A Gift Of Sanctuary

Twenty-five

When next Dafydd woke it was Brother Dyfrig who disturbed his rest. Dafydd sat up, confused by the dawn light filling the clearing. But the sight of the four men tied together in a grim bundle and laid at the foot of the standing stone brought back the night.

‘Are we agreed we leave them here until such time as it pleases us to inform someone of their hermitage?’ Dafydd asked.

‘They are hardly hermits, with so much companionship,’ said Dyfrig.

‘Their what? Their barracks? Monastery?’

‘We must ride out while your men still keep their knives in their sheaths. We shall stop at a church, tell the priest we outfoxed a band of robbers — that he should send the sheriff to collect them.’

‘The sheriff. They will not like that.’

‘I would not think so.’

Dafydd noticed Gruffydd searching the packs of the vanquished. For food, he wondered, or for trouble? ‘Speaking of thieves, Gruffydd has busy fingers.’

‘That he has,’ said Dyfrig.

Shifting to show Dyfrig the scattered items, Dafydd was confused to find the ground clean. He pulled the pack from beneath his saddle, found the items tucked away. ‘Did I dream?’ he wondered aloud.

‘No,’ said Dyfrig. ‘He crept back and returned it all to the pack. I was glad of that. It is best if he does not know we watch.’

As Dafydd pulled on his riding boots he experimented with phrases extolling the virtues of this monk, with his hooded eyes and devious mind. He was considering to what heroic ancestor he might compare Dyfrig when his subject drew a sharp knife from the sheath on his girdle. Dafydd had always admired the tooling on the leather, thought it a most unmonkly accessory.

‘You contemplate some violence against Gruffydd after all?’

‘I thought I might trim your hair. I shall need Madog’s assistance, since I have but one arm.’ Dyfrig laughed. ‘Do not look so worried! I have much practice in cutting hair, though scissors are my usual tool.’

Dafydd reared back in mock horror. ‘I want no tonsure!’

Owen watched Martin going about his morning business. He managed well with but one hand, using the stub of his wrist when fingers or flexibility were not important. Owen thought it not as great a loss as that of his eye, but he guessed Martin would not agree. What we have lost we most cherish.

Geoffrey and Edmund awaited them at the foot of the path from the mound. Geoffrey addressed Martin in excellent French and commended him on his élan — ‘To call to yourself the very men from whom you would be wise to hide.’

Martin laughed. ‘I have no wish to live so long that I must suck my food and be carried round in a chair. But in truth I do not deserve your admiration. It is my Lord of Pembroke I serve in this. I would bring Gruffydd ap Goronwy to answer for his treachery.’

‘Gruffydd? Can it be true?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Has Sir John been such a fool to believe in him?’

Owen tried not to exhibit surprise at Martin’s half-truth.

Owen felt haunted by the ancient stoneworkers as the company rode north, past burial chambers and standing stones. And the crosses — were they the work of the same people, converted to Christianity? As a child in the mountains of LlŶn he had been accustomed to the stone monuments, had listened to tales of ancient priests, mythic giants, and believed them all to be true. It was long since he had thought of those legends. Had the stoneworkers disappeared into the Otherworld, leaving their artwork? Why? Had he truly heard their voices in the tunnel? Had they been calling to him?

Geoffrey rode up beside Owen. ‘Martin says we go to the home of a bard. What do you know of him?’ He leaned across his saddle, peering at Owen. ‘Jesu, but you look grim. Are you thinking of Sir Robert?’

Owen did not think it wise to tell Geoffrey his thoughts. Too Welsh, he would say. ‘Aye. You spent the night in the room. He is much worse?’

‘He is. I am sorry, Owen. But you have been good to him. You should have no regrets.’

Only the regret of losing Sir Robert. ‘You asked about the bard. Dafydd ap Gwilym is one of the greatest bards of our day, so they say, and an ardent lover. Are you eager to meet a fellow poet?’

‘I am not certain.’

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the company paused at a stream to let their horses drink and to wet their own dusty throats.

Iolo and Edmund commenced bragging about their love conquests, their skill with knives. Owen found himself envying them. Well he could remember taking part in such contests. And often considering himself the victor. He busied himself stringing his bow while he listened. Though he doubted they would encounter Gruffydd today, he meant to be ready.

Martin joined the men and turned the talk to Gruffydd’s skill in escaping. Geoffrey, who was still digesting the news of Gruffydd’s treachery, asked how Pembroke’s men had managed to corner him.

‘We did not,’ said Martin, cleverly continuing the lie. ‘He tucked his family in a church and fled to Cydweli, where he knew of an obsession he could bend to his will. We must be ready to surround him. And if you are tempted to slay him, remember that we might need him to tell us how he has disposed of Father Edern.’

‘Why are you here alone?’ Geoffrey asked.

Owen realised Geoffrey sought to make Martin trip over his lie.

But Martin was too clever. ‘When I discovered him here, I had two choices — to wait until I might get word to Pembroke Castle, or to enlist the aid of my old friend, who had good reason to wish to help me.’ He smiled at Geoffrey, then returned to discussions of strategy.

Geoffrey rose, moved over to Owen. ‘The bard’s house near Cardigan is still a few days’ ride. Will you keep that strung all the while?’

‘I do not mean to lose Gruffydd. While the day is fair, my bow will be at hand.’

The company paused on a hilltop overlooking Fishguard harbour, a cluster of houses in an elbow of land, fishing boats upturned on the sand, bobbing in the water. Owen advised against riding down into the town. They would be noticed; Gruffydd would charm the information out of someone there and know to hide. They had begun the descent on the inland side of the outcropping when Iolo, who was now riding vanguard, motioned for them to halt.

Ahead, down on the road, were six horsemen riding south. Two were in white robes. ‘Cistercians,’ Edmund guessed. ‘But what of the others?’

They used the shelter of a stand of trees to move down closer to the road.

‘Only one monk,’ said Martin. ‘The other has no tonsure.’

‘Would Gruffydd ride in such company?’ Owen had imagined him alone. The four in darker robes all wore hats that shaded their faces. But one of the men was Gruffydd’s size.

‘One becomes far less noticeable in a company of travellers,’ Geoffrey suggested. ‘And if I am not mistaken, that is Father Edern riding beside the monk.’

Martin turned in his saddle, asked Owen and Geoffrey, ‘Shall we surprise them?’

Owen dismounted with bow and quiver of arrows, slid down to the edge of the clearing. ‘Go.’ He pulled out an arrow, fitted notch to string, pulled back and sited on Gruffydd. He might kill him, rather than maim him. Was he certain Martin spoke the truth? For if he was not. . ‘God guide my hand,’ Owen prayed.

Heads turned to see what descended upon them. The white-haired, white-robed man flung his arms up and shouted something. Father Edern seemed to recognise some of the men and called to the monk, who had put spurs to horse. Two of the men, one a giant, rode off in pursuit of Gruffydd.

For Gruffydd, oh, he had not even turned to see who or what pursued him, but had taken off at a gallop angling cleverly up the hill whence the riders had come.

Owen let go the arrow, and as he put another to the string he watched his first hit Gruffydd’s shoulder. The man slid sideways in the saddle, but his stirrups held. Owen aimed, let fly the second arrow. Now Gruffydd jerked forward and down, clutching his thigh. When the giant grabbed his reins, Gruffydd slumped forward, his head resting on his mount’s neck.

Dafydd watched the arrows arch towards Gruffydd and envied the archer. Last night’s firestorm had been a wondrous show, but this — this was far more frightening. That a man, a mortal man, had trained his body to become such a weapon — for what were the bows or the arrows without the man strong enough and with the skill to use them? Dafydd rode towards the stand of trees. He must meet the archer, be the first to praise him. He dismounted.

And what was this? The archer covered one eye to improve his aim? But surely it was the wrong eye. To challenge himself then? Oh, what a man was this, who stood so calmly, his back against the tree, unwinding the string from the bow and watching Dafydd’s approach with head turned so that the uncovered right eye might see him plain. The Norman beard seemed out of place on his Welsh face, but it suited the archer. As did the scar that Dafydd could now see plainly.

‘I am Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. My praise lasts longer than a horse; my love songs would lead a nun astray; my satire kills. I come to praise the Archer,’ he shouted.

The man bowed his head, ‘I am honoured, Master Dafydd,’ he said in a northern accent. ‘I am Owen ap Rhodri ap Maredudd, once captain of archers for the great Henry of Grosmont.’

Fortunate Henry. Dafydd tilted his head, considered the archer’s accent. ‘LlŶn?’

Martin and Owen sat apart from the others, sharing a skin of wine under the trees.

‘You have not lost your skill, my friend,’ said Martin.

‘I did not hit precisely where I intended. The one in the shoulder — it is close to the bone, difficult to remove.’ He and Dyfrig had removed the arrow from Gruffydd’s thigh, but left the one in the shoulder for a barber or physician. Gruffydd had growled when Owen lifted his left hand and asked whose knife had so wounded him, Rhys’s or John de Reine’s. ‘He will be in much pain as the flesh swells round the arrow.’

‘And do you not think he deserves to suffer?’

Geoffrey glanced over towards them with an enigmatic expression. ‘You are watched,’ Owen said to Martin. ‘Gruffydd has denounced you to all as a spy for King Charles of France. And he has told Edern and Dyfrig that the money he keeps is for Owain Lawgoch — that you meant to steal it for the French King.’

‘Brother Dyfrig and Father Edern know me,’ said Martin. ‘They know that Gruffydd lies to save himself.’ Edern had quickly realised how foolish he had been to trust Gruffydd.

‘But Geoffrey. .’

‘He watches me, I know, though he is much distracted by Dafydd.’ The bard had honoured them by bringing out his harp and singing several of his songs.

‘I was curious to watch Geoffrey and Master Dafydd together,’ said Owen. ‘But so far Geoffrey keeps his distance.’

‘Ah, but he listens.’

‘Geoffrey is ever listening.’

‘Ambrose should be here. He would enjoy Master Dafydd’s songs.’

‘He understands Welsh?’

‘No, but I can hear the meaning of the bard’s words in his voice and the harp.’

Dafydd’s love songs took Owen back to his courtship of Lucie. Though the words were beautiful, they echoed how awkward Owen had felt in the presence of Lucie’s beauty and gentilesse. How he missed her.

And he realised he would miss Martin. ‘When do you leave us?’

‘Soon, my friend. My work is finished, much thanks to your skill. I was right to send for you.’ Martin sat back, looked Owen in the eye. ‘And what of you? Will you stay with Sir Robert until the end? Or will you go off to finish your work at Cydweli?’

‘Sir Robert may live a long while.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Owen looked away, unwilling to answer.

The company were welcomed that night by a farmer and his family who inhabited a large farmhouse. They considered Dafydd’s presence a great honour, and offered up their beds to the company. But first the men feasted on plain but abundant food and drink. All sat in threes on the rush floor. Except Gruffydd, who lay on a pallet by the fire moaning and begging the farmer and his family to have pity on him.

Edern marked the effort. ‘He is exhausted from loss of blood, and yet he manages a remarkable performance.’

‘And what of Martin Wirthir?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Slipping off in the midst of such a company. And no one made note of it.’

Owen saw Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig exchange glances.

‘We should search for him,’ Geoffrey said. ‘You have heard what Gruffydd says of him.’

‘We shall continue south,’ Owen said. ‘We have a murderer to deliver to justice.’

‘But tomorrow we must rest,’ said Brother Dyfrig. ‘It is Passio Domini, the beginning of Passiontide.’

‘Is it wise to give Gruffydd another day to work on the sympathies of our hosts?’ asked Owen.

‘I propose that we observe the day as pilgrims,’ Dafydd said, ‘walking rather than riding, and fasting all the day. Would that satisfy our men of God?’

‘The greatest sinner of us all must ride,’ Edern said, nodding towards Gruffydd.

‘Would you prefer to bear him on a litter?’ Geoffrey asked.