Thomas placed a hand on Michaelo’s shoulder. ‘Come. Let us sit and talk.’ He led Michaelo to a bench beneath a high window, out of the bustle of servants and guests. ‘How did you come to make this journey with him?’
‘His daughter’s husband is on a mission to Wales for the Duke of Lancaster. Both Sir Robert and I thought to join their company for the journey out here. After Easter we should be able to find a party of pilgrims returning to England.’
‘His son-in-law. Is he here in St David’s?’
‘No. In Cydweli.’
Master Thomas’s eyes followed a small group of pilgrims. ‘So many souls praying for grace, hoping to win Heaven by this journey. And yet Sir Robert came here to pray for his family. To offer up his life for their continued health and happiness.’
Michaelo tucked his hands up his sleeves, then withdrew them as they spread the chill to his arms. He rubbed them. ‘Perhaps I might send for Captain Archer.’
‘His son-in-law?’
Michaelo nodded.
‘It would be best to ask Sir Robert what he wishes.’
Michaelo forced the question that wished to stick in his throat. ‘He knows that he is dying?’ His heart raced with the effort.
‘Oh yes. He says he made his farewells in York, that his daughter understood. But you do not seem prepared for this. He did not tell you of his intention?’
What need was there to shake his head? The physician could see his distress and sighed.
‘Perhaps he did not wish to see the sympathy in your eyes until it was unavoidable.’
‘Why here? In a country that is so strange to him?’
‘He told me that he has gone on pilgrimage to places far stranger than this,’ Thomas said. ‘It is difficult for the healthy to understand how weary the sick become. Every breath is a struggle for Sir Robert. Death seems a release. A gift from God.’
Sir Robert had made his farewells to Lucie Wilton. And Owen? Why had no one told Michaelo? ‘But he was not so ill as this when we departed York. He did not labour to breathe, his colour was far better than it is now. How could he have known?’
‘Perhaps God told him.’
Brother Michaelo looked up, fearing the physician made light of Sir Robert. But he saw no lifting of the corners of the mouth, nor other sign in his demeanour. ‘What can I do for him?’
‘He accepted a stronger physick to ease the pain, allow him to sleep, though he says he will not take as much as I recommended. He says he must have his wits about him, he has much to do. There is of course no reason to insist he keep to his bed. But do not let him venture forth alone. He is weak, and the physick might confuse him.’
‘His suffering is terrible to watch.’ Michaelo pressed his jaw beneath his ears where he felt an odd tension. ‘I wish I could breathe for him.’
‘You are a good friend to him.’
‘I should pay you.’
Master Thomas shook his head. ‘Not now. I shall return in a few days to see him. Sometimes a man changes his mind as the pain worsens. He may need more of the physick.’
Michaelo sat on the bench long after the physician departed. He did not trust himself to go to Sir Robert, not yet. The depth of his feelings perplexed him. Whence came this sorrow? What was Sir Robert to him? In faith, Michaelo’s concern should be his journey home. He should make inquiries about the other pilgrims, discover who was from the north. What of the Benedictines with whom he had spoken the previous evening? He could not remember their house. What a fool he was. Losing his memory over an old man who never had a kind word for him, who criticised him incessantly, who contradicted his every word. He put his head in his hands, clenched his jaw to fight the tears that threatened.
‘May I sit?’
Michaelo recognised Tangwystl’s exotic scent. He raised his head.
‘I should go to him.’
‘Come, then. I shall accompany you.’
Twenty-one
Sweat pooled beneath the leather patch on Owen’s eye. The late morning sun shone through a low cloud layer and the air felt heavy. The weather was strangely warm for the end of March. Owen felt he stank as much as his horse.
They had ridden with little pause since early morning. Owen was pleased with all in the company. His six companions neither complained nor lagged behind. And for their efforts they now approached Haverfordwest. They should arrive in St David’s by sunset.
From behind a slow-moving caravan a rider suddenly appeared, approaching at a pace equal to that of Owen’s company. He was upon them before Duncan cried out, ‘The Duke’s livery!’
Owen felt a shiver of dread when he recognised Edmund. He dismounted and met the messenger, who was grinning from ear to ear.
‘I thought to ride clear to Cydweli to find you, Captain. God has been good.’
And if they had entered Haverfordwest a moment earlier, they might have missed him.
‘God meant us to find one another,’ Owen said. He drew Edmund away from the group to a spot across the road beneath a venerable oak. It provided little shade with no leaves, but too much shade and they would be chilled. Owen called to Geoffrey to join them. The latter brought a wineskin to pass round, which drew fervent thanks from the messenger.
Owen leaned against a low branch. ‘Do you come from Sir Robert?’
‘I do, Captain.’
‘How fares he?’
‘Poorly. But well enough last night to give me messages to learn. And I have a letter.’ Edmund drew a sweat-darkened pouch from beneath his tunic, handed Owen a sealed roll.
‘Tell me what you have by heart,’ Owen said. As Edmund repeated his news, Owen was encouraged to hear that Edern and Tangwystl had arrived safely in St David’s — he was glad the vicar had obeyed the bishop. The priest’s hurried departure, however, and with trouble on his heels, was disturbing.
But most potentially troublesome was the source of most of Sir Robert’s information, Martin Wirthir, a Fleming who often worked with the French. Geoffrey would not like that. Owen wondered about Geoffrey. Could he trust him to co-operate with Martin if necessary? And what of the bishop’s men? If they accompanied him to meet Martin, would they be keen to tell of the Fleming in St David’s? Sweet Jesu, the more he worked at this knot the worse it grew.
And how many others may have noted the Fleming in the area, or overheard his conversation with Sir Robert? Owen examined the seal on the letter. It looked undisturbed, but there was a slight stain on the paper to one side of the seal that gave Owen pause. ‘Who handed you the letter?’ he asked.
‘Brother Michaelo,’ Edmund said. ‘I have touched nothing.’
Owen nodded. ‘Can you tell me anything else? This Brother Dyfrig who asked so many questions. Is he in St David’s?’
Edmund slapped his leg. ‘I feared I had forgot somewhat in the middle. He departed the city a week hence. And Sir Robert knows not where he went.’
‘Excellent, Edmund. You have proved yourself a worthy messenger,’ Owen said. ‘Go join the others. You will ride back with us. And Edmund-’
He stood to attention. ‘I shall say nothing to them of my messages, Captain.’
‘I know that you will not, Edmund. But more than that, try not to flinch if we tell a different tale than what you know to be true.’
Edmund grinned. ‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Who is this Martin Wirthir?’ Geoffrey asked as he settled down on a root beneath the tree.
Owen eased himself down on to a rock, stretched his legs, tapped the letter absently against his leg while he considered how to handle Geoffrey. He resolved to tell him as little as possible about Martin. ‘One who has helped me in the past. Saved the life of my wife’s apprentice. I have not seen him in a long while.’ When had Martin learned Owen was in Wales?
‘He works for King Charles?’
‘He has also worked for members of King Edward’s court. It means nothing about Martin’s personal allegiance.’ The seal on the letter gave no clue to Martin’s current politics — it bore the impression of the letter M or W, depending on how one held it. Owen broke the seal, smoothed the parchment on his lap, read slowly. The words themselves, and the signature, felt true to him. But how had Martin known that the death of John de Reine and the movements of Tangwystl and Edern were of interest to Owen? He handed Geoffrey the letter.