Candace Robb - A Gift Of Sanctuary

For Gruffydd, oh, he had not even turned to see who or what pursued him, but had taken off at a gallop angling cleverly up the hill whence the riders had come.

Owen let go the arrow, and as he put another to the string he watched his first hit Gruffydd’s shoulder. The man slid sideways in the saddle, but his stirrups held. Owen aimed, let fly the second arrow. Now Gruffydd jerked forward and down, clutching his thigh. When the giant grabbed his reins, Gruffydd slumped forward, his head resting on his mount’s neck.

Dafydd watched the arrows arch towards Gruffydd and envied the archer. Last night’s firestorm had been a wondrous show, but this — this was far more frightening. That a man, a mortal man, had trained his body to become such a weapon — for what were the bows or the arrows without the man strong enough and with the skill to use them? Dafydd rode towards the stand of trees. He must meet the archer, be the first to praise him. He dismounted.

And what was this? The archer covered one eye to improve his aim? But surely it was the wrong eye. To challenge himself then? Oh, what a man was this, who stood so calmly, his back against the tree, unwinding the string from the bow and watching Dafydd’s approach with head turned so that the uncovered right eye might see him plain. The Norman beard seemed out of place on his Welsh face, but it suited the archer. As did the scar that Dafydd could now see plainly.

‘I am Dafydd ap Gwilym Gam ap Gwilym ab Einion Fawr, Chief of Song and Master of the Flowing Verse. My praise lasts longer than a horse; my love songs would lead a nun astray; my satire kills. I come to praise the Archer,’ he shouted.

The man bowed his head, ‘I am honoured, Master Dafydd,’ he said in a northern accent. ‘I am Owen ap Rhodri ap Maredudd, once captain of archers for the great Henry of Grosmont.’

Fortunate Henry. Dafydd tilted his head, considered the archer’s accent. ‘LlŶn?’

Martin and Owen sat apart from the others, sharing a skin of wine under the trees.

‘You have not lost your skill, my friend,’ said Martin.

‘I did not hit precisely where I intended. The one in the shoulder — it is close to the bone, difficult to remove.’ He and Dyfrig had removed the arrow from Gruffydd’s thigh, but left the one in the shoulder for a barber or physician. Gruffydd had growled when Owen lifted his left hand and asked whose knife had so wounded him, Rhys’s or John de Reine’s. ‘He will be in much pain as the flesh swells round the arrow.’

‘And do you not think he deserves to suffer?’

Geoffrey glanced over towards them with an enigmatic expression. ‘You are watched,’ Owen said to Martin. ‘Gruffydd has denounced you to all as a spy for King Charles of France. And he has told Edern and Dyfrig that the money he keeps is for Owain Lawgoch — that you meant to steal it for the French King.’

‘Brother Dyfrig and Father Edern know me,’ said Martin. ‘They know that Gruffydd lies to save himself.’ Edern had quickly realised how foolish he had been to trust Gruffydd.

‘But Geoffrey. .’

‘He watches me, I know, though he is much distracted by Dafydd.’ The bard had honoured them by bringing out his harp and singing several of his songs.

‘I was curious to watch Geoffrey and Master Dafydd together,’ said Owen. ‘But so far Geoffrey keeps his distance.’

‘Ah, but he listens.’

‘Geoffrey is ever listening.’

‘Ambrose should be here. He would enjoy Master Dafydd’s songs.’

‘He understands Welsh?’

‘No, but I can hear the meaning of the bard’s words in his voice and the harp.’

Dafydd’s love songs took Owen back to his courtship of Lucie. Though the words were beautiful, they echoed how awkward Owen had felt in the presence of Lucie’s beauty and gentilesse. How he missed her.

And he realised he would miss Martin. ‘When do you leave us?’

‘Soon, my friend. My work is finished, much thanks to your skill. I was right to send for you.’ Martin sat back, looked Owen in the eye. ‘And what of you? Will you stay with Sir Robert until the end? Or will you go off to finish your work at Cydweli?’

‘Sir Robert may live a long while.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Owen looked away, unwilling to answer.

The company were welcomed that night by a farmer and his family who inhabited a large farmhouse. They considered Dafydd’s presence a great honour, and offered up their beds to the company. But first the men feasted on plain but abundant food and drink. All sat in threes on the rush floor. Except Gruffydd, who lay on a pallet by the fire moaning and begging the farmer and his family to have pity on him.

Edern marked the effort. ‘He is exhausted from loss of blood, and yet he manages a remarkable performance.’

‘And what of Martin Wirthir?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Slipping off in the midst of such a company. And no one made note of it.’

Owen saw Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig exchange glances.

‘We should search for him,’ Geoffrey said. ‘You have heard what Gruffydd says of him.’

‘We shall continue south,’ Owen said. ‘We have a murderer to deliver to justice.’

‘But tomorrow we must rest,’ said Brother Dyfrig. ‘It is Passio Domini , the beginning of Passiontide.’

‘Is it wise to give Gruffydd another day to work on the sympathies of our hosts?’ asked Owen.

‘I propose that we observe the day as pilgrims,’ Dafydd said, ‘walking rather than riding, and fasting all the day. Would that satisfy our men of God?’

‘The greatest sinner of us all must ride,’ Edern said, nodding towards Gruffydd.

‘Would you prefer to bear him on a litter?’ Geoffrey asked.

On Monday, in the early afternoon, the weary company dismounted at Bonning’s Gate — even Gruffydd, who all felt had been pampered enough. They led their horses slowly past the houses of the bishop’s archdeacons and the Treasurer of St David’s. At the gate to the bishop’s palace, they were given a message from Brother Michaelo urging Geoffrey and Owen to come at once to the house of William Baldwin, the Archdeacon of Carmarthen.

Owen yearned for refreshment and a chance to cool his feet in some scented water. He was envious of the others, surprised when Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig declared that they, too, would attend the archdeacon.

‘And what of the injured man?’ asked the porter. ‘Do you need assistance with him?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, ‘the archdeacon will wish to see him.’

Dafydd, however, felt no need to attend the meting out of justice. ‘I shall speak with the archdeacon anon, concerning the Cydweli men and their affront to me.’ He strode regally through the gate with his men and Owen’s.

Geoffrey stood beside Owen, watching Dafydd. ‘I wish you had not praised his poetry. I should like to think he is all show and no substance.’

‘Perhaps you shall look back on him when you are his age and think him not so strange.’

‘For that I would need to be Welsh.’

Laughing, Owen turned to follow the others. Geoffrey hurried to join him. Father Edern and Brother Dyfrig walked on either side of Gruffydd, steadying him when he stumbled. Their halting procession was watched by many as they crossed Llechllafar.

The Archdeacon of Carmarthen’s was a grand house, set off from the other archdeaconries in a meadow across the river from the palace, towards Patrick’s Gate. Their unexpected numbers flustered the archdeacon’s clerk, who left them standing at the door while he hurried off to consult with his master. But he soon returned, leading them into the archdeacon’s hall and seating them in the rear.