Read A Gift of Sanctuary Online
Authors: Candace Robb
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
A Gift of Sanctuary (12 page)
It was a measure of Rhodri’s desperation that he uprooted the family and took them south before ascertaining the truth of the rumour, for rumour it was; the Duke of Lancaster had made no such offer. But the constable of Cydweli, a man who knew the worth of a good archer, asked to see Owen shoot. Impressed, he had spoken to the steward. Rhodri ap Maredudd was given a small farm north of the town. It was what he had wished for, but it proved a disappointment. The soil was thin, though better than in the north, and their neighbours resented them for taking over the land of a man whose family had lived there for many generations, which he had forfeited for little else than being a Welshman with a careless tongue.
‘Are they good memories?’ Geoffrey asked, breaking into Owen’s reverie.
Owen threw back his hood, let the rain cool him, glanced round. The cart had arrived across the river, and the men were remounting their horses. ‘It is a hard thing, returning after all this time.’
It was early afternoon before they crested the hill known as Mons Salomonis that separated Cydweli from the Towy. At last Owen saw before him the white walls of Cydweli Castle.
‘You can see why the Duke calls it the pride of his Marcher holdings,’ Burley said, joining Owen at the edge of the track.
‘The pride? It looks to me as if he finds it wanting.’ Stonemasons stood on scaffolding surrounding the south gatehouse, which already looked much larger than Owen remembered.
‘All castles in the Marches require improved fortifications with the years else the natives grow too confident.’
Owen felt Burley watching him for a reaction. He did not oblige him, but quietly studied the castle. It was within the magnificent whitewashed walls of the stronghold that his skill at archery had won him a place among Henry of Grosmont’s Welsh archers. As Owen watched, a man atop one of the towers turned their way, then ducked down and disappeared. To announce their approach, no doubt.
Geoffrey slipped in between Owen and Burley. ‘It is a poor introduction, to come bearing the corpse of one of their own,’ he said, nodding towards the castle.
It was true that Lascelles must both wish for and dread their news. And now they would arrive with the worst news a father can hear. Owen had not yet experienced such a dark day, but he well remembered his despair when Jasper, not even yet his adopted son, disappeared and they feared him dead.
‘At least we have brought him the body, so that he may know that his son is buried in hallowed ground.’
‘A small comfort.’ Geoffrey’s eyes were dull and sunken. He had found it difficult to sleep since they left St David’s.
‘We shall walk lighter once we have delivered our burden.’
‘True. For that I am deeply grateful.’
In a little while they resumed their slow approach, dipping down into Scholand, the ragtag cluster of tenements that led into Ditch Street and so to the south gate of Cydweli. The cart drew the curious and then sent them scurrying away, full of dread.
At the town’s south gate, the gatekeeper walked forth to meet the party. One great hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his dagger, he rocked towards them in an awkward, bow-legged waddle.
Geoffrey leaned close to Owen and muttered, ‘I wonder whether he must needs let go his sword to press back his belly in order to withdraw his dagger.’
Happily unaware of his comical appearance, the gatekeeper demanded to know their business in a swaggering manner and an English so accented that it sounded like Welsh.
‘These men are with me,’ Burley barked.
The gatekeeper bowed stiffly towards the constable. ‘That is as may be, Constable, but my orders are to confront all strangers.’
With a curse, Burley waved his own men past the stubborn gatekeeper. The man in charge of the cart jumped down gladly. ‘We shall await you by the castle gatehouse,’ Burley shouted to Owen’s party.
Geoffrey had dismounted and now solemnly produced his orders from the Duke. The gatekeeper squinted down at the parchment, up at Geoffrey, obviously unable to read. ‘You wear the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. So you will be for the castle?’
‘My business is with the steward and the Constable of Cydweli, yes,’ said Geoffrey.
‘This seems to be in order,’ the gatekeeper said as he returned the parchment. ‘See you make your way direct to the castle, milord.’
‘Surely a pause at the tavern . . . ?’
‘Not with weapons.’
‘There has been some trouble here?’ Geoffrey asked.
The gatekeeper hesitated. ‘I should not be talking of the castle’s troubles.’
Geoffrey began to turn away. ‘It is no fors, I shall hear it soon enough.’
The gatekeeper sniffed at that. ‘Aye, you will learn far more than I can tell you. It was theft at the castle, you see. Guards have gone forth to catch the thief. That is all we know.’
‘
Par Dieu
! A theft at the castle? Now that was a bold thief.’
Par Dieu
! A theft at the castle? Now that was a bold thief.’
The gatekeeper warmed to Geoffrey. ‘They do say poor Roger Aylward lost a tooth in the attack.’
‘And who is this poor man who must eat soft food for some days?’
‘The Duke’s receiver in Cydweli, and a worthy burgher of this town, milord.’
‘Poor man. It is one thing to be injured protecting your own goods, but for the Duke’s . . .’
‘He will have a good tale to trade, and a gap to show for his honour. It will ease the pain for Master Aylward. But you understand the danger. You see why I count it wise to be wary of strangers bearing blades at such a time.’
‘I do indeed. And I shall tell the steward of your wise caution.’
‘Er – the cart, milord. What do you carry?’
Geoffrey pulled off his cap, held it to his heart as he bowed his head. ‘The body of a noble soldier from the garrison.’
The gatekeeper frowned, took a few rocking steps towards the cart, wrinkled his nose. ‘God’s blood. It is no wonder the mighty Burley left it to you.’
‘And you will equally understand why we wish to deliver our burden as soon as may be.’
The gatekeeper bowed them through the gate. All dismounted and passed through, Edern guiding the donkey and cart.
‘That was well done,’ Owen said to Geoffrey when they were well within.
Geoffrey bowed slightly and put a finger to his nose. ‘I despair of learning your skills, but I have some of my own I thought to put to good use.’
At first Lascelles stared unblinkingly at the vicar, as if still waiting for him to speak. The steward of Lancaster’s Marcher lordships was tall and slender, with the pinched lips and stiff shoulders of a man much given to self-discipline. His eyes were pale and cold, his speech and manners those of one brought up to rule with disdain. And yet while Edern had told the tale of the body left at the gate and the bishop’s insistence that his own men accompany the corpse, Owen noted a cast to those cold eyes that belied Lascelles’s control.
Geoffrey, Edern and Owen had been led into the great hall of the castle and served refreshments. Lascelles had joined them abruptly, alone, obviously aware that they bore unhappy news.
‘I understand that he was your natural son,’ Owen said.
Lascelles tilted his head back and drained his cup. A servant came forward, refilled his cup. This, too, he drained in one gulp. The servant filled the cup a third time. Lascelles set it on the table beside him. ‘John departed for Carreg Cennen. He had no business in St David’s.’ He looked oddly pale for the amount of wine he had just consumed, and so quickly. ‘But why should that disturb the bishop?’
‘We might leave that for later,’ Owen said. ‘After––’
‘Now,’ Lascelles said, lifting his cup. ‘I shall hear all now.’
‘We merely thought business should wait,’ Geoffrey said quietly.
‘I prefer to hear it now.’
‘Very well.’ Owen nodded to Edern.
The vicar sat with folded hands and spoke quietly. ‘My lord Bishop wants your reassurance that it was not by your orders that Reine and shortly afterwards four other armed men from this garrison came riding into his lordship without first requesting his permission.’
‘Is that his concern? That I challenged his authority in his lordship? Well, he may rest assured that I did not. As if I did not know he would run to the Duke––’ Suddenly the steward passed a hand across his eyes, shook his head. ‘You must forgive me. It is a shock, this news. You are right, Captain. We shall discuss the bishop’s concerns at a more appropriate time.’ He rose clumsily, gave a curt nod. Sweat glistened on his pale face, his eyes did not focus on his company. ‘I forget myself, gentlemen, offering you a paltry cup of wine as comfort upon your arrival. My wife has arranged for warm water to be sent to your rooms so that you might wash the dust from you. And a more substantial refreshment.’ He turned and hurried from the hall.
Edern wiped his brow.
Geoffrey slapped the table and rose, tugging up his sagging girdle. ‘I have enjoyed warmer welcomes, but in the circumstances he behaved with excellent courtesy.’ He glanced round, nodded to the servant hovering in the doorway. ‘We would retire to the guest chambers.’
Owen did not share Geoffrey’s satisfaction with the steward’s welcome. What he had witnessed seemed not the reaction of a man who had just received grievous news, but the behaviour of a man who faced at last what he had long dreaded. For the first time Owen wondered whether Lascelles had a hand in John de Reine’s death. Could he have ordered his son silenced?
Edern was to stay with the present chaplain of Cydweli in the chapel tower. Geoffrey and Owen were led across the inner bailey to the guesthouse, where they were to share a room. Servants and soldiers stood about in doorways and corners of the yard, heads together, talking quietly but excitedly. Several glanced up curiously as the two passed. Already the news of Reine’s death spread.
Owen dismissed the servant as soon as the young man had helped him off with his boots. The room was large, with a window that looked out towards the great hall and another that faced a small tree valiantly struggling to grow in the shadow of the castle wall. The chamber walls were painted white with yellow and red flowers. It was well furnished, with a brazier in the corner between the two windows, two fair-sized beds, a rack of pegs on which to hang their clothes, a trunk for storage, and a table and two chairs.
‘We should be comfortable here,’ Owen said. He removed his eye-patch and rubbed the scar beneath.
‘Something troubles you,’ Geoffrey said.
Owen poured wine from the hospitably large jug on the table and settled down on the bed which smelled of lavender and felt free of lumps. He might sleep well here if he could quiet his mind. ‘Sir John did not behave like a grieving father. Or a grieving steward.’
Geoffrey stood looking out the small window that faced on the inner bailey. Without turning, he said, ‘He hides his emotions before strangers. A common courtesy.’
‘Oh, aye, he would do that. He looks a man who has done everything everyone expected of him, from squire to steward.’
‘What of his natural son? There at least was proof of a night of passion.’
‘That, too, was expected.’
‘You are never satisfied. If he had been Welsh you might have called him perfect.’
‘You think I consider my people perfect? If we had been so, we would not be under your thumb.’
Geoffrey sighed, sank down on his bed. ‘I consider him a generous host.’
Eight
THE LADY OF CYDWELI
A
s 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.
s 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.’
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