Rome, A.D. 928
The three pilgrims found a tavern where they could order some red wine and relax, except that Hywel didn’t unwind because the man who had stared at them earlier had followed them into the inn and sat at an adjacent table, which enabled Hywel to study him out of the corner of his eye. He had little doubt that the fellow was a lout, a fact amply confirmed when his brawny left hand wrapped itself around a beaker of red wine. On the back of that hand was the unmistakable tattoo of a Maltese cross with a red heart in the centre.
“Excellency, go and sit next to that rogue,” he said in Welsh with no fear of anyone for miles around except his two bishops understanding a word. “You can speak a language the locals understand. Find out why he is following us, and make it clear to him
