A Spy For The Redeemer

Twenty-two

Owen was grateful to Archbishop Thoresby for this ship, for passage home. But he could not sleep the first night on board. He never could. Other men either hung over the side in wretchedness or slept the sleep of a babe in a cradle. Owen could not understand the latter. The tarry stench, the creaking, the rocking, the splash of the waves, the awareness of the depths below him, full of sea monsters and dead men, it was not a thing to make him sleep.

His thoughts wandered back to St David’s the day of Sir Robert’s entombment — the echoing cathedral, Sir Robert’s shrouded form, the mingled scent of decay and dried lavender, rosemary, frankincense — a gift from Bishop Houghton — the lonely, frightening grinding sound of the stone closing over Sir Robert. Owen wondered whether God let the blessed gaze down upon the earth, whether they know at last it is truly over when they watch their burial.

Friar Hewald joined him. ‘You are missing your friend?’

Owen shook his head. ‘Thinking of Sir Robert’s tomb. I wish my wife could see it.’

‘Then I shall leave you to your memories.’

In truth, Owen would miss Iolo, who had chosen to join Hywel’s forces. Despite the man’s cruelty.

‘Have we fared better under the English?’ Iolo had asked.

‘You have, Iolo.’

‘Aye. Of late. But you know it is not true for all.’

‘Hywel is not the answer.’

‘He is what we have. You will tell no one?’

Owen should. He should warn both the Duke of Lancaster, whose household Iolo had observed closely so recently, and Bishop Houghton, who had sent Iolo to the duke.

But Owen would not betray the young man who had guarded his back. They were not so different. Had Hywel been a Christian knight, had Owen felt confident that he would improve the lot of the Welsh, the friar might be returning to England with only the duke’s borrowed men, Tom, Sam, Edmund and Jared.

When Owen left Archdeacon Baldwin’s house his anger had propelled him far along the coastline, ignoring his pain as he walked, almost ran, and cursed the meddling, ambitious clergy, cursed Hywel, who had made ugly a righteous cause, who would free the people of Wales only to enslave them himself. He was no better for the people of this land than King Edward. How could Owain Lawgoch have chosen such a commander?

Martin Wirthir had found him, appeared from the air as was his wont. And Owen had hoped in the moment between seeing him and asking the question that Martin would redeem the dream.

‘Did Lawgoch choose Hywel?’

‘He did, my friend. He is not a god, merely an earthly prince.’

Martin had provided food and shelter for two days, while Owen burned with fever. Then brought him to Patrick’s Gate on the dawn of the third day.

Friar Hewald and Owen’s men had been frantic, and desperate to get him away before any more danger might befall him, but Owen had insisted on Sir Robert’s burial. Ranulf de Hutton had been there, weeping for the friend who had begun the task.

Now, as Owen sat looking out on the horrible deep, his anger rose again, its target this time himself. He had almost made the same mistake as Cynog. Or Glynis, perhaps. Hywel had seemed to him a harsh commander, but fighting a Godly cause. How easy it had been to discount that which he despised in Hywel for the higher purpose.

Now he carried a guilt he must keep ever secret from Lucie. She must never know. She would not understand. Of all that had happened on this journey, this was the decision, the turning point, that he most needed to confide to her. But he could not. He would not inflict that pain, sow that seed of doubt in his love. For he did love her. And his children. He had been so tempted by a chance to fight for his own people after all those years of fighting for King Edward. But God had saved him from himself. Deo gratias.