A Gift Of Sanctuary

Three

His head wrapped in bandages, the pilgrim reminded Dafydd of an unfortunate doll that had belonged to his favourite niece. She had bitten off the doll’s ear in frustration, saying that the doll never listened to her and thus was she punished. Dafydd chuckled at the memory of the incident, and his sister’s careful mending, carried out with a delightful solemnity after the child had dissolved in tears of regret.

The monk who watched over the pilgrim frowned his disapproval. ‘A Goddes half, you might show more sympathy.’

‘I have given him sanctuary, Brother Samson. How might I be more sympathetic?’

‘You laugh at his pain.’

‘I laugh at a memory of a doll patched in such wise. Laughter as well as prayers are of use in a sickroom. You would do well to learn that.’ Dafydd bent down, felt the pilgrim’s forehead. Good. Still no fever. ‘You have brought him safely through the crisis. For that I thank you and pray you receive a heavenly reward.’ Still grinning at the monk’s discomfiture, Dafydd left the sick chamber, his hounds following, and collided with a servant.

‘My lord, there are soldiers at the gate.’

Dafydd was delighted. He had anticipated this moment. ‘Find Cadwal. Tell him to meet me there.’

‘What shall I tell the soldiers?’

‘Nothing. A wait will cool their heads, and their heels. I shall go to them anon.’

The servant hurried off in search of Cadwal.

Dafydd returned to his chamber, considered his appearance in a mirror. Acceptably bardic today, his white hair freshly washed and thus wild, fastened with silver rings and ornate combs. Ivy and holly intertwined in intricate arabesques on his long, flowing gown, embroidered by a former mistress. He heard a shout, nodded to his reflection. ‘Attend your guests, Dafydd.’

One hand resting on Cadwy’s head and with Nest on his other side, he walked slowly down the corridor. He was Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. He would not be hurried.

As Dafydd turned into the entry way, the light was blocked by a huge form.

‘Cadwal. We have guests.’

The giant bowed. ‘My lord, I am ever ready to dance at your bidding.’

‘Let us see if they are dancing men. Open the door.’ He motioned to the dogs to stay by his side. They were hosts, not hunters this morning.

In the night a soft rain had blown ashore, swirled by wild winds. Dafydd waved to the men huddled beneath the oak by the door. ‘Come, pilgrims, dry yourselves by the fire within.’ But the men hesitated, staring at Cadwal. It was ever so, of course. Cadwal’s mother had been frightened by an apparition at a standing stone and the child had grown to resemble one. ‘You stand in awe of Cadwal. God blessed this man with the appetite of a destrier, it is true. But never yet has he consumed human flesh. You are quite safe. God watches over all Christians in this house.’

One man stepped forward. ‘We need not intrude, my lord. As I told your servant, we seek the body of a thief and murderer who we believe died of his wounds on Whitesands three days hence.’

‘In God’s name, pilgrim, come within. You may not feel the dampness, but I do. Come within and we may pursue this story in the comfort of a warm fire.’

Cadwal laughed, a sound that came up from deep within his barrel chest and resonated through the courtyard. ‘You flatter me with your awe, pilgrims,’ he said in hesitant English. ‘But Lord Dafydd is master in this house. If he welcomes you, I am bound to welcome you.’

The men at last entered the house, warily. As soon as he closed the door behind them, Cadwal commanded, ‘Pilgrims, your weapons have no business with my master. If you would give them to me, I shall keep them safe until you have need of them.’

The spokesman whirled round, sword drawn. ‘A trap. I expected as much.’

A growling chord rumbled in the hounds’ throats. Dafydd shushed them.

Cadwal stretched out his empty hands, palms up, raised a craggy eyebrow, looked from side to side, then behind him. ‘Where are your attackers?’

The spokesman looked uncertain.

Dafydd spoke. ‘What would Lancaster think of your manners, you who wear his livery? And in the lordship of his dear brother, the Prince of Wales. It is simple courtesy to lay down your arms when entering the house of one who means you no harm, who has expressed no enmity towards you.’

The spokesman nodded to his men. They removed their sword belts, their daggers, handed them to Cadwal. He bowed over his burden, withdrew.

‘Now. If you will follow me.’ Dafydd led the men to the hall.

In the hall, chairs had been drawn up round the fire circle and on a table sat a pitcher of spiced wine and six cups.

‘Come. Take some refreshment. Cadwal will join us as soon as he has made safe your weapons.’

The men poured wine. A servant came forth and poured Dafydd’s. He took a seat and sipped calmly until the men were settled. Cadwy and Nest lay watchful at Dafydd’s feet.

‘Now if you would begin again,’ said Dafydd. ‘You seek a corpse?’

‘Perhaps a corpse, perhaps merely an injured man. Three days ago we saw you depart Whitesands with a burden on your horse. Your men prevented us from pursuing you.’

‘A burden?’

‘We believe it was the body of the man we pursue.’

‘Ah. And you have come to claim him?’

‘We have.’

‘To what end?’

‘If he is alive, to take him to Cydweli for trial, my lord. He stands accused of attacking the Receiver of Cydweli and robbing the exchequer. And a member of our guard is missing.’

‘And if this man whom you seek is dead?’

‘We shall see that his body has a proper burial.’

‘What is his name?’

‘We believe his name is Rhys ap Llywelyn. Of Pembroke.’

‘A Pembroke man stealing from Cydweli, eh? Did the Earl of Pembroke’s dam urge him on? Is she to benefit?’ John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, was in France with King Edward’s army. His mother, a Mortimer, had wrested control of the lordship while her son was away — it had been a topic of much amusing chatter at his patron’s hall. It was the Mortimer way, to steal what they wanted — power, riches — they never won it honestly. Which was how they came to be one of the oldest and most powerful Marcher families. It was said that Pembroke’s mother was a Mortimer through and through, devil’s spawn, taking offence at everything if only to enjoy destroying the offender — slowly. Had she been a handsome woman Dafydd might have written a poem to her.

‘My lord, I know nothing of the man but that he is wanted to answer for his crimes in Cydweli.’

‘It is a bold thing, Lancaster’s men entering his brother Prince Edward’s March and demanding a man who has sought sanctuary here. May I see your letter of protection and your lord’s request for my co-operation?’

The spokesman said nothing. But his flushed face made his answer clear enough.

Dafydd set down his cup and rose. ‘Your hasty action is commendable, gentlemen. But even if I did have the man under my roof, and even if he was the criminal you call him, I could not in good conscience give him up to you. My lord Duke will understand.’

The spokesman began to rise. Dafydd stayed him with a hand, and a nod to Cadwal, who now stepped forth from the shadows. ‘You are welcome to stay by the fire until you are dry,’ Dafydd said. ‘Then Cadwal will show you out, and at the far gate he will return your weapons. Go in peace, and God speed you on your way.’

Dafydd withdrew, the dogs following. They found Brother Samson standing in the shadows in the corridor. ‘How long have you stood there?’

‘Is it wise to tease such men, my lord?’

‘Wise? Perhaps not. But I feel filled with God’s grace. Have I not attacked without violence, without ire?’

‘Who is this pilgrim, that you risk so much for him?’

‘It was not idle teasing, Samson. I have a name to try on the pilgrim. Shall we call to him, see whether he answers to it?’

‘He sleeps at present, Master Dafydd.’

‘Good. I shall return to my study. Send for me when he wakes.’

At last the rhyme pleased him. With a contented sigh, Dafydd put aside his harp, then rose and stretched his arms over his head. The only occupation he enjoyed more than wrestling with words was wooing a beautiful woman. The wit required was much the same. A clever, surprising turn of phrase could turn a pretty head. Women liked wit. Men would do well to remember that. Men responded well to a good twist also. Look at those fools today, expecting to bully their way to the pilgrim.

‘My lord,’ a voice whispered from the doorway.

Dafydd turned. ‘He wakes, Samson?’

‘He does.’

The bard joined the monk. ‘Come. Let us try out a name.’

The young man had been propped up to a half-sitting position, but his eyes were closed when Dafydd and Samson entered the room.

Dafydd was disappointed. ‘Did we miss his waking moment?’ He bent close to the man, listened to his breath, which was not the slow, deep breath of sleep. ‘Do you feign sleep, my pilgrim?’

Slowly the bruised eyes opened. They were sea grey. ‘Who are you?’ the pilgrim asked in the shaky voice of the weak.

‘I am the one who found you wounded on Whitesands. My name is Dafydd.’

With his fingers the pilgrim cautiously explored the extent of the bandages.

‘Are you in much pain?’ Samson asked. ‘How is your throat today?’ The bruises were paling to yellow.

The sea-grey eyes focused on the white monk. ‘I am in an abbey?’

Samson bent over his patient from the other side. ‘This is Master Dafydd’s house.’ He peered into the young man’s eyes. ‘Your sight is clear today?’ Dafydd wondered at his litany of questions, all ignored by the pilgrim.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘You do not remember yesterday?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Or the day before?’

The young man touched Dafydd’s embroidered gown. ‘I remember this. And even more pain than now.’ He looked up into Dafydd’s eyes. ‘But I do not remember the journey.’

‘What do you remember, Rhys?’ Dafydd asked.

The eyes warmed. ‘Rhys ap Tewdwr, King of Deheubarth.’

‘Well, he you certainly are not. But another Rhys?’

A hand went up to the bandaged ear. ‘I do not hear from this side, and there is much pain.’ His eyes asked the question he could not bring himself to voice.

‘You have not lost the ear, my son,’ Samson said, gently moving the hand away. ‘But it is as Master Dafydd’s gown, intricately stitched.’

‘Will I be ugly?’

‘For Tangwystl?’ Dafydd asked.

The eyes filled, and the pilgrim looked away.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘I do not know.’

Dafydd straightened. ‘I shall let you rest now.’

Samson followed him out of the room. ‘His answers are not those of one who remembers nothing.’

‘You may be right. But why ruin a game of wit?’

‘You would be wise to take this more seriously.’

‘I shall make more headway if I gently tease his story from him, Samson. Why should he trust us?’

‘You saved his life.’

‘To what end? I do not know. Nor does he. Nor do you. It is in God’s hands.’