His summation was met with silence. Geoffrey closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, side to side, as if disbelieving. Owen marvelled at the bishop’s clarity of mind.
As the sun set, a breeze fluttered across the lately tilled garden beds and whispered in the branches, dimly lit by torchlight spilling over the garden wall from the courtyard. It was a chilly breeze. Bishop Houghton rubbed his hands together. Geoffrey rose and asked for the nearest privy.
While Geoffrey disappeared round the corner of the kitchen, Owen and the bishop moved to the courtyard, which was more protected from the evening air.
‘How much of this does Sir John know?’ Owen asked.
‘Only that his wife was here and now is safe in the palace of St David’s, and that my archdeacon shall consider their case. I also promised a Welsh judge in attendance to explain her arguments, which are based on the law of Hywel Dda.’
‘And Mistress Tangwystl? Does she know you believe Rhys to be a murderer?’
Houghton snorted. ‘Do you think that a man of the cloth does not understand how the heart rules in love?’
‘You took a risk, trusting both to obey you.’
‘I saw no reason for Mistress Tangwystl to do otherwise. But Sir John — all day my mind misgave me. But was I to lock him up in my dungeon? He is too high in the Duke’s service to treat him thus. In the morning you must hurry, catch him, guide him to a safe harbour.’
And keep him away from his wife and the vicar? For it now seemed to Owen that Lascelles was the one most likely to have attacked the chaplain, though he had timed it ill. Still, what did it mean that Tangwystl and Edern had not talked of the chaplain’s beating? Gladys’s story would have it they were likely aware of it. Was it not a sign of guilt to say nothing of this to the bishop?
Nineteen
At sunset Dafydd’s company paused by a stream to water their horses and to wash some of the dust from their faces before presenting themselves at a large farmhouse they had sighted down the road.
A rustling in the underbrush alerted them to intruders. Cadwal and Madog grabbed their knives and swords, Dyfrig ducked beneath his horse and pulled out a dagger, Dafydd grabbed a good stout branch in one hand, his own dagger in another, and prayed that it was but a wild animal come to drink at the stream. The noise stopped. Whatever it was, it knew it was discovered, just as they knew it of themselves. Wretched uncertainty. Should they run or stand their ground, demand it show itself or stay silent, hoping it would pass? A branch cracked behind Dafydd. He spun round, saw nothing. Sweat caught a lock of his hair as he moved his head, blinded him for a moment. As he reached up with the stick-burdened hand to brush away his hair, something huge rushed up and caught him. The attacker cursed as Dafydd jabbed blindly with his dagger. He fought down Dafydd’s hand and pressed it to his side.
It was one of the Cydweli men. Behind him, Dafydd now heard shouts, cries, grunts, and felt the ground tremble as the horses fled in terror. He prayed God his harp survived. Dafydd tried to pry himself loose from his captor but was held tight. He tried another tactic, standing still, almost limp, and then suddenly pushing out his elbows with all his strength. For a few heartbeats Dafydd was free, free to wheel round and view the disaster. Cadwal and Madog thrashed and cursed and stabbed at a fishing net that had caught them. Dyfrig sat on the ground nursing what looked to be a broken arm. As his captor’s arms reached for Dafydd, he pushed away.
‘There is no need. We are defeated.’
Brother Michaelo deemed it prudent to have a meal sent to their room that evening, but Sir Robert rose from his nap refreshed and insisted on dining in the great hall.
‘Mistress Lascelles may be there,’ Sir Robert argued. ‘I may learn something of value to add to Edmund’s message.’
As Sir Robert reached for his sandals, Michaelo clucked his tongue and held up soft leather shoes. Reluctantly, Sir Robert put on the warmer shoes. He doubted a chill would worsen the rumble in his chest, but he understood that Michaelo meant well.
‘You should rest.’ Brother Michaelo tugged at Sir Robert’s plain pilgrim’s gown. ‘But if you insist on this, might I suggest you wear a gown that befits your station? Men — and women — are more likely to confide in equals or those of higher degree.’
Michaelo had a talent for this intrigue. Sir Robert opened the chest at the foot of his bed and shook out a silk gown. The monk nodded his approval.
As Sir Robert dressed, Michaelo stared up at the painting of King Henry crossing Llechllafar. ‘I tell you what I do not like. That Wirthir would not tell us the significance of the vicar’s escorting the steward’s wife to St David’s.’
‘What do you fear from him?’
‘That he will lure Owen to St David’s through us. Suppose he is the Fleming? Surely you remember that Gruffydd ap Goronwy was accused of offering hospitality to a Fleming who was a spy for the fool who calls himself the redeemer of the Welsh — the French King’s puppet. .’ Michaelo turned to Sir Robert, who had sat down heavily on the bed, breathing in painful gasps. ‘My friend, you must rest.’
Sir Robert shook his head. Soon there would be time enough for rest. An eternity.
Michaelo helped him sip some warm honey-and-sage water. ‘I had not meant to upset you. I pray that I am wrong and he means to help the Captain.’
Sir Robert coughed after the first gulp, but then the drink soothed him and steadied his breathing.
‘You see?’ Michaelo said. ‘This is what you need. A quiet evening.’
‘You have given me even more reason to find out all I can for Owen.’ Sir Robert rose with care, was pleased to feel steady on his feet — as steady as he ever felt these days. ‘Come. While we walk to the hall I shall tell you about the lady in the chapel.’
When Cadwal, Madog, Dafydd and Dyfrig were bound and quiet and the horses rounded up, the Duke’s men built a fire and shared round their captives’ food. One of the men tried not to use his right arm, not completely mended from the ambush at Dafydd’s house; one limped and his blood still stained a bandage round his forehead; and another held his arm pressed to a bandage round his middle.
‘You are all injured,’ Dafydd said. ‘How did you get past my dogs?’
‘Poppy juice,’ said the limper. ‘Your servants were so generous with it, I shared my bounty with your hounds. Soaked into a trencher they thought it a treat.’
His heart pounding, Dafydd said, ‘By St Roch, if you have harmed Nest and Cadwy. .’
‘Rest easy, old man. They merely slept.’
‘And my servants?’
‘They fared no worse than we did.’
‘How did you overtake us?’ Madog asked.
The one with no visible injuries except for the cut on his arm where Dafydd’s dagger had grazed him, settled back against his saddle and grinned. ‘We discovered you on the road behind us.’
‘How is that possible? We rode like the wind.’
‘Be quiet!’ Dyfrig hissed. ‘Tell them nothing.’
‘There is nothing to tell,’ Dafydd said. They had tarried too long at Maelgwn’s house, that was plain.
‘Where is Rhys ap Llywelyn?’ demanded the spokesman.
Dafydd frowned, shook his head. ‘I have told you before, I do not know this man of whom you speak.’
‘You ride south. To St David’s?’
‘To complain of your attack and ask the Archdeacon of Cardigan to intercede for us, demand of your lord reparation for the damage. Now we have even more to complain of.’