A Gift Of Sanctuary

Eighteen

As he walked down the slope towards the cathedral, Sir Robert felt sweat trickling down his back. High up on the cliff over St Non’s Bay the breeze had been chilly despite the bright sun; but here in the valley there was no breeze. He pushed back his hat, plucked at his pilgrim’s gown, its rough cloth beginning to itch as the sweat made it stick to his skin. And such a weakness in his legs. He was embarrassed how he leaned on Brother Michaelo’s shoulder for support.

‘You do not need to suffer in that coarse gown,’ Michaelo said, putting an arm round Sir Robert. Michaelo’s habit was of a very fine, soft wool cloth from Flanders, sewn by a tailor in Paris. ‘You are wretched enough with the cough.’

‘Your parents did no favour to the Church when they gave you to God,’ Sir Robert muttered as he wriggled in his clothing, ‘you who devote yourself to the delicate art of balancing just on the edge of your vows.’ Perhaps it was good they walked so close together, for Sir Robert’s voice was so weak his companion might not hear him if he stood upright and at a normal distance.

Rather than returning the insult, Brother Michaelo asked, ‘You do intend to read the letter?’

Sir Robert felt it a risk to send the messenger without knowing the contents of the letter — what if he was being used to lure Owen into a trap? But would Owen trust a letter with a broken seal? ‘It is sealed.’

‘A seal can be eased open and resealed if one has the skill.’

‘And you do?’

Michaelo bowed slightly. ‘Some failings are useful.’

God bless him. ‘What was it that he did, Michaelo? To lose the hand?’

‘It was a madman who did it. It has nothing to do with us.’

‘What did Archbishop Thoresby want with him?’

‘He needed a witness. Martin Wirthir did not wish to oblige.’

‘Come,’ Michaelo urged. ‘The porter will surely remember whether the wife of Lancaster’s steward arrived with the vicar.’

But the porter did not recall seeing Father Edern with a woman, though several women had arrived at the palace that morning.

‘It is no fors,’ Sir Robert said as they passed through the second doorway and into the great hall. ‘The letter will tell us whether to trust him.’

They went to their chamber, where Michaelo expressed delight to find the brazier still alight despite the warm afternoon. ‘We are fortunate they consider you old and infirm,’ Michaelo said as he set a pot of water over the fire. ‘We need the steam for the seal as well as for your lungs.’

Precisely. Because I am old and infirm, Sir Robert thought as he eased down on the bed. His head pounded and his limbs trembled. He had not coughed in a while, but his chest felt heavy and he experienced an unpleasant rumble with each breath. It seemed no time at all before Michaelo joined him, presenting the scroll without seal.

‘Shall I read it aloud?’ Michaelo asked.

‘My eyes are not so bad as that,’ Sir Robert said. But in truth he found the writing small and crabbed. ‘Perhaps so. I have a headache.’ He lay back on the pillows. Brother Michaelo tucked a few more behind him, slipped off his shoes.

A servant knocked, entered with a tray of wine, water and fruit. Michaelo took the tray and sent the servant away.

‘It would not do to give them bad example,’ Michaelo said. He was obviously enjoying the intrigue. He began to read aloud:

‘Right well beloved friend,

I recommend me to you and pray you take heed of my tidings. I have in my custody a man who may give good account of a certain incident on Whitesands. He is hunted by many, but his gravest danger is from one who seeks to silence him and whose treasonous act begat all this trouble. I have no doubt the traitor will follow hard upon two who arrive today. Come to me in the place at which you rose from the valley with your burden.

Godspeed.

Pirate.’

‘At least he does not hide his profession,’ Michaelo said. He looked up from the document. ‘I do not like this.’

‘Nor do I. But Owen must at least be warned that Martin Wirthir is here and knows of his interest in traitors to the King. We must send it.’ A messenger normally took three days from here to Cydweli, though it was said that a fast rider with fresh horses each day might make it in two. If the messenger left this afternoon he might be there by Sunday. And yet it was now mid-afternoon. ‘Summon Edmund. He will ride at first light.’

‘Not at once?’

‘What is the use? He would not get far by nightfall. Better he be fresh at the beginning.’

‘But time is of-’

‘-the essence. I know. And yet I have always found it wise to sleep on something as important as this missive. When I served the King I was respected for my thoroughness, which comes only by taking one’s time.’ Sir Robert smiled. ‘Besides, my friend, it will give you time to reseal this letter.’

Michaelo chuckled. ‘True enough. It takes a steady hand, and I am much excited.’

‘Does His Grace know of your skill with seals?’ Surely the Archbishop of York received documents meant for his eyes alone. He was sometime advisor to the King.

‘If His Grace guesses it, he keeps his own counsel. Will you tell the Captain of Brother Dyfrig’s prying questions about the missing pilgrim and the Captain’s purpose in Wales?’

‘God bless you for assisting my memory. Edmund shall tell Owen of the monk’s interest and who arrived today. Wirthir takes care to mention no one and no place by name.’

After Edmund had been informed of his journey and had been given the information to memorise and instructions to come at first light for the letter, Brother Michaelo urged Sir Robert to drink some soothing herbs in honey water and lie down to rest until the evening meal. Sir Robert refused to rest — he must go to the chapel and give thanks for the vision with which God had blessed him. Few men were granted such a gift, to be assured through such a vision that his prayers had been answered, that Amélie forgave him. He had delayed his thanks too long already, though surely God would see that it was important to read the letter and prepare Edmund. But to delay his thanks any longer would be unforgivable. Brother Michaelo acquiesced, but insisted on accompanying Sir Robert in case he felt faint and needed help. As the Fleming had said, to receive a vision was exhausting to a mortal man. And Sir Robert was already weak.

Weak, yes, Sir Robert thought. But with the messenger instructed and Amélie’s forgiveness assured, he felt at peace. He no longer feared death, nor did he wish to delay it. He did not confide these thoughts to Brother Michaelo for fear the monk would misinterpret his intentions and put a guard on him. Already he hovered too much.

‘I must give thanks for St Non’s beneficence, Michaelo. Not only for my vision, but for Martin Wirthir’s assistance.’

‘We shall see whether we ought to be grateful about his assistance.’

‘Why do you distrust him?’

‘Honesty is not his trade, Sir Robert. At best he has been a pirate, at worst a spy for the enemies of our King. Why should we trust him?’

‘Because he has been known to step out of his role — remember what he did for Jasper. But be that as it may, I wish to go to the chapel. Come.’

‘What was it that you saw in the waters of the well?’ Michaelo asked as they stepped out into the corridor.

Sir Robert described Amélie’s face, her fleeting smile. ‘It is the healing for which I prayed.’

Brother Michaelo crossed himself. ‘Truly you have been blessed, Sir Robert.’

‘I pray that you have been likewise blessed, that you will dream no more of Brother Wulfstan.’

‘Perhaps my bad dreams are a substitute for my conscience.’

At the door to the chapel Sir Robert stayed Brother Michaelo. ‘I know you mean well, my friend, but I would be alone in my devotions.’

‘What if you fall into a swoon? Who will find you?’

‘Come for me in a little while.’

The chapel was dim, though a jewelled light came through the stained-glass windows behind the altar and illuminated a slender woman who knelt on the floor. Candles burned on the altar and in a niche before a statue of St David. As the draught from the door made the flames flicker, the woman turned round. Sir Robert closed the door as gently as possible and, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, lowered himself to his knees by the statue of St David. The woman turned back to her devotions.

Sir Robert thought the psalms most appropriate, songs of praise for a beneficent God.

But his mind wandered from his devotions. How difficult it was not to think of Amélie, to study the face so recently before him. He had never thought to see that face again, had feared that even after death they would be apart.

The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.

Sir Robert did not know that he was weeping until a woman’s voice asked with tender concern, ‘Are you unwell, sir?’

She smelled of exotic oils. He glanced up, puzzled.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you in your devotions. But I heard you weeping. .’ Her veil shimmered in the candlelight. Silk? Cloth of gold? Sir Robert could not tell, but she seemed a vision, not a mortal woman.

He lifted his hands to his cheeks, felt the tears, shook his head. ‘An old man overcome by memories. It is I who must beg your forgiveness.’

‘I hope they are happy memories.’

‘As of today, yes,’ he said. ‘By the grace of St Non. I went to the well to pray for my family, but I was blessed instead.’

‘Then I should leave you to your happy memories. You will be all right here?’

‘God bless you, yes, my lady.’ For surely she was a lady, though her accent was Welsh.

‘God go with you, my lord,’ she said, and rose with the rustle of silk.

Her scent lingered long in the chapel.

Dafydd and Dyfrig agreed that the pilgrim would likely return to St David’s. But they did not agree about their own destination. Brother Dyfrig felt duty bound to remain with Brother Samson and escort him to Strata Florida as soon as he might comfortably make the journey; Samson’s servant was not sufficient escort. His first impulse was to carry Samson back to Dafydd’s house and nurse him to health; then Dafydd and his men must escort the two monks to the abbey. ‘You have unleashed a violent criminal and must protect us from him.’

Dafydd was outraged. It was God who had set Rhys in Dafydd’s path. He must follow Rhys and help the pilgrim face his own duty — to give account in the bishop’s court of the incident on Whitesands. Who was Dyfrig to question God’s purpose in this? And Brother Dyfrig, who knew Rhys’s kinsman, should accompany Dafydd to St David’s. Brother Samson could await them here. Maelgwn believed he had already gained God’s grace from the monk’s presence in his household — he had been blessed with several visions since Samson’s arrival. And to return to Dafydd’s house was too much of a risk — the Cydweli men could not be fooled indefinitely. When Dafydd and Dyfrig returned from St David’s they would all provide a proper escort back to the abbey, to which Dafydd would repair to meditate on God’s purpose in testing him in such a manner.

It took little coaxing to engage Brother Dyfrig in Dafydd’s pursuit of Rhys. In private, away from the others, Brother Dyfrig agreed with Dafydd that Aled’s account of the attack and the monk’s wounds suggested that Samson was not injured intentionally, that he had foolishly pursued Rhys and suffered an accident. It might in faith be good for Samson to lie abed among these simple people and learn some humility.

Then Maelgwn insisted on a round of bargaining. In the end he agreed to a goat from Dafydd’s farm upon their return in exchange for Samson’s care.

And thus Dafydd, Brother Dyfrig, Madog and Cadwal departed in the early afternoon. They were almost a merry company, with food, water and a bit of wine to comfort them and a mission to fill them with purpose. The day had begun overcast but now the sun beat down and warmed their muscles, a soft wind cooled them as they rode. To join the road south it was necessary to circle back near Dafydd’s house, but they kept to the far side of the hill and joined the road when they were safely past. Madog advised a hard ride through the afternoon with no pause until sunset; they would all rest easier with a good distance between them and the four armed men from Cydweli, who being wounded would ride more slowly if they attempted to follow.

A warm, sunny day is a joy for a short distance, but soon the sun and the wind dried their eyes and parched their mouths, the dust from the road crept into every fold of their skin and clothing, clung to their hair.

On the first evening of their journey towards St David’s, Owen’s company had paused at St Clears Abbey. The abbot had not had the honour of playing host to John Lascelles, nor had he had word of the steward and his squire, but he did provide a valuable piece of news.

‘A tinker came by telling of a great procession moving from St David’s to Llawhaden. You know that Bishop Houghton is fond of the castle. So fond that he is building a new south wing — they say he lives in comfort there, watching the road between Carmarthen and Haverfordwest.’

Bishop Adam de Houghton was in Llawhaden. It was a climb from the main road and might cost them half a day, but Owen thought that if it was the bishop Lascelles was wanting — and he thought it was — the steward might alter his course to see whether Houghton was in residence at the castle.

Owen’s party rode hard, but a pause to assist a merchant with a crippled wagon delayed them, and they did not approach Llawhaden Castle until late afternoon on the second day of their journey.

They found the bishop in the yard by the stables surrounded by four fine, sleek hounds, their tails wagging as they competed for their master’s attention. Houghton himself was in leggings and a tunic that reached only to his knees, high boots and a short cape. His colour was high and the crown of his soft hat wet with sweat. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, you have caught me in sin, riding out to hunt in the Lenten season. But I tell you I did it to clear my mind. There is nothing like a swift chase to bring a man to his senses.’

Geoffrey’s eyes were merry as he bowed to the bishop. He had told Owen earlier that he welcomed another chance to observe the pilgrims at St David’s and the bishop himself, who seemed a singular character, far more interesting than the political churchmen who surrounded the King. Geoffrey hoped that on this visit they might dine in the great hall at St David’s bishop’s palace with the other well-born pilgrims rather than in the bishop’s hall. ‘I want to study the pilgrims so I might describe them in all their variety.’ But what he now found so amusing about Houghton, Owen could not guess.

Nor did he long think on it. For as the bishop tugged at his gloves he stepped between Owen and Geoffrey and said under his breath, ‘While your men take some refreshment, we must talk. And you will spend the night, of course.’

Adam de Houghton led Owen and Geoffrey round the new wing of Llawhaden Castle under construction. The dust of the stonework stung Owen’s eye — the brisk wind carried it even out of the lodge in which the apprentice masons worked at their benches. A chapel and chapel tower, far advanced in construction, were the first phase of the plan. Houghton intended the south range to extend round the yard and enclose it, so that the existing hall and kitchens would be protected by a gatehouse and a range with additional towers. The range would include suites of lodgings for his retinue and guests.

‘It shall be a sign to those who pass along the road between Carmarthen and Haverfordwest that the lord of this March, though he be a man of God, is yet a lord indeed.’

But Owen was restive. ‘My lord Bishop, I am but a plain soldier and know little of such works. You had news for us?’

‘Forgive me. I waste time when I have much to tell you. Come.’ He led them to a garden that used the rear wall of the kitchen, the west side of the hall, and the steep bank of the ditch as its enclosure. They settled on benches beneath a pair of apple trees, seemingly stunted by their confined home and yet pregnant with tight buds.

‘Now we need not fear someone will overhear,’ Houghton said.

They were indeed well situated away from the kitchen doorway and windows, away from any hedge or wall behind which someone might hide. But what was the need?

‘You have a spy in your household?’ Owen asked.

‘These are uneasy times, Captain. With King Charles of France eyeing our shores I prefer to be overcautious and thus ever ready.’

‘Is it of this you wished to speak?’

Houghton shook his head. ‘No, no. It is of another matter, one that has weighed on my mind all the day. And once again you arrive just as I have need of you. I need not have risked my soul in the hunt, for here you are, and God’s intention is clear to me. He has sent you to resolve the troubles in John Lascelles’s household, I am sure of it. Though I am surprised to see you. I should not have thought the Duke’s men had time to pursue runaway wives.’

Geoffrey drew in his breath. A man so conscious of his status did not like to be perceived as pursuing something trivial. ‘We are here on a far more serious matter.’

But Owen noted what had escaped Geoffrey. ‘We said nothing of runaway wives. Do you speak of Mistress Lascelles?’

Houghton nodded in response to Owen, ‘I do.’ But his eyes were on Geoffrey. ‘What is this matter you speak of?’

‘Father Francis, chaplain of Cydweli, has been murdered,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I should say beaten — the attacker may not have known the result of his work. The chaplain was found wearing the cloak of your vicar, Father Edern. On that same day, Mistress Lascelles and Father Edern fled the castle. We are perhaps in pursuit of accomplices in murder.’

‘Holy Mother of God.’

‘What do you know of Sir John’s troubles?’ Owen asked.

Houghton took off his embroidered cap, ran a hand through his damp hair. The pale strands caught the setting sun. ‘What do I know? Certes we all know about the death of John de Reine, and now the flight of Mistress Lascelles.’ He set the cap lightly on his head. ‘And that Sir John pursues his wife.’

‘And we pursue him,’ Owen said. ‘But how has the news reached you here?’

‘By the man himself.’

‘Sweet Jesus, he is here?’ Owen sprang up.

The bishop raised a hand to halt him. ‘He arrived early this morning and departed before midday.’

Owen yet stood. ‘We might have caught him had we stayed on the road.’

‘You might have indeed. But what you gain from stopping here the night will be of value to you. Both parties have had much to say of their troubles.’

‘You have news of Mistress Lascelles as well?’ Geoffrey asked as Owen eased himself down, most unwillingly.

The bishop gazed at Geoffrey for a moment, his eyes friendly but remote, as if choosing his words. ‘More than that,’ he said at last. ‘I know precisely where she is, for I sent her there. With that cunning vicar.’ A twig dropped in the bishop’s lap. He picked it up, twirled it between his beringed fingers, studying it. ‘I knew when Brother Dyfrig and the Archdeacon of Cardigan recommended Edern for a vicar choral that I should have made inquiries. But my mind was on other matters. How we come to regret such sluggishness.’ He shook his head. ‘Edern is a sly one. Too sly for me.’

Sluggishness indeed. Owen wished the bishop’s tongue were more sluggish. ‘What has Father Edern done?’

Houghton tossed the twig, shook his head at Owen as if chiding him. ‘But you know. He has assisted Mistress Lascelles in escaping from her husband. Though why she trusted such a rogue as Edern I cannot imagine. Such a beauty! One can see why Sir John is so desperate to win her back. He will not. I do not see it happening. He will not win her heart.’

‘Because of the child?’ Geoffrey asked. Owen had told him about Hedyn and the misunderstanding between Tangwystl and Sir John regarding the boy’s status.

‘Certes the child is a tragedy, but more so are her feelings for the lad’s father. I blame that schemer, Gruffydd ap Goronwy. Sir John swears he had no idea that the young woman apparently considered herself married to the young man, and I accept his word on that — he is not the sort of fool to pursue a woman who cannot possibly pledge her heart to him. He believed she had been abandoned by the young man. And surely Gruffydd had cause to let him think so.’ Houghton paused, dropped his head, seemed to withdraw into his thoughts for a moment. ‘And yet when I said to Sir John that he was better off without his Welsh wife, that considering the rumours surrounding her father it had been a most unsuitable marriage for him, and that now he might remedy it by acknowledging that they had wed when she was already bound to another, he refused to hear of it. Foolish, stubborn man. “I will have her!” he shouted.’

‘What is to be done?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘If Sir John is determined to keep her, who is to dissuade him?’

‘In truth, when our friend the Duke informed me of your coming, I was surprised that you were not carrying letters to Sir John and myself ordering that the marriage be annulled. It was a dangerous choice, the daughter of a traitor, for such a key man in the Duke’s Marches. I do not understand Lancaster’s hesitation.’

Owen did. ‘Until now the Duke had no cause to question Sir John’s loyalty. He thought to wait until he had our report.’

‘I fear neither Sir John nor his lady will wait for that,’ Geoffrey said.

Houghton slapped his thighs. ‘It is in the hands of the Church now. It must be.’

Owen asked what he proposed.

‘If we find that Mistress Tangwystl (for that is how she wishes to be known) was bound to the father of her son by law — any law — we shall dissolve Sir John’s marriage. And then there is the letter Father Francis signed.’

‘And Gladys was called to witness,’ Geoffrey whispered to Owen.

Houghton frowned. ‘Gladys?’

‘It is nothing,’ Owen said. ‘Can you tell us what the letter said?’

‘You may read it if you like.’ Houghton drew a rolled document from his sleeve. ‘Mistress Tangwystl carries the copy I had my secretary make. I planned to send this original with my own comments to William Baldwin, Archdeacon of Carmarthen.’

It was as Owen had guessed, Tangwystl claimed the right to separate from her husband after finding him thrice bedding Gladys, and Father Francis had signed as a witness. Shortly before he died, if Gladys’s story was true, and so far Owen had found no cause to doubt her.

Geoffrey, reading over Owen’s shoulder, asked, ‘What of Mistress Tangwystl’s family? Was not the purpose of the marriage to save her family? Did she not win them a home through it?’

Houghton took back the document, rolled it up and stuck it back up his sleeve. ‘Sir John has been a fool all round, it seems.’

‘My lord,’ Geoffrey began, ‘the maid Gladys-’

‘-is a woman of considerable charms,’ Owen said. He smiled at Geoffrey’s irritated look. It was not the time to distract the bishop with details of Tangwystl’s scheme.

‘Mistress Tangwystl is also a woman of considerable charms,’ Houghton said. ‘And Sir John’s wife. He should have looked to home.’ He clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them for a moment, frowning down at the ground, which was now dark beneath the trees that caught the twilight in their branches. ‘God will be the judge of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. Perhaps we already see God’s hand in this trouble.’

Owen thought of Eleri and Awena. What would become of them?

‘I do not expect Sir John’s family to be troubled by an annulment,’ Houghton said. ‘I should think they are far more troubled by the marriage itself. He has not taken his wife to England to meet any of his kin — did you know? Yes, I can see that you did.’

‘You said that you sent Mistress Tangwystl somewhere,’ Owen said.

‘To St David’s. By now I should think she is safely quartered in the palace.’

‘Why is Father Edern helping her in this?’ Geoffrey asked.

Houghton glanced up as the light disappeared, creating a sudden chill. ‘Father Edern, Edern ap Llywelyn, is the uncle of Mistress Tangwystl’s child.’

Sly creature, dissembling fox. Owen must clutch the bench to stay there and listen to the bishop’s meandering tale. He wanted action. He wanted Edern.

But why had the vicar chosen this moment to take Tangwystl from Cydweli? What had the letter and her flight to do with the chaplain’s beating?

‘As they have all come to me I mean to settle this matter,’ Houghton was saying. ‘The Archdeacon of Carmarthen shall hear their stories, their pleas, and judge the case, Cydweli being in the archdeaconry of Carmarthen. And yet there is a problem — the father of Tangwystl’s child must also attend to this matter, but he is missing. He was there, you know, at St David’s, had come with a petition to see me, and then he vanished.’

‘The young man who left his belongings at the palace,’ Owen said. ‘Does Edern know where to find him?’

‘No.’

A scenario came to Owen. What else might have distracted John de Reine from his meeting with Owen and Geoffrey but a greater challenge to his father’s honour? A motive so personal it had confounded Owen, who had looked for political causes.

‘Perhaps we know why he disappeared,’ said Owen. ‘Suppose this young man, Rhys ap Llywelyn, and John de Reine met on Whitesands to test the honour of their two households — in combat.’

The bishop’s eyes were sad. ‘If you are right, I fear we have a tragedy on our hands. Rhys ap Llywelyn is the victor, but in law he is a murderer. He must answer for that at the tourn of his lordship, which would be Pembroke, unless Hastings’ chief steward agreed to allow him to be tried by Lancaster’s great court — at which John Lascelles resides. Either way, I do not see the possibility of his buying a redemptio vitae.’ Houghton had folded his hands in his lap as he spoke, and now dropped his head, as if praying.

His summation was met with silence. Geoffrey closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, side to side, as if disbelieving. Owen marvelled at the bishop’s clarity of mind.

As the sun set, a breeze fluttered across the lately tilled garden beds and whispered in the branches, dimly lit by torchlight spilling over the garden wall from the courtyard. It was a chilly breeze. Bishop Houghton rubbed his hands together. Geoffrey rose and asked for the nearest privy.

While Geoffrey disappeared round the corner of the kitchen, Owen and the bishop moved to the courtyard, which was more protected from the evening air.

‘How much of this does Sir John know?’ Owen asked.

‘Only that his wife was here and now is safe in the palace of St David’s, and that my archdeacon shall consider their case. I also promised a Welsh judge in attendance to explain her arguments, which are based on the law of Hywel Dda.’

‘And Mistress Tangwystl? Does she know you believe Rhys to be a murderer?’

Houghton snorted. ‘Do you think that a man of the cloth does not understand how the heart rules in love?’

‘You took a risk, trusting both to obey you.’

‘I saw no reason for Mistress Tangwystl to do otherwise. But Sir John — all day my mind misgave me. But was I to lock him up in my dungeon? He is too high in the Duke’s service to treat him thus. In the morning you must hurry, catch him, guide him to a safe harbour.’

And keep him away from his wife and the vicar? For it now seemed to Owen that Lascelles was the one most likely to have attacked the chaplain, though he had timed it ill. Still, what did it mean that Tangwystl and Edern had not talked of the chaplain’s beating? Gladys’s story would have it they were likely aware of it. Was it not a sign of guilt to say nothing of this to the bishop?