A Gift of Sanctuary (32 page)
Read A Gift of Sanctuary Online
Authors: Candace Robb
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
‘His suffering is terrible to watch.’ Michaelo pressed his jaw beneath his ears where he felt an odd tension. ‘I wish I could breathe for him.’
‘You are a good friend to him.’
‘I should pay you.’
Master Thomas shook his head. ‘Not now. I shall return in a few days to see him. Sometimes a man changes his mind as the pain worsens. He may need more of the physick.’
Michaelo sat on the bench long after the physician departed. He did not trust himself to go to Sir Robert, not yet. The depth of his feelings perplexed him. Whence came this sorrow? What was Sir Robert to him? In faith, Michaelo’s concern should be his journey home. He should make inquiries about the other pilgrims, discover who was from the north. What of the Benedictines with whom he had spoken the previous evening? He could not remember their house. What a fool he was. Losing his memory over an old man who never had a kind word for him, who criticised him incessantly, who contradicted his every word. He put his head in his hands, clenched his jaw to fight the tears that threatened.
‘May I sit?’
Michaelo recognised Tangwystl’s exotic scent. He raised his head.
‘I should go to him.’
‘Come, then. I shall accompany you.’
Twenty-one
A FIERCE AND TERRIBLE LOVE
S
weat pooled beneath the leather patch on Owen’s eye. The late morning sun shone through a low cloud layer and the air felt heavy. The weather was strangely warm for the end of March. Owen felt he stank as much as his horse.
weat pooled beneath the leather patch on Owen’s eye. The late morning sun shone through a low cloud layer and the air felt heavy. The weather was strangely warm for the end of March. Owen felt he stank as much as his horse.
They had ridden with little pause since early morning. Owen was pleased with all in the company. His six companions neither complained nor lagged behind. And for their efforts they now approached Haverfordwest. They should arrive in St David’s by sunset.
From behind a slow-moving caravan a rider suddenly appeared, approaching at a pace equal to that of Owen’s company. He was upon them before Duncan cried out, ‘The Duke’s livery!’
Owen felt a shiver of dread when he recognised Edmund. He dismounted and met the messenger, who was grinning from ear to ear.
‘I thought to ride clear to Cydweli to find you, Captain. God has been good.’
And if they had entered Haverfordwest a moment earlier, they might have missed him.
‘God meant us to find one another,’ Owen said. He drew Edmund away from the group to a spot across the road beneath a venerable oak. It provided little shade with no leaves, but too much shade and they would be chilled. Owen called to Geoffrey to join them. The latter brought a wineskin to pass round, which drew fervent thanks from the messenger.
Owen leaned against a low branch. ‘Do you come from Sir Robert?’
‘I do, Captain.’
‘How fares he?’
‘Poorly. But well enough last night to give me messages to learn. And I have a letter.’ Edmund drew a sweat-darkened pouch from beneath his tunic, handed Owen a sealed roll.
‘Tell me what you have by heart,’ Owen said. As Edmund repeated his news, Owen was encouraged to hear that Edern and Tangwystl had arrived safely in St David’s – he was glad the vicar had obeyed the bishop. The priest’s hurried departure, however, and with trouble on his heels, was disturbing.
But most potentially troublesome was the source of most of Sir Robert’s information, Martin Wirthir, a Fleming who often worked with the French. Geoffrey would not like that. Owen wondered about Geoffrey. Could he trust him to co-operate with Martin if necessary? And what of the bishop’s men? If they accompanied him to meet Martin, would they be keen to tell of the Fleming in St David’s? Sweet Jesu, the more he worked at this knot the worse it grew.
And how many others may have noted the Fleming in the area, or overheard his conversation with Sir Robert? Owen examined the seal on the letter. It looked undisturbed, but there was a slight stain on the paper to one side of the seal that gave Owen pause. ‘Who handed you the letter?’ he asked.
‘Brother Michaelo,’ Edmund said. ‘I have touched nothing.’
Owen nodded. ‘Can you tell me anything else? This Brother Dyfrig who asked so many questions. Is he in St David’s?’
Edmund slapped his leg. ‘I feared I had forgot somewhat in the middle. He departed the city a week hence. And Sir Robert knows not where he went.’
‘Excellent, Edmund. You have proved yourself a worthy messenger,’ Owen said. ‘Go join the others. You will ride back with us. And Edmund––’
He stood to attention. ‘I shall say nothing to them of my messages, Captain.’
‘I know that you will not, Edmund. But more than that, try not to flinch if we tell a different tale than what you know to be true.’
Edmund grinned. ‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Who is this Martin Wirthir?’ Geoffrey asked as he settled down on a root beneath the tree.
Owen eased himself down on to a rock, stretched his legs, tapped the letter absently against his leg while he considered how to handle Geoffrey. He resolved to tell him as little as possible about Martin. ‘One who has helped me in the past. Saved the life of my wife’s apprentice. I have not seen him in a long while.’ When had Martin learned Owen was in Wales?
‘He works for King Charles?’
‘He has also worked for members of King Edward’s court. It means nothing about Martin’s personal allegiance.’ The seal on the letter gave no clue to Martin’s current politics – it bore the impression of the letter M or W, depending on how one held it. Owen broke the seal, smoothed the parchment on his lap, read slowly. The words themselves, and the signature, felt true to him. But how had Martin known that the death of John de Reine and the movements of Tangwystl and Edern were of interest to Owen? He handed Geoffrey the letter.
Geoffrey’s face creased with worry as he read. ‘Such caution to name neither man nor place. “A man who might give good account”. The murderer, do you think?’
‘Or a witness.’ Owen rose, began to pace as he thought what to do. Whoever the man was, he must be shielded. But what of Edern and the traitor who pursued him?
Geoffrey turned over the parchment, studied the seal. ‘You think someone tampered with this?’
How he studied every gesture. ‘Sir Robert is an old campaigner. He would not send a messenger without knowing the content of the missive.’
‘Your wife’s father is a man of many skills.’
‘His hands are no longer steady enough for such work. But Brother Michaelo . . .’
‘Um. He does seem a slippery one. I do not doubt it.’
‘We must hasten to St David’s.’
‘You will meet with this Martin Wirthir?’
‘Do you think we dare ignore this?’
Geoffrey squinted up at Owen. ‘You are plotting something that I will not like.’
‘There are three in our company who must be handled with care.’
‘The bishop’s men and Burley’s man?’
‘Aye.’
‘I heard what you said to Edmund.’
Owen called to Iolo, who appeared to be telling an amusing tale to the other men. Edmund jostled him when he did not respond. He glanced up, caught Owen’s eye, and hurried over. His companions watched with apprehension.
‘This the others must not hear,’ Owen began.
‘They will not.’
‘Is there a way to reach Clegyr Boia from the road we ride?’ Martin’s letter had requested they meet where Owen’s company had exited the tunnel from the bishop’s palace.
‘Round the far side of St David’s and out beyond the North-west Gate,’ said Iolo.
‘I cannot ride there without passing the city?’
Iolo dropped his head, considered. ‘From here there is no easy way over the River Alun.’
‘Impassable?’
‘No, but ill advised in spring. Better to cross it to the north of the city.’
‘Why do you wish to avoid the city?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘We know at present whence trouble might come,’ Owen said. ‘But if we pass near the gates of St David’s, who knows who might see us and follow us to Clegyr Boia? It is a risk.’
Iolo shook his head. ‘A risk it is, Captain, but we might call more attention to ourselves picking our way where horses never go.’
Geoffrey looked pleased.
‘Come, then.’ Owen rose, dusted off his tunic. ‘We ride hard to St David’s.’
From his bed Sir Robert gazed on the wall painting of King Henry crossing Llechllafar. Sometimes, as Sir Robert fought for breath and the room spun round him, it seemed the King stepped not upon a bridge but on to a ship that rode a whirlpool.
To give in to the demon clutching his breath – at times he saw that as a blessed release. But that was sinful. It was for God to choose his time. He hoped that it was not sinful to take Master Thomas’s physick – he feared that it soothed him too well. He feared, too, that he would lose track of how often he asked for it, but Brother Michaelo assured him he would watch that neither he nor Mistress Tangwystl dispensed so much it would muddle his wits. Mistress Tangwystl – another sinful pleasure. She had returned with Brother Michaelo and asked whether she might sit with Sir Robert, said that she wished for occupation that might quiet her mind.
Sir Robert welcomed her with joy, for in Brother Michaelo’s face he saw the physician’s sentence. The monk’s mourning eyes and unnaturally gentle behaviour reminded Sir Robert too much of his approaching end.
‘Go and walk about,’ Sir Robert urged Michaelo. ‘You grow too pale.’
Michaelo refused. Sir Robert turned to face Tangwystl. ‘I grew weary of tossing on the sea with King Henry.’
‘King Henry?’ she whispered as she leaned down to Sir Robert, blotted his brow with a damp, scented cloth. The movement loosened her wide sleeves. Pale, shimmering silk, it gave her wings.
‘The fresco,’ said Brother Michaelo, nodding towards the wall.
Tangwystl sat back, studied the painting. Sir Robert thought her a vision of beauty as she sat beside his bed, hands resting on her silken lap, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire in the brazier.
‘The red-handed man in Myrddin’s prophecy – some say that is Owain Lawgoch, he who my father is accused of assisting. But as I heard the legend, the red-handed man was to wound the king while he was yet in Ireland.’
‘Let us pray that King Edward does not cross the Irish Sea,’ Brother Michaelo said.
A servant brought a cup of hot honey water, added a few pillows behind Sir Robert to raise him high enough to drink.
‘You are well attended,’ Tangwystl said when the servant withdrew. In the light from the brazier her hair beneath the gossamer veil seemed a vibrant red. ‘I wish to do something,’ she was saying, ‘but I cannot see what you might need. I must make amends for being late for our walk this morning.’
‘As you can see, I would have disappointed you had you still wished for my company on your way to St David’s Well.’ Sir Robert was pleased that his breathing seemed easier. He did not wish to frighten Tangwystl with his struggles. ‘If you have no hopes of someone else to accompany you to the well, you might tell me of yourself. In what part of this fair country did you dwell before you took your place as lady of Cydweli?’
Tangwystl bowed her head, and for a moment Sir Robert worried that in some way his request had offended her.
‘Do you know the tale of Rhiannon?’ she asked.
‘No. Please tell me.’
‘It is a sad story. Do you mind a sad story?’
‘The best ballads are sad ones, I think.’
Tangwystl frowned and smoothed her skirt, shook out her sleeves, as if composing her thoughts. And then she began. ‘She was Pwyll’s lady, lord of Dyfed. Theirs was not an easy courtship, for when he declared his love for her she was already betrothed. But with patience and trickery they disposed of Pwyll’s rival. Rhiannon proved a generous lady and at first all Pwyll’s people loved her. But when after three years she had not borne a son, Pwyll’s men turned against her and urged their lord to cast her aside. Pwyll refused, and it seemed the gods rewarded his loyalty, for Rhiannon at last bore him a son. But on the night of the birth, Rhiannon’s handmaids failed to keep watch. In the morning, the child was gone. Fearing that they would be punished, the women killed a chicken and smeared its blood over Rhiannon’s mouth while she slept, then ran from her chamber shrieking that the unnatural mother had eaten her son.’ For a moment, Tangwystl sat silently, her hands folded, her head bowed. When she began again to speak, her voice was unsteady. ‘Seven years Rhiannon suffered humiliation as a punishment for this sin she did not commit. Seven years she wept for her son alone, with no one to comfort her. Seven––’ Tangwystl’s voice broke and she covered her face with her hands.
‘Do you weep so to tell the tale?’ Sir Robert said. ‘You must speak of something happier – I would not have you suffer pain for me.’
Though Tangwystl dropped her hands, she kept her head bowed. ‘I share Rhiannon’s suffering,’ she said, her voice yet hoarse with tears, ‘for my son has been taken from me. I suffer my loss as she did, with none to comfort me. And my suffering shall stretch beyond seven years.’
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