It was not until Edmund had gone and they lay quietly side by side that Sir Robert remembered their argument in the corridor.
‘What did you learn from your brethren?’
The monk lay on his side. ‘We would not share a room, much less a bed, you know, but that I am to help you should you weaken. It is my duty to be quiet now, allow you your rest.’
How was the monk to be borne? ‘I cannot rest but you tell me.’
‘You threaten like a child. And now we go on so, you think I have much to tell you. I do not. They knew of Dyfrig, that his house is Strata Florida, a nest of Welsh rebels, they say. Though they have not heard Brother Dyfrig himself mentioned in that way. They say the monk used his influence to get Father Edern his position as vicar. But the most interesting part is no longer news: that Father Edern is already gone from the city.’
At dawn Owen’s party gathered in the courtyard to receive Bishop Houghton’s blessing, then mounted and rode from Llawhaden.
They now carried Tangwystl’s letter requesting annulment and a letter from the bishop, to be delivered to the Archdeacon of Carmarthen in St David’s. ‘I shall follow you to St David’s anon, but in such a circumstance it is comforting to know these documents are in a company of seven armed men,’ Houghton had said. He had also asked that Owen ensure no more blood was shed over the matter. ‘I would not have St David’s in turmoil during Passiontide.’
‘God forgive me, but to that I cannot swear,’ Owen had said. ‘We can but pray that we find a peaceful resolution.’
Geoffrey had taken exception to Owen’s reply, though he waited until they were alone to voice his disapproval. As Owen set his boots by the brazier to dry overnight and shook out his clothes, beat off some of the dirt, Geoffrey had paced with hands behind his back. ‘Why could you not swear that you would do all you could to prevent further violence?’
‘Why should I lie to the bishop? Peace or violence may not be in my keeping.’
Geoffrey stopped at the bench where Owen sat, looked down on him with an impatient shake of the head. ‘You have no tact. He will remember what you said.’
‘And blame me if anyone is wounded? You speak nonsense. Houghton is a reasonable man.’
‘He is a powerful man. A friend to the Duke. You would do well to impress him.’ The last point was emphasised by a wagging finger.
Owen pushed the finger away and bent down to his pack. ‘I am not looking for a bishop to serve. I have had enough of Thoresby. You would do well to undress and rest for tomorrow’s hard ride.’
Geoffrey sighed loudly and sat down to remove his boots.
Owen sank down on the bed. ‘With all this, Sir John sounds more and more like the murderer.’
‘If he is, he is a clever player,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And we were his unwitting audience.’
‘But why did Edern and Tangwystl say nothing of the chaplain’s injuries?’
Geoffrey had slumped down on to the bed with a groan. ‘I do not like to think it of them. But it is troublesome. Mistress Tangwystl had called Gladys to the chaplain’s room to witness his letter. Gladys heard them calling her. Surely they would have returned to that room seeking her.’
‘That is what I am thinking.’
Geoffrey suddenly pounded the bed with his fist. ‘But Gladys said nothing of them looking into the room. Therefore-’
‘They did not. Why not?’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Aye.’
Owen thought of that now as they rode off in pursuit of the three. Was Sir John a clever player? Or were Edern and the fair Tangwystl the dangerous ones?
Twenty
In the middle of the night, a knee to his back woke Brother Michaelo. Sir Robert tossed and thrashed in bed, gasping for air. Michaelo sat up, mounded the pillows that had been thrown round the bed, and pulled Sir Robert up to a seated position against them. A hand dug into Michaelo’s shoulder.
‘Blow out, Sir Robert,’ Michaelo coaxed, as Owen had taught him. ‘Blow out and you will remember how to breathe in.’ He demonstrated with a hearty, puffy exhale.
Sir Robert’s face creased up, and with a gasp he began to laugh. The laughter led to coughing, and breathing.
‘I am glad to be so amusing,’ Brother Michaelo said. The cloth Sir Robert held to his mouth was flecked with blood. ‘Rest here a moment while I bring the steam.’ On the brazier sat a pot of water in which sage leaves simmered all the night. Michaelo tiptoed over the cool tiles, pulled down the sleeves of his linen shift to pad his hands, lifted the pot and carried it to the bed. Sitting it on Sir Robert’s blanket-covered lap, he told him to bend over it and breathe deep. Sir Robert obeyed. At first his breath creaked and wheezed, but gradually it quieted. When the cough began, Michaelo moved the pot to the floor and brought a pan for the flux. So much blood. The blood-speckled flux of the past few nights was now heavily streaked with crimson, though still watery. Or was that the weakness of Sir Robert’s blood? Brother Michaelo held Sir Robert’s head while he coughed. A physick of herbs and poppy juice in honey water to quiet him and allow his sleep, a compress over his hot cheeks and forehead of soothing lavender water, and soon Sir Robert closed his eyes, breathing evenly.
Michaelo returned the sage water to the brazier, shoved the pan beneath the bed, and washed his own face and hands with lavender water, then sat up in bed with a cup of wine. He did not expect it to calm him enough. He knew that he would sleep no more. His heart was too heavy. When he had finished the wine, he drew out his rosary beads and began to pray.
At last dawn turned the sky to a dull grey in the high window above the bed, and Michaelo rose, dressed as quietly as he could, and took up a post in the doorway to wait for Edmund. Though he thought he had given Sir Robert enough of his physick to allow him to sleep for a few more hours, he feared that the expected knock on the door might wake him.
Edmund soon appeared, garbed for a journey and flushed with anticipation. Michaelo put his finger to his mouth as he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door to the room behind him.
‘You are ready?’
‘The groom is even now leading my horse to the North-west Gate.’
‘You remember all we told you?’
Edmund opened his mouth to recite. Michaelo motioned for him to whisper it in his ear. The corridor appeared empty, but a clever spy could make it seem so. Edmund duly whispered his messages. Michaelo was impressed how thoroughly the young man had them by heart. He was quicker than he looked.
‘You have a safe place for the letter?’ Michaelo asked as he drew it from his sleeve.
Edmund pulled a bag from beneath his tunic. It hung from his neck on a strong leather thong. Deeming it sufficient, Michaelo handed him the precious letter. Edmund placed it in the bag, pushed it back down his tunic.
‘And there it shall remain until I hand it to Captain Archer, I swear that to you on my life,’ Edmund whispered with a pounding of his chest.
Brother Michaelo smiled at the young man’s dramatic flair. Better to be so excited than frightened. ‘God watch over you on your journey, Edmund, and lend you wings. In nomine Patris. .’
Edmund bowed his head to receive Brother Michaelo’s blessing.
The monk prayed that God still accepted him as a vessel of His blessing. His task accomplished, Michaelo returned to the chamber to sit beside the bed and recite his office. He would be there to reassure Sir Robert that Edmund was on his way.
Waking from a dreamless slumber, Sir Robert found Brother Michaelo, head bowed, praying at his bedside. The aroma of fresh baked bread drew his eyes to a table beside the bed. A flagon, bread, apples and cheese. His stomach fluttered. He had awakened anxious. Slowly he remembered. The letter. Edmund was to come at dawn for the letter. Sir Robert looked up at the window. It was clearly past dawn.