A Gift Of Sanctuary

Eight

As soon as Owen entered the great hall for the evening meal, he noted John Lascelles, his tall frame draped in a blue silk gown with flowing sleeves, contrasting with the tight gold sleeves of the shift beneath. A richly embroidered gold hat hid his balding head.

Geoffrey, who had arrived earlier and already could put names to many of the faces, joined Owen and nodded towards a man and woman who made their way through the crowd towards Lascelles. ‘Mistress Lascelles,’ Geoffrey whispered. ‘Is she not one of the loveliest women you have ever seen?’

So this was the daughter of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. She had red-gold hair, pulled up in intricate coils exposing a long neck and delicate ears. Her softly rounded form was exquisitely displayed in a low-cut gown in the latest court fashion, made of costly silk and velvet. ‘Indeed,’ Owen said. ‘Who is the man?’ He was older than she, though no less handsome.

‘I do not know.’

‘Gruffydd ap Goronwy?’ Owen wondered aloud. The older man was also dressed in elegant clothes, though subtler than the woman’s, dark browns and deep blues free of ornament. He had dark hair with a wing of silver over the right temple. Proud of it he must be, for he wore his blue velvet hat tilted to show the silver wing to advantage. His features were regular, perhaps heavy in the brow, his eyes dark as his hair, his expression amiable. His posture emphasised a prosperously wide middle. Owen guessed that the width had been on his shoulder in youth. His left hand was bandaged and he held it as if he still had pain.

‘Handsome father, handsome daughter,’ Geoffrey said. ‘God’s blood, you must be right.’

‘A chilly welcome,’ Owen said as Lascelles caught sight of his wife, stiffened, lifted his chin. As she curtseyed to him, Lascelles appeared to sniff and give a hardly courteous nod.

‘How did such an angel alight in this gloomy place?’ Geoffrey whispered.

‘Let us not forget that she was her father’s salvation,’ Owen said.

They approached their host, his wife and the stranger.

Mistress Lascelles raised her eyes to the newcomers and smiled. Her eyes were a pale green.

Lascelles was first to speak. ‘Master Chaucer, Captain Archer. I do not think I thanked you for escorting my son’s body from St David’s. You are our most welcome and honoured guests this night. Ask for whatever delicacies you wish after your long and difficult journey.’ His voice did not echo the warmth of his words.

‘You are most kind,’ Geoffrey said, bowing. Owen bowed likewise.

‘My wife,’ the steward said, inclining his head slightly towards the beauty at his side.

Owen bowed low and greeted her in Welsh, expressing his regret for having brought such sorrow to her family this day. Her smile faded, she bowed her head, and in her own language she said, ‘I shall miss John de Reine. He was a kind and gentle man.’

‘This is most unfair,’ Geoffrey said, ‘for I would greet you but have no knowledge of your tongue.’

Mistress Lascelles glanced up. ‘Forgive me, Master Chaucer.’ Her voice was slightly hesitant in her husband’s language. ‘May I introduce to you my father, Gruffydd ap Goronwy.’

The handsome man stepped forward. ‘Master Chaucer, Captain Archer.’ He bowed. ‘All of Cydweli is abuzz with your coming. Young men are honing their skills to impress you so that they might join the Duke’s forces in the great war.’

Owen happened to glance towards the fair Mistress Lascelles as her father spoke, and was intrigued by the look of surprise on her face. And indeed Gruffydd’s voice carried a note that warred with his seemingly genuine smile.

Despite Geoffrey’s efforts to keep the conversation light and pleasant, the ensuing meal was an assay of wills: everyone seemed at war — John Lascelles spoke curtly to Burley, who joined them at the table, and seemed irritated by his wife’s occasional lapses into Welsh when addressing Owen or her father; Richard de Burley lectured the company at large about the foolishness of the Duke’s contradictory orders to reinforce the garrisons while at the same time recruiting archers from their ranks; Mistress Lascelles chided the constable on his poor manners. Gruffydd was the only one in the Cydweli party who seemed determined to enjoy the evening, asking Owen and Geoffrey about their travels and their impressions of Carreg Cennen and St David’s. Mistress Lascelles graced her father with an affectionate smile whenever their eyes met.

As it grew late, Owen’s mind wandered back to the day’s events and he thought of Edern, searched the diners for his face, but saw him not. In Welsh he asked Mistress Lascelles why the priest who had escorted John de Reine’s body was not included in their company at the high table.

Mistress Lascelles’s white skin flushed as she glanced at her father, then Owen. ‘Father Edern of St David’s?’

Owen nodded.

‘He is here?’ she whispered.

‘He seemed a suitable choice.’

‘No doubt he put himself forward as such,’ Gruffydd said. He made no effort to soften the words with a smile.

‘I fear my question was clumsy,’ Owen said. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Lascelles.’

‘You were right to ask about your companion,’ she said, but she seemed to withdraw into herself. In a little while she rose and begged leave to retire.

Lascelles bowed to her. ‘I shall join you later,’ he said.

Gruffydd rose to follow his daughter, who already walked away. ‘Tangwystl,’ he called.

She paused, turned. ‘I pray you, stay and entertain our guests in my stead.’ She smiled. ‘You should enjoy your evenings away from the farm.’

Gruffydd bowed to her and resumed his seat, though he watched her departure with anxious eyes.

Once Mistress Lascelles had departed, Geoffrey complained how weary he was. Soon he and Owen also took their leave of Lascelles. Gruffydd accompanied them to the door of the hall.

‘Neither you nor the constable seems fond of Father Edern,’ Owen commented. ‘He seemed pleasant enough on the journey from St David’s.’

‘I do not know the constable’s mind in this, Captain. My feelings about the man go back many years. They would not interest you.’ He stretched, gazed up at the stars. ‘The weather has turned in our favour. I bid you good-night, Captain, Master Chaucer. May you sleep well.’ He strode away.

‘A pleasant man,’ Geoffrey said.

‘He would certainly have us think so,’ Owen said. ‘It cannot be an easy thing, to know that all look on him and wonder whether he is a traitor to his king.’

‘At least he does not hide.’

‘I think his daughter is too fond to allow that. But he dines without his wife. Perhaps she finds it more difficult to face the questions in everyone’s eyes.’

‘Tangwystl,’ Geoffrey said softly. ‘A lovely name.’

‘Aye, that it is.’

Dafydd ap Gwilym stepped to the edge of the cliff, his robes billowing in the up-draft, and opened his arms to embrace the day. The sea mist kissed his hair, beaded on his lashes, cooled his face. God’s morning was magnificent. As he drew his eyes down from the heavens, he saw no break between the grey sky and the grey sea, which this morning appeared to lie placidly in the great arch of Cardigan Bay. A dangerous imagining, a placid sea. Dangerous to one who believed it. The white-tipped waves were merely veiled by the early morning fog, which also muted the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below with a power mightier than any man might counter.

‘I do not think we should take him so near the edge,’ Brother Samson said in his low, booming tones. Dafydd had never noted how like the sea breaking on the rocks was Samson’s voice.

‘It is quite level here.’ Dafydd held out his arm to the pilgrim, still unnamed, who limped towards him in the protective shelter of the monk’s guiding hands.

The monk spoke softly to the young man, encouraging his efforts, but he glowered at Dafydd. ‘You push him too far too quickly.’

Were all healers fretters? Was that what drew them to their calling? The pilgrim walked with a limp, to be sure, and the bandage round his head reminded Dafydd of his terrible injury. He looked weary already, head bowed and shoulders rounded, though he had made a good effort, taken perhaps a hundred steps from the house. Yet his expression, when he lifted his head to Dafydd’s, was unchanged — resigned, despairing, ready to give up the effort as soon as permitted.

‘Good lad,’ Dafydd said. ‘You will see, all this effort will prove worthwhile.’ To Samson he whispered, ‘We agreed that our pilgrim must build his strength for the journey.’

‘Build his strength, yes. Such must be done gradually.’ Samson, on the other hand, looked overfed and nervous, as if he needed a good month in the fields, preferably behind a plough.

Dafydd wearied of the monk’s contrariness. ‘You fret that the Duke’s men will return, that we must hide our pilgrim, that we must make plans, and yet you wish to take your time readying him? Whence comes this sudden confidence that the Duke’s men are not just down the hill?’

The short monk looked up at his charge, steadied him, then moved alone towards Dafydd. ‘I am wise enough to know that I cannot change nature. Why do you whisper? Do you fear we will be overheard?’

‘It is a morning for secrets and whispers. God sets the tone of the day — listen to the sea, how its voice is hushed by the fog.’ Dafydd nodded towards the pilgrim, who had stepped to the edge of the bluff. ‘You see? Is it as I said?’

He regretted his words at once as he saw the young man gaze down with such an expression of longing that Dafydd feared he had been unwise in trusting the pilgrim alone so near the edge. Dafydd took a step towards the young man. ‘Are you dizzy?’

‘I feel I could lean into the wind and go soaring out above the sea like a gull.’

‘I do not think that is God’s intention,’ Samson said, with a nervous gesture as if he might stay the young man with a wave.

‘I know I am not a gull.’

‘But what are you, then?’ Dafydd whispered. ‘Are you Rhys?’

The young man turned back to the sea as if he had not heard. Dafydd wished that Dyfrig would return with the gossip from St David’s.

Sir Robert had been most grateful to the white monk for his offer to escort him and Brother Michaelo on a circuit of the holy wells in the vicinity. Brother Dyfrig seemed a gentle soul with a ready laugh, and his familiarity with the countryside made him the perfect guide. At St Non’s Well, as they awaited their turn at the stone-lined grotto, Dyfrig had mentioned Owen. ‘It is a pity your one-eyed companion left in such haste. He might have found solace, perhaps even healing, here. Many eye afflictions have been cured by St Non.’

‘He wished to stop here,’ Sir Robert had told him. ‘But the bishop sped him on his way.’ Sir Robert watched as Brother Michaelo knelt on the stones, dipped his fingers in the well and pressed them to his temples. ‘My companion hopes to find relief from his head ailment.’ Feeling eyes on him, Sir Robert looked up, found a dark-haired man regarding him with a curious expression. He looked vaguely familiar.

‘And you, Sir Robert?’ Brother Dyfrig was saying. ‘You are of a venerable age to undertake such a pilgrimage. From York, you said?’

‘It is a long journey for me, but I have been singularly blessed in my old age. God has returned my only child’s affections to me. And spared all the family in the last visitation of the pestilence.’

‘So your purpose is to give thanks so that you may die in peace?’

‘That is my wish.’

‘I shall pray for you.’ As Michaelo moved away from the well, Dyfrig caught Sir Robert’s elbow and helped him drop to his knees on the stones at its edge. Sir Robert dipped his fingers in the well. The water was clear and cool. He crossed himself with his wet fingertips and was filled with a sense of peace. He prayed for Lucie and his grandchildren, and for Owen on his long journey home. When Sir Robert lifted his staff and planted it firmly so that he might use it to help him straighten up, he felt the monk’s supporting hand under his elbow. ‘You are good to me. God bless you, Brother Dyfrig.’ Up higher on the slope, the stranger still regarded them. ‘Do you know him?’ Sir Robert asked, but by the time Dyfrig glanced up, the man was walking away.

‘So many pilgrims. I should not wonder at meeting someone I know.’

They joined Brother Michaelo, who stood at the edge of the gently curving bowl in which sat the well and St Non’s Chapel, gazing down at the sea. Sir Robert had not yet been to the cliff’s edge. On either side stretched high, rocky cliffs ruffled with inlets, pocked with caves. Directly below them, a rock almost as high as the cliff had separated in some ancient time from the mainland and stood, a sentinel, in the inlet.

‘At high tide it is an island,’ Dyfrig said.

‘That cave on the far side — how comes it to be light within?’

‘Daylight from the other side,’ Michaelo said. ‘I can see why our King worries about pirates and smugglers along this coast. One would never lack a cave in which to hide.’

‘Such villains are rarer here than popular imagination would have it,’ Dyfrig said. He turned towards the north-west. ‘You should walk along the cliff when the sea is calm and the sky clear. From the north end of this finger of land you can see Ireland, just as Bendigeidfran, son of LlŶr, saw it when Matholwch’s thirteen ships came across the sea for Branwen.’

Owen had recently told Sir Robert the story of Branwen, and it had caught his interest. ‘Was this LlŶr’s kingdom?’ Sir Robert asked.

‘All this land was his kingdom. But he was not at St Non’s Bay when he saw the ships. He sat on a rock in Harddlech, in Ardudwy, at one of his courts.’

‘You people speak of the folk in your tales as if they were real,’ Brother Michaelo said with a smirk. ‘But they are full of too many marvels to be real.’

Brother Dyfrig bowed his head, shook it as if considering something sad. ‘What we now call marvels were once ordinary occurrences,’ he said softly, as if to himself. ‘How our glory has faded.’

Michaelo caught Sir Robert’s eye. ‘Dreamers,’ he muttered. More loudly he said, ‘If we are to visit St David’s Well before sunset, we must continue.’

Dyfrig glanced out at the westering sun. ‘You are right, my friend. Let us proceed.’

As they walked, Dyfrig kept one hand at Sir Robert’s elbow, ready to assist him if he stumbled. The paths down to the harbour of Porth Clais were well worn, but muddy with the spring rains, and as they headed down the monk was particularly attentive. While they walked, they talked. ‘The palace at St David’s — is it comfortable?’ Dyfrig asked.

‘Certainly we have been provided with everything we could wish for. Bishop Houghton has been most kind,’ said Sir Robert.

‘There must have been much gossip among the pilgrims concerning the body left at Tower Gate.’

‘Oh, indeed. Particularly as a young pilgrim had been missing for several days. Many feared evil had befallen him. They were much relieved to hear that it was not him.’

‘The young man returned in good health?’

‘Alas, so far he has not returned, nor has anyone come to claim his belongings.’ Sir Robert paused at the edge of the sand, bothered by Dyfrig’s question. ‘But surely you know that Father Edern identified the dead man? I understood you were acquainted with the vicar.’

Brother Dyfrig smiled. ‘I did know of it, to be sure. But the dead man also might have been considered a young man. I thought perhaps he had been the young pilgrim of whom you spoke.’

‘No. The missing pilgrim was a Welshman. Rhys ap Llywelyn, I was told.’

Brother Michaelo, who had already reached the chapel, retraced his steps to urge them on. ‘It grows late,’ he whispered.

Sir Robert was embarrassed by his rude companion when Dyfrig had been so kind.

But Dyfrig seemed indifferent. ‘Perhaps we should first go to the well, then the chapel if we have time.’ He led them towards a small gathering behind the chapel. ‘Has the bishop sent anyone out to search for the missing pilgrim?’ he asked as they walked through the marshy field.

‘I have heard nothing of a search for him,’ Sir Robert said.

‘But he left his belongings at the palace?’

‘Yes.’

‘He must be someone of stature to stay at the palace.’

‘He had requested an audience with the bishop,’ said Michaelo. ‘You would do better to ask His Grace about the lad.’

Brother Dyfrig dropped the matter.

For once Sir Robert was grateful for Michaelo’s rudeness. He did wish for some quiet in which to pray. The monk’s loquacity seemed inappropriate.

Later, as they rested on the climb from Porth Clais to the cathedral close, Sir Robert being short of breath, the monk resumed his chatter, this time asking about Owen Archer and Geoffrey Chaucer. He had been surprised to learn that the former was Sir Robert’s son-in-law. ‘Then you are privy to his purpose in coming to Wales?’

‘No secret has been made of his purpose. Wales is vulnerable to the French at a time when such weakness, both of fortifications and of spirit, is dangerous to the safety of the realm. He is recruiting archers for the Duke while his companion is inspecting the fortifications and the garrisons.’

‘Indeed.’

Brother Michaelo had been silent since his outburst at the harbour. But as soon as he and Sir Robert parted from Brother Dyfrig at the palace, Michaelo turned to his companion and hissed, ‘You lack all discretion. Do you not see that he is someone’s agent? Did you not perceive the thrust of his questions?’

Indeed, as Sir Robert lay in his bed trying to sleep, he thought back on his conversations with the monk with growing unease. In the morning he went in search of Brother Dyfrig. He, too, could ask questions. He would know more of this Father Edern with whom Owen journeyed to Cydweli. But he was told that Brother Dyfrig had departed.

A cloudy, drizzly day in the stone world of a castle seemed greyer to Owen than the same weather in any other place. He had thought to string a bow, work the stiffness out of his arms today. But with the chill damp came the ache in his shoulder. ‘I must do it when I dread it most,’ he muttered.

‘Are you penitential this morning?’ Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled. ‘Did you dream of Mistress Tangwystl?’

Geoffrey plainly thought Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd the paragon of women. Indeed, she exhibited all the standards of beauty — she was slender, pale, graceful in movement, sweet of voice, gentle of smile, all her features fair and even, her hair a lustrous, fiery gold.

‘If I do not work the shoulder, the stiffness will worsen.’

Geoffrey’s grin broadened. ‘I dreamed of her.’

His mood already sour, Owen found Geoffrey’s silliness irritating. ‘When was the last time you lifted a bow?’

‘Me?’ Geoffrey raised his short arms, looked at each in turn, then up at Owen with a comical expression. ‘Does my body bear witness to such a skill?’

Why did he so enjoy playing the ass? ‘You were raised in a royal household, you would have been drilled at butts.’

A chuckle, a nod. ‘And so I was. But it is a few years since I pulled back on a gut.’

‘Come, then.’

‘Is this my punishment for dreaming of the steward’s wife?’

‘It is my cure for giddiness.’

Geoffrey laughed at that, picked up his felt hat. ‘I accept the challenge.’

As they left the guesthouse, they saw their hosts and Gruffydd ap Goronwy step out from the hall. Gruffydd walked between Lascelles and Tangwystl, slightly hunched forward, beetle-browed, talking excitedly. Lascelles was shaking his head. Tangwystl merely walked and listened. Suddenly all three paused.

‘Oh, beauty, that you knew the spell you cast,’ Geoffrey murmured.

The steward’s lady stood tall, her long neck arched over her low-cut gown. She looked demurely away as one very white hand, her right, was lifted high by her father. He reached for Lascelles’s right hand.

‘It would seem that father has decreed a reconciliation,’ Owen said.

‘It is not working,’ Geoffrey said as Gruffydd joined their hands. ‘Look at their faces.’

Husband and wife both kept their eyes averted, as if disowning the hands Gruffydd held so firmly.

Owen put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Come. I doubt they want witnesses.’

But Geoffrey had other plans. ‘I would seek out Edern, see how he fares.’

‘You are lazy.’

‘I would hear what arrangements they have made for John de Reine.’

‘As you wish.’

Owen sought out the practice yard. He should see it soon, gauge Burley’s progress in gathering the requested archers. He did not expect the recruits to have arrived, but surely he might see a tun of arrow staves and bows for practice, some butts, and where there was a practice yard there would be a hungry soldier who knew his way around the kitchens. Sharing food often made a soldier talkative. Owen might learn more about John de Reine and his aborted journey to Carreg Cennen.

The outer ward of Cydweli Castle was D-shaped, with the straight line along the high bluff over the Gwendraeth, facing south-east. The inner ward was a square with towers at each corner. The main hall stretched along the south-east wall within the inner ward; the guesthouse sat opposite, in the shadow of the north-west wall. Owen guessed that the practice yard would be in the outer ward, which was a bow-shaped area within the arch of the outer walls. Since he had entered by the south gatehouse, he chose the opposite direction, leaving the inner ward by a doorway next to the north-east tower. There he found a north gatehouse, not as impressive as the one on the town side, but well guarded. One of the men directed him round the north-west tower to the practice yard.

It would have been difficult to miss, occupied as it was at the moment by a pair of grunting wrestlers. They were stripped to their leggings and well oiled with sweat, their muscles taut and their expressions fierce. One glanced up at Owen — a momentary shift in his attention that lost him the round as his opponent took advantage of his lapse and pinned him down. Owen nodded to the men and made his way to a wooden tun in a small, open-fronted shed behind them. He was about to lift the lid when a hand clamped firmly down on his forearm.

‘A curious stranger is a dead one in such times,’ a gruff voice warned in English with a strong Welsh accent. It belonged to the victor in the wrestling match.

‘Owen Archer,’ Owen said in Welsh. ‘Former captain of archers for the old Duke.’

‘Owen Archer?’ The man stepped back, considered Owen. ‘They did say you carried a scar. Welcome to you.’ He slipped his hand down to Owen’s, clasped it. ‘Simwnt is the name. Harold is the one shouting for another match. He cannot speak our language, so we had best continue in English.’

‘I was hoping this tun held bows and arrow staves,’ Owen said.

‘That it does, Captain.’ As Simwnt spoke, he pulled on a shirt and then proceeded to use the left sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘But we have no archers to show you yet.’

‘I can wait a while for that. Food is what I need at present.’

A broad grin that showed small, surprisingly perfect teeth. ‘We put aside a morsel of bread and sausage — we might truck the food with you for a good tale. A particular tale.’

‘And what tale might that be?’

‘The death of our friend John. John de Reine, whose requiem Mass we attend this day. They say you found him.’

‘No, but I have seen him. And I know something of the circumstance.’

‘Aye. That’s what we will be wanting. Harold here was his man, you see.’

God smiled on Owen. Simwnt and Harold seemed men with whom he could be easy. ‘I will gladly tell you what I know for some food.’ Owen eased down on a stone bench built into the wall.

After his carefully selective narrative of events, Owen grew quiet. Soon Harold was talking of Reine, his excellent character, his puzzling change of plans. ‘He said he would be gone a week, no more, and I was to be ready to ride with him to Carreg Cennen on his return. I did not like it, him riding off alone, but what could I do?’ His voice had grown gruff with emotion.

‘He was not ordered elsewhere?’ Owen asked.

‘Oh no. Burley was that mad when he found Reine gone and me still about. “A week. Where is he off to for a bloody week?” he shouted.’

‘St David’s,’ Owen said.

‘Aye,’ Harold whispered.

Later, after attending the Mass for John de Reine, Owen strolled over to watch the masons at work on the south gatehouse. Harold and Simwnt had bragged about it, calling it the grandest design, thanks to the good Duke, who saw fit to make his castle of Cydweli as grand as any in England. Owen did not mention how much larger and grander was the Duke’s castle of Kenilworth. Grand castles were for living; grand gatehouses were for defence. And as ever in this country the question was whether Lancaster fortified Cydweli against the Welsh or the French. Or both.

‘It will be a wonder when completed,’ said Gruffydd ap Goronwy, joining him where he stood gazing up the scaffolding. ‘Prison to one side, porter’s lodge to the other. Not one, but three murder holes.’ He chuckled. ‘They fear us, these English, eh?’

Had he read Owen’s thoughts? ‘It is the French that are feared at present,’ he said to cover his confusion.

Gruffydd dropped his eyes. ‘You have heard of my disgrace.’

It had slipped Owen’s mind. ‘Forgive me. I meant nothing by it.’

‘And why should we not allow the heir to the great Llywelyn to land on these shores? Stay — I know the answer. The French would use Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri to destroy the Marcher lords and then step over him to claim the victory. I am not such a fool as to think they wish us well.’

‘I am glad to hear that. I like to think that my countrymen are not so desperate they will act foolishly.’

Gruffydd turned to Owen, nodded as if approving what he had said. ‘Your countrymen. I am glad you still think of this as your country. Which brings me to the matter I wished to discuss. They say you entered the service of Henry of Grosmont from this very castle. Is that true?’

‘It is.’

‘Are your kin still here?’

‘They were here when I departed. My parents and siblings. They had come down from the north. Llŷn.’

‘I believe I may know your brother.’

Owen’s heart raced. ‘My brother Dafydd?’

‘No. Morgan. Morgan ap Rhodri ap Maredudd.’

His mother’s youngest child, still quite young when Owen left. ‘He would not know me.’

‘Then you did have a brother by that name. Dark, slight?’

‘It was feared he would not survive to manhood. He was a sickly child.’ An unpleasant child, difficult to love. What did it mean that he was the one Gruffydd mentioned? Surely the eldest would be most prominent in the area.

Gruffydd was nodding enthusiastically. ‘It is him. It must be him. I shall go to him. Invite him to the castle.’ Spoken as if he were lord of Cydweli.

‘You have heard nothing of Dafydd?’

Gruffydd threw up his hands. ‘I did not know to ask. I shall. Who can say what wonders I shall uncover, eh?’