A Gift of Sanctuary (34 page)
Read A Gift of Sanctuary Online
Authors: Candace Robb
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
How unused to such quiet he was. York was never silent. Even when he lay awake at night he heard children calling out, babies crying, cats fighting in the street, boatmen calling to one another, the crier making his rounds. And even on the journey from York their company had been large and noisy, with Sir Robert and Brother Michaelo bickering all along the way. Owen had grown unaccustomed to silence. It made him uneasy.
They circled the base of Clegyr Boia, walking slowly, watching the ground, seeking signs of recent encampments or riders.
‘I would guess he has camped up top,’ said Iolo.
‘Where he would be so easily seen?’ Owen said.
‘If you saw a fire atop this mound, what would be your first thought? That a mortal man camped here?’
‘No.’
‘They also say there are cellars where one might hide. Though I never found one.’
And so they led their horses up a well-worn path to the top of the mound. It was bare of trees, but thick with gorse and treacherous with half-buried stones and timbers, and to one side the crumbled walls of an ancient fortress.
‘If I were hiding atop, I would stay in the shadow of those walls,’ said Iolo.
As they picked their way through the tangled underbrush, Owen suddenly straightened, sensing more than seeing someone approaching.
‘So I was right. You did follow fast behind the fleeing lady.’ A figure materialised from the fog.
‘Is this Wirthir?’ Iolo whispered.
‘Aye.’ Owen raised his voice. ‘I cannot think how you know me so well, Martin. I like to think I am cunning and subtle. But you were right, we followed the lady and her lord.’
‘And the hapless priest,’ said Martin. He was now at arm’s length.
‘You two might be taken for brothers,’ Iolo said, looking from one to the other.
Martin gave him a little bow. ‘I take that as a compliment.’
Owen introduced Iolo. ‘He knows Dyfed well. I thought he might be of use. Have you sent someone after Father Edern, to shield him from his shadow?’
‘I travel alone, as you know, Owen. The choice was the priest’s life, or that of a man who has a tale to tell that many will be keen to hear.’
Martin’s manner of speaking was the same as Owen remembered it, gently mocking.
‘An amusing tale?’ Iolo asked.
‘No, not amusing. Before I take you to him, there are things I would tell you, Owen. Do you wish Iolo to hear this?’
‘I do.’
‘His name is Rhys ap Llywelyn, the brother of the priest Edern.’
Tangwystl’s missing lover. ‘He had disappeared from St David’s,’ said Owen. ‘How does he come to be here, in your care?’
‘I played Samaritan. Not as well as another who spirited him away from Whitesands, but I flatter myself that he lives because of my care.’
‘Whitesands.’
‘I hope that someone you trust will take him into the bishop’s close and see that he is delivered up to those who will hear his story and mete out justice.’
‘He is the murderer of John de Reine?’
‘If to be the one who thrust the knife into the man’s gut is to be the murderer, yes. But he defended himself against two men, one who had met him on the beach intending to kill him, and Reine, who came upon them and thought to defend the other against Rhys.’
‘Who was this third man?’
‘The one who now follows Father Edern, thinking he will thus find Rhys and finish his interrupted work.’
‘Then Edern is in no danger?’
‘From this man? I do not trust what he will do.’
‘Why did you not deliver Rhys up to the bishop’s council?’
‘He was in no condition to walk in alone and state his case, and I do not wish to call attention to myself. Nor could I warn Father Edern, because with the other near I had to keep Rhys by my side––’ Martin had begun leading them towards the ruined fortress. ‘You need this one witness, and by my count he is innocent. I would save him from the Devil if I can.’
‘Rhys does not know of his brother’s danger?’
‘He must not. He would insist on going after, and he would not survive. You will see how weak he is. If I were he, I, too, would desire to win this battle. The cunning fox has robbed him of his wife, his son––’
‘John Lascelles? But I thought . . .’ Owen paused as Martin shook his head. ‘Gruffydd ap Goronwy?’
‘The very man.’
‘What is your interest in this business?’
‘Can a man not be merely a Samaritan?’
‘Not you.’
Martin laughed, but did not answer the question.
Brother Michaelo wished that he might accompany Mistress Tangwystl to her chamber and stand guard. Sir John might clutch her and worry over her now, but his behaviour had been far less loving before the lady fainted. Michaelo was relieved when a high-born woman shooed the spectators aside and took over, rubbing Tangwystl’s hands and holding a strongly scented cloth to her nose until she coughed and opened her eyes.
‘Come now,’ said the woman to Sir John, ‘you must allow me to make her comfortable whilst you make yourself presentable.’ She looked pointedly at Sir John’s muddy boots. One of the bishop’s clerks joined her.
Tangwystl struggled to sit up. Sir John clung to her, but two determined sets of hands pulled her away and assisted her in standing.
‘Milady is better off walking to her chamber,’ said the gentlewoman. ‘And then she shall rest undisturbed until I see some colour back in her cheeks.’ She called to a servant to see to Sir John’s comfort. ‘You look like a man in need of a drink.’
As the woman and the clerk whisked Tangwystl away, Michaelo prayed that the sanctity of the valley and the proximity of St David’s bones would inspire Sir John to peace. But in truth, the man did not now look threatening as he let a servant guide him out of the crowd.
Michaelo was glad of the quick and peaceful resolution. He hurried away, eager to discover how Master Chaucer had arrived so soon.
He was not disappointed. Master Chaucer awaited him at Sir Robert’s bedside and quickly rose to join Michaelo by the door.
‘
Benedicte
, Brother Michaelo,’ said Geoffrey. ‘God bless you for your quick wit in the hall. I would not have Sir John discover my presence tonight. I have work to do.
We
have work to do. I had thought to bring Sir Robert with me, but . . .’
Benedicte
, Brother Michaelo,’ said Geoffrey. ‘God bless you for your quick wit in the hall. I would not have Sir John discover my presence tonight. I have work to do.
We
have work to do. I had thought to bring Sir Robert with me, but . . .’
‘He should not be disturbed.’ Brother Michaelo glanced over at the bed. The servant assured him that Sir Robert had slept soundly since he departed.
‘He is much worse than when we left for Cydweli,’ Geoffrey said.
Brother Michaelo flushed, hearing criticism in the man’s voice. What could he know of the care Michaelo had lavished on Sir Robert? But perhaps it was a comment innocently meant. ‘Master Thomas, the bishop’s physician, has been here. His physick has quieted the cough and allowed Sir Robert to rest. But he can do little else.’
Geoffrey crossed himself. ‘I hope that the Captain can join him soon.’
Michaelo was disappointed. ‘He is not here, then?’
‘Yes, but not in the city. He is meeting Martin Wirthir at Clegyr Boia.’
‘I hope we did the right thing, summoning you. But how did you come so quickly? It is a miracle.’
‘No miracle. We were approaching Haverfordwest when we met Edmund. We had followed on the heels of John Lascelles, who I see has found his wife. How long has he been in St David’s?’
‘He is just arrived.’ Michaelo told Geoffrey what had happened.
‘Oh, sweet lady, I am sorry she is unwell.’
‘She was well until Sir John appeared. What is this about an attack upon the chaplain?’
‘I shall tell you all while we wait here. But first, do you know the tunnel in the undercroft?’
‘I do.’
‘We are to go down there after the rest of the guests have retired for the night. The Captain may have someone to hand over to our care.’
‘Why the tunnel?’
‘It may be someone who must be kept hidden until the proper time.’
Michaelo thrilled to the prospect of more intrigue. He was developing quite a taste for it. Perhaps he had spent too long in a sickroom.
Martin, Owen and Iolo were picking their way among the ruined walls when they all froze at the sound of someone stumbling on loose rock behind them. They held still, listening. But their shadow also paused. Not likely a dog or lost sheep then.
‘Duncan,’ Iolo said. ‘I can smell him.’ He drew his knife. ‘He is mine.’
‘Bring him to us,’ Owen said as he took the rein from Iolo’s hand. ‘Alive.’
Iolo slipped away from them.
‘This Iolo has the blood-lust?’ Martin asked.
‘If Duncan is here, one of Iolo’s comrades lies somewhere wounded or dead.’
‘Who is this Duncan?’
‘He was sent by the Constable of Cydweli to spy on my activities.’
‘A peculiar use of a spy, to place him openly in your company. This constable did not care whether his man survived?’
‘We are both at present working for Lancaster. It is an uneasy truce. But you are right, it is also a fragile one.’
They heard a shout, a curse, then all was silent except for a lone gull circling overhead.
In a little while Iolo appeared, supporting Duncan, who limped badly. Owen was surprised by the latter’s silence until he saw the gag round his mouth. His hands were also bound behind him.
‘Your man is efficient,’ Martin said. ‘I could use such a man.’
For what, Owen wondered.
‘Come then.’ Martin led them to what seemed a pile of stone that had fallen from a crumbling corner wall of Boia’s fortification. He crouched down, felt along the ground, grabbed the edge of something in his hand. ‘Are you still strong, Captain?’ he asked.
Owen had forgotten Martin had but one hand, so adept had the man become at hiding the fact. Crouching beside Martin, Owen let him guide his hands. The two lifted, and revealed a trapdoor. Light glimmered from a lantern within. Martin knelt at the opening, pulled up a post with cross-beams fashioned into a ladder, and climbed down. The others followed, with Iolo the last, as Duncan needed steadying hands to lower him. Martin pulled the trapdoor closed above them. For one uneasy moment Owen felt as if he were being entombed, but then noticed moonlight above. A smoke hole. What was this place, he wondered as he looked round, a den for smugglers?
It was a low-ceilinged, stone-walled chamber, perhaps once a dungeon or a storage area. In one corner was a raised platform piled with rags, in the middle of the room a bench and a milking stool that held the lantern. In another corner was a chest, atop it two saddles.
‘Where are your horses?’ Owen asked.
‘In a shelter nearby,’ said Martin. He lit an oil-lamp from the lantern.
The rags on the platform moved.
‘Rhys,’ said Martin, ‘I have brought Captain Owen Archer. Owain ap Rhodri to your people. You remember I told you he would help you.’
The man sat up. He was young, with what looked to be fair hair beneath a dirty bandage that encircled his head.
Owen crouched down beside Rhys, saw where the blood oozed. ‘Your ear?’
‘Yes,’ Rhys whispered. His hand hovered over the bandage, but he did not touch it.
Owen saw the pain in the man’s eyes, the lines on his face. And he noted something else, beneath the grime and suffering. ‘I see now what Eleri meant. Your son was made in your image.’
‘You have seen him?’
‘And your lady.’
‘She is well?’
‘Well enough. She is here, in St David’s. Did Martin tell you?’
Rhys glanced at Martin, confused. ‘You did not tell me Tangwystl was here.’
‘I did not wish to tease you with the knowledge until there was someone who might take you inside.’ Martin joined them. ‘His ear was almost severed. A monk stitched it up with care, though Rhys departed before it could heal properly.’
Rhys put a hand on Owen’s. ‘You will take me to her?’
‘I will. And your wounds will be tended.’
‘They will throw me in the dungeon.’
‘By and by, perhaps. But I hope that my father-in-law will be able to keep you hidden for a few days, allow you to regain your strength.’
‘You will take him tonight?’ Martin asked.
‘Aye. We must wait a while, until the palace quiets. Then I shall take him through the tunnel. Sir Robert awaits us on the other side.’
A shuffling sound reminded Owen of Duncan. He had thought to take him back, also, but now he knew too much.
Twenty-three
FOG
W
hile the Cydweli men buoyed their courage with their last skin of wine and watched the swirling shadows beyond the fire’s reach, particularly round the standing stone at the edge of their encampment, Dafydd rested his head against the rough bark of the tree to which he and his companions were tied. He gazed up through the bare, twisted branches, watching the fog twirl and dance around the stars. He was remembering a morning mist that once kept him from the arms of a beauty with slender brows, a promised tryst in a greenwood. How the mist had cloaked the land with a blanket of darkness, stilled the birds, chilled his heart. A fog at evening was not so hopeless. The white, sharp light of the stars and the moon might penetrate it. Such a night was meant for dreaming.
hile the Cydweli men buoyed their courage with their last skin of wine and watched the swirling shadows beyond the fire’s reach, particularly round the standing stone at the edge of their encampment, Dafydd rested his head against the rough bark of the tree to which he and his companions were tied. He gazed up through the bare, twisted branches, watching the fog twirl and dance around the stars. He was remembering a morning mist that once kept him from the arms of a beauty with slender brows, a promised tryst in a greenwood. How the mist had cloaked the land with a blanket of darkness, stilled the birds, chilled his heart. A fog at evening was not so hopeless. The white, sharp light of the stars and the moon might penetrate it. Such a night was meant for dreaming.
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