A Gift of Sanctuary (38 page)
Read A Gift of Sanctuary Online
Authors: Candace Robb
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
‘I do not mean to lose Gruffydd. While the day is fair, my bow will be at hand.’
The company paused on a hilltop overlooking Fishguard harbour, a cluster of houses in an elbow of land, fishing boats upturned on the sand, bobbing in the water. Owen advised against riding down into the town. They would be noticed; Gruffydd would charm the information out of someone there and know to hide. They had begun the descent on the inland side of the outcropping when Iolo, who was now riding vanguard, motioned for them to halt.
Ahead, down on the road, were six horsemen riding south. Two were in white robes. ‘Cistercians,’ Edmund guessed. ‘But what of the others?’
They used the shelter of a stand of trees to move down closer to the road.
‘Only one monk,’ said Martin. ‘The other has no tonsure.’
‘Would Gruffydd ride in such company?’ Owen had imagined him alone. The four in darker robes all wore hats that shaded their faces. But one of the men was Gruffydd’s size.
‘One becomes far less noticeable in a company of travellers,’ Geoffrey suggested. ‘And if I am not mistaken, that is Father Edern riding beside the monk.’
Martin turned in his saddle, asked Owen and Geoffrey, ‘Shall we surprise them?’
Owen dismounted with bow and quiver of arrows, slid down to the edge of the clearing. ‘Go.’ He pulled out an arrow, fitted notch to string, pulled back and sited on Gruffydd. He might kill him, rather than maim him. Was he certain Martin spoke the truth? For if he was not . . . ‘God guide my hand,’ Owen prayed.
Heads turned to see what descended upon them. The white-haired, white-robed man flung his arms up and shouted something. Father Edern seemed to recognise some of the men and called to the monk, who had put spurs to horse. Two of the men, one a giant, rode off in pursuit of Gruffydd.
For Gruffydd, oh, he had not even turned to see who or what pursued him, but had taken off at a gallop angling cleverly up the hill whence the riders had come.
Owen let go the arrow, and as he put another to the string he watched his first hit Gruffydd’s shoulder. The man slid sideways in the saddle, but his stirrups held. Owen aimed, let fly the second arrow. Now Gruffydd jerked forward and down, clutching his thigh. When the giant grabbed his reins, Gruffydd slumped forward, his head resting on his mount’s neck.
Dafydd watched the arrows arch towards Gruffydd and envied the archer. Last night’s firestorm had been a wondrous show, but this – this was far more frightening. That a man, a mortal man, had trained his body to become such a weapon – for what were the bows or the arrows without the man strong enough and with the skill to use them? Dafydd rode towards the stand of trees. He must meet the archer, be the first to praise him. He dismounted.
And what was this? The archer covered one eye to improve his aim? But surely it was the wrong eye. To challenge himself then? Oh, what a man was this, who stood so calmly, his back against the tree, unwinding the string from the bow and watching Dafydd’s approach with head turned so that the uncovered right eye might see him plain. The Norman beard seemed out of place on his Welsh face, but it suited the archer. As did the scar that Dafydd could now see plainly.
‘I am Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. My praise lasts longer than a horse; my love songs would lead a nun astray; my satire kills. I come to praise the Archer,’ he shouted.
The man bowed his head, ‘I am honoured, Master Dafydd,’ he said in a northern accent. ‘I am Owen ap Rhodri ap Maredudd, once captain of archers for the great Henry of Grosmont.’
Fortunate Henry. Dafydd tilted his head, considered the archer’s accent. ‘LlŶn?’
Martin and Owen sat apart from the others, sharing a skin of wine under the trees.
‘You have not lost your skill, my friend,’ said Martin.
‘I did not hit precisely where I intended. The one in the shoulder – it is close to the bone, difficult to remove.’ He and Dyfrig had removed the arrow from Gruffydd’s thigh, but left the one in the shoulder for a barber or physician. Gruffydd had growled when Owen lifted his left hand and asked whose knife had so wounded him, Rhys’s or John de Reine’s. ‘He will be in much pain as the flesh swells round the arrow.’
‘And do you not think he deserves to suffer?’
Geoffrey glanced over towards them with an enigmatic expression. ‘You are watched,’ Owen said to Martin. ‘Gruffydd has denounced you to all as a spy for King Charles of France. And he has told Edern and Dyfrig that the money he keeps is for Owain Lawgoch – that you meant to steal it for the French King.’
‘Brother Dyfrig and Father Edern know me,’ said Martin. ‘They know that Gruffydd lies to save himself.’ Edern had quickly realised how foolish he had been to trust Gruffydd.
‘But Geoffrey . . .’
‘He watches me, I know, though he is much distracted by Dafydd.’ The bard had honoured them by bringing out his harp and singing several of his songs.
‘I was curious to watch Geoffrey and Master Dafydd together,’ said Owen. ‘But so far Geoffrey keeps his distance.’
‘Ah, but he listens.’
‘Geoffrey is ever listening.’
‘Ambrose should be here. He would enjoy Master Dafydd’s songs.’
‘He understands Welsh?’
‘No, but I can hear the meaning of the bard’s words in his voice and the harp.’
Dafydd’s love songs took Owen back to his courtship of Lucie. Though the words were beautiful, they echoed how awkward Owen had felt in the presence of Lucie’s beauty and gentilesse. How he missed her.
And he realised he would miss Martin. ‘When do you leave us?’
‘Soon, my friend. My work is finished, much thanks to your skill. I was right to send for you.’ Martin sat back, looked Owen in the eye. ‘And what of you? Will you stay with Sir Robert until the end? Or will you go off to finish your work at Cydweli?’
‘Sir Robert may live a long while.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Owen looked away, unwilling to answer.
The company were welcomed that night by a farmer and his family who inhabited a large farmhouse. They considered Dafydd’s presence a great honour, and offered up their beds to the company. But first the men feasted on plain but abundant food and drink. All sat in threes on the rush floor. Except Gruffydd, who lay on a pallet by the fire moaning and begging the farmer and his family to have pity on him.
Edern marked the effort. ‘He is exhausted from loss of blood, and yet he manages a remarkable performance.’
‘And what of Martin Wirthir?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Slipping off in the midst of such a company. And no one made note of it.’
Owen saw Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig exchange glances.
‘We should search for him,’ Geoffrey said. ‘You have heard what Gruffydd says of him.’
‘We shall continue south,’ Owen said. ‘We have a murderer to deliver to justice.’
‘But tomorrow we must rest,’ said Brother Dyfrig. ‘It is
Passio Domini
, the beginning of Passiontide.’
Passio Domini
, the beginning of Passiontide.’
‘Is it wise to give Gruffydd another day to work on the sympathies of our hosts?’ asked Owen.
‘I propose that we observe the day as pilgrims,’ Dafydd said, ‘walking rather than riding, and fasting all the day. Would that satisfy our men of God?’
‘The greatest sinner of us all must ride,’ Edern said, nodding towards Gruffydd.
‘Would you prefer to bear him on a litter?’ Geoffrey asked.
Twenty-six
ELERI’S COURAGE
On Monday, in the early afternoon, the weary company dismounted at Bonning’s Gate – even Gruffydd, who all felt had been pampered enough. They led their horses slowly past the houses of the bishop’s archdeacons and the Treasurer of St David’s. At the gate to the bishop’s palace, they were given a message from Brother Michaelo urging Geoffrey and Owen to come at once to the house of William Baldwin, the Archdeacon of Carmarthen.
Owen yearned for refreshment and a chance to cool his feet in some scented water. He was envious of the others, surprised when Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig declared that they, too, would attend the archdeacon.
‘And what of the injured man?’ asked the porter. ‘Do you need assistance with him?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, ‘the archdeacon will wish to see him.’
Dafydd, however, felt no need to attend the meting out of justice. ‘I shall speak with the archdeacon anon, concerning the Cydweli men and their affront to me.’ He strode regally through the gate with his men and Owen’s.
Geoffrey stood beside Owen, watching Dafydd. ‘I wish you had not praised his poetry. I should like to think he is all show and no substance.’
‘Perhaps you shall look back on him when you are his age and think him not so strange.’
‘For that I would need to be Welsh.’
Laughing, Owen turned to follow the others. Geoffrey hurried to join him. Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig walked on either side of Gruffydd, steadying him when he stumbled. Their halting procession was watched by many as they crossed Llechllafar.
The Archdeacon of Carmarthen’s was a grand house, set off from the other archdeaconries in a meadow across the river from the palace, towards Patrick’s Gate. Their unexpected numbers flustered the archdeacon’s clerk, who left them standing at the door while he hurried off to consult with his master. But he soon returned, leading them into the archdeacon’s hall and seating them in the rear.
A group of petitioners were apparently there before them. Brother Michaelo stood to one side, listening. But as Owen’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he was astonished. That Rhys ap Llywelyn, John Lascelles and Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd stood before the Archdeacon of Carmarthen did not surprise him. But they were accompanied by Eleri ferch Hywel, the maid Gladys and Richard de Burley.
It was Burley who spoke. ‘. . . Gladys had come forth, fearing God’s wrath over the murderer’s, and told me she had heard loud voices, ran to Father Francis’s room. Gruffydd shouted, “You shall pay for this,” as he shook Father Francis. The chaplain shouted a curse. Gruffydd hit him, then threw him to the floor.’
‘Who tells such lies of me?’ Gruffydd cried out, rising from his seat at the rear of the hall. ‘Who tells such lies?’
At the sound of his voice, Eleri had stiffened. She now turned, walked slowly towards the voice.
‘Eleri?’ Gruffydd sank back down. ‘What have they done to you? Who brought you here?’
‘Who?’ She cocked her head. Her gait was slow and halting, like that of a sleepwalker. ‘Who brought me here?’ she asked in calm voice. ‘But my husband, you did. You tore us from our home, tore our daughter from her husband and her child. But that was nothing. Nothing compared to what I have heard today, husband.’ She stood over him. ‘You killed the son of the man who tried to help us.’
‘I did not kill him, Eleri.’ Gruffydd’s voice was suddenly gentle, caressing. ‘It was Rhys. And you would have him marry our daughter?’
‘What did
I
marry?’ she cried, clenching her fists. ‘
Who
did I marry?’
I
marry?’ she cried, clenching her fists. ‘
Who
did I marry?’
Gruffydd looked round at the others. ‘In God’s name, she should not be here.’
Father Edern moved towards Eleri. ‘Come. I will––’
‘No.’ The word came from deep in Eleri’s throat. ‘No,’ she moaned, and threw herself upon her husband, tipping him to the ground. She grabbed his hair, lifted his head, and brought it down hard on the stone floor.
‘Mother!’ Tangwystl cried, running to her.
Eleri pounded Gruffydd’s face with her fists.
Owen pulled Eleri away. Dyfrig knelt to Gruffydd, who breathed raggedly.
‘Hang him! Hang him for all to see!’ Eleri shrieked as Owen picked her up and carried her from the room.
Owen lay on a bench staring unseeing at the sky. His thoughts were with the Archdeacon of Carmarthen. If it were Owen’s to rule on Gruffydd, would he send him to Pembroke? Or hang him at the crossroads, as Eleri wished?
‘They tell me that your wife is a beauty and a Master Apothecary.’ Dafydd’s face displaced the sky.
Owen sat up.
Dafydd joined him on the bench with a sigh. ‘It is a pity she did not accompany you.’
‘I feel her absence keenly.’
‘You left the deliberations. You are displeased with the archdeacon’s judgement?’
‘He had not as yet come to any decisions. In truth I withdrew because Master Chaucer clearly needs no assistance. He understands the law and has the honeyed tongue of a poet.’
‘Geoffrey Chaucer a poet? He looks like a cleric and behaves like the King’s fool. Surely he is no poet.’
Should Owen tell him that Geoffrey thought Dafydd a proper fool? He thought not. ‘It is true Geoffrey does not play the bard. But he is cunning. And his jesting distracts folk so they do not notice how closely he studies them. We shall all be in his poems some day, mark me.’
‘You describe a lawyer, not a poet.’
‘What do I know of such things?’ Owen motioned towards the archdeacon’s door. ‘It opens.’
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