A Gift Of Sanctuary

Nineteen

At sunset Dafydd’s company paused by a stream to water their horses and to wash some of the dust from their faces before presenting themselves at a large farmhouse they had sighted down the road.

A rustling in the underbrush alerted them to intruders. Cadwal and Madog grabbed their knives and swords, Dyfrig ducked beneath his horse and pulled out a dagger, Dafydd grabbed a good stout branch in one hand, his own dagger in another, and prayed that it was but a wild animal come to drink at the stream. The noise stopped. Whatever it was, it knew it was discovered, just as they knew it of themselves. Wretched uncertainty. Should they run or stand their ground, demand it show itself or stay silent, hoping it would pass? A branch cracked behind Dafydd. He spun round, saw nothing. Sweat caught a lock of his hair as he moved his head, blinded him for a moment. As he reached up with the stick-burdened hand to brush away his hair, something huge rushed up and caught him. The attacker cursed as Dafydd jabbed blindly with his dagger. He fought down Dafydd’s hand and pressed it to his side.

It was one of the Cydweli men. Behind him, Dafydd now heard shouts, cries, grunts, and felt the ground tremble as the horses fled in terror. He prayed God his harp survived. Dafydd tried to pry himself loose from his captor but was held tight. He tried another tactic, standing still, almost limp, and then suddenly pushing out his elbows with all his strength. For a few heartbeats Dafydd was free, free to wheel round and view the disaster. Cadwal and Madog thrashed and cursed and stabbed at a fishing net that had caught them. Dyfrig sat on the ground nursing what looked to be a broken arm. As his captor’s arms reached for Dafydd, he pushed away.

‘There is no need. We are defeated.’

Brother Michaelo deemed it prudent to have a meal sent to their room that evening, but Sir Robert rose from his nap refreshed and insisted on dining in the great hall.

‘Mistress Lascelles may be there,’ Sir Robert argued. ‘I may learn something of value to add to Edmund’s message.’

As Sir Robert reached for his sandals, Michaelo clucked his tongue and held up soft leather shoes. Reluctantly, Sir Robert put on the warmer shoes. He doubted a chill would worsen the rumble in his chest, but he understood that Michaelo meant well.

‘You should rest.’ Brother Michaelo tugged at Sir Robert’s plain pilgrim’s gown. ‘But if you insist on this, might I suggest you wear a gown that befits your station? Men — and women — are more likely to confide in equals or those of higher degree.’

Michaelo had a talent for this intrigue. Sir Robert opened the chest at the foot of his bed and shook out a silk gown. The monk nodded his approval.

As Sir Robert dressed, Michaelo stared up at the painting of King Henry crossing Llechllafar. ‘I tell you what I do not like. That Wirthir would not tell us the significance of the vicar’s escorting the steward’s wife to St David’s.’

‘What do you fear from him?’

‘That he will lure Owen to St David’s through us. Suppose he is the Fleming? Surely you remember that Gruffydd ap Goronwy was accused of offering hospitality to a Fleming who was a spy for the fool who calls himself the redeemer of the Welsh — the French King’s puppet. .’ Michaelo turned to Sir Robert, who had sat down heavily on the bed, breathing in painful gasps. ‘My friend, you must rest.’

Sir Robert shook his head. Soon there would be time enough for rest. An eternity.

Michaelo helped him sip some warm honey-and-sage water. ‘I had not meant to upset you. I pray that I am wrong and he means to help the Captain.’

Sir Robert coughed after the first gulp, but then the drink soothed him and steadied his breathing.

‘You see?’ Michaelo said. ‘This is what you need. A quiet evening.’

‘You have given me even more reason to find out all I can for Owen.’ Sir Robert rose with care, was pleased to feel steady on his feet — as steady as he ever felt these days. ‘Come. While we walk to the hall I shall tell you about the lady in the chapel.’

When Cadwal, Madog, Dafydd and Dyfrig were bound and quiet and the horses rounded up, the Duke’s men built a fire and shared round their captives’ food. One of the men tried not to use his right arm, not completely mended from the ambush at Dafydd’s house; one limped and his blood still stained a bandage round his forehead; and another held his arm pressed to a bandage round his middle.

‘You are all injured,’ Dafydd said. ‘How did you get past my dogs?’

‘Poppy juice,’ said the limper. ‘Your servants were so generous with it, I shared my bounty with your hounds. Soaked into a trencher they thought it a treat.’

His heart pounding, Dafydd said, ‘By St Roch, if you have harmed Nest and Cadwy. .’

‘Rest easy, old man. They merely slept.’

‘And my servants?’

‘They fared no worse than we did.’

‘How did you overtake us?’ Madog asked.

The one with no visible injuries except for the cut on his arm where Dafydd’s dagger had grazed him, settled back against his saddle and grinned. ‘We discovered you on the road behind us.’

‘How is that possible? We rode like the wind.’

‘Be quiet!’ Dyfrig hissed. ‘Tell them nothing.’

‘There is nothing to tell,’ Dafydd said. They had tarried too long at Maelgwn’s house, that was plain.

‘Where is Rhys ap Llywelyn?’ demanded the spokesman.

Dafydd frowned, shook his head. ‘I have told you before, I do not know this man of whom you speak.’

‘You ride south. To St David’s?’

‘To complain of your attack and ask the Archdeacon of Cardigan to intercede for us, demand of your lord reparation for the damage. Now we have even more to complain of.’

Dyfrig glared at Dafydd.

Dafydd ignored him. As if his words made any difference in their plight. What could be worse than being tired, hungry, aching from the attack, and trussed up like slaughtered pigs? But at least his harp had survived the wild ride through the underbrush unscathed.

Liveried servants greeted Sir Robert and Michaelo at the door of the great hall and escorted them to the high table. The servants poured wine and hurried away to greet more guests.

At the next table Brother Michaelo noticed several Benedictines. ‘Perhaps I might assist you in your inquiries by gathering the gossip of the clergy,’ he said, rising. He eased his way round to the monks’ table.

Sir Robert glanced round, irritated with Brother Michaelo for leaving him. Without the benefit of the monk’s eyesight he could not make out much of the crowd. But a rustle of silk and an exotic scent made Sir Robert turn.

‘My lady.’ He bowed to the woman who had hesitated behind him.

‘My lord,’ she said, inclining her head. A warm smile in a beautiful young face. ‘Are you recovered from your memories?’

‘I have managed to escape them for the evening.’

She told the servant that she would sit where she had paused. ‘Am I intruding?’

‘Not at all. Forgive me for not rising, but it has been a tiring day.’

She slipped in beside him. The servant poured wine.

‘Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd,’ she said.

Holy Mother of God, could this be? Could the object of their discussion be this lovely lady? ‘Sir Robert D’Arby,’ he said with a little bow, ‘of Freythorpe Hadden in Yorkshire. And my companion, when he returns, is Brother Michaelo, secretary to His Grace John Thoresby, Archbishop of York.’

‘I am honoured,’ she said quietly. ‘You and Brother Michaelo are pilgrims?’

‘We are. Though dining in such a hall, with such company, is not the behaviour of a pilgrim.’

‘You have travelled far. In the chapel — I heard how you struggle to breathe. You are brave to come on such a journey. Forgive me, but I wondered how your wife could bear to let you go when your health is so delicate.’

He bowed his head. ‘My wife died many years ago.’

‘The happy memories you spoke of — were they of her?’

Sir Robert stared into Tangwystl’s green eyes, pale, like emeralds, and he felt he could confide in her. He told her of his vision. While he spoke, he saw her colour deepen, her eyes grow moist. He apologised for upsetting her. ‘I should not speak of such things.’

She touched his hand. ‘God bless you, Sir Robert. I would hear more of her, your Amélie.’

They were interrupted for a time by Brother Michaelo’s return and the arrival of the first course. And the second. Though meat was not served in the palace during Lent the variety of fish and pastries seemed decadent to Sir Robert. He ate little, in truth just picked at his food, and Brother Michaelo fussed.

‘He is a good friend to you,’ said Tangwystl.

‘He would lose me all the indulgences I hoped to gain by this pilgrimage,’ Sir Robert said.

‘Your Amélie forgave you. Was that not the purpose of your pilgrimage?’

‘I had not dared to hope for that.’ He told her of Lucie and her family, the miracle of their all surviving the pestilence, how he had feared for her, being an apothecary. ‘I came to give thanks. God allowed me to live long enough to witness my daughter’s happiness.’

‘Your daughter is an apothecary in York?’ Tangwystl glanced over at Brother Michaelo, who sat quietly, leaning slightly in their direction, obviously trying to eavesdrop. ‘And he is the secretary to the archbishop. I remember now. Captain Archer and Master Chaucer escorted pilgrims to St David’s. That is how they came to be here when John de Reine was found.’

Sir Robert hoped he had not now silenced her. ‘It gives me joy to hear they made it safely to Cydweli. Did you meet Captain Archer?’

‘Your daughter is fortunate. He seems a good and gentle man.’

‘I am content for her.’

Mistress Tangwystl grew quiet. So now she did not trust him. Sir Robert was sorry for that. But in a little while she turned to him again and asked him about his grandchildren.

‘I have a son,’ she said in such a sad tone Sir Robert thought she might be about to correct herself and say ‘had’. But she did not. She described a fair, chubby boy with a laugh so rich that all who heard must laugh with him.

‘Sir John must be proud,’ said Sir Robert.

‘No. He is not. For Hedyn is not his son.’ She changed the subject to the bleak, treeless character of this westernmost part of Wales.

Brother Michaelo paced impatiently as he waited for Sir Robert, who was taking his time saying good-night to the fair Tangwystl. He had walked her to her chamber and was rewarded with an invitation to accompany her on the morrow to St David’s Well at Porth Clais. Sir Robert could feel the monk’s eyes boring into his back but he did not care. He had found a way to help Owen and he felt rejuvenated.

‘You are playing the fool with her. She is beautiful, I grant you — but she is your enemy.’ His hands tucked up his sleeves, Michaelo leaned slightly forward as he walked, head bowed. He walked too fast for Sir Robert, who paused and waited for Brother Michaelo to realise he was alone.

When the monk turned back with an impatient sigh, Sir Robert said, ‘I would empty my bladder before retiring.’ They headed for the privy in silence. But as soon as they had done their business and were back on course, Sir Robert took up the argument. ‘You are being the fool. How is she my enemy?’

‘Her father is a traitor to the King. Have you forgotten?’

‘We do not know that he was. John Lascelles did not think so. Surely he would not have taken her to wife if he had.’

‘Lascelles.’ Brother Michaelo nodded vigorously. ‘Did you note? She is not using his name.’

‘By all that is holy, why do you persist in this? Many women choose what name they will.’

‘And of all men, who would be the one to follow her here, but her husband? Can it be he is the traitor of whom the Fleming speaks?’ Brother Michaelo tilted his head, awaiting a reply.

Could it be so? ‘Would Sir John be so blatant in his treachery? Marrying the daughter of one of his accomplices? One who had been caught in his treachery?’

‘It might explain the woman’s flight, had she discovered it,’ said Michaelo. To escape a father who was traitor only to discover she had married another.’

‘She is Welsh. She may not count it treason.’ Sir Robert was tired and confused. ‘She told me something passing strange. She has a son, but Sir John is not the father.’

‘You see? A Godless family.’

Sir Robert did not wish to pursue that. ‘You looked disappointed when you returned to the table. The Benedictines knew nothing?’

‘I wonder whether I should tell you what I learned. Will my words be repeated to Mistress Tangwystl?’

They had reached their chamber. Sir Robert opened the door. ‘You tire me, Michaelo. Keep your news to yourself.’

As Michaelo was about to shut the door, a young man in the bishop’s livery slipped from the shadows in the corridor. ‘I come from the Pirate,’ he said softly. ‘With urgent news.’

Michaelo pulled him into the room, shut the door.

The young man was dishevelled and breathless.

‘How did the Pirate get a message to you?’ Sir Robert asked.

‘He has his ways. I cannot say, my lord. He tells me to say only this. Father Edern has left the palace. The traitor follows him. The Captain must hasten to his aid.’ The young man dropped his head.

‘That is it?’

A nod.

Sir Robert dug in his purse, gave the young man a groat. ‘Go swiftly to my man Edmund, summon him here.’ He told him where he might find him.

Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo awaited Edmund in sombre silence, except for a begrudging ‘Thank God you insisted on delaying his departure’ from Michaelo.

It was not until Edmund had gone and they lay quietly side by side that Sir Robert remembered their argument in the corridor.

‘What did you learn from your brethren?’

The monk lay on his side. ‘We would not share a room, much less a bed, you know, but that I am to help you should you weaken. It is my duty to be quiet now, allow you your rest.’

How was the monk to be borne? ‘I cannot rest but you tell me.’

‘You threaten like a child. And now we go on so, you think I have much to tell you. I do not. They knew of Dyfrig, that his house is Strata Florida, a nest of Welsh rebels, they say. Though they have not heard Brother Dyfrig himself mentioned in that way. They say the monk used his influence to get Father Edern his position as vicar. But the most interesting part is no longer news: that Father Edern is already gone from the city.’

At dawn Owen’s party gathered in the courtyard to receive Bishop Houghton’s blessing, then mounted and rode from Llawhaden.

They now carried Tangwystl’s letter requesting annulment and a letter from the bishop, to be delivered to the Archdeacon of Carmarthen in St David’s. ‘I shall follow you to St David’s anon, but in such a circumstance it is comforting to know these documents are in a company of seven armed men,’ Houghton had said. He had also asked that Owen ensure no more blood was shed over the matter. ‘I would not have St David’s in turmoil during Passiontide.’

‘God forgive me, but to that I cannot swear,’ Owen had said. ‘We can but pray that we find a peaceful resolution.’

Geoffrey had taken exception to Owen’s reply, though he waited until they were alone to voice his disapproval. As Owen set his boots by the brazier to dry overnight and shook out his clothes, beat off some of the dirt, Geoffrey had paced with hands behind his back. ‘Why could you not swear that you would do all you could to prevent further violence?’

‘Why should I lie to the bishop? Peace or violence may not be in my keeping.’

Geoffrey stopped at the bench where Owen sat, looked down on him with an impatient shake of the head. ‘You have no tact. He will remember what you said.’

‘And blame me if anyone is wounded? You speak nonsense. Houghton is a reasonable man.’

‘He is a powerful man. A friend to the Duke. You would do well to impress him.’ The last point was emphasised by a wagging finger.

Owen pushed the finger away and bent down to his pack. ‘I am not looking for a bishop to serve. I have had enough of Thoresby. You would do well to undress and rest for tomorrow’s hard ride.’

Geoffrey sighed loudly and sat down to remove his boots.

Owen sank down on the bed. ‘With all this, Sir John sounds more and more like the murderer.’

‘If he is, he is a clever player,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And we were his unwitting audience.’

‘But why did Edern and Tangwystl say nothing of the chaplain’s injuries?’

Geoffrey had slumped down on to the bed with a groan. ‘I do not like to think it of them. But it is troublesome. Mistress Tangwystl had called Gladys to the chaplain’s room to witness his letter. Gladys heard them calling her. Surely they would have returned to that room seeking her.’

‘That is what I am thinking.’

Geoffrey suddenly pounded the bed with his fist. ‘But Gladys said nothing of them looking into the room. Therefore-’

‘They did not. Why not?’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Aye.’

Owen thought of that now as they rode off in pursuit of the three. Was Sir John a clever player? Or were Edern and the fair Tangwystl the dangerous ones?