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the comfort of a warm fire.’
    Cadwal laughed, a sound that came up from deep within his barrel chest and resonated through the courtyard. ‘You flatter me with your awe, pilgrims,’ he said in hesitant English. ‘But Lord Dafydd is master in this house. If he welcomes you, I am bound to welcome you.’
    The men at last entered the house, warily. As soon as he closed the door behind them, Cadwal commanded, ‘Pilgrims, your weapons have no business with my master. If you would give them to me, I shall keep them safe until you have need of them.’
    The spokesman whirled round, sword drawn. ‘A trap. I expected as much.’
    A growling chord rumbled in the hounds’ throats. Dafydd shushed them.
    Cadwal stretched out his empty hands, palms up, raised a craggy eyebrow, looked from side to side, then behind him. ‘Where are your attackers?’
    The spokesman looked uncertain.
    Dafydd spoke. ‘What would Lancaster think of your manners, you who wear his livery? And in the lordship of his dear brother, the Prince of Wales. It is simple courtesy to lay down your arms when entering the house of one who means you no harm, who has expressed no enmity towards you.’
    The spokesman nodded to his men. They removed their sword belts, their daggers, handed them to Cadwal. He bowed over his burden, withdrew.
    ‘Now. If you will follow me.’ Dafydd led the men to the hall.
    In the hall, chairs had been drawn up round the fire circle and on a table sat a pitcher of spiced wine and six cups.
    ‘Come. Take some refreshment. Cadwal will join us as soon as he has made safe your weapons.’
    The men poured wine. A servant came forth and poured Dafydd’s. He took a seat and sipped calmly until the men were settled. Cadwy and Nest lay watchful at Dafydd’s feet.
    ‘Now if you would begin again,’ said Dafydd. ‘You seek a corpse?’
    ‘Perhaps a corpse, perhaps merely an injured man. Three days ago we saw you depart Whitesands with a burden on your horse. Your men prevented us from pursuing you.’
    ‘A burden?’
    ‘We believe it was the body of the man we pursue.’
    ‘Ah. And you have come to claim him?’
    ‘We have.’
    ‘To what end?’
    ‘If he is alive, to take him to Cydweli for trial, my lord. He stands accused of attacking the Receiver of Cydweli and robbing the exchequer. And a member of our guard is missing.’
    ‘And if this man whom you seek is dead?’
    ‘We shall see that his body has a proper burial.’
    ‘What is his name?’
    ‘We believe his name is Rhys ap Llywelyn. Of Pembroke.’
    ‘A Pembroke man stealing from Cydweli, eh? Did the Earl of Pembroke’s dam urge him on? Is she to benefit?’ John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, was in France with King Edward’s army. His mother, a Mortimer, had wrested control of the lordship while her son was away – it had been a topic of much amusing chatter at his patron’s hall. It was the Mortimer way, to steal what they wanted – power, riches – they never won it honestly. Which was how they came to be one of the oldest and most powerful Marcher families. It was said that Pembroke’s mother was a Mortimer through and through, devil’s spawn, taking offence at everything if only to enjoy destroying the offender – slowly. Had she been a handsome woman Dafydd might have written a poem to her.
    ‘My lord, I know nothing of the man but that he is wanted to answer for his crimes in Cydweli.’
    ‘It is a bold thing, Lancaster’s men entering his brother Prince Edward’s March and demanding a man who has sought sanctuary here. May I see your letter of protection and your lord’s request for my co-operation?’
    The spokesman said nothing. But his flushed face made his answer clear enough.
    Dafydd set down his cup and rose. ‘Your hasty action is commendable, gentlemen. But even if I did have the man under my roof, and even if he was the criminal you call him, I could not in good conscience give him up to you. My lord Duke will understand.’
    The spokesman