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pilgrimage marked by illness, injury and long fasts. Though Sir Robert had been nursed back to health under his sister’s care, one never completely recovered from such a prolonged ordeal.
    But Lucie had insisted that Sir Robert so wished for this pilgrimage it would do him harm to be denied it. Owen hoped she thought it worth the loss of him, for he much feared that a wet spring would be more than the old man could survive.
    As they rode into Haverfordwest, the river damp aggravated Sir Robert’s cough. Owen hurriedly sought directions to St Thomas’s Priory, where Sir Robert might warm himself with a cup of mulled wine and a good fire. And tomorrow being Sunday, he would have an extra day of rest.

Three
    A SPIRAL DANCE
    H is head wrapped in bandages, the pilgrim reminded Dafydd of an unfortunate doll that had belonged to his favourite niece. She had bitten off the doll’s ear in frustration, saying that the doll never listened to her and thus was she punished. Dafydd chuckled at the memory of the incident, and his sister’s careful mending, carried out with a delightful solemnity after the child had dissolved in tears of regret.
    The monk who watched over the pilgrim frowned his disapproval. ‘A Goddes half, you might show more sympathy.’
    ‘I have given him sanctuary, Brother Samson. How might I be more sympathetic?’
    ‘You laugh at his pain.’
    ‘I laugh at a memory of a doll patched in such wise. Laughter as well as prayers are of use in a sickroom. You would do well to learn that.’ Dafydd bent down, felt the pilgrim’s forehead. Good. Still no fever. ‘You have brought him safely through the crisis. For that I thank you and pray you receive a heavenly reward.’ Still grinning at the monk’s discomfiture, Dafydd left the sick chamber, his hounds following, and collided with a servant.
    ‘My lord, there are soldiers at the gate.’
    Dafydd was delighted. He had anticipated this moment. ‘Find Cadwal. Tell him to meet me there.’
    ‘What shall I tell the soldiers?’
    ‘Nothing. A wait will cool their heads, and their heels. I shall go to them anon.’
    The servant hurried off in search of Cadwal.
    Dafydd returned to his chamber, considered his appearance in a mirror. Acceptably bardic today, his white hair freshly washed and thus wild, fastened with silver rings and ornate combs. Ivy and holly intertwined in intricate arabesques on his long, flowing gown, embroidered by a former mistress. He heard a shout, nodded to his reflection. ‘Attend your guests, Dafydd.’
    One hand resting on Cadwy’s head and with Nest on his other side, he walked slowly down the corridor. He was Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. He would not be hurried.
    As Dafydd turned into the entry way, the light was blocked by a huge form.
    ‘Cadwal. We have guests.’
    The giant bowed. ‘My lord, I am ever ready to dance at your bidding.’
    ‘Let us see if they are dancing men. Open the door.’ He motioned to the dogs to stay by his side. They were hosts, not hunters this morning.
    In the night a soft rain had blown ashore, swirled by wild winds. Dafydd waved to the men huddled beneath the oak by the door. ‘Come, pilgrims, dry yourselves by the fire within.’ But the men hesitated, staring at Cadwal. It was ever so, of course. Cadwal’s mother had been frightened by an apparition at a standing stone and the child had grown to resemble one. ‘You stand in awe of Cadwal. God blessed this man with the appetite of a destrier, it is true. But never yet has he consumed human flesh. You are quite safe. God watches over all Christians in this house.’
    One man stepped forward. ‘We need not intrude, my lord. As I told your servant, we seek the body of a thief and murderer who we believe died of his wounds on Whitesands three days hence.’
    ‘In God’s name, pilgrim, come within. You may not feel the dampness, but I do. Come within and we may pursue this story in