Candace Robb - A Gift Of Sanctuary

Owen was not so sure.

‘And you know my suspicion, despite what he wrote in his letter — that the son is in love with the young wife,’ Geoffrey said.

Rising to stretch the stiffness out of his back, Owen studied the fire and pondered that possibility. Many a young man grew infatuated with his father’s young wife, but it would be a foolish man who involved the Duke in such a rivalry. ‘What do you know of John Lascelles?’

‘He worked hard for the Duke’s previous steward in Wales. He is a recent appointment — his predecessor Banastre died of plague, I believe. Sir John was considered a man worthy of the Duke’s trust. Until his marriage the only ill I heard of him was that his arrogant demeanour irritated many.’

Such a description was at war with Owen’s picture of Lascelles. He had imagined a man who lived impulsively and by the dictates of his heart. How else explain his welcoming Gruffydd ap Goronwy’s family to Cydweli without first consulting his lord Duke? Owen had imagined Sir John’s sympathy overriding his good sense when approached by Gruffydd, a man anxious for the family he had left behind in sanctuary in the church at Tenby — a family which included a beautiful daughter. No doubt Sir John might have reasoned that he owed a debt to Gruffydd, who, according to Reine’s information, he believed had saved him from drowning in the harbour two years earlier. But, as Reine reported the incident in less dramatic terms, the extent of Lascelles’s help begged more motivation than a debt repaid.

‘Does Sir John have any Welsh ancestry?’

‘No.’ Geoffrey watched Owen pace. ‘Would that excuse his behaviour? Would you marry the daughter of a traitor?’

Owen dropped back down on to the chair, stretched out his legs. ‘I do not think I would grant sanctuary to a traitor in order to gain his daughter’s hand in marriage. But you forget that we do not yet know whether Gruffydd ap Goronwy is a traitor. He was accused by the mother of the Lord of Pembroke. Though she married a Hastings, she will ever be a Mortimer, and the Mortimers are fond of accusing their enemies of treason. It is a tidy solution.’

Geoffrey nodded, but his eyes were troubled.

‘You do not like my answer.’

‘It makes me uneasy. As did your hot temper when Tyler spoke of the Welsh who live in the area.’

‘You knew that I was Welsh.’

‘Indeed. It is why I wished to have you here.’

‘Then what is wrong?’

Geoffrey lowered chin to chest, studied Owen through his eyebrows. ‘You itch for an argument? So be it.’ He raised his head, looked Owen in the eye. ‘You have changed since we crossed the Severn.’

‘Changed? It is true that hearing my language spoken all about me has reminded me of much I had forgotten. Do you know how long it has been?’

A roll of the eyes. ‘We speak so many languages.’

‘ My people do not. And yours do not speak mine. Ever.’

‘Yours. You see?’ Geoffrey wagged his finger at Owen. ‘What will Lucie think, when you return a Welshman again?’

But Owen was in no mood for teasing. If Geoffrey wanted to know what was on his mind, he would hear it. ‘At first I was confused. I could not understand all the words. My own language.’

‘You will teach your children?’

‘I had already begun. And God grant, I may have new tales of my parents, my brothers and sisters to tell them. They may have cousins.’ Geoffrey had that wary look again. ‘Would I speak of my children if I meant to desert them? I tell you, I have not changed.’

‘Good,’ Geoffrey said, but he did not look convinced.

‘Enough of this. What of Cydweli’s constable? What can you tell me of him?’

‘Richard de Burley. A fighting man who sees courtesy as a fault, so I have been told. He is of an old Marcher family. .’

‘. . which means they are excellent judges of the direction in which the wind blows.’

Geoffrey chuckled, easing the tension between them. ‘I have no doubt of that. Lascelles and Burley should make a chilly pair. At such times I regret that my Phillippa cannot accompany me; she is excellent with difficult people.’

‘She must have felt the Queen’s passing sorely.’ The much-loved Queen Phillippa had died the previous summer. Geoffrey’s wife, who shared the name Phillippa, had been one of the Queen’s ladies-of-the-chamber.

Geoffrey wagged his outstretched hand. ‘Phillippa had some money from the Queen, and earned more assisting the Queen’s Receiver with the inventory of the household. Now she is busy with our young daughter Elizabeth, and believes she carries another child.’

‘God grant her a safe delivery.’

‘Phillippa thinks God has little to do with it, I fear. She boasts of her moderate habits and excellent health.’ Geoffrey pushed himself from the chair. ‘It is time we take ourselves to bed. It has been a long day and tomorrow we shall require our wits.’

Owen drained his cup, pushed back his chair. How cold the room had grown while they talked. He rubbed his hands together, blew on them. ‘I would welcome a sunny day.’

Geoffrey had moved towards the door. He turned now, shook his head at Owen. ‘You said you were tired.’

‘Aye.’ Owen joined him.

Geoffrey lifted a torch from a wall sconce, opened the heavy hall door. A draught made the flame dance and smoke. ‘Wretched place.’

Owen followed Geoffrey out the door. ‘If Reine does not appear, perhaps you should go straight to Cydweli with half our company.’

Geoffrey paused on the steps, turned, held the light up to Owen. ‘And you?’

‘Our pilgrims still need an escort to St David’s.’

‘We might find one for them in Cydweli.’

‘Sir Robert is already unwell. I cannot in good conscience prolong his journey. And I should wish to see him safely settled.’

For a moment, the wail of the wind through the tower and the hiss of the torch were the only sounds. Then Geoffrey nodded. ‘You are right. We shall continue as we planned. Reine knew our itinerary. He would not expect us to go straight to Cydweli.’

Owen put a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder, made him turn. ‘You do not trust me.’

Geoffrey laughed. ‘You have had too much ale.’ His eyes were not merry.

‘And too little sleep, aye.’

They climbed the stairs, parted at the landing in silence.

Tired as he was, Owen found it difficult to sleep. Geoffrey had placed a finger squarely on a tender spot, already rubbed raw by Owen’s own surprise at his feelings since he crossed the Severn. He should never have come.

Dafydd ap Gwilym and his men had ridden hard for two days to reach the bard’s home overlooking Cardigan Bay. A difficult journey for the injured pilgrim, and for Dafydd and his men, after a lazy fortnight in the hall of one of the bard’s generous patrons. But haste seemed wise. If the four from Cydweli were in pursuit, Dafydd preferred to defend the pilgrim on familiar ground. It was also most convenient that a skilled herbalist from Strata Florida Abbey was assisting him in enlarging his garden. The pilgrim had need of Brother Samson.

Dafydd glanced up from his harp as a servant showed Samson’s travelling companion into the room. Dafydd’s great, rough-coated hounds rose and padded over to sniff the monk’s robe. A pity that Dafydd’s moment of pleasure must be disturbed, but the monk was merely answering his summons. Dafydd needed a spy in St David’s and a Cistercian would blend in well. Better still, Dyfrig owed him a favour.

‘ Benedicte , Master Dafydd,’ the monk bowed, hands up the sleeves of his white robe.

Did they train the monks to that attitude as novices, Dafydd wondered.