A Gift Of Sanctuary

Fourteen

A sullen rain kept Dafydd indoors with the injured intruders. Had it been a real storm — sooty clouds, howling wind, driving rain — Dafydd would have ventured forth to join in the drama, to absorb the energy, to revel in the presence of the Almighty. But a half-hearted rain merely dampened him both in body and spirit.

Dafydd withdrew to his writing chamber, where Nest and Cadwy noisily chewed on some bones, drowning out the dull patter of the rain on the thatch. Chin resting on hand, Dafydd grew melancholy as he listened to a memory — the drumming of the rain on the tiled roof of a wealthy patron, a house in which he had been exquisitely happy tutoring a lovely young woman, a woman who had loved him, thought him the fount of all knowledge, the champion of all beauty.

‘Master Dafydd,’ Mair softly called behind him, ‘forgive me for disturbing your work but the one you have awaited is come, the white monk Dyfrig.’

Dafydd rose quickly, turned to find the monk already standing behind him, a tall, narrow, solemn sentinel. Hooded head, hooded eyes. Dafydd wondered why he trusted Brother Dyfrig. Was it his silence that inspired confidence and confidences? It must be a strong impression to override those hooded eyes. The monk’s habit steamed as he stood near the brazier. It was not so white after travelling to St David’s and back. Nest had lifted her head from her bone to sniff him as he entered the room, but had not bothered to get up and greet him.

Dafydd remembered himself. ‘Mair, bring us some refreshment. Brother Dyfrig has had a long, damp journey.’

Mair bobbed a curtsey and slipped away.

‘Benedicte, Master Dafydd,’ Dyfrig bowed. ‘I see your hall has become a spital. Had you intended that?’

‘Criticism, Dyfrig? From a monk who breaks more vows than he keeps?’

‘I meant no criticism, Master Dafydd.’

Then he had not the wit to know when to flaunt his opinion, for he was right in criticising. ‘I confess that I had not considered the inconvenience. But then I did not expect such slaughter — how useless is the human carcass. It nourishes no one.’

Dafydd had hoped for an expression of disgust from the monk, but Dyfrig merely said, ‘Mother Earth is nourished by us, Master Dafydd.’

‘Ah. Then perhaps I should bury them in the garden.’

‘I was not aware that any were dead.’

So devoid of expression. Did they teach them that in the monastery? No, the monk had learned it elsewhere, for his fellow Cistercian had not that demeanour. Even the slightest impressions flickered across Brother Samson’s florid countenance for all to see.

‘All four are alive and look to fully recover, more’s the pity. But enough of my woes, let us sit and refresh ourselves while you tell me of your journey.’

Mair had returned with a tray laden with bowls, a jug of cider, cheese and bread. The two men settled at Dafydd’s table.

When Mair shut the door behind her, Dafydd said to Dyfrig, ‘Eat and then tell me what you learned about gifts from the sea.’

After thirstily downing two bowls of cider and devouring the better part of the cheese, Dyfrig leaned back in his chair, satisfied, and began his tale. And a troubling tale it was. Dafydd had known of John de Reine’s death, for the intruders had spoken of it. But somehow he had missed the fact that the man had been murdered on the beach at Whitesands. He rose from his chair, took his uneasiness to the window. The rain continued. ‘I had not heard about the sand in his clothes.’

‘Few have. From all accounts it is likely he was on the beach about the same time you found the pilgrim,’ Dyfrig said to Dafydd’s back. ‘I also learned of a young pilgrim missing from the bishop’s palace — one who had come petitioning the bishop. He, too, disappeared at the time you found your pilgrim.’

That cheered Dafydd. ‘So he is truly a pilgrim.’

‘Perhaps.’ Brother Dyfrig’s tone was doubtful. ‘Petitioners to the bishop often seek things other than indulgences and absolution — such as justice, patronage. .’

Dafydd did not like Dyfrig’s manner. He abandoned his contemplation of the rain and turned, regarding the monk with a stern expression. ‘Who is the source of your information?’

‘Everyone and no one.’ The monk’s smile was enigmatic. He enjoyed the role of sleuth. There was no dulling his spirit. ‘There is much activity in Castel Cydweli at the moment,’ Dyfrig continued. ‘Two of Lancaster’s men have journeyed from England to oversee the strengthening of the garrison. One of them is a one-eyed Welshman, formerly captain of archers to the old Duke, who has risen high in the present Duke’s favour — he is recruiting archers for King Edward’s next attempt at the crown of France.’

‘Had these men anything to do with the death of the steward’s son?’

‘It is difficult to say how the presence of such authority might affect an uneasy truce.’

Dafydd tired of the monk’s riddling. ‘Speak plainly.’

The monk’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. ‘This incident at Whitesands has the taste of Owain of the Red Hand about it, Master Dafydd.’

‘By the Trinity, you mean the Frenchman who thinks he is the rightful Prince of all Wales? Rhodri ap Gruffudd’s spawn?’

‘His grandson, yes. There are many who find hope in his claim.’

‘In every age there are many fools, Dyfrig.’ But Dafydd considered the monk’s suggestion. If the death of John de Reine had anything to do with Owain Lawgoch, the pilgrim was in grave danger, not simply from the ineffectual Cydweli warriors, but from either Lawgoch’s supporters or those loyal to King Edward. And it did not matter whether the pilgrim was innocent of the man’s death — he was suspected, and that was enough to bring him trouble. And bring trouble to any who offered him sanctuary.

But God had put the pilgrim in his path — surely He had intended Dafydd to help the injured man.

Dyfrig took the opportunity to finish the cheese and the cider.

‘You do not want for an appetite,’ Dafydd remarked.

‘As you said, I endured a long, wet journey to bring you my news,’ Dyfrig said.

‘Indeed. So you suggest that the pilgrim is one of Lawgoch’s supporters?’

Dyfrig nodded slowly, as if still considering the possibilities. ‘Or John de Reine might have been. His natural father did marry the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy, who has been accused of supporting Lawgoch.’

The monk enjoyed imparting bad news. ‘And these men sent by the constable of Cydweli?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Do you believe they are after a traitor to their King, not a thief?’

‘They may believe they seek both in the same man. It takes some wealth to mount an invasion. Lawgoch might well have thieves working for him.’

‘If you are right, my granting the pilgrim sanctuary might be misinterpreted.’

‘But he is no longer here, is he?’

‘No. But the Cydweli men returned — I do not think they would have bothered had they not been tolerably certain he had been here. My name is now linked with him. Even though I know not who he is.’

Dyfrig picked up his bowl, found it empty. ‘I would welcome a brief rest,’ he said.

And Dafydd would welcome time to think. He rose. ‘If you encounter any of the Cydweli men, claim another house than yours, Dyfrig. I would not have them finding your presence a key to the pilgrim’s whereabouts.’

‘So he is on his way to Strata Florida with Brother Samson?’

‘He may be.’

Dyfrig was almost out the door when he turned, head tilted, and said softly, ‘All nature conforms to patterns, and so does man mimic nature in his activities. Mark you — John de Reine was the natural son of John Lascelles, who married the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy, accused of giving shelter to a Fleming working for Lawgoch. And this daughter’s name is the one name we know is somehow connected with the pilgrim — Tangwystl.’ Dyfrig touched fingertips together, forming a circle with his hands. With a slight smile and a nod, he withdrew.

Dafydd put his head in his hands and prayed God that Dyfrig was wrong, that the pilgrim had no connection with Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri ap Gruffudd.

Dafydd did not welcome death. Not yet. And not as the result of a charitable gesture. Sweet Heaven, what was God about, to visit this danger upon him? Of all Welshmen, why was he drawn into Lawgoch’s trouble? He had no faith in the man’s honour. Rhodri ap Llywelyn, brother of Llywelyn the Last, had been the weakest of the brothers. How could one believe anything noble of his grandson?

Owen reined in his horse as he caught sight of a substantial farmhouse tucked in a cluster of oaks and willows. He wished to catch his breath and gather his wits about him. Through an opening in the trees he could see that the house was set safely back from a bluff that must dramatically drop off to the marshland below. Lascelles had been generous with his father-in-law; this was no common farmhouse.

A pretty young woman with Gruffydd’s dark hair and handsome features opened the door, peered at Owen with curiosity.

He introduced himself.

Her eyes brightening, she bobbed a hurried curtsey and exclaimed in Welsh, ‘They say you have journeyed to the edge of the world, Captain Archer.’

Owen laughed. ‘Tales have a way of growing with the telling. I have sailed across the sea to France, but no farther.’

‘They say that an Amazon took your eye.’

‘And died for it,’ Gruffydd said, joining the girl. ‘My youngest daughter, Awena.’ She bobbed again, ducked beneath her father’s extended arm and scurried into the house. ‘I am honoured, Captain, but I assure you that Tangwystl is not here, nor was she here yesterday.’ The words were courteous but firm, the tone slightly strained. Gruffydd wore a simpler garb than he favoured at Cydweli, and his hair was not so carefully combed.

‘I am here on my own business, not the steward’s,’ Owen said. ‘I wished to thank you for reuniting me with my brother Morgan.’

Gruffydd closed his eyes, nodded. ‘Forgive me. The earlier messenger from Cydweli alarmed my wife. But I should have guessed your purpose might be a different one. Come in, come in.’

As Owen had guessed from without Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s house, this was the residence of a wealthy farmer, with a comfortable hall, a tiled fire circle, and above the far end, a solar. A boy in rougher garb than Awena’s, a servant, Owen guessed, helped her ease a board on to trestles. A tall, exceedingly thin woman with the pale brows of a redhead carried a tray of bowls and a pitcher to the table. She wore a simple gown and the starched head-dress of a Welsh farmwife. She was barefoot.

Gruffydd led Owen to the table, sat him nearest the fire from which came a welcome heat after the long, damp ride.

‘My wife, Eleri,’ Gruffydd said, gesturing to the slender woman. Owen wondered at the marked difference in garb between Eleri and her husband and children. ‘My love, this is Owain ap Rhodri, the former captain of archers about whom we have heard so much.’

Eleri stood at one end of the table, fussing with the bowls, spreading them all out, then stacking them, then spreading them out again. She seemed not to hear him.

Gruffydd put his hand on one of hers. ‘Eleri.’ His knuckles were swollen and raw. He must do more work on the farm than Owen would have guessed.

Eleri wiped her hands on her apron, lifted her chin, then her eyes, as if someone had forced the motion. Her eyes lit on Owen for the briefest time, then dropped to the bowls once more. ‘There is wine,’ she said in Welsh, and began to turn away.

Hands on her bony shoulders, Gruffydd turned her back to the table. ‘Sit down and enjoy our guest, Eleri.’

Awena moved to her mother’s side, began to pour the wine.

‘Come,’ Gruffydd guided Eleri to a bench.

She sat down, then at once began to fuss with her gown, shaking out the wrinkles, smoothing her skirt. She patted her head-dress. When she had completed what seemed a ritual, she met Owen’s gaze with momentary clarity. ‘Are you from the castle?’

‘I am staying there at the moment.’

‘Why are you not out searching for my daughter?’

‘Eleri, he is a guest at the castle, not one of the garrison.’

Eleri touched her shoulder, frowned at the hand that lay there, lifted it to her face, studied it. ‘They said she brought a priest to visit me because of my illness. But I am not ill.’

‘They were mistaken, my love,’ Gruffydd said.

Dropping her hand, Eleri looked up at Owen with a twinkle of conspiracy in her sunken eyes. ‘She never came. Nor the priest.’ She leaned towards Owen and whispered, ‘Is it true that Father Edern has come?’

‘Eleri!’ Gruffydd thundered.

Startled, the woman reared back and drew in her breath sharply, bowed her head. Awena put her arm round her mother, whispered something.

Gruffydd shook his head sadly. ‘My wife is easily confused, Captain.’ He raked a hand through his thick dark hair. Owen noticed an angry-looking, partially healed scar on the palm of the hand, remembered that the hand had been bandaged when they first met. ‘She hears a name once and then believes it is familiar. How did you find your brother?’

Was it the abrupt change of subject or did Owen simply find it implausible that Eleri would ask after a priest she had never met? ‘My brother looks prosperous and fortunate in his wife and children. I am happy for him.’ How might he take Eleri aside and speak with her? Her husband and daughter kept such close guard.

Eleri suddenly rose with a jolt that shook the table, and gathering her skirts about her she went quickly across the hall and up the steps to the solar. Neither of her guards hurried after.

Gruffydd simply looked after his wife, his face sad, and said, ‘You must forgive her. She is beset by demons.’

Awena seemed more appropriately concerned. ‘Shall I go to her?’ she asked her father.

Gruffydd shook his head, lifted his bowl. ‘You must take your ma’s place with our guests. Pour us more wine.’

‘Forgive me,’ Owen said. ‘My coming here was ill advised on such a day.’

Gruffydd pressed his fingers to his temples as if weary. ‘You are not to blame. It takes little to trouble my wife.’

From the solar came a child’s laughter, low and throaty. Owen raised his head in the direction of the sound, thinking how like his daughter Gwenllian it sounded. Eleri appeared once more, called to Awena to assist her.

Gruffydd rose with Awena, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Keep the child up above, Awena,’ he said quietly.

But Eleri had already begun to descend the narrow steps with a child in her arms. When she set him on his feet in the hall, the plump boy ran directly to the table to stare up at Gruffydd.

He was fair haired and blue eyed, a child to make a father’s heart swell with pride. Owen glanced from the lad to Gruffydd, who made an apologetic face.

Eleri now took the boy’s hand and guided him round the table to Owen. ‘His name is Hedyn,’ Eleri said. ‘Do you not think Father Edern would be proud of him?’

‘Eleri,’ Gruffydd said sharply.

But she ignored him. ‘Can you believe that my daughter’s English husband rejected this angel? Tangwystl should be reunited with her true husband.’

God’s blood, Owen thought, was that it? The child was Edern’s? No wonder the vicar’s name was denied in the house.

Gruffydd ran his hand through his hair. ‘She does not know what she says. She would shame Tangwystl with such a tale.’

Eleri crouched beside the boy on the rushes. Hedyn clutched her hand tightly and stared up at Owen.

Owen reached out to the child, missing his own. His fingers were firmly grasped. ‘He has a grasp like my daughter Gwenllian’s. How old is this fine lad?’

Eleri turned on Owen a radiant smile. ‘Two in early summer. He is the image of his father.’

Gruffydd rose. ‘It is best that you go now, Captain. I cannot quiet her when she behaves like this.’

Pale hair, full lips, Owen supposed one could see a resemblance to Edern, but no more so than to any fair man. Owen knelt to the boy, met his eye, was pleased when the child let go Eleri and grabbed for Owen’s eye-patch with a gleeful shout. Some children feared his appearance. ‘God go with you, Hedyn, and may your father have a chance to see what a fine lad you are.’

‘Come,’ Gruffydd said, ‘I shall walk out with you.’

Awena wished Owen a safe journey and bent to take the child. Eleri rose and stood clutching her elbows and rocking slightly from side to side.

Poor woman. What had brought her to such a state? One thing was certain, Owen no longer wondered why Gruffydd came alone to the castle.

Out in the yard, Gruffydd stopped beneath a tree that provided shelter from the drizzle. He apologised for his wife’s behaviour, for the tales she spun out of air.

‘The boy is yours, not Mistress Lascelles’s?’

Gruffydd wagged his head back and forth, not denying it, but suggesting that things were not so simple to explain. ‘It is true that my daughter had a child before she was betrothed to John Lascelles. But I assure you the vicar Edern is not Hedyn’s father. You see how my Eleri takes some truth and then weaves lies through it.’

‘She seems devoted to the boy.’

‘Devoted. Yes.’ Emotion shone in Gruffydd’s blue eyes. ‘Out of adversity came some joy. It was Eleri who offered to take the child when my son-in-law said he must be fostered up.’

‘Forgive me, but is she-’

‘Trustworthy?’ Gruffydd shook his head. ‘Not so much as she was. Awena watches over the boy.’

‘Then your wife has not long been so afflicted?’

Gruffydd turned away, walked out from beneath the tree. ‘Ah. The rain has ceased.’ Still he kept his back to Owen. His voice was less steady as he said, ‘My dear wife was brought low by our troubles in Tenby. Taking her from her home — it is as if she was robbed of her soul.’

‘You must count yourself and your family ill used,’ Owen said quietly. A tragedy indeed if the accusation were unjustified.

The lad who had helped Awena in the hall now brought Owen’s horse to him.

Gruffydd turned round. If he had been hiding emotion, he was now composed, though as he spoke he looked aside and spoke in a halting manner. ‘It has been difficult for all of us, Tangwystl perhaps most of all. She believes she sacrificed her son for our welfare and fears he will grow to resent her. She expected Sir John to accept Hedyn as if he were his own, in the Welsh way. It is hard for her to hear the boy called a bastard. But she is now the wife of an Englishman and she must accept his ways. I have assured her that Sir John will do well by Hedyn, as he did by John de Reine. And meanwhile the boy is at least with his kin, if not his mother.’

And thus were two good people made miserable by their union. Was it any wonder Tangwystl sought an escape from her marriage? As Owen mounted, he looked down on Gruffydd and asked, ‘Why did she not marry Hedyn’s father?’

With a dark look, Gruffydd lifted a hand as if about to slap Owen’s horse into a canter, but he checked the motion and instead rubbed his forehead. ‘Of course you would ask. Forgive my temper. He abandoned her when Lady Pembroke accused me of treason. Suddenly my daughter had no dowry, a tarnished name. There could be no official marriage because I could no longer pay.’

Owen well remembered that a traditional Welsh marriage was costly, with the marriage portion, a wedding feast for the witnesses, a fee for the parson, and an amobr for the lord. The Marcher lords encouraged the traditions because they pocketed the fees. But would a man with such a son as Hedyn, such a wife in deed, abandon such happiness for her father’s lack of money? ‘Surely to our people such an accusation would not necessarily tarnish her name? I should think many support Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri in their hearts, if not openly.’

Gruffydd said only, ‘In the end she found a better man in John Lascelles.’

One of more use to the family. ‘Where do you think your daughter has gone?’

‘Tangwystl is a passionate young woman. No doubt she and Sir John quarrelled and she means to teach him a lesson. I am confident all will be well.’ So seemingly passionate about all else concerning his family, Gruffydd’s indifference about his daughter’s disappearance came as a surprise.

‘Did the earlier messenger from the castle tell you about Father Francis?’

Gruffydd bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘May God grant him peace.’

‘Does it not worry you that your daughter disappeared on the day of such a violent attack?’

The dark eyes widened in surprise. ‘Do you think the priest died defending her?’

Owen had not thought of that. ‘I mean that it is believed she left with Father Edern.’

‘Why would she be with him?’

‘Your wife-’

‘My wife is as you saw her, Captain, confused. I am confident that Sir John will find my daughter.’

‘I pray you are right.’

‘I am glad I was able to find your brother for you, Captain. And now, forgive my haste, but I must return to my wife.’

With that, Gruffydd turned back towards the house, dismissing Owen, who sat astride his horse staring at the man’s retreating back until the groom asked whether anything was wrong. The young man watched Owen ride away, poised as if ready to sound an alarm if Owen turned back.

Owen saw little of the countryside as he rode back to Cydweli. The image of the pale, gaunt Eleri haunted him, as did her husband. He thought much of the poor woman. God’s purpose in robbing the woman of her wits eluded Owen. Might it be a punishment? Because she had encouraged Tangwystl in the liaison that had produced Hedyn? She had spoken of Hedyn’s father as Tangwystl’s true husband — did God not recognise the oath between a couple? Many a Welsh marriage had been based on merely that. But if her state were truly the result of Pembroke’s accusation, how might a God-fearing man understand it? He would add her to his prayers. She seemed a gentle woman.

A movement up ahead, beneath a tree beside the track, caught Owen’s attention and drew him from his thoughts. A young boy had risen abruptly from a crouch and spun round. Now he greeted Owen with a cheerful blessing, one hand behind his back.

Poaching, Owen thought. And fearful lest Owen saw his catch and would comment, so he thought to disarm him with his bold greeting. ‘You are welcome to whatever it is you hide behind your back, lad. I shall not be informing on you.’

‘God bless you, sir, and all your children, and your children’s children.’

‘You wear your guilt on your face, lad. Learn to disappear into the shadows.’

A bit of Gruffydd ap Goronwy in the lad, Owen thought as he rode on. Sweet heaven, that was it. He was a gift from God, that lad by the roadside. For that was indeed what Owen had sensed but could not put his finger on — Gruffydd behaved as if he were indifferent, but he was not. He would have done better to have torn his hair and beat his breast than to feign indifference. What was he hiding? Was he involved in Tangwystl’s disappearance?

Was it possible? Was Tangwystl there at the farm, even now? Had she gone there not to be with an ailing mother, but with her son? Was that why Awena and Gruffydd watched Eleri so closely? Fearful she might reveal the secret?

But then what had become of the vicar? It seemed unlikely the man would just depart, not without the bishop’s retainers. For surely Edern would go nowhere but back to St David’s — he had undertaken this mission to please the bishop. Yet he was gone, and the two retainers remained.

Owen wished Lucie were here. He needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen and ask the right questions to help him see what he knew, what he needed to know, and to whom he ought to talk. Geoffrey seemed unable to perform the role for him; he saw everything that was happening in terms of how it affected him and their mission. There was no sense returning to confront Gruffydd. Owen had no way to motivate the man to confide in him.

Where had it all begun? With the accusation against Gruffydd? With Lascelles’s first sight of Tangwystl? With Tangwystl and the father of her son?

Or were those events merely ripples that had led up to the death of John de Reine? Why had Burley’s men gone to St David’s? Who knew the truth about the theft of the exchequer?

His heart pounding, his mind racing, Owen urged his horse to a gallop. He had much to do, and, God help him, that filled him with joy.