A Gift Of Sanctuary

Nine

Gruffydd had marched away with a purposeful stride. Perhaps he would bring not only Morgan to the castle but Dafydd, Angie, Gwen, Owen’s parents, Rhodri and Angharad.

As Owen walked back to the guesthouse, he tried to imagine how it would feel to see his family after all this time. He doubted he would recognise any of them. And what would they think of him, scarred and with an accent that testified to his years in the service of the English King? Though his parents would remember that he had saved the family by going into the Duke’s service, would his siblings remember? He feared this home-coming might prove a bitter draught.

Owen found Geoffrey slumped over a table beneath the window in their chamber, a cup of wine in one hand, his other hand stretched out across a parchment, touching a pen but not holding it, though he stared at it, his face a study in melancholy.

Owen had never seen Geoffrey in such a mood. ‘Are you unwell?’

Geoffrey sighed, lifted the pen and set it by his ink pot, pushed back his stool. ‘Would that I were, then I might have stayed here this afternoon and avoided humiliation.’ He did not look up at Owen, but spoke as if to the wall opposite.

‘You went to Edern?’

‘I did, but found I must wait until after the Mass to speak with him.’

‘And-?’

‘I found-’ Geoffrey shook his head.

‘He insulted you?’

‘No. I was the author of my own shame. Edern is unaware of it.’

‘Will you tell me what happened?’

‘I found the vicar in the chapel committing- By God! I am well aware such things go on, but never did I think to witness it.’

‘Geoffrey.’

‘I found him riding Mistress Lascelles’s maid. No, in truth she rode him, her breasts slapping against her waist. So huge and heavy they were. And she squealed and giggled as he moaned.’ Suddenly, Geoffrey turned to Owen, who had embraced the comical scene conjured by the words as a welcome relief from his thoughts of his family and now could not stop smiling in time. Geoffrey blushed. ‘Not that I find large breasts. . And such enthusiasm. . Sweet Jesu, in the chapel, Owen. After such a solemn Mass.’

‘And that is what has brought on this melancholy?’

‘Father Francis, the chaplain, found me in the doorway. What must he think?’

Owen fought to regain a solemn expression. ‘Unfortunate.’

‘Mine was an honest mistake. As I approached, a man hurried from the chapel, muttering to himself — would that I had been closer, perhaps he would have seen me and warned me away.’

‘And thus you sit so, unable to write.’

‘Worse was to come.’

‘Worse? Perhaps I ought to visit the chapel. .’

‘You would not — You make merry of me.’

‘In faith, I thought to put you at ease.’

‘You choose an odd method of easement.’

‘I pray you, tell me what caused your melancholy.’

‘The chaplain — what he told me. Gladys — that is Mistress Lascelles’s maid — lies with any and all men in the castle, but particularly John Lascelles.’ Geoffrey spoke the last four words slowly, watching for a reaction.

Owen thought it a pity that the steward’s eye wandered so early in marriage, but such men were sadly common. And yet. . ‘I thought Sir John worshipped his young wife. Else why risk union with the family of a man accused of treason?’

‘A woman adored is not always a woman bedded.’

‘Aye. And ladies’ maids have betrayed their mistresses before.’

‘At their mistress’s bidding?’

Now he had Owen’s full attention. He eased down on to the seat opposite Geoffrey. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I said. She has encouraged Gladys and her husband.’

‘Should the chaplain have spoken of any of this?’

‘It grows complicated.’

‘Indeed.’

‘He — Father Francis, the chaplain — is certain that Edern has been brought back to resume his duties as chaplain — because Francis — a most pathetic, paunchy, mewling creature — was discovered with Gladys much as I discovered Edern this day. So he wishes me to reveal to Sir John what I witnessed. That Edern is no better than he should be, or at least no better than Francis.’

‘But why would he tell you about Sir John and the maid?’

‘I protested. I would not disturb Sir John, and through him his lady, for anything. And in any case, Edern was not brought back to resume duties as chaplain.’

‘You are a gentle heart, Geoffrey. This chaplain could learn much from you about Christian charity.’

‘He did not see it so.’

‘Did you agree to speak with Sir John?’

‘I muttered a curse in Italian in such a tone he believed me to be promising my help.’

‘You made good use of your wit.’

‘It is only a halfwit who walks into trouble and then reasons himself out of it.’

Tonight Gruffydd ap Goronwy wore a simple gown befitting a man of his stature, but made of silk, which caught the light and called attention to him. Quite a peacock, Tangwystl’s father. Was that why his wife did not accompany him to the castle — because she was busy at home working on his extensive wardrobe?

Gruffydd’s dark eyes swept the room. When he saw Owen, he lifted his chin and eyebrows in a mute greeting and moved towards him through the crowd. As he drew near, Gruffydd grew sombre. Owen guessed he had been wrong about the man he had thought to be his brother Morgan.

‘You are looking well this evening,’ Owen said.

‘God has ever blessed my line with good health, Captain.’ Stepping closer, Gruffydd bowed his head slightly and said in a quieter voice, ‘I have spoken with your brother.’

Owen’s heart gladdened. ‘I had thought, when you arrived alone. .’

A shake of the head. ‘He would not come to the castle.’

‘Why not?’

‘He did not explain. But he invites you, indeed, implores you to come to him.’

‘He is unwell? He cannot travel?’

‘You will find him well. I shall tell you how to find him.’

Owen could not bring himself to ask about the others.

Dafydd ap Gwilym watched the sunrise, remembering how a spring sunrise long ago caught his love’s hair and warmed it slowly from a pale yellow to red-gold, each strand burnished anew as the sun climbed the heavens. She, too, had warmed with the morning, as if kindled by the sun.

Not by his ardour, though he had foolishly thought she loved him. They never loved him well enough to defy their kin and run away with him. A woman loves a poet’s praises, the promise of fame and immortality in his songs. But she lusts for a soldier and marries a man of property.

He blinked at the melancholy thoughts. Whence came such shadows on this exquisite morning? Perhaps it was his imminent departure from this beloved place that darkened his mood and his memories. He must shrug off this gloom else he would be no good at convincing the men from Cydweli — whose return was inevitable — that the house had been as empty when last they came as it was now, and that Dafydd had no other goal in the world than his work.

Brother Samson and the pilgrim had departed yesterday for Strata Florida. A good three days’ journey on horseback, perhaps four, considering how Samson worried over the young man. Was Samson so old in spirit he had forgotten the resilience of youth? How quickly bones knit, wounds closed, scars faded, muscles eased? Ah, to be young again. It had been nothing for Dafydd to walk over mountains to revisit a lake noted in passing, to refresh his memory as he strove to describe a tree under which he had napped, a glade he had enjoyed with a sweetheart. He would give anything to trade places with the pilgrim.

Enough of that. He would soon prove his mettle when he followed on their trail. But first he would have some sport with the Cydweli men. He awaited their return. Had he gone with Samson and the pilgrim, the men would have found a house empty and would seek the pilgrim’s trail. But if they returned to see everything as it had been before — as far as they knew — they might be less diligent about seeking that trail.

Dafydd looked forward to another round with the men. He had precious few diversions beyond his poetry these days. Each one was to be savoured.

Stretching to his full height, Dafydd took one last look at the sunlit Irish sea and turned towards the house, whistling for his dogs. Nest and Cadwy abandoned their explorations in the gorse and followed. Dafydd walked slowly, making note of the crocuses, the birdsong, the budding trees. When he returned from Strata Florida, where he intended to spend some time in prayer, summer would be full blown — or worse, he might be delayed until the autumn. Who knew what adventures lie ahead?

For he knew not the truth of the pilgrim’s story. He knew not whether the armed bullies from Cydweli were right to claim him. He knew not how safe Brother Samson was, travelling with only a young lay brother and the pilgrim.

And it was just that uncertainty that made it worth a temporary absence from this beloved spot. He felt alive, and younger than before he had encountered the pilgrim on Whitesands.

God be praised.