Candace Robb - A Gift Of Sanctuary

Rhys took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and with a sob she bent to kiss him.

Smiling to himself, Brother Michaelo slipped over to take up his prayers at Sir Robert’s bedside. Chaucer had departed. All was going according to plan. God be praised.

When next Dafydd woke it was Brother Dyfrig who disturbed his rest. Dafydd sat up, confused by the dawn light filling the clearing. But the sight of the four men tied together in a grim bundle and laid at the foot of the standing stone brought back the night.

‘Are we agreed we leave them here until such time as it pleases us to inform someone of their hermitage?’ Dafydd asked.

‘They are hardly hermits, with so much companionship,’ said Dyfrig.

‘Their what? Their barracks? Monastery?’

‘We must ride out while your men still keep their knives in their sheaths. We shall stop at a church, tell the priest we outfoxed a band of robbers — that he should send the sheriff to collect them.’

‘The sheriff. They will not like that.’

‘I would not think so.’

Dafydd noticed Gruffydd searching the packs of the vanquished. For food, he wondered, or for trouble? ‘Speaking of thieves, Gruffydd has busy fingers.’

‘That he has,’ said Dyfrig.

Shifting to show Dyfrig the scattered items, Dafydd was confused to find the ground clean. He pulled the pack from beneath his saddle, found the items tucked away. ‘Did I dream?’ he wondered aloud.

‘No,’ said Dyfrig. ‘He crept back and returned it all to the pack. I was glad of that. It is best if he does not know we watch.’

As Dafydd pulled on his riding boots he experimented with phrases extolling the virtues of this monk, with his hooded eyes and devious mind. He was considering to what heroic ancestor he might compare Dyfrig when his subject drew a sharp knife from the sheath on his girdle. Dafydd had always admired the tooling on the leather, thought it a most unmonkly accessory.

‘You contemplate some violence against Gruffydd after all?’

‘I thought I might trim your hair. I shall need Madog’s assistance, since I have but one arm.’ Dyfrig laughed. ‘Do not look so worried! I have much practice in cutting hair, though scissors are my usual tool.’

Dafydd reared back in mock horror. ‘I want no tonsure!’

Owen watched Martin going about his morning business. He managed well with but one hand, using the stub of his wrist when fingers or flexibility were not important. Owen thought it not as great a loss as that of his eye, but he guessed Martin would not agree. What we have lost we most cherish.

Geoffrey and Edmund awaited them at the foot of the path from the mound. Geoffrey addressed Martin in excellent French and commended him on his élan — ‘To call to yourself the very men from whom you would be wise to hide.’

Martin laughed. ‘I have no wish to live so long that I must suck my food and be carried round in a chair. But in truth I do not deserve your admiration. It is my Lord of Pembroke I serve in this. I would bring Gruffydd ap Goronwy to answer for his treachery.’

‘Gruffydd? Can it be true?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Has Sir John been such a fool to believe in him?’

Owen tried not to exhibit surprise at Martin’s half-truth.

Owen felt haunted by the ancient stoneworkers as the company rode north, past burial chambers and standing stones. And the crosses — were they the work of the same people, converted to Christianity? As a child in the mountains of LlŶn he had been accustomed to the stone monuments, had listened to tales of ancient priests, mythic giants, and believed them all to be true. It was long since he had thought of those legends. Had the stoneworkers disappeared into the Otherworld, leaving their artwork? Why? Had he truly heard their voices in the tunnel? Had they been calling to him?

Geoffrey rode up beside Owen. ‘Martin says we go to the home of a bard. What do you know of him?’ He leaned across his saddle, peering at Owen. ‘Jesu, but you look grim. Are you thinking of Sir Robert?’

Owen did not think it wise to tell Geoffrey his thoughts. Too Welsh, he would say. ‘Aye. You spent the night in the room. He is much worse?’

‘He is. I am sorry, Owen. But you have been good to him. You should have no regrets.’

Only the regret of losing Sir Robert. ‘You asked about the bard. Dafydd ap Gwilym is one of the greatest bards of our day, so they say, and an ardent lover. Are you eager to meet a fellow poet?’

‘I am not certain.’

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the company paused at a stream to let their horses drink and to wet their own dusty throats.

Iolo and Edmund commenced bragging about their love conquests, their skill with knives. Owen found himself envying them. Well he could remember taking part in such contests. And often considering himself the victor. He busied himself stringing his bow while he listened. Though he doubted they would encounter Gruffydd today, he meant to be ready.

Martin joined the men and turned the talk to Gruffydd’s skill in escaping. Geoffrey, who was still digesting the news of Gruffydd’s treachery, asked how Pembroke’s men had managed to corner him.

‘We did not,’ said Martin, cleverly continuing the lie. ‘He tucked his family in a church and fled to Cydweli, where he knew of an obsession he could bend to his will. We must be ready to surround him. And if you are tempted to slay him, remember that we might need him to tell us how he has disposed of Father Edern.’

‘Why are you here alone?’ Geoffrey asked.

Owen realised Geoffrey sought to make Martin trip over his lie.

But Martin was too clever. ‘When I discovered him here, I had two choices — to wait until I might get word to Pembroke Castle, or to enlist the aid of my old friend, who had good reason to wish to help me.’ He smiled at Geoffrey, then returned to discussions of strategy.

Geoffrey rose, moved over to Owen. ‘The bard’s house near Cardigan is still a few days’ ride. Will you keep that strung all the while?’

‘I do not mean to lose Gruffydd. While the day is fair, my bow will be at hand.’

The company paused on a hilltop overlooking Fishguard harbour, a cluster of houses in an elbow of land, fishing boats upturned on the sand, bobbing in the water. Owen advised against riding down into the town. They would be noticed; Gruffydd would charm the information out of someone there and know to hide. They had begun the descent on the inland side of the outcropping when Iolo, who was now riding vanguard, motioned for them to halt.

Ahead, down on the road, were six horsemen riding south. Two were in white robes. ‘Cistercians,’ Edmund guessed. ‘But what of the others?’

They used the shelter of a stand of trees to move down closer to the road.

‘Only one monk,’ said Martin. ‘The other has no tonsure.’

‘Would Gruffydd ride in such company?’ Owen had imagined him alone. The four in darker robes all wore hats that shaded their faces. But one of the men was Gruffydd’s size.

‘One becomes far less noticeable in a company of travellers,’ Geoffrey suggested. ‘And if I am not mistaken, that is Father Edern riding beside the monk.’

Martin turned in his saddle, asked Owen and Geoffrey, ‘Shall we surprise them?’

Owen dismounted with bow and quiver of arrows, slid down to the edge of the clearing. ‘Go.’ He pulled out an arrow, fitted notch to string, pulled back and sited on Gruffydd. He might kill him, rather than maim him. Was he certain Martin spoke the truth? For if he was not. . ‘God guide my hand,’ Owen prayed.

Heads turned to see what descended upon them. The white-haired, white-robed man flung his arms up and shouted something. Father Edern seemed to recognise some of the men and called to the monk, who had put spurs to horse. Two of the men, one a giant, rode off in pursuit of Gruffydd.