Apparently Michaelo made note of it also. He did not sound so friendly as before when he asked, ‘How did you know who I was?’
‘When one travels alone, one enjoys gossip,’ said the stranger, the warmth once more in his voice. He rose, adjusted his clothing, then crouched and extended his left hand to Sir Robert. ‘And now, Brother Michaelo, I shall help you escort Sir Robert back to the palace. I am told that one is exhausted after a vision.’
As Sir Robert used the stranger’s hand and Michaelo’s shoulder to rise, he noticed that the former kept his right hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, even when it might assist him in balancing.
‘You are here to heal your hand?’ Sir Robert asked.
The stranger looked down at the hidden hand, back up at Sir Robert. ‘I am not worthy of such a miracle.’
As they walked slowly away from the sea and the crowd of pilgrims, the stranger kept his left hand on Sir Robert’s elbow. Brother Michaelo hovered on the other side.
‘I am better now,’ Sir Robert assured them. But they did not move away. ‘Are you always so attentive to ailing strangers?’ he asked, curious about the man.
‘Long ago I had the pleasure of befriending your daughter and her husband, Sir Robert,’ the stranger said.
‘You did?’ Sir Robert was amazed.
‘You are acquainted with quite a few people in York,’ said Michaelo, frowning.
‘I had business in your fair city for a time. Captain Archer and Mistress Wilton were kind to me. And to a lad of whom I was fond — Jasper de Melton. What has become of the boy?’
Although he could sense Michaelo’s unease, Sir Robert saw nothing threatening in the stranger’s knowing his family. Indeed, it made him far more comfortable about the man’s attentions. ‘Jasper is my daughter’s apprentice in the apothecary.’
The man was quiet a moment. Sir Robert glanced over, saw a tender expression on the man’s face.
‘Jasper was a great help to Lucie when the pestilence returned to York,’ said Sir Robert.
‘I am glad he has found his place in the world,’ said the stranger, his voice thick with emotion.
Something nudged at Sir Robert’s memory. But it was Michaelo who said quickly, ‘I know who you are. The Fleming Martin Wirthir.’
‘Ah!’ Sir Robert nodded eagerly, recognising the name. Though if the man had not asked after Jasper he would have spent hours, perhaps days trying to remember where he had heard it. He had never met the man who had saved the boy’s life, but he had heard much about him. Not all of it good.
‘His Grace would be interested to know you are here,’ said Michaelo, no friendlier than before. ‘Is the musician with you?’
‘You remember me so well. I am honoured,’ said Wirthir. ‘No, the musician is not with me. Ambrose now resides in Paris and often performs for King Charles.’
‘When I next see my daughter and her husband, I shall tell them of your kindness to me,’ said Sir Robert. He found Michaelo’s hostility embarrassing.
‘Forgive my boldness, Sir Robert,’ said Wirthir, ‘but I would ask whether you have the means to send a messenger to Captain Archer.’
‘A messenger? Why?’
‘I have an urgent letter for the Captain. Do you have someone you might send to Cydweli?’
‘How did you know where he is?’
‘Gossips took interest in his escorting the body of John de Reine back to Cydweli.’
‘Ah.’ Of course they would have talked of it. Sir Robert could see no point in pretending Owen was elsewhere. ‘You mentioned a letter?’
Wirthir drew a roll of parchment from his purse. Once again he suffered awkwardness in using only his left hand. ‘I believe that Captain Archer will wish to ride to St David’s at once when he reads this.’ He held it out to Sir Robert, who noted that it was wrapped in a string and sealed.
‘Why would you wish to draw Captain Archer here?’ Brother Michaelo asked.
Sir Robert shook his head. ‘Peace, Michaelo.’
But Martin Wirthir bowed to Brother Michaelo. ‘You deserve what little explanation I can give, to be sure. I know something about the death of John de Reine. And there are two nearby, arrived today, with whom the Captain would wish to speak.’
‘But this is not the business on which the Captain has come,’ said Sir Robert.
‘It has to do with the other business. A question of treason. A dangerous liaison.’
‘How do you know of this?’ Brother Michaelo asked. ‘Were you the Fleming involved in the troubles in Pembroke?’
Wirthir grinned. ‘Pembroke is full of Flemings, Brother Michaelo, planted there by your wise King.’
‘But-’
‘I said peace, Michaelo!’ Sir Robert snapped. If for no other reason than to alert Owen to Wirthir’s knowledge of his interest in Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s trouble, he must now send the messenger. To add a letter could do no harm — provided Sir Robert read it first. He bowed to Wirthir. ‘I do have a man I might send. He is trustworthy. But you have not explained. The two who arrived — why is that important to Owen? Who are they?’
‘The wife of the steward of Cydweli. And the priest who travelled to Cydweli with the Captain. It is best that I say no more. One of them may be in danger. But I would ask you to tell no one of our meeting save the messenger and Captain Archer.’
‘Presumptuous-’ Brother Michaelo clamped his mouth shut as Sir Robert gave him a dark look.
‘You can trust us,’ Sir Robert said.
Wirthir handed him the letter. ‘God bless you.’
Sir Robert tucked the letter into his scrip. ‘May God watch over the messenger.’
They were now at Patrick’s Gate. Martin Wirthir bowed, wished them Godspeed, and withdrew into the crowd.
‘I wonder what is wrong with his right hand?’ Sir Robert said.
‘He has none,’ Michaelo said. ‘Do you not remember? Beware that one, Sir Robert.’
Eighteen
As he walked down the slope towards the cathedral, Sir Robert felt sweat trickling down his back. High up on the cliff over St Non’s Bay the breeze had been chilly despite the bright sun; but here in the valley there was no breeze. He pushed back his hat, plucked at his pilgrim’s gown, its rough cloth beginning to itch as the sweat made it stick to his skin. And such a weakness in his legs. He was embarrassed how he leaned on Brother Michaelo’s shoulder for support.
‘You do not need to suffer in that coarse gown,’ Michaelo said, putting an arm round Sir Robert. Michaelo’s habit was of a very fine, soft wool cloth from Flanders, sewn by a tailor in Paris. ‘You are wretched enough with the cough.’
‘Your parents did no favour to the Church when they gave you to God,’ Sir Robert muttered as he wriggled in his clothing, ‘you who devote yourself to the delicate art of balancing just on the edge of your vows.’ Perhaps it was good they walked so close together, for Sir Robert’s voice was so weak his companion might not hear him if he stood upright and at a normal distance.
Rather than returning the insult, Brother Michaelo asked, ‘You do intend to read the letter?’
Sir Robert felt it a risk to send the messenger without knowing the contents of the letter — what if he was being used to lure Owen into a trap? But would Owen trust a letter with a broken seal? ‘It is sealed.’
‘A seal can be eased open and resealed if one has the skill.’
‘And you do?’
Michaelo bowed slightly. ‘Some failings are useful.’
God bless him. ‘What was it that he did, Michaelo? To lose the hand?’
‘It was a madman who did it. It has nothing to do with us.’
‘What did Archbishop Thoresby want with him?’
‘He needed a witness. Martin Wirthir did not wish to oblige.’
‘Come,’ Michaelo urged. ‘The porter will surely remember whether the wife of Lancaster’s steward arrived with the vicar.’
But the porter did not recall seeing Father Edern with a woman, though several women had arrived at the palace that morning.