A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb

rumours that French spies prowled the coast of Pembroke and Dyfed. Had one of them heard that Reine was to march archers to Plymouth? He discarded that theory. In that instance Reine’s death would resolve nothing, for a new captain would be chosen. No, the man’s death most likely had nothing to do with Owen’s mission, God be thanked. And yet it would almost certainly complicate his efforts.
    Houghton had asked why Reine’s body was brought to Tower Gate. Although Owen had chosen to ignore the bishop’s question, he thought it one that demanded a response for the residents of this close. What made it important also made it difficult to answer: there was no apparent reason why someone would have brought the body here. If someone had discovered it and worried that they might be accused of murder, they need only walk away. The murderer had presumably managed to commit the deed and disappear; so why would he return and call attention to his crime? Unless he meant it for a warning. A mute warning, which seemed of little use.
    Sir Robert stirred on his bed near the fire. Owen propped his head on his hand and looked at his father-in-law. His thin white hair escaped in lank wisps from beneath the cap he wore to keep his head warm at night. One bony, blue-veined hand rested atop the blanket, fingers slightly curled. More claw than hand. Age brought such frailty, even to an old soldier. But until his recent illness, Sir Robert had been hardy. Whenever he stayed in their house in the city he spent most of the day helping with garden chores. The summer before he had fallen into a pond at his manor of Freythorpe Hadden – whilst playing at jousts with Owen’s young daughter Gwenllian. A chill had settled on his lungs. Though he had the best care, with his sister Phillippa hovering and Lucie prescribing medicines, it was plain he had suffered some permanent damage. And yet he had insisted on this journey.
    The subject of Owen’s thoughts suddenly opened his eyes. ‘What is wrong?’
    ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
    Sir Robert sat up, precipitating a coughing fit. Owen rose and helped his father-in-law to a few mouthfuls of honey water. When the fit eased, Sir Robert closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his palms to his ribs, took several cautious breaths. A grimace, then a nod.
    ‘Better now. You would think I would have the sense to keep a cup beside my bed, eh?’ His attempt at a smile was unconvincing.
    Owen felt Sir Robert’s hands and feet. Cold and dry. That was not helpful to a cough. He pulled the blankets from his own bed, laid them over Sir Robert’s feet, though the old man protested.
    ‘I am the most pampered pilgrim.’
    ‘Save your strength for prayer, Sir Robert.’
    Geoffrey, bereft of blanket, stirred in his bed, sat up. ‘Is it time to rise?’
    ‘Aye. We must ready ourselves,’ Owen said.
    As Owen dressed, a servant came with bread, cheese and ale, a most fortifying breakfast. The men in the outer room were likewise fed. Another servant soon arrived to stoke the fire. As the smoke curled round the room before finding the chimney, Brother Michaelo rose, wiping his eyes and complaining.
    ‘You see, Sir Robert, you are not the most pampered pilgrim,’ Owen said.
    ‘I would go to the chapel before I break my fast,’ Sir Robert said, ‘but I fear you might depart before I return.’
    ‘If we are to leave before dawn, we must depart soon, aye.’
    Brother Michaelo rose. ‘I shall go to the chapel and pray for the Captain and his men, Sir Robert. You take your ease and make your farewells.’
    ‘A pretty courtesy,’ said Owen. ‘I speak for us both in thanking you.’
    Michaelo shook his head. ‘Less a pretty courtesy than a selfish plot to avoid listening to your pretty speeches.’
    Geoffrey grabbed a hunk of bread and a cup of ale. ‘I shall come with you to the chapel for a little while.’
    When Geoffrey and Michaelo had departed, Sir Robert and Owen sat down to their meal and spoke of