A Gift Of Sanctuary (Owen Archer Book 6)

by Candace Robb

  ‘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 . . .’

  ‘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

  While 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 moo
n might penetrate it. Such a night was meant for dreaming.

  And yet these English cursed it. What had they hoped for? To ride all through the night? Had they mistresses in St David’s?

  ‘It is the stone,’ said Madog. ‘They do not like the stone.’

  ‘Nor have they liked the crosses along the way,’ said Brother Dyfrig, ‘though they call themselves Christians.’

  ‘I do not like the standing stones at nightfall,’ said Cadwal. ‘We are near a burial chamber, did you know? On the hill above us. I feel them up there, watching us. This stone by our camp is a part of their burial honour. They do not like us to be here.’

  Dafydd pitied Cadwal. He paid for his strength and size with a fear of the Otherworld that could be as crippling as a physical weakness. ‘What do you fear? That the dead will rise and smite you for camping near their grave? Why should they care about you? And on such a night? Why would they leave the Otherworld to shiver in such dampness? To trip over their gossamer garments?’

  ‘Are you making a poem?’ Dyfrig growled.

  ‘Perhaps. Have you an entertainment to propose? But of course you will spend this time in prayer.’ Though Dafydd had seen precious little prayerful behaviour in the monk.

  ‘It is a pity you did not think to recruit help from Newcastle Emlyn. It was not far from Maelgwn’s farm,’ said Dyfrig. ‘We would not be dragged through the countryside starving had you planned better.’

  Dafydd laughed. ‘My uncle, Llywelyn ap Gwilym, was constable of the castle, but he is long dead. And his son tolerates me only so long as he hears no tales of mischief. He would chase me from the house if he knew of my offering sanctuary to the wretched boy. He would not understand. Besides, the castle is not so close to Maelgwn’s farm. You clutch at the air with your complaint.’

  ‘Would that I could clutch at something,’ Dyfrig said. ‘I can feel nothing in either arm.’

  ‘Be grateful,’ said Madog. ‘Last night you could not bear the pain.’

  Brother Dyfrig truly suffered more than the others. His broken arm was splinted and bound close to his body, but even so he endured much pain from the jostling ride, and today he had fallen on his arm as he dismounted. Their captors had merely laughed.

  ‘I would rather feel the pain than nothing,’ Dyfrig said.

  Cadwal hushed them.

  ‘What is it?’ Dafydd asked.

  The giant sat with head cocked, listening to the darkness behind them. ‘Horses. Back beyond the light,’ he whispered.

  ‘Dyfrig,’ a voice called softly. It might almost be mistaken for the wind in the brush. Still, Dafydd held his breath, fearful that their captors had heard. But their own loud talk and the crackling fire must have masked the sound, for no shouts challenged the darkness.

  ‘It is Father Edern. And a friend. We shall cut your bonds when the fire dies down.’

  Dafydd, overjoyed to be saved, strained to see the priest, but the fog still blurred the brush.

  All four captives grew quiet, listening to the darkness.

  ‘They notice your silence,’ Edern whispered.

  ‘Aye, they look this way,’ Cadwal hissed. He and Dyfrig were bound to the side of the tree facing into the clearing.

  ‘Chatter among yourselves as before,’ Edern whispered. ‘But not so loud they understand you.’

  Cadwal was the first to start muttering. He worried about their horses. How were they to escape their captors without horses?

  Madog joined in. He saw no problem. While their captors slept, they would take all of the horses.

  ‘But we cannot ride tonight,’ whispered Dafydd. ‘We would lose ourselves in the fog and risk the horses.’

  ‘We take shelter nearby till morning,’ Madog murmured. ‘Perhaps the burial chamber.’

  Cadwal groaned.

  ‘What if they find us before morning?’ Dafydd wondered.

  ‘We should fall on them and bind them up,’ Cadwal hissed. ‘Then we wait here until dawn. We are now six against four and three of them are already wounded.’

  ‘So am I,’ Dyfrig muttered.

  Dafydd warmed to the new adventure. ‘We shall attack them while they sleep.’

  ‘They will not sleep,’ Dyfrig whispered. ‘Surely one skin of wine passed among four soldiers would not put them to sleep.’

  ‘But look at them,’ said Cadwal, ‘they rub their eyes, sink lower on to their blankets.’

  Dafydd could not see them, being tied to the tree facing away, with Madog. ‘Perhaps they have at last found the wine with poppy juice,’ Dafydd whispered. ‘I meant it for Brother Samson, but Maelgwn did not seem to need it. I thought it might ease the pilgrim when we find him, for surely his wound has opened with his flight.’

  ‘I was sorely in need of it yesterday,’ muttered Dyfrig.

  ‘I did not think our captors would give it you,’ Dafydd whispered. God watched over them, to let their captors find that wine tonight. But Dafydd prayed that they had not dug deeper into his saddle-bag.

  ‘Drop your heads now,’ Edern whispered from the darkness. ‘Make them think you sleep.’

  The floor of the tunnel was slippery. Owen shone the lantern over the walls and ceiling and saw how the stones seeped. At the edges of the floor lay piles of debris and crumbled stone. When Owen had passed this way with Father Edern he had not allowed his eye to wander round, anxious to reassure his men, not add his unease to their fears. For he did not like being beneath the earth, in a stone vault. And seeing how stone had been hollowed for this purpose, he thought now this must be the work of the Old Ones, those who had cut the great stones for the burial cairns, who had lifted them into the air to rest on the upright stones. He must have a care not to step into the Otherworld.

  Rhys was unsteady on his feet and walked with an odd, rocking motion from side to side, catching himself on alternating sides of the wall with outstretched hands. Owen imagined his hand slipping through the wall to the Otherworld. His hand, arm, head, body would disappear . . .

  ‘I do not like this place,’ Rhys whispered.

  ‘Nor do I. And I must return alone. While you are being tended, given wine, a pallet on which to sleep, I shall be crawling back to Clegyr Boia. Think on that and thank God you are not me.’ As for Owen, he might be relieved to move more quickly when not encumbered with his weak companion, but he thought he much preferred having human company to share the darkness.

  ‘What is that?’ Rhys hissed. ‘A darkness up ahead.’

  Owen shone the lantern. ‘The door. We are at the palace undercroft.’ He pushed on the door gently, not wishing to alert the wrong person to their presence. It did not move. ‘Now we must await our deliverers.’ Owen shuttered the lantern to allow only a faint light, eased down on to the stone floor. At least this close to the palace it was dry. But uneven. It was difficult to find a comfortable seat.

  Rhys crouched down beside him. ‘This is a hellish spot.’ His voice trembled, with weariness, Owen guessed, not fear. His breathing was laboured though it had not been a difficult journey.

  Owen shone the thin line of light up the tunnel. ‘There. We should see anything that cares to approach.’

  ‘What if no one comes to unbar the door?’

  ‘Then we return to Clegyr Boia. But let us not be hasty. They must await a quiet moment, when no servants are about. Sit down. Your legs will cramp if you crouch like that for long. Tell me about that day on Whitesands.’

  Rhys eased himself down against the opposite wall so he faced Owen. ‘I do not like to think on that day.’

  ‘The Archdeacon of Carmarthen will have the same request. It will go easier if you have rehearsed it. Come. You owe me something, do you not think so?’

  Rhys bowed his head. Again he held his hand over the bleeding ear, though he did not touch it. ‘I have no need to rehearse it. I cannot forget it. His eyes. I have seen the eyes of the Devil, burning with hate.’ Rhys’s words echoed as he fell silent a while, if not speaking but breathing quickly in pain might be called
silent.

  Owen did not like Rhys talking of the Devil in this dark place.

  In a while, Rhys raised his head. ‘You have seen my son, and Tangwystl. You see what I have lost.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘All for the greed of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. I cannot believe that my love carries any of his blood in her veins.’

  ‘He betrayed you to save his family.’

  ‘That is what he says. He was entrusted with money for Owain Lawgoch collected by his supporters. One of Owain’s men was to land in Tenby and come to his house for it. But when he came, Gruffydd said he had it not. Others knew that he did. What had he done with it? That is what robbed his family of their home, their name. Owain’s man disappeared, but before long it was heard that someone had denounced Gruffydd to my Lady Pembroke.’

  ‘Did Gruffydd not need money for your marriage to Tangwystl?’

  ‘Did he plan to use Owain’s money for our wedding? Perhaps. But I do not believe it. Still. When I received the message that he had come to St David’s to talk to me, I hoped––’ Rhys put his hand to his ear. ‘It burns.’

  ‘Aye. I do not doubt it. How did you come to meet him at Whitesands?’

  ‘I was here, in the bishop’s palace, waiting to present my petition to the bishop. I hoped Bishop Adam would annul Tangwystl’s marriage to Sir John, seeing that we were already pledged to one another. One day a pilgrim just arrived sought me out, said a man with a silver wing over his temple awaited me at Whitesands. That I would learn something that would help my petition.’

  ‘And so you went to Gruffydd, hoping he wished to put things right.’

  ‘I do not think I had such hope. But news of Tangwystl and my son, I wished to know they were safe and thought of me. He did have news, told me Tangwystl believed I had abandoned her fearing I might bring my family down with hers. But I should be comforted to know that she loved John Lascelles, and that Sir John told all that Hedyn was his son. I had not seen Gruffydd’s greed in all my troubles until that day on the beach. In my anger I said too much. I told him that I meant to tell the bishop the truth of Pembroke’s accusation. He fell on me. I saw in his eyes that he meant to kill me. He is a strong man, and larger than me. And he was well armed. But suddenly he fell away and cried, “Murderer! Help me!” And another man now fell on me, sliced at my throat, but caught my ear. I thrust with my knife. Dear God, I shall never forget the feeling, as if my arm went through him, so deep went the knife. And my ear. Sweet Jesus, I thought I was burning in Hell, the pain was so hot. I pressed my head to the cool sand. I think I must have been screaming and screaming with the pain. But no one heard. And I remember nothing else until a tall, white-haired man lifted me to his horse.’