A Gift Of Sanctuary

Twenty-four

How peacefully the captors slept, heads on their saddles, feet close to the fire. All but one, who had just awakened, and now sat with arms wrapped round his knees, a blanket round his shoulders, staring up at the fading wisps of fog.

Dafydd stood a moment behind the standing stone, weighing one of the torch heads in his hands, considering his aim. But first, some drama for the wakeful one.

Inhaling deeply, Dafydd stalked out from behind the stone, arms outstretched, his eyes wide and staring. This was the signal for Cadwal and Dyfrig to leave the tree. Cadwal scurried to join Madog, Edern and Gruffydd; Dyfrig took up a post opposite Dafydd. In his most bardic voice Dafydd now shouted, ‘Who trespasses in my sacred place!’

The wakeful one started, looked on Dafydd and cried, ‘What apparition is this?’

Now Dafydd raised his right hand yet higher, and, roaring, threw the torch head at the fire. A ball of light glowed within the fire, expanding with a loud crack. The flames roared towards the heavens, then fell in a fiery fountain. Burning cinders were stars in the night, landing on the surrounding grass, and the blankets of the Cydweli men, who, waking now, shrieked and scrambled along the ground like panicked crabs. A pity, Dafydd thought, for the fire was magnificent.

Now Cadwal, Gruffydd, Edern and Madog came striding out of the dark towards the frightened men, who were thrown into confusion. The fire, Dafydd and the standing stone, or the four attackers — which terrified them least? Two turned towards the fire. Dyfrig now stepped forth. Raising his good arm, he tossed in the second torch head.

This explosion was louder and more violent than the first. The four who descended on the captors hesitated, shielding their eyes, but quickly saw the advantage and pushed forward. The waking one had more of his wits about him and, getting to his feet, pushed past Gruffydd and seemed to be getting away.

Dafydd rushed towards him. Too late he saw the firebrand hurtling his way. He stepped aside, but tripped on the uneven ground. As he fell he felt a terrible heat near his head, smelled burning hair and duck grease. Had he mistaken God’s purpose? And was he thus struck down for his presumption?

Dyfrig was at Dafydd’s side at once. One handed, he rolled Dafydd through the damp grass, then told him that he should lie still a moment, the others had the battle in hand.

Dafydd gladly lay there, listening to the sounds of the fray across the clearing, thanking God for his life. At last he mustered the courage to feel his cheek. He rejoiced to feel skin, whole and unblistered.

With his good arm Dyfrig helped Dafydd sit up. ‘God watches over you. The brand caught only your hair.’

Dafydd touched the singed, brittle mass. A clump turned to powder in his hand. He began to laugh.

‘I thought you would howl over your loss, and you laugh.’ Dyfrig tried to smooth Dafydd’s damaged hair. ‘It might have been so much worse.’

‘But it was not. I shall from now on listen to Madog. He warned me I used too much duck grease. But I do love a great blaze.’

Madog joined them, shook his head at the sight of Dafydd’s hair. ‘We must cut the other side. A bard must not look like the King’s jester.’

‘The English might disagree,’ said Dafydd, ‘but shorn I shall be. I accept my penance without complaint.’

‘You have bound them all?’ Dyfrig asked Madog.

‘Bound them all together.’

Dafydd grinned at the thought of the wriggling, angry mass of limbs and foul breath.

But Madog was not laughing. ‘What do you know of these men who came to our aid, Brother Dyfrig? The Cydweli men know both of them.’

‘Do you now regret telling them so much?’ Dafydd asked.

‘Perhaps,’ said Madog.

‘You may trust them, for pity’s sake, they have saved us,’ said Brother Dyfrig. ‘They are known because Father Edern was chaplain to the Cydweli garrison not so long ago. The other is the new father-in-law of Lancaster’s steward.’

‘Is he not the one who took Rhys’s love and gave her to the Englishman?’ Dafydd said. ‘Why does Father Edern trust him?’

‘I do not trust him,’ said Madog. ‘And if they are all from Cydweli, why are either of them helping us?’

‘We have cause to trust Edern,’ said Dafydd, ‘he is our pilgrim’s brother. But Gruffydd — he is dangerous. And now he knows what we know. Clever, Madog.’

Owen gulped in the cool night air, said a prayer of thanks for a safe journey. The tunnel had seemed endless and had echoed with phantom footsteps that stopped when he stopped, whispering voices that hushed when he held his breath. It was far worse traversed alone. He did not think he had experienced such terror since childhood. The tunnel was haunted, he had no doubt of it.

Martin Wirthir sat on the boulder that had been rolled away from the entrance. ‘The fog has lifted.’

‘Where is Iolo?’ Owen asked, pleased that his voice did not betray his recent experience.

‘Guarding his catch. God forbid I should ever find him my enemy.’

‘Iolo has hungered for action. Escorting pilgrims was not to his liking.’

‘You know him well.’

‘He reminds me of my younger self.’ Owen leaned against the rock, lifted his head to the stars. ‘I thank God I am not a miner.’

‘I was glad you did not ask me to come with you. I have watched how the shepherds round here cross themselves as they pass this place. Though I have felt no terror out here, I would not like to have the darkness close behind me.’

‘I felt them there, all round me, the carvers of the ancient stones. I have never feared them before.’

‘Yours is an ancient country, full of mysteries, like Brittany.’

‘Rhys was glad to leave the tunnel.’

‘He is safe?’

‘He is. He told me his tale of that day at Whitesands.’

‘A strange, ugly tale, is it not?’

‘John de Reine’s part in it puzzles me. I begin to think he shadowed Gruffydd.’

‘And Gruffydd took the opportunity to eliminate him — with Rhys the unwitting executioner.’ Martin nodded. ‘This Gruffydd has no conscience.’

‘And was it he who brought the corpse to St David’s? To brand Rhys a murderer?’ Owen was quiet awhile, considering this new idea. Was it possible Gruffydd ap Goronwy was so cold blooded?

Martin broke through his thoughts to ask whether they would be joined by any more of Owen’s men in the morning.

‘One of my men, and Geoffrey Chaucer.’

Martin shifted on the stone. ‘King Edward’s man, Master Chaucer. I should not have chosen him to accompany us.’

‘I did not. He insisted. I am not pleased. I had thought Geoffrey would take care of Rhys and allow Brother Michaelo to tend to my father-in-law, who is very ill.’

‘Sir Robert is a brave man, to make such a journey at his age.’

‘I do not think he will leave this place.’

‘St David’s. It is a sacred place, is it not? It seems a good place to die. Sir Robert had a vision at St Non’s Well, did you know?’

‘A vision that gave him cheer?’

‘So it seemed to me.’

‘God is with him, then.’ But what of Lucie? Owen must write a letter to her, entrust it to the first person he met going east. Not that a journey was possible for her, but Lucie would wish to know how it went with Sir Robert and be with him in prayer.

‘I have been so long away from my people,’ Martin said. ‘As you had been. Has it brought you joy, returning to your people?’

‘I do not know how to answer that. But I think — were Lucie and my children not waiting for me in York, I would stay here a while.’ Owen sensed much behind Martin’s question. ‘Why are you here, Martin? Are you the Fleming for whom Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s family has suffered so much?’

‘They have suffered because of Gruffydd, not me,’ said Martin. ‘Your people have a tale about one who sleeps — is it in a cave? — and one day will wake from his slumber to save your people.’

‘Arthur.’

‘Sometimes he is called Owain.’

‘Owain Lawgoch? Tell me about him.’

‘We call him Yvain de Galles. His men believe he is the redeemer of your people. He has the courage, I do not doubt it. And he is like Bertrand du Guesclin in inspiring loyalty in his men.’

‘Why is he in France?’

‘His family sent him there to keep him safe while he grew and learned.’

‘Do you follow him because he will redeem my people?’

‘I am not a follower. He hired me because I was recommended. Do I disappoint you?’

‘Had you sworn allegiance to this man I would have called you a liar,’ said Owen.

‘A man can change.’

‘But you have not.’

Martin laughed. ‘Nor have you.’

Some would disagree. ‘Tell me this. When Gruffydd ap Goronwy decided to keep Lawgoch’s money, was it you betrayed him to Pembroke?’

‘Not to Pembroke, to his mother. In the past I have worked for the Mortimers. I expected Gruffydd to repent, come to me begging for help. Which would come at a price. But I underestimated Gruffydd’s greed, and John Lascelles’s passion for his daughter. The money vanished into Cydweli.’

‘Do you ride after him to retrieve the money?’

‘No, my friend. That is gone. I would not risk riding into Cydweli — the constable there is too challenging.’

‘He is a good soldier.’

‘Aye.’ Martin sighed. ‘But it is not such a loss. Already more pours in from your wealthier countrymen.’

‘So why do you pursue Gruffydd?’

‘King Edward will think well of the Mortimers — and Pembroke — if they deliver up one of Yvain’s men. And so I shall keep the Mortimers in my debt by presenting their scapegoat. Though I cannot appear with him, they will know how he comes to be in their hands.’

‘But what he did — he is not truly one of Owain Lawgoch’s men.’

‘No.’

‘Would not King Edward be doubly grateful if the Mortimers delivered you to him?’

‘Perhaps, my friend, but they still have need of me. I am very good at what I do.’

‘You say Gruffydd has no conscience. I might say the same of you.’

‘Ambrose would agree. But perhaps it is merely that I have no country, no allegiance. Now your Master Chaucer. He is my opposite.’

‘He is indeed. Be ware of him, Martin. It suits him well to play the fool, but he is not.’

‘I thank you for warning me.’

Owen dreaded their meeting, Geoffrey and Martin. ‘Do you know the route Father Edern would have taken?’

‘Yes. The road through Croes-goch and Fishguard to Cardigan. Rhys was taken to a house that overlooks Cardigan Bay.’

‘How can you be so certain he would travel that road and no other?’

‘Because it is the way Yvain’s men go when headed north.’

‘Father Edern.’

Martin chuckled. ‘You do not sound surprised.’

‘He is more than he seems, of that I have been certain since I met him.’

Martin rose. ‘Shall we close off the tunnel and see whether Duncan yet lives?’

His touch was light. He might not have wakened Dafydd had he been careful of the rings. But how many men wore such hair ornaments? Dafydd opened his eyes slightly, glad of his long lashes. Gruffydd crouched beside him, easing one item at a time out of the saddle-bag Dafydd had tucked beneath his saddle, which he used as a pillow. Searching for more torch heads, Dafydd guessed. Well, he might search Dafydd’s pack and never find them — Cadwal carried what was left. Dafydd grinned and made dreaming noises that startled Gruffydd and sent him creeping away.

The man must be watched.

At dawn, Michaelo was wakened by Master Chaucer’s noisy ablutions in a bowl of scented water. Chaucer had shared the extra bed with Rhys ap Llywelyn.

‘How did the young man sleep?’ Michaelo asked, tiptoeing across the cold floor to check the fresh bandage.

‘Fitfully, with much muttering and moaning. He feels on fire. I rose twice to give him wine. You will be busy, with both of them.’

‘You did not concern yourself with my difficulties when you declared yourself Jared’s substitute,’ Michaelo said. He sensed an unspoken purpose in Chaucer’s determination to ride with the Captain.

‘The sooner we find Father Edern, the sooner Captain Archer may sit at Sir Robert’s bedside and make his peace with him.’

‘Will you watch my charges a little while?’ Michaelo asked. ‘I have an errand.’

‘Be quick about it.’

Brother Michaelo wished him Godspeed and hastened off, glad to escape and half-hoping Chaucer would be gone when he returned. He found him insufferable, smugly self-important, and imagined the man wooing new acquaintances at court with tales in which all the world came off as fools but himself.

Michaelo also thought Chaucer would disapprove of his present mission. He hastened through the great hall and through the corridor that led to the guest rooms in the east wing of the palace, leaning against the wall as a servant hurried past with a pot of night soil sloshing dangerously. There were privies in the palace, but in the middle of the night most pilgrims preferred to stay in their chambers.

At the door of the chamber shared by Tangwystl and several other noble ladies, Michaelo knocked. He asked a servant to tell Mistress Tangwystl that she was needed in Sir Robert D’Arby’s chamber.

With that, Michaelo turned to retrace his steps, expecting Mistress Tangwystl would be long in dressing herself. But he had just stepped into the great hall when he heard the whisper of silk behind him.

‘God be with you, Brother Michaelo.’ Tangwystl caught up with him, her colour high. ‘Sir Robert is worse?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘He had a difficult night?’

‘Bless you for your haste, Mistress Tangwystl. I did not mean to alarm you with my summons.’ For in addition to her breathlessness she looked about to burst into tears. He had not intended that. ‘The patient did toss and turn, and I thought he might find comfort in your gentle company.’

‘I shall gladly sit with him,’ she said.

Michaelo slowed his pace as he escorted her through the hall and into the short corridor that led to his chamber. At the door, Michaelo reached up to tidy Tangwystl’s veil, loosing a corner that had been caught up in the circlet round her head. She looked puzzled by the gesture.

‘Forgive me, Mistress Tangwystl. I do penance every day for my fussing. Come now.’ He opened the door, led her into the room, and when she would cross to Sir Robert’s bed, Michaelo called softly, ‘Mistress Tangwystl, would you be so kind as to look at this young man, tell me whether we ought to send for Master Thomas?’

‘My lady,’ Rhys said, ‘you outshine the sun.’

Tangwystl stood a moment, poised as if about to flee, then sat gingerly on the bed, reaching with trembling hand towards the soiled bandage. ‘My love, what has happened?’

Rhys took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and with a sob she bent to kiss him.

Smiling to himself, Brother Michaelo slipped over to take up his prayers at Sir Robert’s bedside. Chaucer had departed. All was going according to plan. God be praised.