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began to rise. Dafydd stayed him with a hand, and a nod to Cadwal, who now stepped forth from the shadows. ‘You are welcome to stay by the fire until you are dry,’ Dafydd said. ‘Then Cadwal will show you out, and at the far gate he will return your weapons. Go in peace, and God speed you on your way.’
    Dafydd withdrew, the dogs following. They found Brother Samson standing in the shadows in the corridor. ‘How long have you stood there?’
    ‘Is it wise to tease such men, my lord?’
    ‘Wise? Perhaps not. But I feel filled with God’s grace. Have I not attacked without violence, without ire?’
    ‘Who is this pilgrim, that you risk so much for him?’
    ‘It was not idle teasing, Samson. I have a name to try on the pilgrim. Shall we call to him, see whether he answers to it?’
    ‘He sleeps at present, Master Dafydd.’
    ‘Good. I shall return to my study. Send for me when he wakes.’
    At last the rhyme pleased him. With a contented sigh, Dafydd put aside his harp, then rose and stretched his arms over his head. The only occupation he enjoyed more than wrestling with words was wooing a beautiful woman. The wit required was much the same. A clever, surprising turn of phrase could turn a pretty head. Women liked wit. Men would do well to remember that. Men responded well to a good twist also. Look at those fools today, expecting to bully their way to the pilgrim.
    ‘My lord,’ a voice whispered from the doorway.
    Dafydd turned. ‘He wakes, Samson?’
    ‘He does.’
    The bard joined the monk. ‘Come. Let us try out a name.’
    The young man had been propped up to a half-sitting position, but his eyes were closed when Dafydd and Samson entered the room.
    Dafydd was disappointed. ‘Did we miss his waking moment?’ He bent close to the man, listened to his breath, which was not the slow, deep breath of sleep. ‘Do you feign sleep, my pilgrim?’
    Slowly the bruised eyes opened. They were sea grey. ‘Who are you?’ the pilgrim asked in the shaky voice of the weak.
    ‘I am the one who found you wounded on Whitesands. My name is Dafydd.’
    With his fingers the pilgrim cautiously explored the extent of the bandages.
    ‘Are you in much pain?’ Samson asked. ‘How is your throat today?’ The bruises were paling to yellow.
    The sea-grey eyes focused on the white monk. ‘I am in an abbey?’
    Samson bent over his patient from the other side. ‘This is Master Dafydd’s house.’ He peered into the young man’s eyes. ‘Your sight is clear today?’ Dafydd wondered at his litany of questions, all ignored by the pilgrim.
    ‘How long have I been here?’
    ‘You do not remember yesterday?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Or the day before?’
    The young man touched Dafydd’s embroidered gown. ‘I remember this. And even more pain than now.’ He looked up into Dafydd’s eyes. ‘But I do not remember the journey.’
    ‘What do you remember, Rhys?’ Dafydd asked.
    The eyes warmed. ‘Rhys ap Tewdwr, King of Deheubarth.’
    ‘Well, he you certainly are not. But another Rhys?’
    A hand went up to the bandaged ear. ‘I do not hear from this side, and there is much pain.’ His eyes asked the question he could not bring himself to voice.
    ‘You have not lost the ear, my son,’ Samson said, gently moving the hand away. ‘But it is as Master Dafydd’s gown, intricately stitched.’
    ‘Will I be ugly?’
    ‘For Tangwystl?’ Dafydd asked.
    The eyes filled, and the pilgrim looked away.
    ‘Who is she to you?’
    ‘I do not know.’
    Dafydd straightened. ‘I shall let you rest now.’
    Samson followed him out of the room. ‘His answers are not those of one who remembers nothing.’
    ‘You may be right. But why ruin a game of wit?’
    ‘You would be wise to take this more seriously.’
    ‘I shall make more headway if I gently tease his story from him, Samson. Why should he trust us?’
    ‘You saved his life.’
    ‘To what end? I do not know. Nor does he. Nor do you. It is in God’s hands.’

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