The chapel was dim, though a jewelled light came through the stained-glass windows behind the altar and illuminated a slender woman who knelt on the floor. Candles burned on the altar and in a niche before a statue of St David. As the draught from the door made the flames flicker, the woman turned round. Sir Robert closed the door as gently as possible and, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, lowered himself to his knees by the statue of St David. The woman turned back to her devotions.
Sir Robert thought the psalms most appropriate, songs of praise for a beneficent God.
I will bless the Lord at all times: His praise shall continually be in my mouth.
. . . O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together.
I sought the Lord, and He heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.
. . . This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles . . .
But his mind wandered from his devotions. How difficult it was not to think of Amélie, to study the face so recently before him. He had never thought to see that face again, had feared that even after death they would be apart.
The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.
Sir Robert did not know that he was weeping until a woman’s voice asked with tender concern, ‘Are you unwell, sir?’
She smelled of exotic oils. He glanced up, puzzled.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you in your devotions. But I heard you weeping . . .’ Her veil shimmered in the candlelight. Silk? Cloth of gold? Sir Robert could not tell, but she seemed a vision, not a mortal woman.
He lifted his hands to his cheeks, felt the tears, shook his head. ‘An old man overcome by memories. It is I who must beg your forgiveness.’
‘I hope they are happy memories.’
‘As of today, yes,’ he said. ‘By the grace of St Non. I went to the well to pray for my family, but I was blessed instead.’
‘Then I should leave you to your happy memories. You will be all right here?’
‘God bless you, yes, my lady.’ For surely she was a lady, though her accent was Welsh.
‘God go with you, my lord,’ she said, and rose with the rustle of silk.
Her scent lingered long in the chapel.
Dafydd and Dyfrig agreed that the pilgrim would likely return to St David’s. But they did not agree about their own destination. Brother Dyfrig felt duty bound to remain with Brother Samson and escort him to Strata Florida as soon as he might comfortably make the journey; Samson’s servant was not sufficient escort. His first impulse was to carry Samson back to Dafydd’s house and nurse him to health; then Dafydd and his men must escort the two monks to the abbey. ‘You have unleashed a violent criminal and must protect us from him.’
Dafydd was outraged. It was God who had set Rhys in Dafydd’s path. He must follow Rhys and help the pilgrim face his own duty – to give account in the bishop’s court of the incident on Whitesands. Who was Dyfrig to question God’s purpose in this? And Brother Dyfrig, who knew Rhys’s kinsman, should accompany Dafydd to St David’s. Brother Samson could await them here. Maelgwn believed he had already gained God’s grace from the monk’s presence in his household – he had been blessed with several visions since Samson’s arrival. And to return to Dafydd’s house was too much of a risk – the Cydweli men could not be fooled indefinitely. When Dafydd and Dyfrig returned from St David’s they would all provide a proper escort back to the abbey, to which Dafydd would repair to meditate on God’s purpose in testing him in such a manner.
It took little coaxing to engage Brother Dyfrig in Dafydd’s pursuit of Rhys. In private, away from the others, Brother Dyfrig agreed with Dafydd that Aled’s account of the attack and the monk’s wounds suggested that Samson was not injured intentionally, that he had foolishly pursued Rhys and suffered an accident. It might in faith be good for Samson to lie abed among these simple people and learn some humility.
Then Maelgwn insisted on a round of bargaining. In the end he agreed to a goat from Dafydd’s farm upon their return in exchange for Samson’s care.
And thus Dafydd, Brother Dyfrig, Madog and Cadwal departed in the early afternoon. They were almost a merry company, with food, water and a bit of wine to comfort them and a mission to fill them with purpose. The day had begun overcast but now the sun beat down and warmed their muscles, a soft wind cooled them as they rode. To join the road south it was necessary to circle back near Dafydd’s house, but they kept to the far side of the hill and joined the road when they were safely past. Madog advised a hard ride through the afternoon with no pause until sunset; they would all rest easier with a good distance between them and the four armed men from Cydweli, who being wounded would ride more slowly if they attempted to follow.
A warm, sunny day is a joy for a short distance, but soon the sun and the wind dried their eyes and parched their mouths, the dust from the road crept into every fold of their skin and clothing, clung to their hair.
On the first evening of their journey towards St David’s, Owen’s company had paused at St Clears Abbey. The abbot had not had the honour of playing host to John Lascelles, nor had he had word of the steward and his squire, but he did provide a valuable piece of news.
‘A tinker came by telling of a great procession moving from St David’s to Llawhaden. You know that Bishop Houghton is fond of the castle. So fond that he is building a new south wing – they say he lives in comfort there, watching the road between Carmarthen and Haverfordwest.’
Bishop Adam de Houghton was in Llawhaden. It was a climb from the main road and might cost them half a day, but Owen thought that if it was the bishop Lascelles was wanting – and he thought it was – the steward might alter his course to see whether Houghton was in residence at the castle.
Owen’s party rode hard, but a pause to assist a merchant with a crippled wagon delayed them, and they did not approach Llawhaden Castle until late afternoon on the second day of their journey.
They found the bishop in the yard by the stables surrounded by four fine, sleek hounds, their tails wagging as they competed for their master’s attention. Houghton himself was in leggings and a tunic that reached only to his knees, high boots and a short cape. His colour was high and the crown of his soft hat wet with sweat. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, you have caught me in sin, riding out to hunt in the Lenten season. But I tell you I did it to clear my mind. There is nothing like a swift chase to bring a man to his senses.’
Geoffrey’s eyes were merry as he bowed to the bishop. He had told Owen earlier that he welcomed another chance to observe the pilgrims at St David’s and the bishop himself, who seemed a singular character, far more interesting than the political churchmen who surrounded the King. Geoffrey hoped that on this visit they might dine in the great hall at St David’s bishop’s palace with the other well-born pilgrims rather than in the bishop’s hall. ‘I want to study the pilgrims so I might describe them in all their variety.’ But what he now found so amusing about Houghton, Owen could not guess.
Nor did he long think on it. For as the bishop tugged at his gloves he stepped between Owen and Geoffrey and said under his breath, ‘While your men take some refreshment, we must talk. And you will spend the night, of course.’
Adam de Houghton led Owen and Geoffrey round the new wing of Llawhaden Castle under construction. The dust of the stonework stung Owen’s eye – the brisk wind carried it even out of the lodge in which the apprentice masons worked at their benches. A chapel and chapel tower, far advanced in construction, were the first phase of the plan. Houghton intended the south range to extend round the yard and enclose it, so that the existing hall and kitchens would be protected by a gatehouse and a range with additional towers. The range would include suites of lodgings for his retinue and guests.
‘It shall be a sign to those who pass along the road between Carmarthen and Haverfordwest that the lord of this March, though he be a man of God, is yet a lord indeed.’
But Owen was restive. ‘My lord Bishop, I am but a plain soldier and know little of such works. You had news for us?’
‘Forgive me. I waste time when I have much to tell you. Come.’ He led them to a garden that used the rear wall of the kitchen, the west side of the hall, and the steep bank of the ditch as its enclosure. They settled on benches beneath a pair of apple trees, seemingly stunted by their confined home and yet pregnant with tight buds.
‘Now we need not fear someone will overhear,’ Houghton said.
They were indeed well situated away from the kitchen doorway and windows, away from any hedge or wall behind which someone might hide. But what was the need?
‘You have a spy in your household?’ Owen asked.
‘These are uneasy times, Captain. With King Charles of France eyeing our shores I prefer to be overcautious and thus ever ready.’
‘Is it of this you wished to speak?’
Houghton shook his head. ‘No, no. It is of another matter, one that has weighed on my mind all the day. And once again you arrive just as I have need of you. I need not have risked my soul in the hunt, for here you are, and God’s intention is clear to me. He has sent you to resolve the troubles in John Lascelles’s household, I am sure of it. Though I am surprised to see you. I should not have thought the Duke’s men had time to pursue runaway wives.’
Geoffrey drew in his breath. A man so conscious of his status did not like to be perceived as pursuing something trivial. ‘We are here on a far more serious matter.’
But Owen noted what had escaped Geoffrey. ‘We said nothing of runaway wives. Do you speak of Mistress Lascelles?’
Houghton nodded in response to Owen, ‘I do.’ But his eyes were on Geoffrey. ‘What is this matter you speak of?’
‘Father Francis, chaplain of Cydweli, has been murdered,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I should say beaten – the attacker may not have known the result of his work. The chaplain was found wearing the cloak of your vicar, Father Edern. On that same day, Mistress Lascelles and Father Edern fled the castle. We are perhaps in pursuit of accomplices in murder.’
‘Holy Mother of God.’
‘What do you know of Sir John’s troubles?’ Owen asked.
Houghton took off his embroidered cap, ran a hand through his damp hair. The pale strands caught the setting sun. ‘What do I know? Certes we all know about the death of John de Reine, and now the flight of Mistress Lascelles.’ He set the cap lightly on his head. ‘And that Sir John pursues his wife.’
‘And we pursue him,’ Owen said. ‘But how has the news reached you here?’
‘By the man himself.’
‘Sweet Jesus, he is here?’ Owen sprang up.
The bishop raised a hand to halt him. ‘He arrived early this morning and departed before midday.’
Owen yet stood. ‘We might have caught him had we stayed on the road.’
‘You might have indeed. But what you gain from stopping here the night will be of value to you. Both parties have had much to say of their troubles.’
‘You have news of Mistress Lascelles as well?’ Geoffrey asked as Owen eased himself down, most unwillingly.
The bishop gazed at Geoffrey for a moment, his eyes friendly but remote, as if choosing his words. ‘More than that,’ he said at last. ‘I know precisely where she is, for I sent her there. With that cunning vicar.’ A twig dropped in the bishop’s lap. He picked it up, twirled it between his beringed fingers, studying it. ‘I knew when Brother Dyfrig and the Archdeacon of Cardigan recommended Edern for a vicar choral that I should have made inquiries. But my mind was on other matters. How we come to regret such sluggishness.’ He shook his head. ‘Edern is a sly one. Too sly for me.’
Sluggishness indeed. Owen wished the bishop’s tongue were more sluggish. ‘What has Father Edern done?’
Houghton tossed the twig, shook his head at Owen as if chiding him. ‘But you know. He has assisted Mistress Lascelles in escaping from her husband. Though why she trusted such a rogue as Edern I cannot imagine. Such a beauty! One can see why Sir John is so desperate to win her back. He will not. I do not see it happening. He will not win her heart.’
‘Because of the child?’ Geoffrey asked. Owen had told him about Hedyn and the misunderstanding between Tangwystl and Sir John regarding the boy’s status.
‘Certes the child is a tragedy, but more so are her feelings for the lad’s father. I blame that schemer, Gruffydd ap Goronwy. Sir John swears he had no idea that the young woman apparently considered herself married to the young man, and I accept his word on that – he is not the sort of fool to pursue a woman who cannot possibly pledge her heart to him. He believed she had been abandoned by the young man. And surely Gruffydd had cause to let him think so.’ Houghton paused, dropped his head, seemed to withdraw into his thoughts for a moment. ‘And yet when I said to Sir John that he was better off without his Welsh wife, that considering the rumours surrounding her father it had been a most unsuitable marriage for him, and that now he might remedy it by acknowledging that they had wed when she was already bound to another, he refused to hear of it. Foolish, stubborn man. “I will have her!” he shouted.’
‘What is to be done?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘If Sir John is determined to keep her, who is to dissuade him?’