Dyfrig glared at Dafydd.
Dafydd ignored him. As if his words made any difference in their plight. What could be worse than being tired, hungry, aching from the attack, and trussed up like slaughtered pigs? But at least his harp had survived the wild ride through the underbrush unscathed.
Liveried servants greeted Sir Robert and Michaelo at the door of the great hall and escorted them to the high table. The servants poured wine and hurried away to greet more guests.
At the next table Brother Michaelo noticed several Benedictines. ‘Perhaps I might assist you in your inquiries by gathering the gossip of the clergy,’ he said, rising. He eased his way round to the monks’ table.
Sir Robert glanced round, irritated with Brother Michaelo for leaving him. Without the benefit of the monk’s eyesight he could not make out much of the crowd. But a rustle of silk and an exotic scent made Sir Robert turn.
‘My lady.’ He bowed to the woman who had hesitated behind him.
‘My lord,’ she said, inclining her head. A warm smile in a beautiful young face. ‘Are you recovered from your memories?’
‘I have managed to escape them for the evening.’
She told the servant that she would sit where she had paused. ‘Am I intruding?’
‘Not at all. Forgive me for not rising, but it has been a tiring day.’
She slipped in beside him. The servant poured wine.
‘Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd,’ she said.
Holy Mother of God, could this be? Could the object of their discussion be this lovely lady? ‘Sir Robert D’Arby,’ he said with a little bow, ‘of Freythorpe Hadden in Yorkshire. And my companion, when he returns, is Brother Michaelo, secretary to His Grace John Thoresby, Archbishop of York.’
‘I am honoured,’ she said quietly. ‘You and Brother Michaelo are pilgrims?’
‘We are. Though dining in such a hall, with such company, is not the behaviour of a pilgrim.’
‘You have travelled far. In the chapel — I heard how you struggle to breathe. You are brave to come on such a journey. Forgive me, but I wondered how your wife could bear to let you go when your health is so delicate.’
He bowed his head. ‘My wife died many years ago.’
‘The happy memories you spoke of — were they of her?’
Sir Robert stared into Tangwystl’s green eyes, pale, like emeralds, and he felt he could confide in her. He told her of his vision. While he spoke, he saw her colour deepen, her eyes grow moist. He apologised for upsetting her. ‘I should not speak of such things.’
She touched his hand. ‘God bless you, Sir Robert. I would hear more of her, your Amélie.’
They were interrupted for a time by Brother Michaelo’s return and the arrival of the first course. And the second. Though meat was not served in the palace during Lent the variety of fish and pastries seemed decadent to Sir Robert. He ate little, in truth just picked at his food, and Brother Michaelo fussed.
‘He is a good friend to you,’ said Tangwystl.
‘He would lose me all the indulgences I hoped to gain by this pilgrimage,’ Sir Robert said.
‘Your Amélie forgave you. Was that not the purpose of your pilgrimage?’
‘I had not dared to hope for that.’ He told her of Lucie and her family, the miracle of their all surviving the pestilence, how he had feared for her, being an apothecary. ‘I came to give thanks. God allowed me to live long enough to witness my daughter’s happiness.’
‘Your daughter is an apothecary in York?’ Tangwystl glanced over at Brother Michaelo, who sat quietly, leaning slightly in their direction, obviously trying to eavesdrop. ‘And he is the secretary to the archbishop. I remember now. Captain Archer and Master Chaucer escorted pilgrims to St David’s. That is how they came to be here when John de Reine was found.’
Sir Robert hoped he had not now silenced her. ‘It gives me joy to hear they made it safely to Cydweli. Did you meet Captain Archer?’
‘Your daughter is fortunate. He seems a good and gentle man.’
‘I am content for her.’
Mistress Tangwystl grew quiet. So now she did not trust him. Sir Robert was sorry for that. But in a little while she turned to him again and asked him about his grandchildren.
‘I have a son,’ she said in such a sad tone Sir Robert thought she might be about to correct herself and say ‘had’. But she did not. She described a fair, chubby boy with a laugh so rich that all who heard must laugh with him.
‘Sir John must be proud,’ said Sir Robert.
‘No. He is not. For Hedyn is not his son.’ She changed the subject to the bleak, treeless character of this westernmost part of Wales.
Brother Michaelo paced impatiently as he waited for Sir Robert, who was taking his time saying good-night to the fair Tangwystl. He had walked her to her chamber and was rewarded with an invitation to accompany her on the morrow to St David’s Well at Porth Clais. Sir Robert could feel the monk’s eyes boring into his back but he did not care. He had found a way to help Owen and he felt rejuvenated.
‘You are playing the fool with her. She is beautiful, I grant you — but she is your enemy.’ His hands tucked up his sleeves, Michaelo leaned slightly forward as he walked, head bowed. He walked too fast for Sir Robert, who paused and waited for Brother Michaelo to realise he was alone.
When the monk turned back with an impatient sigh, Sir Robert said, ‘I would empty my bladder before retiring.’ They headed for the privy in silence. But as soon as they had done their business and were back on course, Sir Robert took up the argument. ‘You are being the fool. How is she my enemy?’
‘Her father is a traitor to the King. Have you forgotten?’
‘We do not know that he was. John Lascelles did not think so. Surely he would not have taken her to wife if he had.’
‘Lascelles.’ Brother Michaelo nodded vigorously. ‘Did you note? She is not using his name.’
‘By all that is holy, why do you persist in this? Many women choose what name they will.’
‘And of all men, who would be the one to follow her here, but her husband? Can it be he is the traitor of whom the Fleming speaks?’ Brother Michaelo tilted his head, awaiting a reply.
Could it be so? ‘Would Sir John be so blatant in his treachery? Marrying the daughter of one of his accomplices? One who had been caught in his treachery?’
‘It might explain the woman’s flight, had she discovered it,’ said Michaelo. To escape a father who was traitor only to discover she had married another.’
‘She is Welsh. She may not count it treason.’ Sir Robert was tired and confused. ‘She told me something passing strange. She has a son, but Sir John is not the father.’
‘You see? A Godless family.’
Sir Robert did not wish to pursue that. ‘You looked disappointed when you returned to the table. The Benedictines knew nothing?’
‘I wonder whether I should tell you what I learned. Will my words be repeated to Mistress Tangwystl?’
They had reached their chamber. Sir Robert opened the door. ‘You tire me, Michaelo. Keep your news to yourself.’
As Michaelo was about to shut the door, a young man in the bishop’s livery slipped from the shadows in the corridor. ‘I come from the Pirate,’ he said softly. ‘With urgent news.’
Michaelo pulled him into the room, shut the door.
The young man was dishevelled and breathless.
‘How did the Pirate get a message to you?’ Sir Robert asked.
‘He has his ways. I cannot say, my lord. He tells me to say only this. Father Edern has left the palace. The traitor follows him. The Captain must hasten to his aid.’ The young man dropped his head.
‘That is it?’
A nod.
Sir Robert dug in his purse, gave the young man a groat. ‘Go swiftly to my man Edmund, summon him here.’ He told him where he might find him.
Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo awaited Edmund in sombre silence, except for a begrudging ‘Thank God you insisted on delaying his departure’ from Michaelo.