Geoffrey’s face creased with worry as he read. ‘Such caution to name neither man nor place. “A man who might give good account”. The murderer, do you think?’
‘Or a witness.’ Owen rose, began to pace as he thought what to do. Whoever the man was, he must be shielded. But what of Edern and the traitor who pursued him?
Geoffrey turned over the parchment, studied the seal. ‘You think someone tampered with this?’
How he studied every gesture. ‘Sir Robert is an old campaigner. He would not send a messenger without knowing the content of the missive.’
‘Your wife’s father is a man of many skills.’
‘His hands are no longer steady enough for such work. But Brother Michaelo. .’
‘Um. He does seem a slippery one. I do not doubt it.’
‘We must hasten to St David’s.’
‘You will meet with this Martin Wirthir?’
‘Do you think we dare ignore this?’
Geoffrey squinted up at Owen. ‘You are plotting something that I will not like.’
‘There are three in our company who must be handled with care.’
‘The bishop’s men and Burley’s man?’
‘Aye.’
‘I heard what you said to Edmund.’
Owen called to Iolo, who appeared to be telling an amusing tale to the other men. Edmund jostled him when he did not respond. He glanced up, caught Owen’s eye, and hurried over. His companions watched with apprehension.
‘This the others must not hear,’ Owen began.
‘They will not.’
‘Is there a way to reach Clegyr Boia from the road we ride?’ Martin’s letter had requested they meet where Owen’s company had exited the tunnel from the bishop’s palace.
‘Round the far side of St David’s and out beyond the North-west Gate,’ said Iolo.
‘I cannot ride there without passing the city?’
Iolo dropped his head, considered. ‘From here there is no easy way over the River Alun.’
‘Impassable?’
‘No, but ill advised in spring. Better to cross it to the north of the city.’
‘Why do you wish to avoid the city?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘We know at present whence trouble might come,’ Owen said. ‘But if we pass near the gates of St David’s, who knows who might see us and follow us to Clegyr Boia? It is a risk.’
Iolo shook his head. ‘A risk it is, Captain, but we might call more attention to ourselves picking our way where horses never go.’
Geoffrey looked pleased.
‘Come, then.’ Owen rose, dusted off his tunic. ‘We ride hard to St David’s.’
From his bed Sir Robert gazed on the wall painting of King Henry crossing Llechllafar. Sometimes, as Sir Robert fought for breath and the room spun round him, it seemed the King stepped not upon a bridge but on to a ship that rode a whirlpool.
To give in to the demon clutching his breath — at times he saw that as a blessed release. But that was sinful. It was for God to choose his time. He hoped that it was not sinful to take Master Thomas’s physick — he feared that it soothed him too well. He feared, too, that he would lose track of how often he asked for it, but Brother Michaelo assured him he would watch that neither he nor Mistress Tangwystl dispensed so much it would muddle his wits. Mistress Tangwystl — another sinful pleasure. She had returned with Brother Michaelo and asked whether she might sit with Sir Robert, said that she wished for occupation that might quiet her mind.
Sir Robert welcomed her with joy, for in Brother Michaelo’s face he saw the physician’s sentence. The monk’s mourning eyes and unnaturally gentle behaviour reminded Sir Robert too much of his approaching end.
‘Go and walk about,’ Sir Robert urged Michaelo. ‘You grow too pale.’
Michaelo refused. Sir Robert turned to face Tangwystl. ‘I grew weary of tossing on the sea with King Henry.’
‘King Henry?’ she whispered as she leaned down to Sir Robert, blotted his brow with a damp, scented cloth. The movement loosened her wide sleeves. Pale, shimmering silk, it gave her wings.
‘The fresco,’ said Brother Michaelo, nodding towards the wall.
Tangwystl sat back, studied the painting. Sir Robert thought her a vision of beauty as she sat beside his bed, hands resting on her silken lap, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire in the brazier.
‘The red-handed man in Myrddin’s prophecy — some say that is Owain Lawgoch, he who my father is accused of assisting. But as I heard the legend, the red-handed man was to wound the king while he was yet in Ireland.’
‘Let us pray that King Edward does not cross the Irish Sea,’ Brother Michaelo said.
A servant brought a cup of hot honey water, added a few pillows behind Sir Robert to raise him high enough to drink.
‘You are well attended,’ Tangwystl said when the servant withdrew. In the light from the brazier her hair beneath the gossamer veil seemed a vibrant red. ‘I wish to do something,’ she was saying, ‘but I cannot see what you might need. I must make amends for being late for our walk this morning.’
‘As you can see, I would have disappointed you had you still wished for my company on your way to St David’s Well.’ Sir Robert was pleased that his breathing seemed easier. He did not wish to frighten Tangwystl with his struggles. ‘If you have no hopes of someone else to accompany you to the well, you might tell me of yourself. In what part of this fair country did you dwell before you took your place as lady of Cydweli?’
Tangwystl bowed her head, and for a moment Sir Robert worried that in some way his request had offended her.
‘Do you know the tale of Rhiannon?’ she asked.
‘No. Please tell me.’
‘It is a sad story. Do you mind a sad story?’
‘The best ballads are sad ones, I think.’
Tangwystl frowned and smoothed her skirt, shook out her sleeves, as if composing her thoughts. And then she began. ‘She was Pwyll’s lady, lord of Dyfed. Theirs was not an easy courtship, for when he declared his love for her she was already betrothed. But with patience and trickery they disposed of Pwyll’s rival. Rhiannon proved a generous lady and at first all Pwyll’s people loved her. But when after three years she had not borne a son, Pwyll’s men turned against her and urged their lord to cast her aside. Pwyll refused, and it seemed the gods rewarded his loyalty, for Rhiannon at last bore him a son. But on the night of the birth, Rhiannon’s handmaids failed to keep watch. In the morning, the child was gone. Fearing that they would be punished, the women killed a chicken and smeared its blood over Rhiannon’s mouth while she slept, then ran from her chamber shrieking that the unnatural mother had eaten her son.’ For a moment, Tangwystl sat silently, her hands folded, her head bowed. When she began again to speak, her voice was unsteady. ‘Seven years Rhiannon suffered humiliation as a punishment for this sin she did not commit. Seven years she wept for her son alone, with no one to comfort her. Seven-’ Tangwystl’s voice broke and she covered her face with her hands.
‘Do you weep so to tell the tale?’ Sir Robert said. ‘You must speak of something happier — I would not have you suffer pain for me.’
Though Tangwystl dropped her hands, she kept her head bowed. ‘I share Rhiannon’s suffering,’ she said, her voice yet hoarse with tears, ‘for my son has been taken from me. I suffer my loss as she did, with none to comfort me. And my suffering shall stretch beyond seven years.’
How tragic she looked, and how lovely. A mother’s grief for her lost child was becoming to a woman. ‘If God took him from you, there is nothing to be done but take joy in those yet to come. But does your husband not grieve with you?’