A Gift Of Sanctuary (Owen Archer Book 6)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Crumbling walls is all.’

  Owen was disappointed, but as the magic of his daydream faded he was pleased to find two of the bishop’s retainers waiting at the top of the mound, with several grooms, the cart bearing the coffin, and the men’s horses.

  By the end of the first day, Owen witnessed nothing to criticise in Edern’s behaviour. In fact, Edern had made the journey more comfortable than Owen had expected. His knowledge of the countryside was thorough. He had guided them to the pilgrim road, skirting the city to the north and east along farmers’ tracks. He knew where to turn off the road to find streams with fresh water, even a farmhouse at which they were offered cider for a good tale at midday. The scowls receded from his men’s faces, though young Tom’s eyes still anxiously flitted from shadow to shadow.

  In the late afternoon sun Owen studied Edern while he asked a passing tinker the conditions of the rivers they must cross in the next few days. The vicar was a nondescript man, pale hair neither red nor blond, grey eyes, freckled complexion, no scars or ticks; the most notable element of his face was his mouth, narrow yet with uncommonly full lips. He was slender, seemingly unmuscular, but he had ridden and walked with undiminished energy throughout the day’s journey, and kept his temper, answering all questions patiently and completely enough that no one found cause to complain. Iolo, who tried to stay as close to him as he might, was looking tired.

  Or perhaps it was the odour of the corpse affecting Iolo’s mood. As the afternoon sun beat down on the pine box, lined though it was, and covered with a heavy canvas cloth, it warmed the decomposing John de Reine, causing all in the company to move as far from the cart as they could while still protecting it.

  ‘An unwelcome reminder of our mortality,’ Geoffrey said when Owen wondered aloud whether they would ever wash the odour from their hair and clothes.

  Poor Tom had the task of driving the cart for the afternoon.

  All were glad to see Haverfordwest rise out of the fields ahead; the priory was just south of the town. They rode in solemn procession along the busy road that led south between the town walls and the Western Cleddau River, past the Dominican friary. Folk covered their faces and stood aside to let the company pass. But despite the grim burden the company was welcomed by the hospitaller at St Thomas’s, the Augustinian priory. And so the first day of their journey ended around a table in the guesthouse, the wooden box safely tucked away in a shed built against the far wall of the enclosure. Much to his relief, Owen found that a cup of the canons’ strong ale masked the bad taste in his mouth sufficiently to kindle his appetite.

  The second morning brought a cool drizzle, which all welcomed. With a good night’s sleep and a respite from the stench of their burden, they began the day’s journey with more goodwill than the day before. And having found no fault in either Edern’s behaviour or that of any of the bishop’s men, Owen’s men began to relax about the strangers in their company.

  The road east from Haverfordwest was empty of pilgrims. In the early morning the company passed farmers approaching the town with carts of produce, and later in the day they met an occasional messenger or small group of weary travellers. The men settled into the slow, steady progress and talked quietly among themselves. They reached their rest at Whitland Abbey without incident, although the abbot told a tale of armed guards from Cydweli who had disturbed the peace of the abbey two nights earlier. He had refused them hospitality until they surrendered their weapons. They told a desperate tale of the theft of the exchequer. The abbot had assured them that there were no thieves in Whitland Abbey, and no weapons. For the sake of a dry bed and plentiful food, the men had at last given up their weapons to the porter.

  On the third day Owen’s company started out with cautious cheer, hoping that by early evening they should be freed of their burden in Cydweli. Clouds hung low overhead and a cool wind stirred the branches heavy with buds. But by late morning the clouds darkened ominously and the wind whipped their cloaks about them. As the company drew near St Clears, Edern advised a halt at the abbey, perhaps until morning.

  ‘You do not want to ride the Llansteffan ferry during a storm or just afterwards, when the river is swollen. Not with a cart,’ he warned.

  The men were huddled in their cloaks, fighting against the wind and yet disappointed about the delay, when Iolo, riding vanguard, cried out that a small armed party approached on horseback, wearing Lancaster’s livery. Edern nodded towards a hefty presence on the forward mount. ‘Burley himself. We are honoured.’ An encounter long anticipated, and dreaded.

  Owen called to the company to stop. Burley’s company, three men in all, halted a horse’s length from Iolo. Owen and Geoffrey rode forward.

  The one pointed out by Edern straightened in the saddle and barked, ‘Richard de Burley, Constable of Cydweli.’ Solidly cast, though Owen guessed he would prove short when dismounted, and the chain-mail he wore no doubt padded him slightly. He had a nose much broken so it lay flat against his face, an upper lip shortened by a tight scar beneath his nose, a strong chin, and glowering eyes under pale brows. He looked the part of a constable.

  ‘Captain Owen Archer and Master Geoffrey Chaucer,’ Owen said. The man would know their names.

  Burley nodded. ‘Some in your party wear the livery of Bishop Houghton.’ His men dismounted in response to a slight gesture from the constable. ‘Are they also bound for Cydweli?’

  ‘They are.’

  Burley’s men came forward. Owen nodded, and his men dismounted. Burley’s men paused.

  ‘We welcome you to accompany us to St Clears, where we mean to wait out the storm,’ Owen said. ‘There we shall answer your questions as best we may.’

  ‘What do you carry concealed beneath the canvas?’ Burley demanded, nodding at the cart. Not by the slightest tick did he acknowledge Owen’s invitation.

  ‘I wonder you need ask,’ Owen said. ‘Surely the perfume of decay surrounds our party?’

  Burley sniffed, but his expression remained frozen, his eyes unmoving. Owen grudgingly admired the man’s discipline. But to what purpose did he make such effort? ‘One of your men?’ Burley asked.

  Owen could see no benefit to answering more questions at the moment. ‘As I said, we shall gladly tell you all when we are safely within the abbey.’ He motioned his men forward, separating and riding round Burley and his two companions, the cart rattling by with Edern guarding the rear. The constable and the vicar eyed each other with mutual hostility.

  ‘You show poor judgement in your choice of clerics, Captain,’ Burley shouted as he turned his men round to follow.

  St Clears was a small Cluniac foundation, two monks and a few lay servants – an unexpected company of sixteen would be difficult to accommodate, but Owen preferred talking of John de Reine’s mysterious death within the walls of an abbey, where it was hoped Burley would feel constrained by the sanctity of the place. Not that the monks of St Clears often felt so constrained – Edern had entertained Owen and Geoffrey since they decided to stop with tales of the colourful inhabitants and their notoriety since the foundation.

  ‘They will offer good ale and perhaps wine,’ Edern had said, ‘which will help the men ignore the filthy accommodations.’

  It seemed an appropriate place in which to confer with Richard de Burley.

  Burley had taken the best chair in the room, the only one with both back and arms, and rested his muddy boots on the edge of the bench on which Geoffrey perched. The constable did not interrupt Geoffrey’s statement of the few facts he had concerning the death of John de Reine, and in what wise the corpse had arrived at St David’s. When Geoffrey was finished, Burley sat back in his chair, hands gripping the arms, and frowned at the ceiling while moving his head slowly from side to side. ‘Reine was to meet you in Carreg Cennen,’ he muttered as if to himself. ‘He left before the thief struck the exchequer at Cydweli. And yet – had he word on the road that the thief was in flight to St David’s? No, no, how could that be? What took him westward?’
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  ‘We, too, found it a riddle,’ Geoffrey said. ‘The constable of Carreg Cennen had received no word of a change of plans.’

  They sat in the main room of what was generously called the guesthouse, a farmhouse with a roof much neglected and a mud floor that sucked at their boots. Owen had suggested they talk in this quiet moment while the rest of their parties were busy in the stables with the horses, some frightened by the lightning, and the abbot and one monk in residence had not yet joined them.

  Burley gave up his contemplation of the waterfalls between the sagging ceiling timbers and squinted at Geoffrey. ‘I wondered at your choice of Reine to head the recruits,’ he said. ‘I predicted you would wish you had consulted me.’

  ‘Reine was not up to the task?’ Geoffrey asked.

  ‘Who recommended him to you?’ Burley asked.

  Owen sat beneath the one window, using the light to mend a fraying saddle strap. ‘The matter was fixed before we were assigned this mission,’ he said, not bothering to look up at Burley.

  Burley grunted, then grew quiet as a bolt of lightning was followed quickly by a clap of thunder that shook the roof. Men shouted without, geese squawked, a horse neighed in terror. ‘Why does Father Edern travel with you?’ Burley asked suddenly.

  Now Owen glanced up. ‘The bishop wished to show his respect by providing an escort befitting the son of Cydweli’s steward.’

  ‘Admirable, if true,’ Burley said as they were interrupted by the entrance of a train of servants bearing boards and benches.

  In the evening, after a filling but peculiar meal of bread pebbly with beans and a root-vegetable stew that tasted much like the bread, Owen sought out a last word with Burley.

  ‘Are we likely to meet more of your men between here and Cydweli? If so, I might ask for the loan of one of your men to assure them we had already explained our mission to you.’

  Burley coughed up phlegm and spit just past Owen’s boots. ‘Would my men and I spend the night in this stinking stable if we did not plan to escort you ourselves?’

  That was precisely what Owen had wondered – why they had not had their talk and then parted ways. The storm had eased to a gentle rain. Without a cart they might risk moving on to more comfortable accommodations at Whitland Abbey. ‘I do not mean to delay you in your business. The loan of one man . . .’

  ‘I should attend Reine’s requiem Mass,’ Burley said. ‘You are a captain, you understand the importance of showing respect for the fallen. My men will expect it.’

  ‘Aye,’ Owen said. ‘Then we shall meet in the yard at first light.’

  ‘We shall meet when we wake to piss, Captain. Or did you expect me to sleep with my men and the horses?’

  Seven

  CYDWELI

  They crossed the Towy on the ferry at Llansteffan, where the river widened to join the sea in the shadow of the castle set high on the bluff. It had begun to rain again, no more than a mist, but it made what would normally be a damp crossing even more unpleasant. The current was choppy, the river swollen with the spring rains, and Owen watched in sympathy as Tom, the youngest of his men, tried to hide his sickness from the others.

  ‘Never sailed the sea?’ Iolo asked softly as he steadied the young man’s horse, frightened by his handler’s jerky movements.

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘You have done the right thing, letting the sickness come. Best not to fight it. Oft-times a man will discover he is fine once he is empty.’

  Edern handed Tom a wineskin. ‘Get rid of the taste.’ He nodded at the young man’s thanks, but did not smile. Still angry about Burley’s men taking over the care of the cart, no doubt.

  Once across, they had to wait for the second load, which included the cart. Owen lifted his hood as the soft rain quickened. Midday and he already felt a chill in his left shoulder. An old wound. Steel left its mark, caught the cold ever after. His mother had predicted such wounds. On his parting from her many years before, she had given him a jar of mustard, warned him to keep a supply with him always. Mustard heats the lingering ghost of the sword. Why his shoulder, but not his eye? It was a dagger that had sliced his eye and blinded him. Why did his eye not ache in the cold damp?

  Fragmented childhood memories bedevilled him. The pain when his foot slipped between two frosty rocks as he searched for a lost dog in the mountains, his cries for help echoing loudly in the wintry silence, holding his breath then, terrified that his cries might invite an avalanche of snow. His mother’s mash of rosemary and sage to heat the children’s blood in winter. Lighting her along a steep track to help with the birth of a neighbour’s child. The back-breaking work of reclaiming the kitchen garden in a spring thaw, removing the rocks that had rolled down from the heights in the snow and rain. He had expected his thoughts to turn to Cydweli, but all these were of a far earlier time, in the north, in Gwynedd.

  When Owen was fifteen his family lost their sheep to a murrain. Their kin shared what they could, but Owen’s father said it was a charity his brothers and cousins could ill afford, as they, too, were struggling. It did not help that Rhodri ap Maredudd, Owen’s father, was a proud man. When he heard that in the south Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster and lord of Cydweli, was allowing families to settle on escheated land if they had a son who would join his army as an archer, Rhodri ap Maredudd saw a way to save his honour and his family. Owen was an excellent archer. And Cydweli was south – the land would be kinder. But Owen’s mother had found it difficult enough to leave Clwyd for Gwynedd when she married; to move south – it had sounded like death to her.

  It was a measure of Rhodri’s desperation that he uprooted the family and took them south before ascertaining the truth of the rumour, for rumour it was; the Duke of Lancaster had made no such offer. But the constable of Cydweli, a man who knew the worth of a good archer, asked to see Owen shoot. Impressed, he had spoken to the steward. Rhodri ap Maredudd was given a small farm north of the town. It was what he had wished for, but it proved a disappointment. The soil was thin, though better than in the north, and their neighbours resented them for taking over the land of a man whose family had lived there for many generations, which he had forfeited for little else than being a Welshman with a careless tongue.

  ‘Are they good memories?’ Geoffrey asked, breaking into Owen’s reverie.

  Owen threw back his hood, let the rain cool him, glanced round. The cart had arrived across the river, and the men were remounting their horses. ‘It is a hard thing, returning after all this time.’

  It was early afternoon before they crested the hill known as Mons Salomonis that separated Cydweli from the Towy. At last Owen saw before him the white walls of Cydweli Castle.

  ‘You can see why the Duke calls it the pride of his Marcher holdings,’ Burley said, joining Owen at the edge of the track.

  ‘The pride? It looks to me as if he finds it wanting.’ Stonemasons stood on scaffolding surrounding the south gatehouse, which already looked much larger than Owen remembered.

  ‘All castles in the Marches require improved fortifications with the years else the natives grow too confident.’

  Owen felt Burley watching him for a reaction. He did not oblige him, but quietly studied the castle. It was within the magnificent whitewashed walls of the stronghold that his skill at archery had won him a place among Henry of Grosmont’s Welsh archers. As Owen watched, a man atop one of the towers turned their way, then ducked down and disappeared. To announce their approach, no doubt.

  Geoffrey slipped in between Owen and Burley. ‘It is a poor introduction, to come bearing the corpse of one of their own,’ he said, nodding towards the castle.

  It was true that Lascelles must both wish for and dread their news. And now they would arrive with the worst news a father can hear. Owen had not yet experienced such a dark day, but he well remembered his despair when Jasper, not even yet his adopted son, disappeared and they feared him dead.

  ‘At least we have brought him the body, so that he may know that his so
n is buried in hallowed ground.’

  ‘A small comfort.’ Geoffrey’s eyes were dull and sunken. He had found it difficult to sleep since they left St David’s.

  ‘We shall walk lighter once we have delivered our burden.’

  ‘True. For that I am deeply grateful.’

  In a little while they resumed their slow approach, dipping down into Scholand, the ragtag cluster of tenements that led into Ditch Street and so to the south gate of Cydweli. The cart drew the curious and then sent them scurrying away, full of dread.

  At the town’s south gate, the gatekeeper walked forth to meet the party. One great hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his dagger, he rocked towards them in an awkward, bow-legged waddle.

  Geoffrey leaned close to Owen and muttered, ‘I wonder whether he must needs let go his sword to press back his belly in order to withdraw his dagger.’

  Happily unaware of his comical appearance, the gatekeeper demanded to know their business in a swaggering manner and an English so accented that it sounded like Welsh.

  ‘These men are with me,’ Burley barked.

  The gatekeeper bowed stiffly towards the constable. ‘That is as may be, Constable, but my orders are to confront all strangers.’

  With a curse, Burley waved his own men past the stubborn gatekeeper. The man in charge of the cart jumped down gladly. ‘We shall await you by the castle gatehouse,’ Burley shouted to Owen’s party.

  Geoffrey had dismounted and now solemnly produced his orders from the Duke. The gatekeeper squinted down at the parchment, up at Geoffrey, obviously unable to read. ‘You wear the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. So you will be for the castle?’

  ‘My business is with the steward and the Constable of Cydweli, yes,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘This seems to be in order,’ the gatekeeper said as he returned the parchment. ‘See you make your way direct to the castle, milord.’

  ‘Surely a pause at the tavern . . . ?’