A Gift Of Sanctuary

Twenty-one

Sweat pooled beneath the leather patch on Owen’s eye. The late morning sun shone through a low cloud layer and the air felt heavy. The weather was strangely warm for the end of March. Owen felt he stank as much as his horse.

They had ridden with little pause since early morning. Owen was pleased with all in the company. His six companions neither complained nor lagged behind. And for their efforts they now approached Haverfordwest. They should arrive in St David’s by sunset.

From behind a slow-moving caravan a rider suddenly appeared, approaching at a pace equal to that of Owen’s company. He was upon them before Duncan cried out, ‘The Duke’s livery!’

Owen felt a shiver of dread when he recognised Edmund. He dismounted and met the messenger, who was grinning from ear to ear.

‘I thought to ride clear to Cydweli to find you, Captain. God has been good.’

And if they had entered Haverfordwest a moment earlier, they might have missed him.

‘God meant us to find one another,’ Owen said. He drew Edmund away from the group to a spot across the road beneath a venerable oak. It provided little shade with no leaves, but too much shade and they would be chilled. Owen called to Geoffrey to join them. The latter brought a wineskin to pass round, which drew fervent thanks from the messenger.

Owen leaned against a low branch. ‘Do you come from Sir Robert?’

‘I do, Captain.’

‘How fares he?’

‘Poorly. But well enough last night to give me messages to learn. And I have a letter.’ Edmund drew a sweat-darkened pouch from beneath his tunic, handed Owen a sealed roll.

‘Tell me what you have by heart,’ Owen said. As Edmund repeated his news, Owen was encouraged to hear that Edern and Tangwystl had arrived safely in St David’s — he was glad the vicar had obeyed the bishop. The priest’s hurried departure, however, and with trouble on his heels, was disturbing.

But most potentially troublesome was the source of most of Sir Robert’s information, Martin Wirthir, a Fleming who often worked with the French. Geoffrey would not like that. Owen wondered about Geoffrey. Could he trust him to co-operate with Martin if necessary? And what of the bishop’s men? If they accompanied him to meet Martin, would they be keen to tell of the Fleming in St David’s? Sweet Jesu, the more he worked at this knot the worse it grew.

And how many others may have noted the Fleming in the area, or overheard his conversation with Sir Robert? Owen examined the seal on the letter. It looked undisturbed, but there was a slight stain on the paper to one side of the seal that gave Owen pause. ‘Who handed you the letter?’ he asked.

‘Brother Michaelo,’ Edmund said. ‘I have touched nothing.’

Owen nodded. ‘Can you tell me anything else? This Brother Dyfrig who asked so many questions. Is he in St David’s?’

Edmund slapped his leg. ‘I feared I had forgot somewhat in the middle. He departed the city a week hence. And Sir Robert knows not where he went.’

‘Excellent, Edmund. You have proved yourself a worthy messenger,’ Owen said. ‘Go join the others. You will ride back with us. And Edmund-’

He stood to attention. ‘I shall say nothing to them of my messages, Captain.’

‘I know that you will not, Edmund. But more than that, try not to flinch if we tell a different tale than what you know to be true.’

Edmund grinned. ‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Who is this Martin Wirthir?’ Geoffrey asked as he settled down on a root beneath the tree.

Owen eased himself down on to a rock, stretched his legs, tapped the letter absently against his leg while he considered how to handle Geoffrey. He resolved to tell him as little as possible about Martin. ‘One who has helped me in the past. Saved the life of my wife’s apprentice. I have not seen him in a long while.’ When had Martin learned Owen was in Wales?

‘He works for King Charles?’

‘He has also worked for members of King Edward’s court. It means nothing about Martin’s personal allegiance.’ The seal on the letter gave no clue to Martin’s current politics — it bore the impression of the letter M or W, depending on how one held it. Owen broke the seal, smoothed the parchment on his lap, read slowly. The words themselves, and the signature, felt true to him. But how had Martin known that the death of John de Reine and the movements of Tangwystl and Edern were of interest to Owen? He handed Geoffrey the letter.

Geoffrey’s face creased with worry as he read. ‘Such caution to name neither man nor place. “A man who might give good account”. The murderer, do you think?’

‘Or a witness.’ Owen rose, began to pace as he thought what to do. Whoever the man was, he must be shielded. But what of Edern and the traitor who pursued him?

Geoffrey turned over the parchment, studied the seal. ‘You think someone tampered with this?’

How he studied every gesture. ‘Sir Robert is an old campaigner. He would not send a messenger without knowing the content of the missive.’

‘Your wife’s father is a man of many skills.’

‘His hands are no longer steady enough for such work. But Brother Michaelo. .’

‘Um. He does seem a slippery one. I do not doubt it.’

‘We must hasten to St David’s.’

‘You will meet with this Martin Wirthir?’

‘Do you think we dare ignore this?’

Geoffrey squinted up at Owen. ‘You are plotting something that I will not like.’

‘There are three in our company who must be handled with care.’

‘The bishop’s men and Burley’s man?’

‘Aye.’

‘I heard what you said to Edmund.’

Owen called to Iolo, who appeared to be telling an amusing tale to the other men. Edmund jostled him when he did not respond. He glanced up, caught Owen’s eye, and hurried over. His companions watched with apprehension.

‘This the others must not hear,’ Owen began.

‘They will not.’

‘Is there a way to reach Clegyr Boia from the road we ride?’ Martin’s letter had requested they meet where Owen’s company had exited the tunnel from the bishop’s palace.

‘Round the far side of St David’s and out beyond the North-west Gate,’ said Iolo.

‘I cannot ride there without passing the city?’

Iolo dropped his head, considered. ‘From here there is no easy way over the River Alun.’

‘Impassable?’

‘No, but ill advised in spring. Better to cross it to the north of the city.’

‘Why do you wish to avoid the city?’ Geoffrey asked.

‘We know at present whence trouble might come,’ Owen said. ‘But if we pass near the gates of St David’s, who knows who might see us and follow us to Clegyr Boia? It is a risk.’

Iolo shook his head. ‘A risk it is, Captain, but we might call more attention to ourselves picking our way where horses never go.’

Geoffrey looked pleased.

‘Come, then.’ Owen rose, dusted off his tunic. ‘We ride hard to St David’s.’

From his bed Sir Robert gazed on the wall painting of King Henry crossing Llechllafar. Sometimes, as Sir Robert fought for breath and the room spun round him, it seemed the King stepped not upon a bridge but on to a ship that rode a whirlpool.

To give in to the demon clutching his breath — at times he saw that as a blessed release. But that was sinful. It was for God to choose his time. He hoped that it was not sinful to take Master Thomas’s physick — he feared that it soothed him too well. He feared, too, that he would lose track of how often he asked for it, but Brother Michaelo assured him he would watch that neither he nor Mistress Tangwystl dispensed so much it would muddle his wits. Mistress Tangwystl — another sinful pleasure. She had returned with Brother Michaelo and asked whether she might sit with Sir Robert, said that she wished for occupation that might quiet her mind.

Sir Robert welcomed her with joy, for in Brother Michaelo’s face he saw the physician’s sentence. The monk’s mourning eyes and unnaturally gentle behaviour reminded Sir Robert too much of his approaching end.

‘Go and walk about,’ Sir Robert urged Michaelo. ‘You grow too pale.’

Michaelo refused. Sir Robert turned to face Tangwystl. ‘I grew weary of tossing on the sea with King Henry.’

‘King Henry?’ she whispered as she leaned down to Sir Robert, blotted his brow with a damp, scented cloth. The movement loosened her wide sleeves. Pale, shimmering silk, it gave her wings.

‘The fresco,’ said Brother Michaelo, nodding towards the wall.

Tangwystl sat back, studied the painting. Sir Robert thought her a vision of beauty as she sat beside his bed, hands resting on her silken lap, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire in the brazier.

‘The red-handed man in Myrddin’s prophecy — some say that is Owain Lawgoch, he who my father is accused of assisting. But as I heard the legend, the red-handed man was to wound the king while he was yet in Ireland.’

‘Let us pray that King Edward does not cross the Irish Sea,’ Brother Michaelo said.

A servant brought a cup of hot honey water, added a few pillows behind Sir Robert to raise him high enough to drink.

‘You are well attended,’ Tangwystl said when the servant withdrew. In the light from the brazier her hair beneath the gossamer veil seemed a vibrant red. ‘I wish to do something,’ she was saying, ‘but I cannot see what you might need. I must make amends for being late for our walk this morning.’

‘As you can see, I would have disappointed you had you still wished for my company on your way to St David’s Well.’ Sir Robert was pleased that his breathing seemed easier. He did not wish to frighten Tangwystl with his struggles. ‘If you have no hopes of someone else to accompany you to the well, you might tell me of yourself. In what part of this fair country did you dwell before you took your place as lady of Cydweli?’

Tangwystl bowed her head, and for a moment Sir Robert worried that in some way his request had offended her.

‘Do you know the tale of Rhiannon?’ she asked.

‘No. Please tell me.’

‘It is a sad story. Do you mind a sad story?’

‘The best ballads are sad ones, I think.’

Tangwystl frowned and smoothed her skirt, shook out her sleeves, as if composing her thoughts. And then she began. ‘She was Pwyll’s lady, lord of Dyfed. Theirs was not an easy courtship, for when he declared his love for her she was already betrothed. But with patience and trickery they disposed of Pwyll’s rival. Rhiannon proved a generous lady and at first all Pwyll’s people loved her. But when after three years she had not borne a son, Pwyll’s men turned against her and urged their lord to cast her aside. Pwyll refused, and it seemed the gods rewarded his loyalty, for Rhiannon at last bore him a son. But on the night of the birth, Rhiannon’s handmaids failed to keep watch. In the morning, the child was gone. Fearing that they would be punished, the women killed a chicken and smeared its blood over Rhiannon’s mouth while she slept, then ran from her chamber shrieking that the unnatural mother had eaten her son.’ For a moment, Tangwystl sat silently, her hands folded, her head bowed. When she began again to speak, her voice was unsteady. ‘Seven years Rhiannon suffered humiliation as a punishment for this sin she did not commit. Seven years she wept for her son alone, with no one to comfort her. Seven-’ Tangwystl’s voice broke and she covered her face with her hands.

‘Do you weep so to tell the tale?’ Sir Robert said. ‘You must speak of something happier — I would not have you suffer pain for me.’

Though Tangwystl dropped her hands, she kept her head bowed. ‘I share Rhiannon’s suffering,’ she said, her voice yet hoarse with tears, ‘for my son has been taken from me. I suffer my loss as she did, with none to comfort me. And my suffering shall stretch beyond seven years.’

How tragic she looked, and how lovely. A mother’s grief for her lost child was becoming to a woman. ‘If God took him from you, there is nothing to be done but take joy in those yet to come. But does your husband not grieve with you?’

Tangwystl took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It is because of John Lascelles that my son is lost to me.’ She shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of the thought. ‘Such a tale is not for you, good Sir Robert. I do not come here to burden your heart with my sorrow.’

‘I would be honoured to be so burdened, my lady.’

‘It is not good for your humours.’

‘According to the worthy physician, there is little can be done for my humours. In faith, it does me good to hear your story. It is a debt paid, mayhap. Once I caused great unhappiness by being blind to a woman’s sorrow — my wife’s. I was a fool. I might have found joy with her, and she with me, if when I saw her tears I had asked for what she wept. Instead I called her ungrateful and left her alone in a strange place that I had given her no reason to love while I went back to soldiering. Please, gentle lady, speak to me of your sorrow. Amélie will smile on me if I listen.’

Tangwystl had lifted her face to Sir Robert, and though her eyes still shone with tears, a smile trembled on her lips. ‘I shall gladly help you with that.’

‘Come now. Tell me your tale.’

She nodded, but was silent a while, her eyes on the fire. When at last she began, her voice was stronger. ‘A long while ago it seems, though it is not more than four winters past, I met a man who looked to me to be the best of all that is mankind. He was sharp of wit, honey tongued, and skilled in anything to which he turned his hands, whether it be casting nets in the sea or ploughing the land, carpentry or smithying. And withal he was blessed with a countenance that made a maiden blush to look on him. He favoured me with his attentions. I gave him my heart. But my father, having no son and therefore knowing his land would go to my uncles and their sons, wished to marry me to someone with sufficient wealth that if my sister did not wed she would yet have a comfortable life in my household.

‘But I would have Rhys. Rhys ap Llywelyn was his name. Is his name, God grant that he yet lives. I knew that my father would not wish to risk the anger of a well-born husband if I were no longer a virgin, and so I lay with Rhys. And we conceived a child. Hedyn, my son. When I told my father of my joy, he cursed Rhys and banished me from his house. Rhys and I did not care — we lived happily as husband and wife in the cottage of a cousin who took pity on us. But when our son was born, my father repented his anger and prepared for our wedding. And then the Lord of Pembroke accused my father of treason. To be sure, you must have knowledge of that.’

‘There was no wedding then?’

Tangwystl bowed her head. ‘No. Though we claimed sanctuary in St Mary’s Church and lived there a long while, our vows were never sanctified by a priest, nor did my father acknowledge our marriage in the law. But I had no time to think on my troubles. I had to look to my mother, who seemed to wither in spirit with each day. Hedyn was the only joy she knew.

‘And then my father, who had escaped to seek help, returned in the company of John Lascelles. He was not yet steward of Lancaster’s Marcher lordships. It was not the first time he had come to us. He had been our guest once a few years earlier when my father had arranged a ship for him, and when it foundered, my father saved his life. Sir John offered us sanctuary in the March of Cydweli and even a farm he had it in his grace to dispose of. All he asked in return was my hand in marriage.

‘I took Hedyn and went in search of Rhys, who also sought help for us, but he was not at the cottage. His cousin knew not where he had gone. Our thirty days of sanctuary had run out and my Lord of Pembroke’s men were coming for father. We could not stay while I searched for Rhys. And everyone said that without land, without a name, how was my father to see us wed?

‘Still I waited. My parents were two days gone when the earl’s men came. When I fled to Rhys’s cousin’s house he shunned me, fearful lest Pembroke should call him traitor also. Weak and frightened for my son — he was but an infant — I followed after my parents. I did not go far before I met Sir John on the road, hastening back to save me. In my despair he comforted me.

‘But never did I think that for my comfort and that of my family I must hear my son Hedyn branded a bastard. Father had told me that Sir John knew of the baby and welcomed it. I did not know English ways. I did not know how you chastise the child for the parents’ sin, which was not even sin among my people. Rhys and I loved, we lived together as man and wife, and had my father not met misfortune we would have been wed.

‘Where am I to find the strength to tell my son he is a bastard? That when Sir John returns to England I must accompany him, but Hedyn will stay in Cydweli? My son weeps when I leave him now, but how long will he remember me?’

‘Sweet lady.’

‘So you see, I am alone in my sorrow, as was Rhiannon, and punished for what I did not do.’

Sir Robert wished to agree with her, but she had lain with a man against her father’s wishes, and without the blessing of the Church. An extreme punishment, but not an unusual one. ‘What of Rhys? What happened to him?’

‘He had gone looking for work. He knew nothing of what had happened until I was gone. His brother tells me he suffered much, and that at last he had come to St David’s to ask the bishop to intervene, to declare my marriage to Sir John invalid.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘That is why I am here.’

‘And Rhys?’

‘I do not know. He left here without a word to anyone.’

But Sir Robert thought he saw something in her eyes that belied her denial.