A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb

afford, as they, too, were struggling. It did not help that Rhodri ap Maredudd, Owen’s father, was a proud man. When he heard that in the south Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster and lord of Cydweli, was allowing families to settle on escheated land if they had a son who would join his army as an archer, Rhodri ap Maredudd saw a way to save his honour and his family. Owen was an excellent archer. And Cydweli was south – the land would be kinder. But Owen’s mother had found it difficult enough to leave Clwyd for Gwynedd when she married; to move south – it had sounded like death to her.
    It was a measure of Rhodri’s desperation that he uprooted the family and took them south before ascertaining the truth of the rumour, for rumour it was; the Duke of Lancaster had made no such offer. But the constable of Cydweli, a man who knew the worth of a good archer, asked to see Owen shoot. Impressed, he had spoken to the steward. Rhodri ap Maredudd was given a small farm north of the town. It was what he had wished for, but it proved a disappointment. The soil was thin, though better than in the north, and their neighbours resented them for taking over the land of a man whose family had lived there for many generations, which he had forfeited for little else than being a Welshman with a careless tongue.
    ‘Are they good memories?’ Geoffrey asked, breaking into Owen’s reverie.
    Owen threw back his hood, let the rain cool him, glanced round. The cart had arrived across the river, and the men were remounting their horses. ‘It is a hard thing, returning after all this time.’
    It was early afternoon before they crested the hill known as Mons Salomonis that separated Cydweli from the Towy. At last Owen saw before him the white walls of Cydweli Castle.
    ‘You can see why the Duke calls it the pride of his Marcher holdings,’ Burley said, joining Owen at the edge of the track.
    ‘The pride? It looks to me as if he finds it wanting.’ Stonemasons stood on scaffolding surrounding the south gatehouse, which already looked much larger than Owen remembered.
    ‘All castles in the Marches require improved fortifications with the years else the natives grow too confident.’
    Owen felt Burley watching him for a reaction. He did not oblige him, but quietly studied the castle. It was within the magnificent whitewashed walls of the stronghold that his skill at archery had won him a place among Henry of Grosmont’s Welsh archers. As Owen watched, a man atop one of the towers turned their way, then ducked down and disappeared. To announce their approach, no doubt.
    Geoffrey slipped in between Owen and Burley. ‘It is a poor introduction, to come bearing the corpse of one of their own,’ he said, nodding towards the castle.
    It was true that Lascelles must both wish for and dread their news. And now they would arrive with the worst news a father can hear. Owen had not yet experienced such a dark day, but he well remembered his despair when Jasper, not even yet his adopted son, disappeared and they feared him dead.
    ‘At least we have brought him the body, so that he may know that his son is buried in hallowed ground.’
    ‘A small comfort.’ Geoffrey’s eyes were dull and sunken. He had found it difficult to sleep since they left St David’s.
    ‘We shall walk lighter once we have delivered our burden.’
    ‘True. For that I am deeply grateful.’
    In a little while they resumed their slow approach, dipping down into Scholand, the ragtag cluster of tenements that led into Ditch Street and so to the south gate of Cydweli. The cart drew the curious and then sent them scurrying away, full of dread.
    At the town’s south gate, the gatekeeper walked forth to meet the party. One great hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his dagger, he rocked towards them in an awkward, bow-legged waddle.
    Geoffrey leaned close to Owen and muttered, ‘I wonder whether he must needs let go his sword to press back his belly in order to