A Gift Of Sanctuary

Five

‘Why should Father Edern wish to accompany us?’ Owen muttered as he and Geoffrey departed through the bishop’s hall. ‘What does he hope to gain?’

Geoffrey paused, turned on Owen. ‘You would have us wander in the wilderness with a corpse?’

‘Burdened as we shall be, it is the pilgrim road we shall travel, not the wilderness.’ But Owen could see by Geoffrey’s high colour how much their new mission preyed on his mind. ‘We do not need a guide.’

‘So the vicar hopes to see a maid he left behind or settle some business — what is the harm? Why must you question everyone’s motives?’

‘I have found it wise, is all. I pray the vicar proves trustworthy.’

Geoffrey looked as if about to argue, but he walked in silence for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his words surprised Owen. ‘The tale you told about the bridge — the red-handed man who was to mortally wound the king — is not Lawgoch also known as Owain of the Red Hand?’

Owen felt a chill on his neck. Could Owain Lawgoch truly be a saviour? But he had heard a different explanation, one not as appealing. ‘By “red hand” is meant “Lawgoch”, or murderer. His sword-hand is red with blood.’

Still Geoffrey pursued it. ‘The Irish consider a red birthmark on the hand the sign of a Messiah.’

Owen waved the subject aside, though he did not feel as indifferent as he hoped he appeared. He left an anxious Geoffrey pacing the great hall of the palace.

Outside, an icy drizzle had emptied the courtyard. Owen paused on the great porch and lifted his face to the sky, finding the soft rain refreshing. He would not find it so for long; soon it would seep through his clothes and chill his joints. He had looked forward to a few days of rest before mounting his horse again. He ached just thinking of resuming his saddle in the morning. He supposed this was what it meant to grow old.

He left the palace gate and stepped out on to the well-worn path to the cathedral. The rain intensified the loamy scent of the soil beneath his feet and the chalky odour of the stones above. He was alone as he crossed Llechllafar and rounded the west end of the cathedral. Here lay the cemetery, in the shadow of the great cathedral and close to the river. The drizzle and the river damp created a charnel fog that appeared to rise from the graves. The soggy ground gave off an odd odour besides loam; bone perhaps, stripped clean by the worms.

Worms that even now worked their way into the corpse in the palace undercroft. Wrapped in several shrouds and enclosed in a good wood coffin, the corpse would still make a grim and unpleasant companion. Such a burden was not new to Owen; in the field, after his blinding, he had devoted himself to the dead and dying. He had foolishly thought that behind him.

He would have his fill of death in the next few days; he hurried across the graves to the lane that led to the houses of the vicars, stone dwellings tucked into the hill that slanted up from the River Alun to the curving close wall. The bishop had described a small house in the far corner, which incorporated the close wall into its fabric. Owen hoped that the vicar was at home and alone.

Here the odours were more domestic, a welcome sign that Owen was back among the living. The sour stench of beer, cooking fires, sweat, urine. A woman stood in a doorway rocking a baby.

Bishop Houghton had felt it necessary to warn Owen that he would see much that was inappropriate in the vicars’ close. The Welsh were slow to accept the rule of celibacy in holy orders, and in fact treated many of their vows lightly. Houghton hoped with Lancaster’s backing to construct a residential college for the vicars where he might better control their behaviour. Owen had found that amusing; Houghton was naïve if he thought that the collegial setting would wipe out all occasion for sin. The Welsh abbeys were hardly chaste. The most the bishop could hope for was that the vicars would be moved to find separate lodgings for their mistresses and bastards.

The small house built into the wall was easy to find. A man in a dark cleric’s gown sat on a wooden bench before the house, back erect, hands tucked in sleeves, eyes closed, moving his lips in prayer. Beside him sat a white-robed Cistercian, head flung back, snoring peacefully.

The dark-robed cleric opened one eye as Owen approached, closed it, bowed his head, crossed himself, then rose to greet his visitor.

‘Captain Archer?’ he said. He was of average height and average appearance, a man one would not mark in a crowd.

‘Father Edern?’

The man bowed slightly. ‘If we are to travel together, “Edern” is less cumbersome.’

The white monk woke with a snort.

‘Brother Dyfrig, of Strata Florida,’ Edern said with a nod towards his companion. ‘He is lately arrived and weary from the journey.’ The vicar glanced up at the sky. ‘The rain begins in earnest. Let us go within.’ He opened the door, stepped aside to follow his visitor.

Brother Dyfrig rose. He was a tall, slender young man, narrow faced, with hooded eyes. He nodded to Owen, shuffled into the house.

‘I hoped we might privately discuss your proposal to accompany my party to Cydweli,’ Owen said.

Edern toyed with a smile, discarded it. ‘Dyfrig knows what I know, Captain. I cannot think what we might discuss to which he could not be privy. And I doubt he will pay us much heed. His only concern is that I do indeed make this journey so that he might enjoy the privacy of my home while I am away.’

‘A Cistercian who travels alone and stays in a private home?’

‘Brother Dyfrig is a singular monk, it is true.’

They moved inside, where the dark, windowless room proved brighter than Owen had expected, with a multitude of candles and oil-lamps.

‘Sweet Jesu, I shall pay dearly for this extravagance,’ Edern muttered. ‘I had lit these to pack. Dyfrig interrupted me.’ He moved round the long room, blowing out all the candles. ‘Oil is dear enough, but candles. .’ He shook his head. ‘You think nothing of such things, I suppose, being Lancaster’s man.’

‘When not on a mission for the Duke I have my own household in York,’ Owen said. ‘I know the cost of such forgetfulness.’

Now there were only four oil-lamps and a small fire in the middle of the room. Dyfrig had pulled a stool close to the fire, and sat warming his hands and feet.

Edern motioned Owen to a bench across from the white monk. He filled a wooden bowl from a pitcher, offered it to Owen. ‘Welcome to my home, Captain.’

Owen took the bowl, drank. A strong, sour ale.

‘You have a wife?’ Edern asked as he settled beside Owen. ‘And children?’

‘I do.’

‘It must be difficult to be so far from them.’

‘It is. If we arrive quickly and safely in Cydweli I shall be well pleased.’

‘The first I can almost promise, God willing and our strength holding. But the latter is partly yours to ensure, Captain. You and your men.’

‘I spoke of floods and hobbled horses, not danger from thieves. The roads seemed free of them — or at least of thieves desperate enough to attack armed men.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Edern.

Enough of this dancing round one another. ‘Why did you offer to escort us to Cydweli?’

Dyfrig glanced over, frowning. Edern shook his head as if warning him to be silent. The vicar took his time replying. Hands on thighs, he stared into the fire with a peaceful expression. Then, in an almost sleepy voice, he said, ‘For reasons I never knew, I was made to feel unwelcome in Cydweli by most of the men. John de Reine was one of the few who befriended me and attended Mass, sought me out to hear his confessions. I would see him safely delivered to his father, properly buried.’

Brother Dyfrig listened to this explanation with eyes closed, head bowed. When Edern had finished, the monk rocked back and forth slightly, as if nodding his approval.

It was plain to Owen that Edern lied.

‘You must excuse me if I find such selfless devotion doubtful under the circumstances,’ Owen said. ‘It is not pleasant, travelling with a corpse already foul.’

With a sigh, Edern shifted and crooked his left leg on the bench, so facing Owen. ‘You are a wary fox, Captain. And I am glad of it, considering our mission. I thought myself clever. I thought I might convince you I was an honourable soul. So be it. My selfless devotion, as you call it, is half the tale. I have a favour to ask the bishop. Undertaking this mission for him should assist my cause.’

‘The favour?’

Edern bowed his head, raised his folded hands to his forehead, as if considering the question. ‘I have told you what you have a right to know,’ he said softly.

‘Did you leave Cydweli of your own accord?’

Edern glanced up, puzzled. ‘By order of the bishop. I came to take up new duties as vicar choral here at St David’s.’

Owen nodded. ‘You say you were not welcome at the castle. What about John Lascelles? How did he behave towards you?’

‘With courtesy. He is a man who respects a man of God.’

‘And the constable?’

A snort. ‘Burley respects no one but himself and the man who holds him at knife point, Captain.’

‘You never gained his respect?’

‘No. More’s the pity. I should have liked to draw his blood.’

‘I am told that you identified the body left at Tower Gate.’

‘I did.’

‘John de Reine was to have been at Carreg Cennen, not St David’s.’

Dyfrig had begun to snore. Edern shook him.

Owen thought the monk awakened too easily, with too little confusion. ‘The warmth in here makes you drowsy after your journey,’ Owen said. ‘Perhaps you should get some air.’

Smiling slightly, Dyfrig rose, bowed to Owen, wished him a safe journey, and then departed.

Edern had observed the exchange in silence. When the door closed behind the monk, Edern said, ‘You had only to say.’

‘I did.’

‘So you did. Forgive me. So. Let us continue. Bishop Houghton turned away some armed men in Cydweli livery today, did you know?’

‘Aye. Because they had been sent into his jurisdiction without the necessary courtesies,’ said Owen.

‘Precisely.’

‘But what brought them to St David’s? Any of them?’

‘He did not tell you that? I can see by your look that he did not. Bishop Houghton, for all his chatter, is fond of informing in partial measures. You say Reine was expected at Carreg Cennen. How do you know?’

The time had passed for secrecy. Owen told Edern of his mission, Reine’s part in it.

Edern shook his head. ‘Rhodri ap Gruffudd ap Llywelyn ab Iorwerth’s grandson. Who would have thought Lawgoch would cause such a stir?’ There were many Welshmen who laughed at the thought of Rhodri’s grandson being the saviour of the Welsh. Rhodri himself had fought in King Edward’s army against his brother Llywelyn, and had died in his bed, an English knight, known as Sir Roderick de Tatsfield.

But Owen’s purpose was not to discuss Lawgoch’s pedigree. ‘Now tell me what brought Cydweli men to St David’s.’

‘They were Constable Burley’s men,’ Edern said. ‘They say the exchequer was robbed. They pursued a man described by Roger Aylward, the receiver who was injured by the thief. When they heard that a body had been found in their livery, they thought perhaps the thief had cleverly stolen livery as well as gold.’

Owen was not pleased to hear of another complication. ‘Why would they not guess it was Reine? Or might be?’

‘They did not care to say?’ Edern suggested, his expression indifferent.

‘Was Reine not also Burley’s man?’

‘I do not know. When last I met Reine, he was the former steward William Banastre’s personal guard. But I would be surprised to learn he was Burley’s man now. I would guess him Lascelles’s man.’

‘Trust family before a stranger.’

‘Sir John might be wise. Though from what you tell me, the son was not so fond of his father.’

‘We may never know what motivated him to write to the Duke. But no matter what is behind Reine’s death, it means trouble.’

‘Where Richard de Burley is, there is trouble, Captain. He is a man with a flawed soul.’

‘What sort of flaw?’

‘You will see.’

‘You do not care for Burley.’

‘I do not care for Englishmen, Captain. Do you?’

‘My wife is English.’

A raised eyebrow. ‘Then she has taught you tolerance.’

Owen smiled to think how Lucie would respond to that comment. ‘She would not say so.’

Edern slapped his thighs. ‘Do I pass your inspection, Captain?’

Owen rose. ‘You do. I thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Until the morning, Captain.’

‘God grant you a good night’s rest,’ Owen said. He ducked through the door and out into steadily falling rain.

He was of two minds about the vicar. Edern still hid something, but he had a confident air about him and knew far more of the situation than Owen had expected. He might prove of more use than a mere clerical escort. Still, Owen would keep him closely watched.

As Owen entered the room he shared with Sir Robert, Michaelo and Geoffrey, the former grasped his son-in-law’s arm with surprising strength, then drew back.

‘You are wet through. I thought you were with the bishop.’

‘I was. And then I took a walk in the close.’

‘The bishop has told you about the body left at the gate this morning — that is why he sent for you, is it not?’

Owen hung his wet cloak on a hook, sank down on to the bed he was to share with Geoffrey, pulled the patch off his scarred eye, closed his good one. ‘You itch to tell me something of this.’

Sir Robert dragged a stool over, sat down. ‘We heard of a young man, a fellow pilgrim, who left the palace abruptly. He has been gone some days — five, they say — but he left his belongings. Folk think it was hisbody. .’

They would people the entire courtyard with corpses by tomorrow. Anyone who did not appear at the communal table. ‘You may rest easy about your pilgrim.’

‘Who was he then?’

Should Owen tell him when the bishop wished to keep his identity a secret? But how futile was that wish? If the man was known to a vicar in this tiny city, he was probably known to others. ‘He was from the Cydweli garrison.’

Sir Robert was quiet so long Owen opened his eyes. The old man was praying.

‘They say he had been murdered,’ Brother Michaelo said. He was perched on the bed opposite.

‘Indeed,’ Owen muttered.

‘Sweet Heaven.’ Brother Michaelo drew one of his lavender-scented cloths from his sleeve, pressed it to his temple.

Sir Robert pulled himself from his prayers to look on Michaelo with disgust. ‘He took ill at the news, though it has nothing to do with him.’

Michaelo considered himself to have a delicate constitution — cold and dry, melancholic. Indeed, one of Owen’s greatest concerns regarding his presence in the company had been the monk’s distaste for fresh air and activity. He had expected the man to wrap himself in heavy cloaks and complain about venturing forth in any but the most clement weather. But Michaelo had proved no worse than Sir Robert.

‘His head pains are harmless enough,’ Owen said.

Sir Robert, the former soldier, sniffed. ‘Will you carry the body back to Cydweli?’

‘You leave me no news to divulge. Aye, I leave at dawn. A priest accompanies us.’

‘So soon?’ Sir Robert looked stricken.

‘We would have departed in a day or two. Rest easy, the bishop sends some of his own men with us. Armed. And he assures me the priest is trustworthy.’

‘May God grant you a safe journey,’ Sir Robert whispered. He was very pale.

‘In this holy place, prayers go quickly to God. You must remember me in yours.’

Bishop Houghton had been generous in providing accommodations for Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo, a large chamber with a fireplace just beyond the great chapel in the north wing of the palace. The floor was tiled in yellow and black, matching the servants’ liveries, and a wall painting depicted King Henry’s crossing of Llechllafar. A second bed had been added for Geoffrey and Owen’s stay, and in an antechamber eight of their retainers were comfortably bedded for the night — the other two, who would stay behind, were down below with other pilgrims’ servants. Owen’s only reservation about the arrangements was the necessity to pair Brother Michaelo and Sir Robert — he could not imagine their constant bickering ceasing merely because they had arrived in St David’s. But it was rare for any but royal guests to be granted a private room; indeed it was quite an honour for the two to be allowed so much space without sharing.

Owen slept well, despite the upsets of the day and an ache in the back of his left thigh and hip that forced him to sleep on his right side, which he had not done willingly since losing the use of his left eye. His wife Lucie thought it a foolish rule — while he slept, what did it matter whether or not his good eye were pressed into the pillow. But the bedding was soft and clean, the wine had been excellent, and Owen slept as if he had not a care in the world.

Nevertheless, on waking he fell to worrying.

What did John de Reine’s death mean for his mission? There were and always had been rumours that French spies prowled the coast of Pembroke and Dyfed. Had one of them heard that Reine was to march archers to Plymouth? He discarded that theory. In that instance Reine’s death would resolve nothing, for a new captain would be chosen. No, the man’s death most likely had nothing to do with Owen’s mission, God be thanked. And yet it would almost certainly complicate his efforts.

Houghton had asked why Reine’s body was brought to Tower Gate. Although Owen had chosen to ignore the bishop’s question, he thought it one that demanded a response for the residents of this close. What made it important also made it difficult to answer: there was no apparent reason why someone would have brought the body here. If someone had discovered it and worried that they might be accused of murder, they need only walk away. The murderer had presumably managed to commit the deed and disappear; so why would he return and call attention to his crime? Unless he meant it for a warning. A mute warning, which seemed of little use.

Sir Robert stirred on his bed near the fire. Owen propped his head on his hand and looked at his father-in-law. His thin white hair escaped in lank wisps from beneath the cap he wore to keep his head warm at night. One bony, blue-veined hand rested atop the blanket, fingers slightly curled. More claw than hand. Age brought such frailty, even to an old soldier. But until his recent illness, Sir Robert had been hardy. Whenever he stayed in their house in the city he spent most of the day helping with garden chores. The summer before he had fallen into a pond at his manor of Freythorpe Hadden — whilst playing at jousts with Owen’s young daughter Gwenllian. A chill had settled on his lungs. Though he had the best care, with his sister Phillippa hovering and Lucie prescribing medicines, it was plain he had suffered some permanent damage. And yet he had insisted on this journey.

The subject of Owen’s thoughts suddenly opened his eyes. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’

Sir Robert sat up, precipitating a coughing fit. Owen rose and helped his father-in-law to a few mouthfuls of honey water. When the fit eased, Sir Robert closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his palms to his ribs, took several cautious breaths. A grimace, then a nod.

‘Better now. You would think I would have the sense to keep a cup beside my bed, eh?’ His attempt at a smile was unconvincing.

Owen felt Sir Robert’s hands and feet. Cold and dry. That was not helpful to a cough. He pulled the blankets from his own bed, laid them over Sir Robert’s feet, though the old man protested.

‘I am the most pampered pilgrim.’

‘Save your strength for prayer, Sir Robert.’

Geoffrey, bereft of blanket, stirred in his bed, sat up. ‘Is it time to rise?’

‘Aye. We must ready ourselves,’ Owen said.

As Owen dressed, a servant came with bread, cheese and ale, a most fortifying breakfast. The men in the outer room were likewise fed. Another servant soon arrived to stoke the fire. As the smoke curled round the room before finding the chimney, Brother Michaelo rose, wiping his eyes and complaining.

‘You see, Sir Robert, you are not the most pampered pilgrim,’ Owen said.

‘I would go to the chapel before I break my fast,’ Sir Robert said, ‘but I fear you might depart before I return.’

‘If we are to leave before dawn, we must depart soon, aye.’

Brother Michaelo rose. ‘I shall go to the chapel and pray for the Captain and his men, Sir Robert. You take your ease and make your farewells.’

‘A pretty courtesy,’ said Owen. ‘I speak for us both in thanking you.’

Michaelo shook his head. ‘Less a pretty courtesy than a selfish plot to avoid listening to your pretty speeches.’

Geoffrey grabbed a hunk of bread and a cup of ale. ‘I shall come with you to the chapel for a little while.’

When Geoffrey and Michaelo had departed, Sir Robert and Owen sat down to their meal and spoke of Lucie and the children, wondered how Jasper, their adopted son, was managing as both Lucie’s apprentice and the strong back in the garden. Jasper was thirteen years old, tall for his age and strong from his work in the garden and five years of training at the butts with Owen. They passed the time thus pleasantly until they heard a sharp knocking on the outer door and the noise of men gathering their belongings.

Sir Robert leaned across the table, grasped Owen’s forearms, looked deeply into his eyes. ‘God speed, my son. May He watch over you on the journey to Cydweli, and always.’

‘And may you find peace here. Remember to be patient about your return. Wait for a large party in which to travel.’

Sir Robert nodded once, kissed Owen on both cheeks, then released him.

After a second warning knock, Edern entered the room and stood just within the door, a squirrel-lined travelling cloak thrown over one shoulder exposing a sword and dagger. A cap hid his tonsure. In fact nothing suggested he was a cleric except for a small emblem on his gown identifying him as Houghton’s man.

The vicar’s willing participation still bothered Owen. He had taken the precaution of assigning Iolo, his most trusted man and one familiar with the countryside, to shadow the vicar and ensure his honesty.

Edern nodded to Owen and Geoffrey, who had just returned from the chapel. ‘We must make haste. We should use the fog to hide from curious eyes. Though we shall climb out of the vale underground, we must still watch our backs. We would do best to avoid Reine’s murderer and whoever left him at the gate.’ It was not yet dawn, but the vicar showed no signs of recent awakening, neither in his eyes nor his gestures.

Not so Owen’s men, who waited in the outer chamber. Sleep creased their faces, kinked their hair, puffed their eyes, and gave them all an air of confusion. Yesterday the men had complained loudly of their paltry rest between journeys, but this morning they were silent. At Owen’s command, they stood and followed Edern down into the undercroft. They were joined by four servants who would carry the corpse, now secured in a wooden box, to the cart which awaited them outside the city with two of the bishop’s guards. Owen sensed the darkening of his men’s already grim moods as Reine joined their procession. Last night they had been made uneasy by a rumour circling the hall, that four soldiers in the livery of Cydweli had been seen combing the beach at Whitesands two days before, heavily armed. Four armed men who had then vanished.

Tom, the youngest of the retainers brought from Kenilworth and the only one who had never set foot in Wales prior to this journey, had been pale with fear when Owen had returned from his meal with the bishop the previous evening. ‘Six men have now vanished from this place, Captain. Five of them armed men, one a pilgrim.’

‘One of the five lies beneath the bishop’s great hall,’ Jared had muttered. ‘And he wore the same livery as the others.’

‘They do say the Old Ones live in this vale,’ Tom had continued. ‘And that up on St David’s Head is a place on which a Christian must not stand, else he will be sucked into the world of the Old Ones.’

‘I am not ordering you up on to St David’s Head, lad,’ Owen said. ‘Nor did the men disappear into the world of the Old Ones, as you call them. I would wager that the four were the same who came to the palace yesterday demanding to see the body.’

‘Which we shall carry on the morrow,’ Jared said.

Sam spat in the corner. ‘Why would the guard from Cydweli desert one of their own dead, Captain, eh? Spirited away, they were.’

‘And spirited back?’ Owen had laughed.

Iolo, the only Welshman among them, grinned and shook his head. ‘This is hallowed ground, you fools. Save your fears for a truly bedevilled place.’

‘I, for one, pray they are spirits,’ said Jared. ‘I’d rather spirits lie in wait for us upon the road than well-armed men.’

Sam growled, but said no more.

Iolo’s level-headedness reassured Owen that he had chosen the right man to watch Edern.

But this morning, as Edern opened the door to the underground passage through which they would ascend from the vale, even Iolo crossed himself against the yawning darkness.

‘What of our horses?’ Owen asked.

‘They await us on Clegyr Boia, along with the cart.’

‘Why should we trust this man, Captain?’ Sam asked.

‘Because Bishop Houghton trusts him. And what would you have us do? Walk out the gate in plain sight?’

‘We have no enemies here.’

‘Perhaps not. But the man carried before us may have thought much the same.’

‘What is this place to which we climb beneath the ground?’ Tom asked.

‘The outcrop upon which the Irish chief Boia was converted by St David,’ Owen said. There was much more to the legend than that, but all of it far less likely to calm Tom — for it involved human sacrifice and spells that felled cattle and men. He was grateful that Iolo and Edern said nothing. ‘Now let us proceed before all the household is awake.’