‘Was it the pilgrim?’ Dafydd asked. Aled nodded. Dafydd dropped to his knees beside the bed and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Brother Samson.’
‘This man was the attacker?’ Maelgwn’s wife hissed. She took a step towards the bed as if to protect her patient.
‘No,’ said Brother Dyfrig, staying her with a hand. ‘But it was he who asked Brother Samson to escort the pilgrim to Strata Florida.’
‘Brother Samson, can you hear me?’ Dafydd whispered.
The monk moaned.
‘It is Master Dafydd and Brother Dyfrig.’
Samson opened his eyes wide, looked at one, the other, then let his lids fall.
‘Look at his servant, will you? Not a mark on him,’ Maelgwn’s wife said with a sniff.
Aled looked up, and spoke in a voice shrill with indignation. ‘Brother Samson took off after the pilgrim.’ Now that he showed his face, Dafydd could see the signs of much weeping.
‘Tell us, Aled,’ Dyfrig said sternly. ‘We cannot know the truth of it unless you help us see it.’
Farmer Maelgwn had been sitting in the deep shadows in the corner of the room. Now he shifted, moved a stool close. His bushy brows knit together as he frowned down at the young man.
Aled wiped his nose on his sleeve and eyed his audience warily, but as Dyfrig opened his mouth to command him he nodded and began, ‘We had not come far. The oak wood that is just beyond this farm. The pilgrim began to moan and fall forward over his horse. I dismounted and rushed to help him. He kicked me in the head — ’ the young man turned his head towards the light so all could see the bruise on his left temple ‘- and whipped my horse so he bolted, then rode off like the wind. Brother Samson spurred his horse and went after him. What was I to do with no horse?’ Aled sniffed and searched the faces of his audience.
‘Continue your tale,’ Dyfrig said.
‘I know not how long I searched, nor how far I walked before I discovered my horse at a stream. When I had calmed him I sat and wondered what to do. .’ Aled droned on and on, through indecisions, muddy accidents, a torn habit and a rumbling stomach until at last he came to his discovery of Brother Samson the following morning, soaked and shivering beside the stream, his horse grazing nearby. ‘From the gash in his head and his broken leg, I think he rode beneath a low branch and fell from his horse. He said he rolled into the stream to cool the pain of his leg, but then he rolled too far.’
‘The chill is in his bones,’ Maelgwn said. ‘And the pilgrim has gone south.’
‘Is this one of your prophecies?’ Dafydd asked.
Maelgwn raised his eyes upward, lifted his arms and declaimed in a deep voice, ‘The well filled with light, and then rising from the water came Carn Llidi, then Penmaen Dewi.’
St David’s Head and the burial chamber above it. And where else would Rhys head but back to his unfinished business? Dafydd glanced over at Dyfrig. ‘We must pursue him.’
‘I shall sit with Brother Samson tonight.’
‘And in the morning-’
‘We shall decide what we must do.’
Seventeen
Brother Michaelo sat up with a cry. ‘Wulfstan!’ He stared wildly at the far wall. Sir Robert was by his side at once, soothing him, reassuring him that he had only seen Brother Wulfstan in a dream. There was no ghostly monk in the room. It was the third time Michaelo had had such a nightmare. Sir Robert feared it was his own incessant coughing that disturbed the monk’s sleep and brought on bad dreams.
Michaelo’s eyes focused on Sir Robert, then the lamp beside his bed. Still he trembled and would not look out into the room. ‘I saw him again, putting the cup to his lips.’ Michaelo crossed himself. ‘By all that is holy, how could I have done such a thing to that good man?’ Seven years past he had served Brother Wulfstan a poisoned drink, hoping by the infirmarian’s death to protect a friend.
‘He did not die by your hand, Michaelo. God was not ready for him.’ The poison had made Wulfstan very ill, but had not killed him. It was the pestilence the summer past that had stilled Wulfstan’s great heart. Sir Robert put a cup of wine in Brother Michaelo’s trembling hands. ‘Drink this.’ He turned away to cough.
‘My nightmares are making you worse. You should do to me what I meant to do to him.’
Sir Robert managed a smile as he fought another cough. ‘It is a tempting proposition, I assure you,’ he wheezed, ‘but I would not let you escape your pain so easily.’ He allowed another coughing fit. ‘Nor do I wish to risk my immortal soul with your blood on my hands.’
‘“Evil shall slay the wicked: and they that hate the righteous shall be desolate,”’ Michaelo whispered.
Sir Robert thought it a fitting psalm, but the monk had stopped too soon. ‘Then David said, “The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants: and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.”’
‘I am not worth your concern,’ Brother Michaelo said.
‘Come. Drink the wine.’
Pliable in his need, Brother Michaelo gulped down the wine, shivered, then lay back down.
‘God forgave you long ago, as did Wulfstan,’ said Sir Robert. ‘“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.”’ He paused, realised that the monk already drifted back to sleep. Sir Robert took away the cup, poured himself some of the physick Owen had left for his cough, and took it to his own bed, where he burrowed beneath several blankets and a skin.
Warmth eluded him, but as Sir Robert sipped the physick he felt his throat relax. At least he might now lie quietly for a while. He closed his eyes and thought of his long dead wife, Amélie. He saw her as she had looked the day he presented himself at her father’s manor in Normandy and told Amélie’s mother that she might have her husband back, uninjured and in good temper, for a ransom. She had withdrawn with her elderly father-in-law, returned leading the bewitching young Amélie before her. The young woman, eyes modestly trained on her slippers, curtseyed before him, then stood silently with hands entwined in rosary beads. She was offered in exchange for her father. ‘A wife is of more use to you than a proud man who eats your food and drinks your wine while waiting for a chance to slit your throat, n’est-ce pas?’
Robert had loved Amélie, sweet Jesu how he had loved her. But he had not known how to show his love. As was his custom, he imagined a different ending to their tale, that she had not fallen in love with another, that she had awaited him and not Montaigne in the maze at Freythorpe Hadden on his return. How many times since Amélie’s death had Robert walked that maze, imagining what it must have been like to be the one awaited, to have her fly into his arms when he found her in the centre. Hot tears slid out the sides of his eyes and coursed along his temples. He was an old fool, to yearn so for another chance with her. God had for His own mysterious reasons chosen to delay Sir Robert’s happiness, to give it to him in the form of a loving daughter and two perfect grandchildren.
The unsettled weather of the day before gave way to a haze that promised sunshine later in the morning. Geoffrey took it as a sign that they had God’s blessing. They departed by the north gate of Cydweli Castle to avoid most of the town. Though it was early, the sound of horses would bring folk to their doors, and Owen did not wish to call attention to his party. For all he knew the chaplain’s murderer yet hid in the town. Let Burley deal with him.
Duncan and Iolo led the group, followed by Owen and Geoffrey, then the bishop’s men, and Jared brought up the rear. Owen had misgivings about the size of the company. After all, they pursued only an older man and his squire. Speed would stand them in better stead than numbers. But fussing now would only cause delay.
Sir Robert opened his eyes to behold a new day, and Brother Michaelo already dressing.