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Authors: Candace Robb

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime

A Gift of Sanctuary (35 page)

BOOK: A Gift of Sanctuary
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And yet these English cursed it. What had they hoped for? To ride all through the night? Had they mistresses in St David’s?
‘It is the stone,’ said Madog. ‘They do not like the stone.’
‘Nor have they liked the crosses along the way,’ said Brother Dyfrig, ‘though they call themselves Christians.’
‘I do not like the standing stones at nightfall,’ said Cadwal. ‘We are near a burial chamber, did you know? On the hill above us. I feel them up there, watching us. This stone by our camp is a part of their burial honour. They do not like us to be here.’
Dafydd pitied Cadwal. He paid for his strength and size with a fear of the Otherworld that could be as crippling as a physical weakness. ‘What do you fear? That the dead will rise and smite you for camping near their grave? Why should they care about you? And on such a night? Why would they leave the Otherworld to shiver in such dampness? To trip over their gossamer garments?’
‘Are you making a poem?’ Dyfrig growled.
‘Perhaps. Have you an entertainment to propose? But of course you will spend this time in prayer.’ Though Dafydd had seen precious little prayerful behaviour in the monk.
‘It is a pity you did not think to recruit help from Newcastle Emlyn. It was not far from Maelgwn’s farm,’ said Dyfrig. ‘We would not be dragged through the countryside starving had you planned better.’
Dafydd laughed. ‘My uncle, Llywelyn ap Gwilym,
was
constable of the castle, but he is long dead. And his son tolerates me only so long as he hears no tales of mischief. He would chase me from the house if he knew of my offering sanctuary to the wretched boy. He would not understand. Besides, the castle is not so close to Maelgwn’s farm. You clutch at the air with your complaint.’
‘Would that I could clutch at something,’ Dyfrig said. ‘I can feel nothing in either arm.’
‘Be grateful,’ said Madog. ‘Last night you could not bear the pain.’
Brother Dyfrig truly suffered more than the others. His broken arm was splinted and bound close to his body, but even so he endured much pain from the jostling ride, and today he had fallen on his arm as he dismounted. Their captors had merely laughed.
‘I would rather feel the pain than nothing,’ Dyfrig said.
Cadwal hushed them.
‘What is it?’ Dafydd asked.
The giant sat with head cocked, listening to the darkness behind them. ‘Horses. Back beyond the light,’ he whispered.
‘Dyfrig,’ a voice called softly. It might almost be mistaken for the wind in the brush. Still, Dafydd held his breath, fearful that their captors had heard. But their own loud talk and the crackling fire must have masked the sound, for no shouts challenged the darkness.
‘It is Father Edern. And a friend. We shall cut your bonds when the fire dies down.’
Dafydd, overjoyed to be saved, strained to see the priest, but the fog still blurred the brush.
All four captives grew quiet, listening to the darkness.
‘They notice your silence,’ Edern whispered.
‘Aye, they look this way,’ Cadwal hissed. He and Dyfrig were bound to the side of the tree facing into the clearing.
‘Chatter among yourselves as before,’ Edern whispered. ‘But not so loud they understand you.’
Cadwal was the first to start muttering. He worried about their horses. How were they to escape their captors without horses?
Madog joined in. He saw no problem. While their captors slept, they would take all of the horses.
‘But we cannot ride tonight,’ whispered Dafydd. ‘We would lose ourselves in the fog and risk the horses.’
‘We take shelter nearby till morning,’ Madog murmured. ‘Perhaps the burial chamber.’
Cadwal groaned.
‘What if they find us before morning?’ Dafydd wondered.
‘We should fall on them and bind them up,’ Cadwal hissed. ‘Then we wait here until dawn. We are now six against four and three of them are already wounded.’
‘So am I,’ Dyfrig muttered.
Dafydd warmed to the new adventure. ‘We shall attack them while they sleep.’
‘They will not sleep,’ Dyfrig whispered. ‘Surely one skin of wine passed among four soldiers would not put them to sleep.’
‘But look at them,’ said Cadwal, ‘they rub their eyes, sink lower on to their blankets.’
Dafydd could not see them, being tied to the tree facing away, with Madog. ‘Perhaps they have at last found the wine with poppy juice,’ Dafydd whispered. ‘I meant it for Brother Samson, but Maelgwn did not seem to need it. I thought it might ease the pilgrim when we find him, for surely his wound has opened with his flight.’
‘I was sorely in need of it yesterday,’ muttered Dyfrig.
‘I did not think our captors would give it you,’ Dafydd whispered. God watched over them, to let their captors find that wine tonight. But Dafydd prayed that they had not dug deeper into his saddle-bag.
‘Drop your heads now,’ Edern whispered from the darkness. ‘Make them think you sleep.’
The floor of the tunnel was slippery. Owen shone the lantern over the walls and ceiling and saw how the stones seeped. At the edges of the floor lay piles of debris and crumbled stone. When Owen had passed this way with Father Edern he had not allowed his eye to wander round, anxious to reassure his men, not add his unease to their fears. For he did not like being beneath the earth, in a stone vault. And seeing how stone had been hollowed for this purpose, he thought now this must be the work of the Old Ones, those who had cut the great stones for the burial cairns, who had lifted them into the air to rest on the upright stones. He must have a care not to step into the Otherworld.
Rhys was unsteady on his feet and walked with an odd, rocking motion from side to side, catching himself on alternating sides of the wall with outstretched hands. Owen imagined his hand slipping through the wall to the Otherworld. His hand, arm, head, body would disappear . . .
‘I do not like this place,’ Rhys whispered.
‘Nor do I. And I must return alone. While you are being tended, given wine, a pallet on which to sleep, I shall be crawling back to Clegyr Boia. Think on that and thank God you are not me.’ As for Owen, he might be relieved to move more quickly when not encumbered with his weak companion, but he thought he much preferred having human company to share the darkness.
‘What is that?’ Rhys hissed. ‘A darkness up ahead.’
Owen shone the lantern. ‘The door. We are at the palace undercroft.’ He pushed on the door gently, not wishing to alert the wrong person to their presence. It did not move. ‘Now we must await our deliverers.’ Owen shuttered the lantern to allow only a faint light, eased down on to the stone floor. At least this close to the palace it was dry. But uneven. It was difficult to find a comfortable seat.
Rhys crouched down beside him. ‘This is a hellish spot.’ His voice trembled, with weariness, Owen guessed, not fear. His breathing was laboured though it had not been a difficult journey.
Owen shone the thin line of light up the tunnel. ‘There. We should see anything that cares to approach.’
‘What if no one comes to unbar the door?’
‘Then we return to Clegyr Boia. But let us not be hasty. They must await a quiet moment, when no servants are about. Sit down. Your legs will cramp if you crouch like that for long. Tell me about that day on Whitesands.’
Rhys eased himself down against the opposite wall so he faced Owen. ‘I do not like to think on that day.’
‘The Archdeacon of Carmarthen will have the same request. It will go easier if you have rehearsed it. Come. You owe me something, do you not think so?’
Rhys bowed his head. Again he held his hand over the bleeding ear, though he did not touch it. ‘I have no need to rehearse it. I cannot forget it. His eyes. I have seen the eyes of the Devil, burning with hate.’ Rhys’s words echoed as he fell silent a while, if not speaking but breathing quickly in pain might be called silent.
Owen did not like Rhys talking of the Devil in this dark place.
In a while, Rhys raised his head. ‘You have seen my son, and Tangwystl. You see what I have lost.’
‘I do.’
‘All for the greed of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. I cannot believe that my love carries any of his blood in her veins.’
‘He betrayed you to save his family.’
‘That is what he says. He was entrusted with money for Owain Lawgoch collected by his supporters. One of Owain’s men was to land in Tenby and come to his house for it. But when he came, Gruffydd said he had it not. Others knew that he did. What had he done with it? That is what robbed his family of their home, their name. Owain’s man disappeared, but before long it was heard that someone had denounced Gruffydd to my Lady Pembroke.’
‘Did Gruffydd not need money for your marriage to Tangwystl?’
‘Did he plan to use Owain’s money for our wedding? Perhaps. But I do not believe it. Still. When I received the message that he had come to St David’s to talk to me, I hoped––’ Rhys put his hand to his ear. ‘It burns.’
‘Aye. I do not doubt it. How did you come to meet him at Whitesands?’
‘I was here, in the bishop’s palace, waiting to present my petition to the bishop. I hoped Bishop Adam would annul Tangwystl’s marriage to Sir John, seeing that we were already pledged to one another. One day a pilgrim just arrived sought me out, said a man with a silver wing over his temple awaited me at Whitesands. That I would learn something that would help my petition.’
‘And so you went to Gruffydd, hoping he wished to put things right.’
‘I do not think I had such hope. But news of Tangwystl and my son, I wished to know they were safe and thought of me. He did have news, told me Tangwystl believed I had abandoned her fearing I might bring my family down with hers. But I should be comforted to know that she loved John Lascelles, and that Sir John told all that Hedyn was his son. I had not seen Gruffydd’s greed in all my troubles until that day on the beach. In my anger I said too much. I told him that I meant to tell the bishop the truth of Pembroke’s accusation. He fell on me. I saw in his eyes that he meant to kill me. He is a strong man, and larger than me. And he was well armed. But suddenly he fell away and cried, “Murderer! Help me!” And another man now fell on me, sliced at my throat, but caught my ear. I thrust with my knife. Dear God, I shall never forget the feeling, as if my arm went through him, so deep went the knife. And my ear. Sweet Jesus, I thought I was burning in Hell, the pain was so hot. I pressed my head to the cool sand. I think I must have been screaming and screaming with the pain. But no one heard. And I remember nothing else until a tall, white-haired man lifted me to his horse.’
‘This Samaritan. Why did he help you and not Reine? And where was Gruffydd?’
‘I do not know.’ Rhys took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘But they told me later that someone had murdered Sir John’s son at Whitesands. I do not understand why Gruffydd did not help the man who came to his aid. I cannot see how I could have fought off both of them. I cannot think but that Gruffydd let the man die.’
It was strange. Owen had begun to think Gruffydd and John de Reine had acted together, to silence the one who threatened Sir John’s marriage. He remembered Gruffydd’s bandaged hand, the scar. ‘Gruffydd’s hand was badly cut – perhaps trying to grab your knife. But it was his left hand only. He might still have helped John de Reine.’
‘I will be hanged, I know,’ said Rhys. ‘But first I would see Tangwystl. Tell her I did not abandon her, but had gone seeking help. Will they let me see her?’
‘Tell Sir Robert your story, and I am certain he will bring her to you.’
‘And my son? Is he with her?’
‘No.’
‘At least to see her. Tell her.’
Father Edern shook Dafydd awake. ‘Your hands are loosed. Move slowly out of the firelight.’
Still confused from sleep, Dafydd massaged his wrists, wriggled his legs, his arms, then rose to a crouch. He was glad to move. And the first thing he wished was to relieve himself. He headed for the brush, with the priest hurrying after him.
When they were well into the brush, Edern asked, ‘Where is Rhys ap Llywelyn?’
‘Would that we knew,’ said Dafydd. ‘We might be safely home in bed, dreaming pleasant dreams. And pissing in private.’ The priest ignored the hint and stood behind Dafydd while he lifted his gown. So be it. Nature would not wait. His urine steamed in the cool, damp air. When he turned round, the priest was ready with the next question.
‘But these men were after him, were they not?’
‘They were indeed. Barbarians. They broke into my house to find him. And he, the ungrateful wretch––’
‘He is my brother.’
Dafydd raised his eyebrows at Madog, who had just joined them. ‘This priest is the pilgrim’s brother.’ He turned back to Edern. ‘That makes him no less ungrateful. I saved his life, granted him sanctuary in my home, and he murders the monk who nursed him and runs away.’
‘You exaggerate, Master Dafydd. Brother Samson is not dead, nor was he attacked – he was injured in a fall,’ Madog said. ‘Come. We must move quickly.’
BOOK: A Gift of Sanctuary
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