A Gift Of Sanctuary

Twenty-two

At Newgale, where the road dipped to the ocean, a brisk wind cheered Owen’s company, cooling them after their long, hot ride. It promised a chilly night, and though the men thought it would be spent in comfort at the bishop’s palace, Owen knew that might not be true.

The closer they drew to St David’s, the slower their pace, for there were many pilgrims on the road, and all on foot. At last by Nine Wells they dismounted and walked their horses. It was late afternoon, but Owen was confident they would reach St David’s before sunset. Still, time was against them. In a few days the bishop would return to the city for Passiontide, and all must put aside their worldly pursuits for Holy Week. Who might slip through Owen’s fingers while he knelt in the cathedral?

A pointless worry. He would do all he could, then use the time to pray God saw fit to show him how he must continue.

Sir Robert’s breathing quieted and slowed.

‘He sleeps,’ Brother Michaelo whispered.

‘Would you like to walk out in the courtyard with me?’ Tangwystl asked. ‘Sir Robert is right. You are very pale. And you have more vigils ahead of you.’

‘I should watch with him.’

‘Watch him sleep? The servant will come for us if there is need.’

Michaelo leaned close to Sir Robert, listened to his chest. There was a damp, insidious rumbling now. He made the sign of the cross over Sir Robert.

‘What is it?’ Tangwystl asked.

‘I am not certain, but I do not like the sound. It is as if his lungs have turned to liquid.’

Tangwystl put her head to Sir Robert’s chest. It seemed to Michaelo a long time she stayed there, and when she raised her head, she did not meet his eyes, but sat silently with head down for a moment. Then she rose, told the servant to make sure to keep Sir Robert’s head propped up on the pillows, that he must not be permitted to lie flat.

‘It is the end?’ Michaelo asked.

‘My little brother lived for some time after his chest made such a sound,’ Tangwystl said. ‘But my mother knew when she heard it that he would not recover. Come. Let us walk a while.’

The light from the high windows and the bustle of the pilgrims stunned Brother Michaelo when he stepped from the corridor into the great hall, so long had he been in the dark, quiet sickroom. He had forgotten it was yet day. Mistress Tangwystl gasped beside him. She, too, must find the change a shock.

‘My lady, what a pleasure to find you here.’ A tall man in travel garb bowed to Michaelo’s companion. He was dusty and stank of horses, but his clothing was fine.

‘My lord,’ Tangwystl said softly, her eyes on the man’s muddy boots as she curtseyed.

‘And now yet another churchman escorts you. Are you a friend of Father Edern?’ the man asked with a sneer.

Brother Michaelo liked neither the man’s tone nor his expression. ‘I am Brother Michaelo, secretary to the Archbishop of York, and not acquainted with the priest you named. Mistress Tangwystl has assisted me in the sickroom of a friend all the day. And you, sir, if you deserve to be so called, speak your name.’

‘John Lascelles.’

Dear God in Heaven.

‘I see my name is familiar to you. And has your lovely companion told you that she is my wife?’

As they approached Bonning’s Gate to the north of the city, Owen dismounted and called to Duncan and Geoffrey to step aside.

To Duncan he gave the orders to take all the horses save Owen’s and Iolo’s to the palace stables. The two were off to meet someone who might help them.

‘Why Iolo?’ Duncan asked.

‘He was born in Porth Clais. I need him as a guide. Go, Duncan. Rest. We might ride out again soon, so take rest when you can.’

Tight jawed, Duncan took the rein of Geoffrey’s mount in hand with his own and joined the others, gave them the orders. Iolo moved aside with his mount, giving the two men privacy.

Geoffrey had occupied himself smoothing out his clothing and beating off some of the dust while Owen gave Duncan his orders. Now he faced Owen, his eyes hard with suspicion, and said, ‘You and Iolo?’

Owen drew out the leather pouch that held the letters from Tangwystl and Bishop Houghton. He slipped the thong over his head, held out the pouch to Geoffrey.

Geoffrey hesitated, then took the proffered pouch. ‘What are you doing?’

‘One of us must see that these documents are safe with the Archdeacon of Carmarthen.’

‘You mean to leave me here while you meet with Martin Wirthir?’

‘There is no need for both of us to confer with Wirthir.’

Geoffrey dropped his head, but Owen saw how his hands clutched the pouch. ‘I am not one of your men, to lead round at your will.’

‘I would not trust these papers with one of them. There is much to explain to the archdeacon, and they could not do that.’

‘You will join me after talking to the Fleming?’

‘I shall do whatever will resolve these troubles. If I must ride to protect Father Edern and his brother, so be it.’

‘What if Martin Wirthir is a spy for Owain Lawgoch?’

‘It does not matter. What does matter is that it suits him at the moment to assist us.’

‘What do you think of Owain Lawgoch?’

‘He is King Charles’s puppet.’

With his eyes on the pouch rather than Owen, Geoffrey asked, ‘Is that what you really think?’

‘So this is what we have come to, a matter of trust. Do you trust me?’

Geoffrey raised his head, studied Owen’s face. After what seemed to Owen an eternity in which he wondered about his next move, Geoffrey shifted, sighed, and slipped the leather thong over his head. ‘What else must I do?’

Owen told him the rest of his plan.

Hallelujah, God is merciful, Michaelo thought as he looked over Sir John’s shoulder and saw Geoffrey Chaucer enter the great hall. Sir Robert will be overjoyed to see his son-in-law. But Chaucer appeared to be alone. He caught Michaelo’s eye, shook his head. Michaelo searched his mind quickly for something to say that might keep his companions sparring.

‘You have come chasing after your wife, Sir John? She is not permitted to go on pilgrimage in this holy season?’

‘I have come seeking a man of God, monk, to take back with me to the garrison of Cydweli. Some wretch attacked our chaplain. He was so brutally beaten he died of his injuries.’

‘Father Francis?’ Tangwystl said in a voice so small Michaelo turned to her in concern. Her complexion had lost all its glow and colour, and as he watched she put a trembling hand up to her cheek and crumpled in a faint. Sir John caught her up as she fell. ‘Where is her chamber?’ he demanded, his face ashen. ‘Dear God, I did not mean to frighten her so.’

The hall was suddenly alive with people offering assistance. A bench was dragged over, a servant came running with wine. Sir John lowered himself on to the bench with Tangwystl still firmly in his arms. He bent over her, whispering her name, trying to get her to take some of the wine.

Brother Michaelo sat down beside Sir John, weak with relief. His ploy had almost been his undoing.

A fog was rolling in off the sea, dulling the late afternoon sun to a twilight dimness and evening out the shadows. Owen and Iolo met the fog as they climbed up out of the valley. As it thickened they dismounted to lead their horses along the uneven ground. The countryside was quiet except for the gulls riding inland on the fog and a lone dog who barked a warning as they passed close to a rocky outcrop, then disappeared behind it. Owen listened for the sound of its herd, but only the gulls called.

How unused to such quiet he was. York was never silent. Even when he lay awake at night he heard children calling out, babies crying, cats fighting in the street, boatmen calling to one another, the crier making his rounds. And even on the journey from York their company had been large and noisy, with Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo bickering all along the way. Owen had grown unaccustomed to silence. It made him uneasy.

They circled the base of Clegyr Boia, walking slowly, watching the ground, seeking signs of recent encampments or riders.

‘I would guess he has camped up top,’ said Iolo.

‘Where he would be so easily seen?’ Owen said.

‘If you saw a fire atop this mound, what would be your first thought? That a mortal man camped here?’

‘No.’

‘They also say there are cellars where one might hide. Though I never found one.’

And so they led their horses up a well-worn path to the top of the mound. It was bare of trees, but thick with gorse and treacherous with half-buried stones and timbers, and to one side the crumbled walls of an ancient fortress.

‘If I were hiding atop, I would stay in the shadow of those walls,’ said Iolo.

As they picked their way through the tangled underbrush, Owen suddenly straightened, sensing more than seeing someone approaching.

‘So I was right. You did follow fast behind the fleeing lady.’ A figure materialised from the fog.

‘Is this Wirthir?’ Iolo whispered.

‘Aye.’ Owen raised his voice. ‘I cannot think how you know me so well, Martin. I like to think I am cunning and subtle. But you were right, we followed the lady and her lord.’

‘And the hapless priest,’ said Martin. He was now at arm’s length.

‘You two might be taken for brothers,’ Iolo said, looking from one to the other.

Martin gave him a little bow. ‘I take that as a compliment.’

Owen introduced Iolo. ‘He knows Dyfed well. I thought he might be of use. Have you sent someone after Father Edern, to shield him from his shadow?’

‘I travel alone, as you know, Owen. The choice was the priest’s life, or that of a man who has a tale to tell that many will be keen to hear.’

Martin’s manner of speaking was the same as Owen remembered it, gently mocking.

‘An amusing tale?’ Iolo asked.

‘No, not amusing. Before I take you to him, there are things I would tell you, Owen. Do you wish Iolo to hear this?’

‘I do.’

‘His name is Rhys ap Llywelyn, the brother of the priest Edern.’

Tangwystl’s missing lover. ‘He had disappeared from St David’s,’ said Owen. ‘How does he come to be here, in your care?’

‘I played Samaritan. Not as well as another who spirited him away from Whitesands, but I flatter myself that he lives because of my care.’

‘Whitesands.’

‘I hope that someone you trust will take him into the bishop’s close and see that he is delivered up to those who will hear his story and mete out justice.’

‘He is the murderer of John de Reine?’

‘If to be the one who thrust the knife into the man’s gut is to be the murderer, yes. But he defended himself against two men, one who had met him on the beach intending to kill him, and Reine, who came upon them and thought to defend the other against Rhys.’

‘Who was this third man?’

‘The one who now follows Father Edern, thinking he will thus find Rhys and finish his interrupted work.’

‘Then Edern is in no danger?’

‘From this man? I do not trust what he will do.’

‘Why did you not deliver Rhys up to the bishop’s council?’

‘He was in no condition to walk in alone and state his case, and I do not wish to call attention to myself. Nor could I warn Father Edern, because with the other near I had to keep Rhys by my side-’ Martin had begun leading them towards the ruined fortress. ‘You need this one witness, and by my count he is innocent. I would save him from the Devil if I can.’

‘Rhys does not know of his brother’s danger?’

‘He must not. He would insist on going after, and he would not survive. You will see how weak he is. If I were he, I, too, would desire to win this battle. The cunning fox has robbed him of his wife, his son-’

‘John Lascelles? But I thought. .’ Owen paused as Martin shook his head. ‘Gruffydd ap Goronwy?’

‘The very man.’

‘What is your interest in this business?’

‘Can a man not be merely a Samaritan?’

‘Not you.’

Martin laughed, but did not answer the question.

Brother Michaelo wished that he might accompany Mistress Tangwystl to her chamber and stand guard. Sir John might clutch her and worry over her now, but his behaviour had been far less loving before the lady fainted. Michaelo was relieved when a high-born woman shooed the spectators aside and took over, rubbing Tangwystl’s hands and holding a strongly scented cloth to her nose until she coughed and opened her eyes.

‘Come now,’ said the woman to Sir John, ‘you must allow me to make her comfortable whilst you make yourself presentable.’ She looked pointedly at Sir John’s muddy boots. One of the bishop’s clerks joined her.

Tangwystl struggled to sit up. Sir John clung to her, but two determined sets of hands pulled her away and assisted her in standing.

‘Milady is better off walking to her chamber,’ said the gentlewoman. ‘And then she shall rest undisturbed until I see some colour back in her cheeks.’ She called to a servant to see to Sir John’s comfort. ‘You look like a man in need of a drink.’

As the woman and the clerk whisked Tangwystl away, Michaelo prayed that the sanctity of the valley and the proximity of St David’s bones would inspire Sir John to peace. But in truth, the man did not now look threatening as he let a servant guide him out of the crowd.

Michaelo was glad of the quick and peaceful resolution. He hurried away, eager to discover how Master Chaucer had arrived so soon.

He was not disappointed. Master Chaucer awaited him at Sir Robert’s bedside and quickly rose to join Michaelo by the door.

‘Benedicte, Brother Michaelo,’ said Geoffrey. ‘God bless you for your quick wit in the hall. I would not have Sir John discover my presence tonight. I have work to do. We have work to do. I had thought to bring Sir Robert with me, but. .’

‘He should not be disturbed.’ Brother Michaelo glanced over at the bed. The servant assured him that Sir Robert had slept soundly since he departed.

‘He is much worse than when we left for Cydweli,’ Geoffrey said.

Brother Michaelo flushed, hearing criticism in the man’s voice. What could he know of the care Michaelo had lavished on Sir Robert? But perhaps it was a comment innocently meant. ‘Master Thomas, the bishop’s physician, has been here. His physick has quieted the cough and allowed Sir Robert to rest. But he can do little else.’

Geoffrey crossed himself. ‘I hope that the Captain can join him soon.’

Michaelo was disappointed. ‘He is not here, then?’

‘Yes, but not in the city. He is meeting Martin Wirthir at Clegyr Boia.’

‘I hope we did the right thing, summoning you. But how did you come so quickly? It is a miracle.’

‘No miracle. We were approaching Haverfordwest when we met Edmund. We had followed on the heels of John Lascelles, who I see has found his wife. How long has he been in St David’s?’

‘He is just arrived.’ Michaelo told Geoffrey what had happened.

‘Oh, sweet lady, I am sorry she is unwell.’

‘She was well until Sir John appeared. What is this about an attack upon the chaplain?’

‘I shall tell you all while we wait here. But first, do you know the tunnel in the undercroft?’

‘I do.’

‘We are to go down there after the rest of the guests have retired for the night. The Captain may have someone to hand over to our care.’

‘Why the tunnel?’

‘It may be someone who must be kept hidden until the proper time.’

Michaelo thrilled to the prospect of more intrigue. He was developing quite a taste for it. Perhaps he had spent too long in a sickroom.

Martin, Owen and Iolo were picking their way among the ruined walls when they all froze at the sound of someone stumbling on loose rock behind them. They held still, listening. But their shadow also paused. Not likely a dog or lost sheep then.

‘Duncan,’ Iolo said. ‘I can smell him.’ He drew his knife. ‘He is mine.’

‘Bring him to us,’ Owen said as he took the rein from Iolo’s hand. ‘Alive.’

Iolo slipped away from them.

‘This Iolo has the blood-lust?’ Martin asked.

‘If Duncan is here, one of Iolo’s comrades lies somewhere wounded or dead.’

‘Who is this Duncan?’

‘He was sent by the Constable of Cydweli to spy on my activities.’

‘A peculiar use of a spy, to place him openly in your company. This constable did not care whether his man survived?’

‘We are both at present working for Lancaster. It is an uneasy truce. But you are right, it is also a fragile one.’

They heard a shout, a curse, then all was silent except for a lone gull circling overhead.

In a little while Iolo appeared, supporting Duncan, who limped badly. Owen was surprised by the latter’s silence until he saw the gag round his mouth. His hands were also bound behind him.

‘Your man is efficient,’ Martin said. ‘I could use such a man.’

For what, Owen wondered.

‘Come then.’ Martin led them to what seemed a pile of stone that had fallen from a crumbling corner wall of Boia’s fortification. He crouched down, felt along the ground, grabbed the edge of something in his hand. ‘Are you still strong, Captain?’ he asked.

Owen had forgotten Martin had but one hand, so adept had the man become at hiding the fact. Crouching beside Martin, Owen let him guide his hands. The two lifted, and revealed a trapdoor. Light glimmered from a lantern within. Martin knelt at the opening, pulled up a post with cross-beams fashioned into a ladder, and climbed down. The others followed, with Iolo the last, as Duncan needed steadying hands to lower him. Martin pulled the trapdoor closed above them. For one uneasy moment Owen felt as if he were being entombed, but then noticed moonlight above. A smoke hole. What was this place, he wondered as he looked round, a den for smugglers?

It was a low-ceilinged, stone-walled chamber, perhaps once a dungeon or a storage area. In one corner was a raised platform piled with rags, in the middle of the room a bench and a milking stool that held the lantern. In another corner was a chest, atop it two saddles.

‘Where are your horses?’ Owen asked.

‘In a shelter nearby,’ said Martin. He lit an oil-lamp from the lantern.

The rags on the platform moved.

‘Rhys,’ said Martin, ‘I have brought Captain Owen Archer. Owain ap Rhodri to your people. You remember I told you he would help you.’

The man sat up. He was young, with what looked to be fair hair beneath a dirty bandage that encircled his head.

Owen crouched down beside Rhys, saw where the blood oozed. ‘Your ear?’

‘Yes,’ Rhys whispered. His hand hovered over the bandage, but he did not touch it.

Owen saw the pain in the man’s eyes, the lines on his face. And he noted something else, beneath the grime and suffering. ‘I see now what Eleri meant. Your son was made in your image.’

‘You have seen him?’

‘And your lady.’

‘She is well?’

‘Well enough. She is here, in St David’s. Did Martin tell you?’

Rhys glanced at Martin, confused. ‘You did not tell me Tangwystl was here.’

‘I did not wish to tease you with the knowledge until there was someone who might take you inside.’ Martin joined them. ‘His ear was almost severed. A monk stitched it up with care, though Rhys departed before it could heal properly.’

Rhys put a hand on Owen’s. ‘You will take me to her?’

‘I will. And your wounds will be tended.’

‘They will throw me in the dungeon.’

‘By and by, perhaps. But I hope that my father-in-law will be able to keep you hidden for a few days, allow you to regain your strength.’

‘You will take him tonight?’ Martin asked.

‘Aye. We must wait a while, until the palace quiets. Then I shall take him through the tunnel. Sir Robert awaits us on the other side.’

A shuffling sound reminded Owen of Duncan. He had thought to take him back, also, but now he knew too much.