A Gift Of Sanctuary (Owen Archer Book 6)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Because of the child?’ Geoffrey asked. Owen had told him about Hedyn and the misunderstanding between Tangwystl and Sir John regarding the boy’s status.

  ‘Certes the child is a tragedy, but more so are her feelings for the lad’s father. I blame that schemer, Gruffydd ap Goronwy. Sir John swears he had no idea that the young woman apparently considered herself married to the young man, and I accept his word on that – he is not the sort of fool to pursue a woman who cannot possibly pledge her heart to him. He believed she had been abandoned by the young man. And surely Gruffydd had cause to let him think so.’ Houghton paused, dropped his head, seemed to withdraw into his thoughts for a moment. ‘And yet when I said to Sir John that he was better off without his Welsh wife, that considering the rumours surrounding her father it had been a most unsuitable marriage for him, and that now he might remedy it by acknowledging that they had wed when she was already bound to another, he refused to hear of it. Foolish, stubborn man. “I will have her!” he shouted.’

  ‘What is to be done?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘If Sir John is determined to keep her, who is to dissuade him?’

  ‘In truth, when our friend the Duke informed me of your coming, I was surprised that you were not carrying letters to Sir John and myself ordering that the marriage be annulled. It was a dangerous choice, the daughter of a traitor, for such a key man in the Duke’s Marches. I do not understand Lancaster’s hesitation.’

  Owen did. ‘Until now the Duke had no cause to question Sir John’s loyalty. He thought to wait until he had our report.’

  ‘I fear neither Sir John nor his lady will wait for that,’ Geoffrey said.

  Houghton slapped his thighs. ‘It is in the hands of the Church now. It must be.’

  Owen asked what he proposed.

  ‘If we find that Mistress Tangwystl (for that is how she wishes to be known) was bound to the father of her son by law – any law – we shall dissolve Sir John’s marriage. And then there is the letter Father Francis signed.’

  ‘And Gladys was called to witness,’ Geoffrey whispered to Owen.

  Houghton frowned. ‘Gladys?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ Owen said. ‘Can you tell us what the letter said?’

  ‘You may read it if you like.’ Houghton drew a rolled document from his sleeve. ‘Mistress Tangwystl carries the copy I had my secretary make. I planned to send this original with my own comments to William Baldwin, Archdeacon of Carmarthen.’

  It was as Owen had guessed, Tangwystl claimed the right to separate from her husband after finding him thrice bedding Gladys, and Father Francis had signed as a witness. Shortly before he died, if Gladys’s story was true, and so far Owen had found no cause to doubt her.

  Geoffrey, reading over Owen’s shoulder, asked, ‘What of Mistress Tangwystl’s family? Was not the purpose of the marriage to save her family? Did she not win them a home through it?’

  Houghton took back the document, rolled it up and stuck it back up his sleeve. ‘Sir John has been a fool all round, it seems.’

  ‘My lord,’ Geoffrey began, ‘the maid Gladys––’

  ‘––is a woman of considerable charms,’ Owen said. He smiled at Geoffrey’s irritated look. It was not the time to distract the bishop with details of Tangwystl’s scheme.

  ‘Mistress Tangwystl is also a woman of considerable charms,’ Houghton said. ‘And Sir John’s wife. He should have looked to home.’ He clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them for a moment, frowning down at the ground, which was now dark beneath the trees that caught the twilight in their branches. ‘God will be the judge of Gruffydd ap Goronwy. Perhaps we already see God’s hand in this trouble.’

  Owen thought of Eleri and Awena. What would become of them?

  ‘I do not expect Sir John’s family to be troubled by an annulment,’ Houghton said. ‘I should think they are far more troubled by the marriage itself. He has not taken his wife to England to meet any of his kin – did you know? Yes, I can see that you did.’

  ‘You said that you sent Mistress Tangwystl somewhere,’ Owen said.

  ‘To St David’s. By now I should think she is safely quartered in the palace.’

  ‘Why is Father Edern helping her in this?’ Geoffrey asked.

  Houghton glanced up as the light disappeared, creating a sudden chill. ‘Father Edern, Edern ap Llywelyn, is the uncle of Mistress Tangwystl’s child.’

  Sly creature, dissembling fox. Owen must clutch the bench to stay there and listen to the bishop’s meandering tale. He wanted action. He wanted Edern.

  But why had the vicar chosen this moment to take Tangwystl from Cydweli? What had the letter and her flight to do with the chaplain’s beating?

  ‘As they have all come to me I mean to settle this matter,’ Houghton was saying. ‘The Archdeacon of Carmarthen shall hear their stories, their pleas, and judge the case, Cydweli being in the archdeaconry of Carmarthen. And yet there is a problem – the father of Tangwystl’s child must also attend to this matter, but he is missing. He was there, you know, at St David’s, had come with a petition to see me, and then he vanished.’

  ‘The young man who left his belongings at the palace,’ Owen said. ‘Does Edern know where to find him?’

  ‘No.’

  A scenario came to Owen. What else might have distracted John de Reine from his meeting with Owen and Geoffrey but a greater challenge to his father’s honour? A motive so personal it had confounded Owen, who had looked for political causes.

  ‘Perhaps we know why he disappeared,’ said Owen. ‘Suppose this young man, Rhys ap Llywelyn, and John de Reine met on Whitesands to test the honour of their two households – in combat.’

  The bishop’s eyes were sad. ‘If you are right, I fear we have a tragedy on our hands. Rhys ap Llywelyn is the victor, but in law he is a murderer. He must answer for that at the tourn of his lordship, which would be Pembroke, unless Hastings’ chief steward agreed to allow him to be tried by Lancaster’s great court – at which John Lascelles resides. Either way, I do not see the possibility of his buying a redemptio vitae.’ Houghton had folded his hands in his lap as he spoke, and now dropped his head, as if praying.

  His summation was met with silence. Geoffrey closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, side to side, as if disbelieving. Owen marvelled at the bishop’s clarity of mind.

  As the sun set, a breeze fluttered across the lately tilled garden beds and whispered in the branches, dimly lit by torchlight spilling over the garden wall from the courtyard. It was a chilly breeze. Bishop Houghton rubbed his hands together. Geoffrey rose and asked for the nearest privy.

  While Geoffrey disappeared round the corner of the kitchen, Owen and the bishop moved to the courtyard, which was more protected from the evening air.

  ‘How much of this does Sir John know?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Only that his wife was here and now is safe in the palace of St David’s, and that my archdeacon shall consider their case. I also promised a Welsh judge in attendance to explain her arguments, which are based on the law of Hywel Dda.’

  ‘And Mistress Tangwystl? Does she know you believe Rhys to be a murderer?’

  Houghton snorted. ‘Do you think that a man of the cloth does not understand how the heart rules in love?’

  ‘You took a risk, trusting both to obey you.’

  ‘I saw no reason for Mistress Tangwystl to do otherwise. But Sir John – all day my mind misgave me. But was I to lock him up in my dungeon? He is too high in the Duke’s service to treat him thus. In the morning you must hurry, catch him, guide him to a safe harbour.’

  And keep him away from his wife and the vicar? For it now seemed to Owen that Lascelles was the one most likely to have attacked the chaplain, though he had timed it ill. Still, what did it mean that Tangwystl and Edern had not talked of the chaplain’s beating? Gladys’s story would have it they were likely aware of it. Was it not a sign of guilt to say nothing of this to the bishop?

  Nineteen

  AN AMBUSH
/>   At sunset Dafydd’s company paused by a stream to water their horses and to wash some of the dust from their faces before presenting themselves at a large farmhouse they had sighted down the road.

  A rustling in the underbrush alerted them to intruders. Cadwal and Madog grabbed their knives and swords, Dyfrig ducked beneath his horse and pulled out a dagger, Dafydd grabbed a good stout branch in one hand, his own dagger in another, and prayed that it was but a wild animal come to drink at the stream. The noise stopped. Whatever it was, it knew it was discovered, just as they knew it of themselves. Wretched uncertainty. Should they run or stand their ground, demand it show itself or stay silent, hoping it would pass? A branch cracked behind Dafydd. He spun round, saw nothing. Sweat caught a lock of his hair as he moved his head, blinded him for a moment. As he reached up with the stick-burdened hand to brush away his hair, something huge rushed up and caught him. The attacker cursed as Dafydd jabbed blindly with his dagger. He fought down Dafydd’s hand and pressed it to his side.

  It was one of the Cydweli men. Behind him, Dafydd now heard shouts, cries, grunts, and felt the ground tremble as the horses fled in terror. He prayed God his harp survived. Dafydd tried to pry himself loose from his captor but was held tight. He tried another tactic, standing still, almost limp, and then suddenly pushing out his elbows with all his strength. For a few heartbeats Dafydd was free, free to wheel round and view the disaster. Cadwal and Madog thrashed and cursed and stabbed at a fishing net that had caught them. Dyfrig sat on the ground nursing what looked to be a broken arm. As his captor’s arms reached for Dafydd, he pushed away.

  ‘There is no need. We are defeated.’

  Brother Michaelo deemed it prudent to have a meal sent to their room that evening, but Sir Robert rose from his nap refreshed and insisted on dining in the great hall.

  ‘Mistress Lascelles may be there,’ Sir Robert argued. ‘I may learn something of value to add to Edmund’s message.’

  As Sir Robert reached for his sandals, Michaelo clucked his tongue and held up soft leather shoes. Reluctantly, Sir Robert put on the warmer shoes. He doubted a chill would worsen the rumble in his chest, but he understood that Michaelo meant well.

  ‘You should rest.’ Brother Michaelo tugged at Sir Robert’s plain pilgrim’s gown. ‘But if you insist on this, might I suggest you wear a gown that befits your station? Men – and women – are more likely to confide in equals or those of higher degree.’

  Michaelo had a talent for this intrigue. Sir Robert opened the chest at the foot of his bed and shook out a silk gown. The monk nodded his approval.

  As Sir Robert dressed, Michaelo stared up at the painting of King Henry crossing Llechllafar. ‘I tell you what I do not like. That Wirthir would not tell us the significance of the vicar’s escorting the steward’s wife to St David’s.’

  ‘What do you fear from him?’

  ‘That he will lure Owen to St David’s through us. Suppose he is the Fleming? Surely you remember that Gruffydd ap Goronwy was accused of offering hospitality to a Fleming who was a spy for the fool who calls himself the redeemer of the Welsh – the French King’s puppet . . .’ Michaelo turned to Sir Robert, who had sat down heavily on the bed, breathing in painful gasps. ‘My friend, you must rest.’

  Sir Robert shook his head. Soon there would be time enough for rest. An eternity.

  Michaelo helped him sip some warm honey-and-sage water. ‘I had not meant to upset you. I pray that I am wrong and he means to help the Captain.’

  Sir Robert coughed after the first gulp, but then the drink soothed him and steadied his breathing.

  ‘You see?’ Michaelo said. ‘This is what you need. A quiet evening.’

  ‘You have given me even more reason to find out all I can for Owen.’ Sir Robert rose with care, was pleased to feel steady on his feet – as steady as he ever felt these days. ‘Come. While we walk to the hall I shall tell you about the lady in the chapel.’

  When Cadwal, Madog, Dafydd and Dyfrig were bound and quiet and the horses rounded up, the Duke’s men built a fire and shared round their captives’ food. One of the men tried not to use his right arm, not completely mended from the ambush at Dafydd’s house; one limped and his blood still stained a bandage round his forehead; and another held his arm pressed to a bandage round his middle.

  ‘You are all injured,’ Dafydd said. ‘How did you get past my dogs?’

  ‘Poppy juice,’ said the limper. ‘Your servants were so generous with it, I shared my bounty with your hounds. Soaked into a trencher they thought it a treat.’

  His heart pounding, Dafydd said, ‘By St Roch, if you have harmed Nest and Cadwy . . .’

  ‘Rest easy, old man. They merely slept.’

  ‘And my servants?’

  ‘They fared no worse than we did.’

  ‘How did you overtake us?’ Madog asked.

  The one with no visible injuries except for the cut on his arm where Dafydd’s dagger had grazed him, settled back against his saddle and grinned. ‘We discovered you on the road behind us.’

  ‘How is that possible? We rode like the wind.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Dyfrig hissed. ‘Tell them nothing.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ Dafydd said. They had tarried too long at Maelgwn’s house, that was plain.

  ‘Where is Rhys ap Llywelyn?’ demanded the spokesman.

  Dafydd frowned, shook his head. ‘I have told you before, I do not know this man of whom you speak.’

  ‘You ride south. To St David’s?’

  ‘To complain of your attack and ask the Archdeacon of Cardigan to intercede for us, demand of your lord reparation for the damage. Now we have even more to complain of.’

  Dyfrig glared at Dafydd.

  Dafydd ignored him. As if his words made any difference in their plight. What could be worse than being tired, hungry, aching from the attack, and trussed up like slaughtered pigs? But at least his harp had survived the wild ride through the underbrush unscathed.

  Liveried servants greeted Sir Robert and Michaelo at the door of the great hall and escorted them to the high table. The servants poured wine and hurried away to greet more guests.

  At the next table Brother Michaelo noticed several Benedictines. ‘Perhaps I might assist you in your inquiries by gathering the gossip of the clergy,’ he said, rising. He eased his way round to the monks’ table.

  Sir Robert glanced round, irritated with Brother Michaelo for leaving him. Without the benefit of the monk’s eyesight he could not make out much of the crowd. But a rustle of silk and an exotic scent made Sir Robert turn.

  ‘My lady.’ He bowed to the woman who had hesitated behind him.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, inclining her head. A warm smile in a beautiful young face. ‘Are you recovered from your memories?’

  ‘I have managed to escape them for the evening.’

  She told the servant that she would sit where she had paused. ‘Am I intruding?’

  ‘Not at all. Forgive me for not rising, but it has been a tiring day.’

  She slipped in beside him. The servant poured wine.

  ‘Tangwystl ferch Gruffydd,’ she said.

  Holy Mother of God, could this be? Could the object of their discussion be this lovely lady? ‘Sir Robert D’Arby,’ he said with a little bow, ‘of Freythorpe Hadden in Yorkshire. And my companion, when he returns, is Brother Michaelo, secretary to His Grace John Thoresby, Archbishop of York.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ she said quietly. ‘You and Brother Michaelo are pilgrims?’

  ‘We are. Though dining in such a hall, with such company, is not the behaviour of a pilgrim.’

  ‘You have travelled far. In the chapel – I heard how you struggle to breathe. You are brave to come on such a journey. Forgive me, but I wondered how your wife could bear to let you go when your health is so delicate.’

  He bowed his head. ‘My wife died many years ago.’

  ‘The happy memories you spoke of – were they of her?’

  Si
r Robert stared into Tangwystl’s green eyes, pale, like emeralds, and he felt he could confide in her. He told her of his vision. While he spoke, he saw her colour deepen, her eyes grow moist. He apologised for upsetting her. ‘I should not speak of such things.’

  She touched his hand. ‘God bless you, Sir Robert. I would hear more of her, your Amélie.’

  They were interrupted for a time by Brother Michaelo’s return and the arrival of the first course. And the second. Though meat was not served in the palace during Lent the variety of fish and pastries seemed decadent to Sir Robert. He ate little, in truth just picked at his food, and Brother Michaelo fussed.

  ‘He is a good friend to you,’ said Tangwystl.

  ‘He would lose me all the indulgences I hoped to gain by this pilgrimage,’ Sir Robert said.

  ‘Your Amélie forgave you. Was that not the purpose of your pilgrimage?’

  ‘I had not dared to hope for that.’ He told her of Lucie and her family, the miracle of their all surviving the pestilence, how he had feared for her, being an apothecary. ‘I came to give thanks. God allowed me to live long enough to witness my daughter’s happiness.’

  ‘Your daughter is an apothecary in York?’ Tangwystl glanced over at Brother Michaelo, who sat quietly, leaning slightly in their direction, obviously trying to eavesdrop. ‘And he is the secretary to the archbishop. I remember now. Captain Archer and Master Chaucer escorted pilgrims to St David’s. That is how they came to be here when John de Reine was found.’

  Sir Robert hoped he had not now silenced her. ‘It gives me joy to hear they made it safely to Cydweli. Did you meet Captain Archer?’

  ‘Your daughter is fortunate. He seems a good and gentle man.’

  ‘I am content for her.’

  Mistress Tangwystl grew quiet. So now she did not trust him. Sir Robert was sorry for that. But in a little while she turned to him again and asked him about his grandchildren.