Candace Robb - A Gift Of Sanctuary

‘This is the man?’ Geoffrey said.

‘This is Rhys ap Llywelyn, brother to Father Edern, father of Mistress Tangwystl’s son.’ Owen explained to them Rhys’s injury, and his request to see his wife.

‘What things outside the city?’ Rhys asked.

‘They do not concern you,’ said Owen. He turned to Geoffrey. ‘You might do more good interceding for him while I am gone.’

‘Brother Michaelo will do just as well.’

To argue too much would merely make Geoffrey more wary. ‘So be it. Be waiting below Clegyr Boia after first light.’

‘What of Duncan?’

‘It would do him good to play hermit for a few days.’

How peacefully the captors slept, heads on their saddles, feet close to the fire. All but one, who had just awakened, and now sat with arms wrapped round his knees, a blanket round his shoulders, staring up at the fading wisps of fog.

Dafydd stood a moment behind the standing stone, weighing one of the torch heads in his hands, considering his aim. But first, some drama for the wakeful one.

Inhaling deeply, Dafydd stalked out from behind the stone, arms outstretched, his eyes wide and staring. This was the signal for Cadwal and Dyfrig to leave the tree. Cadwal scurried to join Madog, Edern and Gruffydd; Dyfrig took up a post opposite Dafydd. In his most bardic voice Dafydd now shouted, ‘Who trespasses in my sacred place!’

The wakeful one started, looked on Dafydd and cried, ‘What apparition is this?’

Now Dafydd raised his right hand yet higher, and, roaring, threw the torch head at the fire. A ball of light glowed within the fire, expanding with a loud crack. The flames roared towards the heavens, then fell in a fiery fountain. Burning cinders were stars in the night, landing on the surrounding grass, and the blankets of the Cydweli men, who, waking now, shrieked and scrambled along the ground like panicked crabs. A pity, Dafydd thought, for the fire was magnificent.

Now Cadwal, Gruffydd, Edern and Madog came striding out of the dark towards the frightened men, who were thrown into confusion. The fire, Dafydd and the standing stone, or the four attackers — which terrified them least? Two turned towards the fire. Dyfrig now stepped forth. Raising his good arm, he tossed in the second torch head.

This explosion was louder and more violent than the first. The four who descended on the captors hesitated, shielding their eyes, but quickly saw the advantage and pushed forward. The waking one had more of his wits about him and, getting to his feet, pushed past Gruffydd and seemed to be getting away.

Dafydd rushed towards him. Too late he saw the firebrand hurtling his way. He stepped aside, but tripped on the uneven ground. As he fell he felt a terrible heat near his head, smelled burning hair and duck grease. Had he mistaken God’s purpose? And was he thus struck down for his presumption?

Dyfrig was at Dafydd’s side at once. One handed, he rolled Dafydd through the damp grass, then told him that he should lie still a moment, the others had the battle in hand.

Dafydd gladly lay there, listening to the sounds of the fray across the clearing, thanking God for his life. At last he mustered the courage to feel his cheek. He rejoiced to feel skin, whole and unblistered.

With his good arm Dyfrig helped Dafydd sit up. ‘God watches over you. The brand caught only your hair.’

Dafydd touched the singed, brittle mass. A clump turned to powder in his hand. He began to laugh.

‘I thought you would howl over your loss, and you laugh.’ Dyfrig tried to smooth Dafydd’s damaged hair. ‘It might have been so much worse.’

‘But it was not. I shall from now on listen to Madog. He warned me I used too much duck grease. But I do love a great blaze.’

Madog joined them, shook his head at the sight of Dafydd’s hair. ‘We must cut the other side. A bard must not look like the King’s jester.’

‘The English might disagree,’ said Dafydd, ‘but shorn I shall be. I accept my penance without complaint.’

‘You have bound them all?’ Dyfrig asked Madog.

‘Bound them all together.’

Dafydd grinned at the thought of the wriggling, angry mass of limbs and foul breath.

But Madog was not laughing. ‘What do you know of these men who came to our aid, Brother Dyfrig? The Cydweli men know both of them.’

‘Do you now regret telling them so much?’ Dafydd asked.

‘Perhaps,’ said Madog.

‘You may trust them, for pity’s sake, they have saved us,’ said Brother Dyfrig. ‘They are known because Father Edern was chaplain to the Cydweli garrison not so long ago. The other is the new father-in-law of Lancaster’s steward.’

‘Is he not the one who took Rhys’s love and gave her to the Englishman?’ Dafydd said. ‘Why does Father Edern trust him?’

‘I do not trust him,’ said Madog. ‘And if they are all from Cydweli, why are either of them helping us?’

‘We have cause to trust Edern,’ said Dafydd, ‘he is our pilgrim’s brother. But Gruffydd — he is dangerous. And now he knows what we know. Clever, Madog.’

Owen gulped in the cool night air, said a prayer of thanks for a safe journey. The tunnel had seemed endless and had echoed with phantom footsteps that stopped when he stopped, whispering voices that hushed when he held his breath. It was far worse traversed alone. He did not think he had experienced such terror since childhood. The tunnel was haunted, he had no doubt of it.

Martin Wirthir sat on the boulder that had been rolled away from the entrance. ‘The fog has lifted.’

‘Where is Iolo?’ Owen asked, pleased that his voice did not betray his recent experience.

‘Guarding his catch. God forbid I should ever find him my enemy.’

‘Iolo has hungered for action. Escorting pilgrims was not to his liking.’

‘You know him well.’

‘He reminds me of my younger self.’ Owen leaned against the rock, lifted his head to the stars. ‘I thank God I am not a miner.’

‘I was glad you did not ask me to come with you. I have watched how the shepherds round here cross themselves as they pass this place. Though I have felt no terror out here, I would not like to have the darkness close behind me.’

‘I felt them there, all round me, the carvers of the ancient stones. I have never feared them before.’

‘Yours is an ancient country, full of mysteries, like Brittany.’

‘Rhys was glad to leave the tunnel.’

‘He is safe?’

‘He is. He told me his tale of that day at Whitesands.’

‘A strange, ugly tale, is it not?’

‘John de Reine’s part in it puzzles me. I begin to think he shadowed Gruffydd.’

‘And Gruffydd took the opportunity to eliminate him — with Rhys the unwitting executioner.’ Martin nodded. ‘This Gruffydd has no conscience.’

‘And was it he who brought the corpse to St David’s? To brand Rhys a murderer?’ Owen was quiet awhile, considering this new idea. Was it possible Gruffydd ap Goronwy was so cold blooded?

Martin broke through his thoughts to ask whether they would be joined by any more of Owen’s men in the morning.

‘One of my men, and Geoffrey Chaucer.’

Martin shifted on the stone. ‘King Edward’s man, Master Chaucer. I should not have chosen him to accompany us.’

‘I did not. He insisted. I am not pleased. I had thought Geoffrey would take care of Rhys and allow Brother Michaelo to tend to my father-in-law, who is very ill.’

‘Sir Robert is a brave man, to make such a journey at his age.’

‘I do not think he will leave this place.’

‘St David’s. It is a sacred place, is it not? It seems a good place to die. Sir Robert had a vision at St Non’s Well, did you know?’