‘My lady, what a pleasure to find you here.’ A tall man in travel garb bowed to Michaelo’s companion. He was dusty and stank of horses, but his clothing was fine.
‘My lord,’ Tangwystl said softly, her eyes on the man’s muddy boots as she curtseyed.
‘And now yet another churchman escorts you. Are you a friend of Father Edern?’ the man asked with a sneer.
Brother Michaelo liked neither the man’s tone nor his expression. ‘I am Brother Michaelo, secretary to the Archbishop of York, and not acquainted with the priest you named. Mistress Tangwystl has assisted me in the sickroom of a friend all the day. And you, sir, if you deserve to be so called, speak your name.’
‘John Lascelles.’
Dear God in Heaven.
‘I see my name is familiar to you. And has your lovely companion told you that she is my wife?’
As they approached Bonning’s Gate to the north of the city, Owen dismounted and called to Duncan and Geoffrey to step aside.
To Duncan he gave the orders to take all the horses save Owen’s and Iolo’s to the palace stables. The two were off to meet someone who might help them.
‘Why Iolo?’ Duncan asked.
‘He was born in Porth Clais. I need him as a guide. Go, Duncan. Rest. We might ride out again soon, so take rest when you can.’
Tight jawed, Duncan took the rein of Geoffrey’s mount in hand with his own and joined the others, gave them the orders. Iolo moved aside with his mount, giving the two men privacy.
Geoffrey had occupied himself smoothing out his clothing and beating off some of the dust while Owen gave Duncan his orders. Now he faced Owen, his eyes hard with suspicion, and said, ‘You and Iolo?’
Owen drew out the leather pouch that held the letters from Tangwystl and Bishop Houghton. He slipped the thong over his head, held out the pouch to Geoffrey.
Geoffrey hesitated, then took the proffered pouch. ‘What are you doing?’
‘One of us must see that these documents are safe with the Archdeacon of Carmarthen.’
‘You mean to leave me here while you meet with Martin Wirthir?’
‘There is no need for both of us to confer with Wirthir.’
Geoffrey dropped his head, but Owen saw how his hands clutched the pouch. ‘I am not one of your men, to lead round at your will.’
‘I would not trust these papers with one of them. There is much to explain to the archdeacon, and they could not do that.’
‘You will join me after talking to the Fleming?’
‘I shall do whatever will resolve these troubles. If I must ride to protect Father Edern and his brother, so be it.’
‘What if Martin Wirthir is a spy for Owain Lawgoch?’
‘It does not matter. What does matter is that it suits him at the moment to assist us.’
‘What do you think of Owain Lawgoch?’
‘He is King Charles’s puppet.’
With his eyes on the pouch rather than Owen, Geoffrey asked, ‘Is that what you really think?’
‘So this is what we have come to, a matter of trust. Do you trust me?’
Geoffrey raised his head, studied Owen’s face. After what seemed to Owen an eternity in which he wondered about his next move, Geoffrey shifted, sighed, and slipped the leather thong over his head. ‘What else must I do?’
Owen told him the rest of his plan.
Hallelujah, God is merciful, Michaelo thought as he looked over Sir John’s shoulder and saw Geoffrey Chaucer enter the great hall. Sir Robert will be overjoyed to see his son-in-law. But Chaucer appeared to be alone. He caught Michaelo’s eye, shook his head. Michaelo searched his mind quickly for something to say that might keep his companions sparring.
‘You have come chasing after your wife, Sir John? She is not permitted to go on pilgrimage in this holy season?’
‘I have come seeking a man of God, monk, to take back with me to the garrison of Cydweli. Some wretch attacked our chaplain. He was so brutally beaten he died of his injuries.’
‘Father Francis?’ Tangwystl said in a voice so small Michaelo turned to her in concern. Her complexion had lost all its glow and colour, and as he watched she put a trembling hand up to her cheek and crumpled in a faint. Sir John caught her up as she fell. ‘Where is her chamber?’ he demanded, his face ashen. ‘Dear God, I did not mean to frighten her so.’
The hall was suddenly alive with people offering assistance. A bench was dragged over, a servant came running with wine. Sir John lowered himself on to the bench with Tangwystl still firmly in his arms. He bent over her, whispering her name, trying to get her to take some of the wine.
Brother Michaelo sat down beside Sir John, weak with relief. His ploy had almost been his undoing.
A fog was rolling in off the sea, dulling the late afternoon sun to a twilight dimness and evening out the shadows. Owen and Iolo met the fog as they climbed up out of the valley. As it thickened they dismounted to lead their horses along the uneven ground. The countryside was quiet except for the gulls riding inland on the fog and a lone dog who barked a warning as they passed close to a rocky outcrop, then disappeared behind it. Owen listened for the sound of its herd, but only the gulls called.
How unused to such quiet he was. York was never silent. Even when he lay awake at night he heard children calling out, babies crying, cats fighting in the street, boatmen calling to one another, the crier making his rounds. And even on the journey from York their company had been large and noisy, with Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo bickering all along the way. Owen had grown unaccustomed to silence. It made him uneasy.
They circled the base of Clegyr Boia, walking slowly, watching the ground, seeking signs of recent encampments or riders.
‘I would guess he has camped up top,’ said Iolo.
‘Where he would be so easily seen?’ Owen said.
‘If you saw a fire atop this mound, what would be your first thought? That a mortal man camped here?’
‘No.’
‘They also say there are cellars where one might hide. Though I never found one.’
And so they led their horses up a well-worn path to the top of the mound. It was bare of trees, but thick with gorse and treacherous with half-buried stones and timbers, and to one side the crumbled walls of an ancient fortress.
‘If I were hiding atop, I would stay in the shadow of those walls,’ said Iolo.
As they picked their way through the tangled underbrush, Owen suddenly straightened, sensing more than seeing someone approaching.
‘So I was right. You did follow fast behind the fleeing lady.’ A figure materialised from the fog.
‘Is this Wirthir?’ Iolo whispered.
‘Aye.’ Owen raised his voice. ‘I cannot think how you know me so well, Martin. I like to think I am cunning and subtle. But you were right, we followed the lady and her lord.’
‘And the hapless priest,’ said Martin. He was now at arm’s length.
‘You two might be taken for brothers,’ Iolo said, looking from one to the other.
Martin gave him a little bow. ‘I take that as a compliment.’
Owen introduced Iolo. ‘He knows Dyfed well. I thought he might be of use. Have you sent someone after Father Edern, to shield him from his shadow?’
‘I travel alone, as you know, Owen. The choice was the priest’s life, or that of a man who has a tale to tell that many will be keen to hear.’
Martin’s manner of speaking was the same as Owen remembered it, gently mocking.
‘An amusing tale?’ Iolo asked.
‘No, not amusing. Before I take you to him, there are things I would tell you, Owen. Do you wish Iolo to hear this?’
‘I do.’
‘His name is Rhys ap Llywelyn, the brother of the priest Edern.’
Tangwystl’s missing lover. ‘He had disappeared from St David’s,’ said Owen. ‘How does he come to be here, in your care?’
‘I played Samaritan. Not as well as another who spirited him away from Whitesands, but I flatter myself that he lives because of my care.’