A Gift of Sanctuary (31 page)

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Authors: Candace Robb

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

BOOK: A Gift of Sanctuary
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At last dawn turned the sky to a dull grey in the high window above the bed, and Michaelo rose, dressed as quietly as he could, and took up a post in the doorway to wait for Edmund. Though he thought he had given Sir Robert enough of his physick to allow him to sleep for a few more hours, he feared that the expected knock on the door might wake him.
Edmund soon appeared, garbed for a journey and flushed with anticipation. Michaelo put his finger to his mouth as he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door to the room behind him.
‘You are ready?’
‘The groom is even now leading my horse to the North-west Gate.’
‘You remember all we told you?’
Edmund opened his mouth to recite. Michaelo motioned for him to whisper it in his ear. The corridor appeared empty, but a clever spy could make it seem so. Edmund duly whispered his messages. Michaelo was impressed how thoroughly the young man had them by heart. He was quicker than he looked.
‘You have a safe place for the letter?’ Michaelo asked as he drew it from his sleeve.
Edmund pulled a bag from beneath his tunic. It hung from his neck on a strong leather thong. Deeming it sufficient, Michaelo handed him the precious letter. Edmund placed it in the bag, pushed it back down his tunic.
‘And there it shall remain until I hand it to Captain Archer, I swear that to you on my life,’ Edmund whispered with a pounding of his chest.
Brother Michaelo smiled at the young man’s dramatic flair. Better to be so excited than frightened. ‘God watch over you on your journey, Edmund, and lend you wings.
In nomine Patris
 . . .’
Edmund bowed his head to receive Brother Michaelo’s blessing.
The monk prayed that God still accepted him as a vessel of His blessing. His task accomplished, Michaelo returned to the chamber to sit beside the bed and recite his office. He would be there to reassure Sir Robert that Edmund was on his way.
Waking from a dreamless slumber, Sir Robert found Brother Michaelo, head bowed, praying at his bedside. The aroma of fresh baked bread drew his eyes to a table beside the bed. A flagon, bread, apples and cheese. His stomach fluttered. He had awakened anxious. Slowly he remembered. The letter. Edmund was to come at dawn for the letter. Sir Robert looked up at the window. It was clearly past dawn.
‘Holy Mary Mother of God,’ he said as he pushed back the covers.
Brother Michaelo looked up from his prayers, smiled. ‘You awake with energy. You must have slept well.’
‘Edmund. The letter.’
‘All is well. I saw him off at dawn. He has the message by heart and the letter tucked beneath his tunic.’
Feeling his heart begin to pound, his face grow hot, Sir Robert leaned back on the pillows and took a deep breath. ‘What right had you to do it for me?’
‘You had a difficult night. You need your rest.’
‘I needed to do this for Owen!’
‘You have. I was merely your go-between.’
Sir Robert closed his eyes, fighting tears of rage. An old man’s tears. An old, feeble man. When had Brother Michaelo become his nurse?
‘Forgive me, Sir Robert,’ Brother Michaelo was saying. ‘I have not meant to offend you.’
When Sir Robert trusted himself to move without the tremors brought on by anger, he sat up and began to help himself to some honey water. When Brother Michaelo leaned forward to assist him, Sir Robert slapped his hand.
‘And you will not accompany me on my excursion with Mistress Tangwystl. I have not missed the end of Mass in the cathedral?’ That was when Tangwystl was to come to the porch to meet him.
‘No, you have not. But do you think you have the strength?’
‘If you allow me to break my fast in peace, I shall.’
By mid-morning a mist hid the sun and the painted stones of the palace beaded with the damp. Sir Robert stood in the porch of the great hall, one hand on the wall beside him, looking out at the courtyard, hoping that it was merely the air in the hall that had brought on the dizziness. But still his head pounded and he felt as if he pulled each breath from the hands of a demon set on suffocating him. The porter hovered solicitously.
‘How terrible you sound, Sir Robert. Ask for a pitcher of hot, spiced wine and a good fire in your chamber. Do not go abroad on such a day. You are not well. The damp will worsen your chest. Let me send for Master Thomas, the physician who attends the bishop when he is in residence. He will attend you. He is from Cardiff.’
‘Do not trouble yourself,’ Sir Robert said, fighting the demon for each word. ‘I await a friend.’ But how would he manage the long walk to St David’s Well, and especially the long upward climb back?
The porter summoned a servant. ‘Help Sir Robert to his room. Find his companion, Brother Michaelo, if he is not in their chamber. And bring Sir Robert hot, spiced wine. Make sure his fire is kept burning all the day.’
Sir Robert tried to refuse, but he managed merely to shake his head and say, ‘I must await her.’
‘You were not nearly so bad as this when Captain Archer departed,’ said the porter. ‘He will blame us, he will. To whom should I make your apologies?’
‘Mistress Lascelles of Cydweli.’
‘Aye, Sir Robert. I shall tell her you have been taken ill.’
‘No, I pray you.’ But what could the porter say instead? Sir Robert gave in and nodded. ‘Of course you must.’
He burned with humiliation as he was led away. How awful was old age, to be too weak to defend one’s right. But where was Mistress Lascelles? Surely the bells had long since rung? Had she left without him? Or was his mind as crabbed and useless as his body? Had he imagined she had invited him to accompany her to St David’s Well?
Satisfied that the physician seemed sufficiently attentive to Sir Robert, Brother Michaelo took a break from the stifling atmosphere in his chamber and the terrible sounds of Sir Robert’s laboured breathing. He kept trying to breathe for his friend, and the effort had left him light-headed.
Though the great hall was not empty, folk inhabited it in clusters, ignoring all but their own companions. In such a crowd Michaelo felt sufficiently invisible. He paced about, muttering not prayers but complaints. ‘Strike me down, Lord, for I am the sinner, not Sir Robert. What is the use of holy wells and pilgrimages if the good are not rewarded? For he is a good man, Lord. Did he not devote years of his life to performing penance – and for what terrible sin? That he treated his wife as most other men do theirs? With indifference born from ignorance? Was this such a sin that he cannot be forgiven? What of the pride of kings? Archbishops? Bishops? What of these Welsh clerics who openly break their vow of chastity? When shall they suffer?’ As Michaelo elaborated on his complaint, his pacing grew more energetic until one of the Benedictines from the previous evening approached with concern.
‘Is it your friend, Brother? Has God called him?’
Michaelo crossed himself. ‘No, God be praised. I am worried for him, that is all.’
‘He is in God’s hands, Brother. Be at peace.’
Chastened, Michaelo retired to a corner, keeping an eye on the door through which the physician would come. He wished to speak with him away from Sir Robert, find out the truth, how ill he was.
Perhaps that was why he did not notice Mistress Lascelles until he heard the rustle of her silk gown as she settled on the bench beside him.
‘
Benedicte
, Mistress Lascelles.’ Shimmering silk and a gossamer veil – was this her garb for a walk to Porth Clais? Even Brother Michaelo felt shabby beside her. ‘Sir Robert wished very much to accompany you to St David’s Well.’
‘There will be another day.’
Would there? Brother Michaelo prayed that she was right.
‘Forgive me for intruding on your thoughts,’ she said. In her voice, Michaelo heard sympathy. ‘I saw you here and I thought you might wish for a companion. Sir Robert is very ill?’
‘I fear that he is, Mistress Lascelles.’
‘I pray you, my name is Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd. Would you call me Tangwystl?’
Brother Michaelo bowed his head. ‘Mistress Tangwystl. It is pleasing on the tongue.’
‘Such shadows beneath your eyes. You have watched the night with him?’
‘He woke in the middle of the night in great distress. After that I could not quiet my thoughts. I shall wear out my rosary beads before he strengthens.’
‘I had such a time, not long ago. My family was forced to seek sanctuary in St Mary’s Church in Tenby. You know the story, of course.’
‘I do.’
‘Would you prefer to pray?’
‘No. No, please, distract me from my fears.’
‘It was my mother for whom I prayed. My son Hedyn was an infant, he knew nothing of our troubles, and my sister Awena found it an adventure, to sleep in the house of God, to take her walks in the churchyard. But my mother grieved so for our house, our old life, she fretted and fussed over Hedyn, and daily her eyes sank further and further into her face, the flesh fell off her bones, her voice grew shrill, her words confused. I kept the rosary with me at all times, praying myself to sleep, praying as I suckled my child.’
‘And did God listen?’
Tangwystl looked away. ‘You should see my son.’ Her voice trembled. ‘He is as beautiful as the angels.’
Michaelo bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘Sometimes it is difficult to forgive God for His absences.’
‘I know,’ Tangwystl whispered.
‘Your mother is alive?’
‘Oh, yes. But she is not the woman she was.’
The physician’s gown of red and grey caught Michaelo’s eye.
‘Forgive me,’ Michaelo said as he stood up abruptly. ‘I must see Master Thomas.’
Already the physician and his servant were near the door to the porch. Michaelo pushed his way through servants and pilgrims without apology. Some shouted after him, which caught the physician’s attention. He paused, eyebrows raised as Michaelo panted a Benedicte.
‘
Benedicte
, Brother Michaelo. I wondered where you had gone.’
‘I thought Sir Robert would prefer to be alone with you, Master Thomas. But I must know the truth – is he – will he be strong enough for the journey back to York?’
Thomas’s long, bloodless face betrayed no emotion. ‘Does he speak of returning?’
The question chilled Michaelo. ‘What do you mean? What has he–– Sweet Jesu, he is to die in this distant land?’
Thomas placed a hand on Michaelo’s shoulder. ‘Come. Let us sit and talk.’ He led Michaelo to a bench beneath a high window, out of the bustle of servants and guests. ‘How did you come to make this journey with him?’
‘His daughter’s husband is on a mission to Wales for the Duke of Lancaster. Both Sir Robert and I thought to join their company for the journey out here. After Easter we should be able to find a party of pilgrims returning to England.’
‘His son-in-law. Is he here in St David’s?’
‘No. In Cydweli.’
Master Thomas’s eyes followed a small group of pilgrims. ‘So many souls praying for grace, hoping to win Heaven by this journey. And yet Sir Robert came here to pray for his family. To offer up his life for their continued health and happiness.’
Michaelo tucked his hands up his sleeves, then withdrew them as they spread the chill to his arms. He rubbed them. ‘Perhaps I might send for Captain Archer.’
‘His son-in-law?’
Michaelo nodded.
‘It would be best to ask Sir Robert what he wishes.’
Michaelo forced the question that wished to stick in his throat. ‘He knows that he is dying?’ His heart raced with the effort.
‘Oh yes. He says he made his farewells in York, that his daughter understood. But you do not seem prepared for this. He did not tell you of his intention?’
What need was there to shake his head? The physician could see his distress and sighed.
‘Perhaps he did not wish to see the sympathy in your eyes until it was unavoidable.’
‘Why here? In a country that is so strange to him?’
‘He told me that he has gone on pilgrimage to places far stranger than this,’ Thomas said. ‘It is difficult for the healthy to understand how weary the sick become. Every breath is a struggle for Sir Robert. Death seems a release. A gift from God.’
Sir Robert had made his farewells to Lucie Wilton. And Owen? Why had no one told Michaelo? ‘But he was not so ill as this when we departed York. He did not labour to breathe, his colour was far better than it is now. How could he have known?’
‘Perhaps God told him.’
Brother Michaelo looked up, fearing the physician made light of Sir Robert. But he saw no lifting of the corners of the mouth, nor other sign in his demeanour. ‘What can I do for him?’
‘He accepted a stronger physick to ease the pain, allow him to sleep, though he says he will not take as much as I recommended. He says he must have his wits about him, he has much to do. There is of course no reason to insist he keep to his bed. But do not let him venture forth alone. He is weak, and the physick might confuse him.’

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