt since the deaths the year before of both his wife, the beautiful Blanche of Lancaster, and his mother, Queen Phillippa. The Duke was thirty now, and although his fair hair showed no signs of grey and he was yet broad in the shoulders and straight backed, there were shadows beneath his arresting eyes. There was also a wariness about those eyes and a tension in the jaw that the forked beard did not quite hide. The war with France was not going well, and the Duke had been blamed for some of the recent disappointments. Unjustly, according to Geoffrey. For the first time, Owen felt a sympathy for the Duke. He seemed ever to shoulder the blame for the King’s mistakes.
But as the Duke began to speak, Owen’s momentary sympathy faded. It was with a chilling calm that the Duke described the latest treachery of Charles of France. The French king harboured in his court a Welsh mercenary, Owain Lawgoch, or Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri ap Gruffudd, sometimes called Owain of the Red Hand, who had an impeccable Welsh pedigree — he was a great-nephew of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, Llywelyn the Last, who had once united most of Wales, the last of the great kings. Owain Lawgoch was also a soldier of considerable experience, had the confidence of leading French commanders such as Bertrand du Guesclin, and most importantly the support of King Charles. It was said that the French King had loaned Lawgoch some spies to stir up the Welsh and encourage them to betray the English to the French. In exchange, Lawgoch would have a chance to return to Wales as a ruler friendly to his allies across the Channel. King Edward and the Duke of Lancaster wanted Owen and Geoffrey to find out whether Lawgoch was making inroads in Wales. But the Duke had an additional concern.
‘It has recently come to my attention that my steward in Wales, John Lascelles, has taken to wife the daughter of a man who fled his home in the March of Pembroke after being accused of harbouring a French spy. It is said that Lascelles offered the fleeing man, one Gruffydd ap Goronwy, sanctuary and land in the March of Cydweli in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
‘Traitors both?’ the Duke said. ‘One traitor and a besotted steward? Or is there no traitor, simply a man unjustly accused and a friend who keeps faith in him?’
John de Reine, the man Owen and Geoffrey were to meet at Carreg Cennen, had been one of the Duke’s sources of information on this topic, citing concern for Lascelles’s reputation and a strong distrust of Gruffydd ap Goronwy.
‘Reine’s concern is well motivated,’ explained the Duke. ‘He is Lascelles’s natural son, and owes his position to his father’s reputation.’
‘Which he impugns by this report,’ Geoffrey said.
‘It is Lascelles who risks his reputation by this marriage,’ the Duke said. ‘In his letter, Reine cites concern about his natural father’s neglect of his duties beyond Cydweli — he has not been in Carreg Cennen, Monmouth or back in England to see to his estates in nearly two years. Indeed, it is uncharacteristic of Lascelles to behave so.’
Owen had found this reasoning questionable. ‘I am with Geoffrey. Reine worries about Lascelles’s name and yet suggests to you, Lascelles’s lord, that his father is acting in a questionable, perhaps even treasonous manner. I would not call him a fond son.’
‘Lascelles need not have used his influence to get his son placed at Cydweli,’ the Duke said. ‘John de Reine acknowledges this in the letter and says he is grateful.’
‘Is he?’ Owen had not been convinced.
‘You must take the measure of this man I have entrusted with Monmouth, Carreg Cennen, and Cydweli,’ the Duke said, rising. ‘Reine is to meet you at Carreg Cennen. I hope he will be more at ease discussing his father at a distance from Cydweli — and safer.’
Hence their concern about Reine’s absence.
‘We know little about the man,’ Owen said.
Geoffrey shook his head and blinked, as if Owen’s words had pulled him from a reverie. ‘The good steward’s bastard? Seed sown in youth, reaped in middle age, eh?’
‘Here they make little note of whether a child was born within the bonds of marriage and often acknowledge their natural children. Does Sir John practise the Welsh custom to reassure the people he rules?’
‘I think not. Reine is reportedly a good soldier, so Sir John can make good use of him. But note he does not carry his father’s name. John Lascelles does not formally acknowledge him.’
‘Do you think he will come? Has he perhaps changed his mind?’
‘His letter to the Duke was that of a man discomfited by circumstances. Puzzled by Lascelles’s behaviour. He called him blinded by his wife’s beauty and strangeness, led into error by his obsession. Such are not the words of one who will change with the wind.’
Owen was not so sure.
‘And you know my suspicion, despite what he wrote in his letter — that the son is in love with the young wife,’ Geoffrey said.
Rising to stretch the stiffness out of his back, Owen studied the fire and pondered that possibility. Many a young man grew infatuated with his father’s young wife, but it would be a foolish man who involved the Duke in such a rivalry. ‘What do you know of John Lascelles?’
‘He worked hard for the Duke’s previous steward in Wales. He is a recent appointment — his predecessor Banastre died of plague, I believe. Sir John was considered a man worthy of the Duke’s trust. Until his marriage the only ill I heard of him was that his arrogant demeanour irritated many.’