‘No. She was not.’
‘But I had a son. A son who loved me, who braved my anger to warn me against Gruffydd. He urged me to leave him to the Mortimers. And I would not. Could not, God help me, for I loved her so.’ Lascelles was silent a moment. ‘John must have come after Gruffydd, hoping to find proof.’ He pulled a cloth from his scrip as he turned away, blotting tears.
Rhys and Tangwystl were crossing Llechllafar. Owen and Lascelles silently watched them passing. After a while, Lascelles nodded to Owen and walked on.
The serving maid Rhonwen curtseyed to Owen and withdrew to the corner. He sat, took Sir Robert’s hand. It was dry and cold, his skin felt thin as a flower petal.
‘God granted me a vision,’ said Sir Robert.
‘Tell me, Father.’ Owen bent close, Sir Robert’s voice was so weak.
‘Amélie. She forgives.’
Owen squeezed Sir Robert’s hand. ‘I am glad of it.’
‘And you? Did you find your family?’
‘My youngest brother, Morgan.’
‘No others?’
‘All gone but for Morgan and my sister Gwen, who is at the convent in Usk.’
‘You must go there, see her. Lucie would think it fitting.’
‘I shall try.’
‘Tell me about your brother.’
So Owen told him of Morgan, and of Elen. How it was Morgan who convinced Gladys to tell Constable Burley that she had seen Gruffydd ap Goronwy shake Father Francis and throw him to the floor, Morgan who had escorted her to the castle. He described Elen. ‘Lucie would like her.’ Owen stopped, thinking Sir Robert had drifted off to sleep smiling. But when he began to rise, Sir Robert clutched his hand.
‘Brother Michaelo has been good to me, Owen. Remember that.’
The house reeked of onions and beer. A child and a puppy rolled in the rushes. Owen had taken off his boots and propped his feet on the edge of the table. Geoffrey sat on the table, back against the wall, legs stretched out before him. Burley and the alewife shared a bench — they seemed unable to keep their hands off each other. All held large bowls of good thick beer. Father Edern had brought them to this place, in the midst of the vicars’ houses, after Burley had sent Edmund and Iolo off to retrieve Duncan.
‘The alewife will be chased out when the bishop arrives tomorrow for the remainder of Passiontide,’ Edern had told them, ‘best drink all you can tonight.’
Owen intended to, though he hoped he might keep his wits clear enough to find out more about how it was that Burley had escorted Eleri and the boy to the city.
‘Your brother had been at Gladys, you see, not in the usual way-’ Burley kissed the round breasts pushing up from the alewife’s bodice, ‘-but preaching at her about mending her ways. It wakened her conscience, she says. You were too gentle with her, you see. A bit of preaching, a bit of threatening was what she needed.’
‘Threatening?’
‘I would wager your brother threatened to throw her out if she did not accompany him to the castle and tell me what she knew.’
‘But what of Eleri?’
‘I took Gladys with me when I went to Gruffydd’s house, demanding to see him. And while I talked to Eleri, Gladys was in the kitchen with the servants, spilling all she knew and weeping and saying she was for the nunnery. The daughter Awena heard it all, came running in to her mother. The lady went quiet, watching her hands in her lap, and then she looked up, looked me square in the eye and said Gruffydd had gone to St David’s, he knew what Tangwystl was about, and we must go after him. She meant her and the boy. She said she feared what lengths Gruffydd would go to in order to keep Sir John content — as if murdering Rhys and Tangwystl would ever bring contentment. She withdrew for a while, returned with a pack. Coins, gold, a treasure. Owain Lawgoch’s treasure. Gave it to me. For safe keeping, she said.’
‘You will restore your debt to the exchequer?’
‘Sweet Jesus, it was more than enough for that. I gave the rest of it to Sir John, to use as he saw fit. I believe he has given it to Mistress Tangwystl. I pray she gives none of it to that mad, self-important bard who attacked my men and left them for dead.’
‘They had twice attacked him,’ said Geoffrey, ‘once in his home. Certes they are safely in the sheriff’s gaol, not lying on the road.’
‘A sheriff’s gaol, God’s blood-’ Burley was stilled by a consoling kiss.
Twenty-seven
Leaving Burley and the alewife to their lust, Owen and Geoffrey walked out among the vicars’ houses. Light from lamps and hearth fires showed through the chinks round the doors and shutters. From one house came such a snoring that the two laughed. The night was clear, with bright stars. Tonight, the cemetery seemed to Owen a peaceful place, the rich scent of the earth comforting. A willow beckoned them towards the river, where the stars shimmered and danced.
‘Will Sir Robert lie here?’ Geoffrey asked, leaning against the willow.
‘He asks to be buried in the cathedral.’
‘You will commission a monument?’
‘Aye. Martin told me of a stonecutter who does fine work.’
‘Martin. You should be more careful about your loyalties.’
‘He is a good man.’
‘He is an enemy of our King.’
‘Now and then, and sometimes his ally. Did you mention Martin to the archdeacon?’ For all Owen knew, Baldwin, too, might be a Lawgoch supporter.
‘No.’ Geoffrey glanced over at Owen. ‘I could not think how I might do so without betraying you. I was vague about who had befriended Rhys.’
‘Martin served us well.’
‘Have a care you do not return the favour.’ Geoffrey straightened. ‘After Easter I shall leave with Brother Michaelo.’
‘You are satisfied with the garrisons?’
‘They will hold against the French. You will stay with Sir Robert, then return to Cydweli?’
‘Do you doubt me?’
‘I think that in this country you have found that which you had lost, a sense of your own honour. Mayhap it is enough to have it rekindled. I pray that is so.’
Is that what Owen had found here?
‘What of this monument?’ Geoffrey said in a heartier tone. ‘Will Sir Robert be a knight or a pilgrim?’
‘A knight. But with a pilgrim’s hat at his feet.’
‘A truly perfect, courteous knight. It is fitting. You are sending Brother Michaelo away with a letter for Lucie, telling her all that has come to pass here?’
‘Several letters. I have carried her with me.’
‘You are fortunate in your marriage. Come. It has been a long day.’
In the morning, Sir Robert rallied a little, and used the time to talk to Owen of the things that had worried him as he lay there.
‘What of my sister Phillippa?’ As a widow she had returned to Sir Robert’s household years before. ‘She will be lonesome at Freythorpe.’ The manor was within a day’s ride of York, but the road was often impassable in winter storms.
‘We shall bring her to live with us. She will enjoy the children, and they her.’
‘What of Freythorpe Hadden? Lucie will not give up her work to live there. Who will live there and keep it for your son Hugh?’
‘I shall find a steward I trust to live there. And Lucie will insist on a good accounting.’
Sir Robert was satisfied. ‘Then I can rest.’
Shortly after the angelus bells, Sir Robert fell into a pleasant dream of Lucie and Amélie in the garden at Freythorpe. He was awakened by an unfamiliar sound, a delicate jingling. He found a white-haired man at his bedside, sipping wine in an elegant mazer. A most amazing man, with rings and combs in his white hair. He wore a white gown embroidered in silver and gold thread. Was this St Peter?
‘Ah, you waken, Sir Robert.’
‘Am I at Heaven’s gate?’
‘St David would be gratified to hear his church called that.’