Read A Gift of Sanctuary Online
Authors: Candace Robb
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
A Gift of Sanctuary (6 page)
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.’
Four
A BODY AT THE GATE
T
he road from Haverfordwest wound through gently rolling countryside. The scent of early blossoms mingled with salt air. Owen drank it in, feeling as if he imbibed a heady wine. ‘In all my travels, no place has ever smelled as sweet to me.’ He had forgotten how much he loved this place, riding towards the sea and anticipating the moment at which it spread out beyond the cliffs. He had come here so long ago, from the north that time, proud to be considered man enough to escort his mother and his baby brother on a pilgrimage. His heart had been light, his faith strong. Suddenly the sea appeared, white-capped and unending, just beyond the cliffs.
he road from Haverfordwest wound through gently rolling countryside. The scent of early blossoms mingled with salt air. Owen drank it in, feeling as if he imbibed a heady wine. ‘In all my travels, no place has ever smelled as sweet to me.’ He had forgotten how much he loved this place, riding towards the sea and anticipating the moment at which it spread out beyond the cliffs. He had come here so long ago, from the north that time, proud to be considered man enough to escort his mother and his baby brother on a pilgrimage. His heart had been light, his faith strong. Suddenly the sea appeared, white-capped and unending, just beyond the cliffs.
‘Glory be to God the Father,’ Sir Robert cried, ‘that I have lived to experience this holy place. Michaelo, does this rekindle your ardour?’
Brother Michaelo huddled deeper into his hood. ‘I for one do not enjoy a brisk wind from the sea. Water is not the element that kindles the spirit.’
‘Be comforted,’ Owen said, ‘St David’s Cathedral and the bishop’s palace are in a valley protected from the sea.’
‘Praise God,’ Michaelo muttered. ‘Though I do not much prefer damp.’
Geoffrey wagged a finger at Michaelo. ‘You must cease this game of contrariety else God might decide that you are too critical of His creation to deserve indulgence.’
Michaelo sniffed.
Owen reassured them all. ‘We shall be in St David’s by mid-afternoon, God willing.’
Sir Robert smiled. ‘Would that I had the years left to make this journey twice.’ It was said that two pilgrimages to the episcopal seat of Menevia, St David’s, were equal to one to Rome:
Roma semel quantum bis dat Menevia tantum.
‘But perhaps one is enough to thank God for bringing my family through the pestilence.’
Roma semel quantum bis dat Menevia tantum.
‘But perhaps one is enough to thank God for bringing my family through the pestilence.’
As they approached St David’s they joined a crowd of pilgrims coming from Nine Wells and all in the company dismounted, but Sir Robert. When he moved to do the same, Owen forbade it.
‘You have been unwell. To ride is more of a penance to you than walking is to many we have passed.’
‘Age brings many blessings,’ Michaelo said.
‘And much humiliation,’ Sir Robert retorted.
‘It is good for a pilgrim to be humble.’
Owen did not join in their argument, and it soon died.
Geoffrey came alive in the crowd, speaking to as many of the pilgrims as he could, asking whence they came, their purpose in the pilgrimage. He was disappointed that many spoke only Welsh.
Now they saw many Welsh, the women in starched white veils folded up at the front like bonnets, the men in light wool cloaks and long shirts, often bare-legged. All went by foot. Sir Robert towered above the crowd, his face stony.
At last the elderly pilgrim dismounted at the edge of a rough-and-tumble row of houses that led towards Tower Gate, the pilgrims’ gateway to the city of St David’s. Sir Robert wished to descend on foot to the cathedral. He invited Owen, Geoffrey and Brother Michaelo to accompany him, while the other men took the horses round to Bonning’s Gate and through to the stables at the bishop’s palace. Owen judged it a reasonable walk for Sir Robert. The city was little more than the cathedral close, comprising the church, the cemetery, the dwellings of those connected to the cathedral either as clerics, administrators or servants, and the hostelries for the pilgrims. The four made their way slowly through a throng of people whispering and jostling one another. There were townspeople as well as pilgrims, judging from their garments.
‘Have we forgotten a feast day?’ Sir Robert wondered. ‘God forgive me if I have.’
Michaelo shook his head. ‘St David’s Day is past. We are in Lent, but not so far.’
Owen’s attention was drawn to a clutch of men who huddled about a point just without the gate. He lingered long enough to hear that at dawn the porter had found a body there. Everyone must now expound their theories and dire predictions.
‘It must have been brought here during the night,’ said one man. ‘But why did the porter not spy the activity?’
‘The man had been gutted, they say,’ another whispered.
‘There will be war now among the Marcher lords.’
‘They say that a shepherd in Ceredigion once ate a box of hosts – the Lord split him open like a gutted pig so that the faithful might witness his sin.’
‘What is it?’ Sir Robert asked at Owen’s side. ‘Of what do they speak in such hushed voices?’
Thank God Sir Robert knew no Welsh. ‘An argument, is all. It means naught to us.’ Owen wanted neither Michaelo nor Sir Robert to learn of the body – one would panic, the other would interfere.
As they passed through the gate, they all paused and exclaimed. Without the gate they could see but the top of the cathedral’s central tower. Now, tumbling down the steep hill and spread in the valley below was a small city with cottages and great halls, all clustered within the walls and round two huge and magnificent structures straddling either side of the River Alun, the Cathedral of St David and St Andrew, and the bishop’s palace beyond.
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