A Gift Of Sanctuary

Fifteen

A fresh wind cooled Owen as he rode towards Cydweli. Below him on his left the marshes shimmered in the afternoon sun, the winter-browned grasses shivering in the wind. In a few months it would be a green sea of grasses loud with birdsong.

Near the mill outside the town, Owen dismounted, ran his fingers through his tangled hair, and tucked his weapons into the pack on his saddle, remembering the gatekeeper’s concern about armed strangers in the town. He felt guilty to have ridden his horse so hard and then to have left him standing in the cold shadow by the south gate, but Owen wished to stop in the tavern before he returned to the castle. And if fortune smiled on him and he won the taverner’s confidence, he would tarry even longer in the town. He hoped to be directed to the house of Roger Aylward, the Duke’s receiver who had been injured defending the exchequer. He wished to hear the man’s own account of the incident that had sent four armed men off to St David’s, John de Reine’s destination. Though it was possible that Aylward, too, would tell a tale to hide the truth, Owen hoped that would not be so.

But first he wished to learn all he could about the receiver. At home, when Owen needed information about townspeople, he slipped next door to the York Tavern. Bess and Tom Merchet heard much while pouring ales and feeding wayfarers. The midwife Magda Digby was also a dependable source of information, as, too, was Owen’s wife Lucie, who heard much — and intuited more — in her apothecary shop. He sorely felt the lack of the four of them at present.

The inn looked much like any other, far less imposing than the York Tavern, but the stone threshold had been polished by the feet of many patrons. Owen ducked through the open doorway, and then beneath beams blackened by years of smoky fires, one of which now burned dully under a rancid-smelling stew. The fare in this tavern was not up to Bess Merchet’s standards, that was certain.

Barefoot, skirt tucked up into her girdle, a young woman knelt on the floor scrubbing a long board that likely served as the top of a trestle table. She glanced up at Owen’s greeting, then scurried up and disappeared into another doorway.

A thin, sour-faced man appeared soon enough, eyeing Owen with cautious curiosity as he set down a tray full of drinking bowls. His sleeves were stained with food and drink.

‘Would you be the taverner?’ Owen asked in Welsh.

‘From the castle, are you?’ the man said in English.

Owen was disappointed. He thought a Welsh taverner might be more co-operative. But perhaps this one would be more impressed by his being one of the Duke’s emissaries. ‘Aye. I am recruiting archers for the Duke.’

The man screwed up his face, nodded. ‘I remember now. Captain of the old Duke’s archers, they say, and from these parts.’ He tilted his head, looked Owen up and down. ‘I should think they have made you welcome at the castle. What would you be wanting in my humble tavern?’

‘I want some of your best ale, and a bit of conversation that has nothing to do with archers or France.’

‘Or the disappearance of the steward’s lady?’

So the news had spread to the town. ‘None of that, either.’

‘Good. He is better off without her, her father a traitor and her mother witless.’

The taverner did indeed seem knowledgeable. ‘Will you drink with me?’

The man turned round, shouted for a pitcher of ale and two bowls, then led Owen to a small table in the thick of the smoke, scratching himself as he walked.

Owen did not like a smoky place — he did not like losing the sharp sight in his good eye when it watered, but this was not the time to argue. He did wonder whether the taverner had chosen the table to put him at a disadvantage.

‘Beeker’s the name,’ the taverner said as he settled himself. He grunted at the young woman who set a pitcher and two bowls before him and hurried away. ‘They tell me you are Black Rhodri’s son.’

‘I am Owain ap Rhodri ap Maredudd.’

‘Aye, Rhodri ap Maredudd — that was Black Rhodri.’

‘I never heard him called that.’

‘Well, you were gone when the lightning struck, eh?’ Beeker’s nasty grin revealed teeth blackened by rot.

Owen poured himself a bowl of the ale and swallowed it down. It was thick and surprisingly tasty, though way below Tom Merchet’s standards. ‘Is it your custom to insult the man who buys you ale?’ He held the taverner’s unwilling gaze.

‘I meant no offence,’ Beeker muttered, ‘thought you would know.’

In the end Owen bullied the man into telling him what he wanted, and threatened that part of his anatomy he was so fond of scratching if he informed Burley of his visit.

The receiver’s town house stood two storeys and boasted glazing in the window of the jettied second storey, a fine oak door, a stone path leading down the side to a walled garden and a stone stairway leading up to the side door opening on to the second storey. According to Beeker, Roger Aylward had another, larger house in the country. Made his money importing wine. A prosperous merchant. He would think twice before accepting the ‘honour’ of the receivership again no doubt. What need had he of such trouble?

A barefoot serving girl opened the street-level door to Owen, then made him wait without while she hurried up the stairway to ‘ask whether her master was at home’. Amusingly clumsy — for surely Roger Aylward must be at home, bedridden as he was said to be since the incident. Owen had a long wait — long enough to become well acquainted with a ginger cat who thought him likely to be hiding milk or meat on his person. His thoughts went once again to York: Jasper had a cat much like this; Crowder would sit on a sill watching the lad work in the apothecary, drowsing in the sun. At night he was one of the best mousers in York — he had the belly to prove it.

‘Master Aylward will see you now,’ the young woman called from halfway up the stairs, waking Owen from his homely reverie. As he reached her level she bowed her head and said softly, ‘I am sorry you had to wait without.’

‘It is no fors. I had a quiet moment with the cat.’

The master lay in state in a great oak bed, wearing a linen shift with voluminous pleated sleeves and a tidy linen cap tied beneath his chin. Lamplight revealed a fleshy man of sanguine complexion looking delighted to have a visitor.

‘Forgive me for not rising to welcome you,’ he said in Welsh, ‘but my head still feels as if it is being ground to flour when I stand. I hope you understood why I did not invite you to our house when you arrived — that you had heard of the theft, my attack. .?’ The gap in his teeth was evident when he spoke — in truth, the only visible evidence of his having been assaulted.

Why should the man apologise for neglecting what had never been expected? ‘I had heard about your misfortune, Master Aylward.’

‘But I am glad you came. I love to think about your father, my old friend Rhodri ap Maredudd. Please, sit. The girl will bring cider as soon as she has time.’

Old friend? The unexpected connection was Owen’s second gift this day. And why not speak of his family — it would make the rest all the easier. He took a seat on a comfortably cushioned bench at his host’s bedside. ‘I did hope to hear of him, and my mother.’

‘You have been to Morgan’s house?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then you know that they are both with God.’

‘My brother saw no need to delay the telling,’ Owen said. If the man knew his family, he knew Morgan’s character.

‘Indeed. My wife thought perhaps we should do the telling, but I thought it best coming from your kin. Of course your ma’s going was a peaceful one, went to bed and did not wake. But Rhodri’s-’ Roger bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘I confess I did not wish to be the one to describe it to you.’ He clapped his hands as the serving girl backed into the room with a tray. ‘Now I shall show you some hospitality and we can talk of your father’s joys.’

Owen’s heart lightened to hear of his father’s pride in his being chosen one of Lancaster’s archers, and how the family were at last accepted into the community, largely because of his mother’s skill with herbs and his father’s with ailing livestock. ‘They were generous with the talents God gave them,’ Roger said, ‘and your friend Master Chaucer told me of your talents — how you have become indispensable to both the Archbishop of York and our Duke.’

‘Chaucer? You have met?’ Aylward seemed a master of surprise.

Aylward gestured to the serving girl, who sat quietly with some needlework in the light from the window, to pour him more cider.

‘Yes, yes,’ Aylward said as he held up his cup to be filled, ‘it has been a day of pleasant meetings, good for the spirits of one so confined. And a day of sorrow. I have great sympathy for John Lascelles. He did a good deed, granted a heroic kindness to a beleaguered family to my mind, and he has had nothing but sorrow from it. Such a beauty she is, but so unfit to be the wife of one of Lancaster’s stewards. Even so, you will not find me linking her with the beating of Father Francis. It will be the churchman, mark my words. Though I do not like to think it of Father Edern. I was fond of him when he was chaplain at the castle.’

His mind reeling with the effort to follow the track of Aylward’s easy tongue, Owen remained quiet for a moment, though he nodded solemnly now and then to encourage his host. Had Geoffrey told him all this? To what purpose?

‘I confess I was disappointed that you had sent your comrade to me,’ Aylward continued. ‘So I am glad that you had additional questions, though I swear by St David I can think of no reason Mistress Lascelles would take up with Father Edern.’

‘Master Chaucer told you he was assisting me in an investigation?’

‘He was wrong to admit that? But why should a man confide if he does not know to what purpose-’ Aylward stopped as Owen waved aside the argument.

‘I am glad that he was open,’ Owen said. He was thinking fast. ‘Did he tell you that we believe the steward’s recent troubles — the theft, the deaths of John de Reine and the chaplain, and Mistress Lascelles’s disappearance — have some common source?’

The ruddy face registered puzzlement, then amusement. Aylward tried to hide the smile by lifting the cup to his mouth, but Owen had seen it.

‘You find that unlikely?’ Owen asked.

Aylward took his time setting his cup on the table beside him, dabbing his lips with a cloth. ‘Forgive me. I know nothing of these things. I merely- My good wife, you see, would like your theory. She is fond of blaming all her troubles on one source. And when you said- Well, in truth, it reminded me of her.’

If Roger Aylward was not telling the truth, he was a clever liar with a quick wit, for his explanation was credible in its singularity.

‘I hope that you are not considered the source of all her problems,’ Owen said with a smile.

Aylward chuckled. ‘No, we are content in one another. And I do sincerely hope that you do not consider me the source of John Lascelles’s troubles.’

‘I should be a fool to sit here partaking of your hospitality if that were so,’ Owen said, lifting his cup. ‘But I do ask a favour, that you tell me in your own words all you remember about the night of the theft.’

The receiver closed his eyes, leaned his head back on the bounteous pile of pillows. ‘Such a cursed night, and you wish to hear of it over and over again.’

So this, too, Geoffrey had requested. What was the man up to? ‘One last time, Master Aylward. I should be grateful. I might then rest assured that I know all that can be known of it.’

Aylward opened one eye. ‘You do not trust Master Chaucer’s memory? But you should, you know. He recited a long and most excellent tale of Seys and Alcyone that he is using in a poem of his own making, in honour of our Duke’s fair Duchess so sadly gone from us.’

So that was how Geoffrey had won the man’s friendship — by playing the bard. Owen would admire his ingenuity if he were not so angry. What was Geoffrey thinking, to come here and question the Duke’s receiver? What did he know of the cunning necessary for such things? Well, he knew something, Owen could not deny it. ‘I worry that he might not heed the finer details.’

Aylward sighed and began a recitation — for that was precisely how it sounded, a rehearsed description of the event. Aylward had sat alone at a table in the castle treasury having a cup of wine after a long session with his secretary, dictating letters to Lancaster and his Receiver General. During the past autumn Aylward had arranged shipping for the Duke’s coming expedition, travelling to various ports in south Wales to do so, and he owed an accounting of his activities, results, expenses. Whilst he sat at the table, his back to the door, a stranger entered the room, grabbed him from behind, dragging him from his chair — which toppled backward and crashed with such a noise he had hoped to see guards at the door at once. But fortune was not with him that evening. With a knife to Aylward’s throat the intruder made him open a chest, then flung the receiver from him with such force Aylward was thrown forward over the toppled chair — which is when he lost his tooth. When he stood up to throw himself upon the thief he was flung to the wall. And that is all he remembered.

Considering the heft of the man, at least what Owen could guess from the parts visible beneath the bedclothes, the thief must have been a man of some considerable strength. And yet Aylward’s vague description of the intruder made him of average weight and height.

‘He had no accomplice?’ Owen asked, frowning.

‘No.’

‘You called him a stranger. You saw his face?’

Aylward shook his head. ‘He wore a mask and no livery.’ He shook his head again, then moaned and called for the serving girl. ‘My head,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, as if weakened by the gesture.

‘A cold compress, soaked in lavender water if you have it,’ Owen said, ‘and some feverfew in his cider. That should soothe him.’

The maid looked puzzled. Even Aylward opened his eyes.

‘My wife is a master apothecary. I have learned much from her. It is the least I can offer, having been the cause of your present discomfort. God go with you, Master Aylward. You have been more than kind.’

Owen shook his head as he descended to the street. Aylward’s account and his behaviour stank of deceit. But who would benefit?

‘You look disappointed, Captain.’ A man stepped from the shadows, leading Owen’s horse. One of Burley’s men, crook nosed and sinewy with large hands and a bald pate. Duncan.

‘It is good of you to bring my horse to me, Duncan,’ Owen said.

A gap-toothed grin. ‘Did you learn what you wished from Master Aylward?’ Duncan patted Owen’s horse.

‘Aye, that I did. He knew my parents well. But surely you did not come down from the castle to ask about my family?’

‘Sir John rode out this morning and has not returned. The town porter said your horse was in a froth when you came to the gate. We hoped you might have news of the steward.’

Owen groaned. ‘Another worry to distract the garrison? I shall never complete my mission.’ His complaint rang hollow in his ears.

‘Whence did you ride in such haste?’

Owen grabbed a partial lie from the air, one that might not be discovered too soon. ‘From Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s. I rode out to escort Mistress Lascelles and the priest back to Cydweli. But I found they had never been at the farm. I thought the steward should know as soon as possible.’

‘Sir John sent you?’

‘He had suggested it last night.’

‘Odd.’ Duncan handed Owen the reins. ‘He sent someone else this morning.’

‘Then I have spent my steed for nothing.’

‘Aye. That you have.’ Duncan motioned for Owen to go first.

Folk moved out of their way as they walked along Castle Street to the south gate of the castle. The townsfolk feared Burley’s men, that was plain. Owen wondered why Burley’s man had awaited him outside Aylward’s house. Had Burley been warned of Owen’s visit? Was that the cause of Owen’s long wait without?

Had Owen been trailed by Burley, perhaps since he left the castle this morning with Gladys? Duncan’s boots and leggings were not travel stained, but that told Owen nothing.

What nagged at him more was the theft of the exchequer. As he walked, he thought back over Aylward’s story. Nothing rang true about it — the receiver’s rehearsed tale, his pretence of being bedridden, the implausible trail on which Burley had dispatched his men without a clear description of the attacker. And now Burley’s man awaiting Owen outside the receiver’s house — why?

‘The constable wants to see you,’ Duncan said.

‘I thought he might.’ And Owen wished to see him once he had more time to think all this through. An idea was slowly forming. And if he did not come to some understanding with the constable he would be tripping over him whenever he took a backward step. It was not a time for accidents. It was time to talk. ‘Tell him I shall be with him by and by, once I have seen to my horse and my muddy boots.’

On a long bench in the practice yard, Burley sat with feet propped on a barrel. His fair hair was dark with sweat, his tunic muddy. Duncan leaned down to speak quietly, no doubt reporting his brief conversation with Owen. Burley nodded, waved Duncan away, smiled at Owen. ‘I am glad to see you, Captain Archer. I feared that you, too, had deserted us.’

‘It is good to see a constable who keeps himself ever ready for battle,’ Owen said. ‘But surely you might have asked the Duke for the funds needed for the garrison instead of feigning a theft from the exchequer?’

Showing no emotion, Burley ordered the waiting servant to disappear. ‘Leave the ale,’ he barked. The servant set a pitcher and bowl down on the bench beside Burley and hurried off. Burley poured, drank, belched. ‘Better.’ He turned back to Owen. ‘It had nothing to do with the garrison.’

‘I thought not.’

‘What do you intend to do with your discovery?’

‘Nothing. It does not concern me or my mission here.’

‘What about Master Chaucer?’

‘I cannot swear for him, but I would say that you would do better to worry about his impression of Cydweli’s defences. Convince him that the garrison is fit and ready to defend the Duke’s interests against the French or the Welsh pretender, and you will enjoy a long and profitable constableship.’

‘And you? What do I have to fear from you?’

‘If the theft is the worst sin on your conscience, nothing. But I am curious why you and the wealthy receiver found it necessary to steal from the treasury.’

‘An unfortunate investment. A foolhardy venture. .’ Burley looked at his muddy boots. ‘Never trust a merchant. He swore the risk was slight when he coaxed me into investing, and after the ship sank he swore it was as much a shock and disaster for him as it was for me. I had my revenge, though.’ Burley’s eyes crinkled with pleasure.

‘The tooth?’

Burley glanced up and burst into laughter. ‘And he cannot say a word about it, vain, pompous, stupid man.’ He picked up a cloth and proceeded to dry his hair. The sky had once more clouded over, bringing a chill to the air.

Owen pitied Roger Aylward. He seemed a man who had taken few bad risks. And this one might have been easily dismissed if he had not brought Burley into it. ‘Had John de Reine anything to do with it?’

‘Nothing. And I had no idea he was off to St David’s when I sent my men out — that was your next question, eh?’

Owen laughed. ‘Aye.’

‘He was on his way to Carreg Cennen, that is what we all thought. My men must have picked up his trail by accident. God’s blood but I wish I knew where they were now.’

‘I should think you might commend their enterprise.’

Burley snorted. ‘Bumbling asses, they are.’

Owen was disappointed, but there it was. He had solved one mystery only to discover it had nothing to do with the important one. ‘John Lascelles. Is it possible he supports Owain Lawgoch?’

Burley snorted. ‘You Welshmen are obsessed with the French King’s puppet. Do you know how many of your countrymen are over there fighting for the ugly Du Guesclin? As many as could fit in the ship.’

‘It is one way to escape the stench of the English invaders.’

‘So that is it,’ Burley said quietly. ‘I thought it odd, a Welshman recruiting archers. You are really here to meet with Gruffydd ap Goronwy. That was your purpose in riding to his farm.’

‘I would be a fool if that were true. I know the Duke of Lancaster well enough to fear what he would do to a traitor in his household. Or a thief.’

Burley’s expression was most gratifying. But he was not one to take a hit on the jaw without striking back. ‘Your championing of a certain woman surprised me, Captain. I misjudged you at first. I thought you were of the steward’s persuasion — ambition does not stumble on charity.’

So he had followed him. Owen straddled the bench, forcing Burley to abandon the barrel so that he might look him in the eye. ‘And what woman was that?’

‘Gladys, the castle whore.’

‘I cannot take all the credit. She sought me out. Then I found it difficult to deny her.’

‘Oh, aye. Many do.’

‘Her sanctuary will not be disturbed?’

Burley shook his head. ‘Only Duncan and I know of it. And of course Harold and Simwnt. I shall send those two for her when the chaplain’s murderer is found.’

‘Any luck with that?’

‘You dined in the steward’s rooms last night, you and Master Chaucer. What was his temper?’

‘Melancholy. Not a mood that often turns to murder.’

‘To my mind, it was him, his lady, or the Welsh vicar who beat the chaplain. Or in the lady’s case, had him beaten.’

‘What if I told you I know where all three have gone?’

Burley poured himself more ale, looked at Owen through half-closed eyes as he drank down the bowl. ‘Of course. This is the sort of thing you do, smoke out murderers. But you came to recruit archers. What are those three to you?’

‘Perhaps nothing.’

Burley nodded, as if he had made a discovery. ‘The Duke has heard of Sir John’s questionable marriage. You are here to observe him. But he is not a Welshman. Why would he support Lawgoch?’

Owen did not intend to speculate with Burley. ‘I am going after the three of them. I do not ask for your men. Mine will suffice. Nor do I need a shadow.’

‘Duncan would make an excellent guide.’

Duncan must be an excellent assassin. ‘He would crowd me.’

‘He will be ordered to keep his distance. You need not take all of your men, surely.’

‘No.’

‘What of Master Chaucer?’

Indeed. What of Geoffrey? ‘No doubt he will do what he pleases.’

Owen’s entrance made Geoffrey start and drop his pen. He cursed as a spot of ink trembled on the parchment, then slowly spread flat. ‘Devil’s own is what you are,’ Geoffrey muttered, blotting the stain with frantic energy. ‘Where have you been? Where is Gladys?’

‘Safe.’ Owen considered an apology, thought better of it. Geoffrey had much to answer for. ‘So you are assisting me in an investigation, eh? And what did you learn on your rounds?’

Geoffrey wiped his nose, smudging it with ink, faced Owen with a comically stern face. ‘I learned,’ he said quietly, ‘that Aylward gave a vague description which was then connected to someone who had been boasting in the tavern.’

‘A vague description. Aye. And one that does not fit the tale.’ Owen shook his head. ‘The man has the story by heart, did you note that? And he looks far too hale and hardy to be still abed from an attack eighteen days ago.’

Geoffrey dabbed at the stain on his nose with jerky anger. ‘What about the tooth?’

Owen hid a smile. ‘What do you know of Sir John’s disappearance?’

‘That Burley thinks it coincided too closely with yours. And that he rode out with only his squire.’

‘Roger Aylward thinks you are a bard.’

Geoffrey blushed. ‘I made no claim-’

‘Clever, that was.’ Owen rose to answer a knock at the door.

Iolo stood without. ‘You sent for me, Captain?’

‘You, Jared and the bishop’s men — prepare to ride out with me in the morning.’

‘But the others? And the archers?’

‘We shall return for them. We go to St David’s on an errand for the Duke. Burley’s man Duncan will accompany us.’

Geoffrey was right behind Owen when he turned from the door. ‘What intrigue is this?’

‘Burley has agreed that I am the best man to pursue Sir John and his lady. And Edern.’

‘To St David’s?’

‘It is the logical place for them to go.’

‘I am coming with you.’

‘What of your mission?’

‘It was my understanding that we shared the same mission. Has that changed?’