‘I was glad to see you sleeping peacefully,’ Michaelo said.
Sir Robert sat up slowly, expecting to feel drowsy — he feared he had taken too much of the physick. But he felt quite well. So well that he proposed they return to St Non’s.
‘I wish to pray once more for my family, and I thought perhaps you might pray for Wulfstan’s soul and a reprieve from your nightmares.’
Brother Michaelo agreed to the journey, though he made it plain that his own prayers would be for Sir Robert. ‘I keep you wakeful with my nightmares and because of that your cough has worsened.’
‘We are being too kind to one another,’ Sir Robert protested. ‘We become dull, frightened old men.’
‘Old?’
Sir Robert was pleased to see Brother Michaelo flare his nostrils and tuck in his chin in horror. He preferred the monk’s usual, self-centred self to the hovering companion.
The soft muzzle of a dog against Dafydd’s face brought a cheerful awakening in Maelgwn’s quiet farmhouse. It had a white coat so well brushed it almost shimmered and long ears so delicate the flush of blood showed through the white fur. Now it nuzzled beneath Dafydd’s arm — for warmth, a good rubbing, or in search of some treasure Dafydd could not guess. He chuckled and praised the beast as he rubbed its head.
But Cadwal, sleeping next to Dafydd on a large pallet near the fire, was not so pleased with the visitor. ‘Cwn Annwn!’ he hissed. ‘We face death on this journey.’ The Cwn Annwn were hounds belonging to Arawn, a king of the Otherworld, who tracked those who were to die within the year.
The other men sought to calm him. The dog’s ears might be called red, but that was because the dog’s fur was so pale. His eyes were not fire, he did not drip blood; he was gentle and quite real, and his name was Cant.
‘Had he approached you by night, and only you,’ Madog said, ‘ah, then we might cross ourselves and pray for your soul.’
Dafydd hissed at Madog to be quiet — his loose tongue would not help them calm Cadwal.
The farmer had entered the house as they spoke and stood shaking his head at Cadwal. ‘Such a giant and a coward?’
‘You would call me a coward?’ Cadwal roared. Within a breath he was afoot, towering over the smirking farmer. Madog tried to grab his fellow’s arms and pin them behind him, but he was no match for Cadwal’s strength.
It was Cant’s low growl that stayed Cadwal’s hands.
‘With a temper like that you may well be dead within the year,’ Maelgwn said. ‘Is this how you reward my assistance?’
Cadwal fell to his knees before the farmer and bowed his head. ‘I pray you, tell me that you have not seen a vision of my death.’
Dafydd should have known better than to bring Cadwal to the house of a seer. The giant man feared nothing material and all things spiritual.
‘I have not seen a vision of your death,’ Maelgwn said. ‘But we should all live in grace, for we never know when God will choose to call us.’
Still Cadwal knelt, his large hands clasped above his head in submission and prayer.
Dafydd touched the giant’s shoulder. ‘Be comforted. Maelgwn meant only to quiet your anger.’
In the end it was Maelgwn’s wife who calmed the giant with a skin of wine and some bread and cheese.
The sun rose behind Sir Robert and Michaelo as they left the shelter of the trees. It reached down to light the sea and dazzle their eyes. Sir Robert tipped his pilgrim’s hat lower over his eyes. Wind caught at their cloaks as they made their way with a host of other pilgrims down the path to the holy well. Sir Robert felt God’s breath in the wind, the light of faith in the sun-dappled sea. His own breath caught in his throat, tears ran down his face. God had granted him a most precious gift in permitting him the strength to make this journey.
For once Brother Michaelo was a silent companion. Though they waited long for their turn at the well, the monk said nothing, standing with head bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer.
When his turn came at last, Sir Robert removed his hat and eased himself down beside the stone-roofed well. The water was clear but dark in the roof’s shadow. A few early spring blossoms dressed the surface, offerings from pilgrims. A breeze shivered the water and moved the flowers to the edge. As the pool calmed, Sir Robert gasped and crossed himself, for his dead wife Amélie, her face pale and solemn, stared up at him, her dark hair a cloud that spread out to the edges of the pool.
‘Amélie my love,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me.’ She closed her eyes, opened them, and as the vision began to dissolve he saw for one brief breath her sweet mouth turn up into a smile. ‘My love!’ He touched the water with his fingertips, but he felt as if his whole body dipped beneath the calm surface. Had she drawn him in with her? He smiled as the water closed over him.
He awoke in the field beside St Non’s Chapel gazing up at the blue sky. Blinking rapidly against the brightness, he covered his eyes and fought the despair that had welled up within when he realised Amélie had not come for him. What gratitude was this, when he had been blessed with such a vision? When he withdrew his hand to welcome the light, a dark-eyed face filled the sky, a face vaguely familiar, though seen at an odd angle. Sir Robert must be lying with his head on the lap of the man who bent over him. The man’s lips were moving, but Sir Robert could not hear him over the roaring in his ears. He closed his eyes again, tried to breathe evenly and quiet his pounding heart. Gradually the roaring faded to the steady drumming of the waves on the rocks below. Sir Robert opened his eyes again. The face reappeared. The man was very like Owen. But not like.
‘Can you hear me now?’ the man asked. French. The man spoke Parisian French — though his accent was not that of a Frenchman. Sir Robert could not place it. But he was delighted to be thinking so clearly.
‘He may not understand.’ Brother Michaelo’s voice. He must be kneeling beside the stranger.
‘I can hear you,’ Sir Robert said in his best French. ‘I had a vision.’
‘A vision!’ Brother Michaelo whispered.
‘Ah. That explains the faint,’ the stranger said.
‘He has not been well,’ Michaelo explained.
The effort to speak had made Sir Robert cough. He struggled to sit up. A strong hand supported him as a wave of dizziness made the field spin round. ‘God bless you,’ Sir Robert said rather breathlessly.
‘God has blessed you, Sir Robert,’ the man said, ‘to see a vision at the holy well.’
Sir Robert could now see the man right side up, and more than his face. With the narrow beard, dark hair and earring one might mistake him for Owen — before the terrible scarring of his left eye had forced him to wear the patch. But on closer examination Sir Robert realised that the stranger’s hair was straighter and slightly lighter than Owen’s. He wore simple clothes, a dark tunic, cloak and leather leggings. It was the clothes that jogged Sir Robert’s memory. ‘I have seen you before. Here. At the well.’
The stranger tilted his head to one side. ‘There is nothing wrong with your memory. I have seen you here also.’
Brother Michaelo chose that moment to fuss, kneeling beside Sir Robert, feeling his forehead, his cheeks. ‘You are chilled.’ He took a flask from his scrip, handed it to Sir Robert. ‘Drink this.’
Sir Robert sniffed. ‘You carry wine in your pilgrim scrip?’
The stranger laughed. Judging from the network of lines at the corners of his eyes, he enjoyed merriment. ‘You talk to each other as old friends. You are the secretary of the Archbishop of York, is that not so?’
Michaelo beamed, always ready to acknowledge his importance. ‘I am indeed His Grace’s secretary. He kindly sacrificed his convenience to allow me this pilgrimage. Are you acquainted with His Grace?’
The stranger’s eyes lost some of their humour as he said, ‘We have met.’
Sir Robert wondered at the sudden chill in the stranger’s voice, obvious after such warmth.