A Gift of Sanctuary Read Free Page B

As soon as the door was closed, Owen expressed his surprise at the last part of Sir Robert’s comment to the constable, that there had been some truth in what Owen had said about the English and the Welsh.
    As his father-in-law eased down on to the side of the cot closest to the lit brazier, he glanced at Owen with a fierce scowl that was not that of a man who considered himself complimented. ‘You have listened too long to my daughter, who believes soldiering robbed me of any ability to contemplate mankind’s state.’ Sir Robert’s voice was a weary whisper, but his expression kept Owen from interrupting to offer him comfort. ‘I have noticed much that has dismayed me about the treatment of the folk as we have journeyed into Wales. I do not, however, believe it wise to express one’s views too openly. You have come here as Lancaster’s man. It is not your place to criticise his actions.’
    ‘You are right.’
    ‘You made us all uneasy.’
    ‘That was not my purpose. I wished only to make Tyler uneasy.’
    ‘Which you did. Is that wise? If there is trouble, we might depend upon him for our safety. I hardly think your people, as you call them, would consider you one of them while wearing the Duke’s livery and a Norman beard.’
    ‘I am neither one of them nor one of you, aye. So it will ever be for me.’
    Sir Robert looked surprised. ‘You are one of us, Owen.’
    A few weeks earlier Owen might have agreed. He had truly begun to believe he belonged in York. But this journey was making him feel more and more exiled. ‘Come. Let me help you off with your boots so you might rest before we sup.’
    ‘You have come far, my son. Have a care. That is all I ask.’
    Owen and Geoffrey sat up in the hall after the others had retired for the night. Neither was eager to go to his room until his sleeping companion slept peacefully.
    Geoffrey sat back, contentedly patting his stomach. ‘This may be an isolated pile of rock, but such food! I shall be sad to leave this table.’ His legs stuck out comically, the chair oddly constructed, too deep for his short legs.
    Will Tyler did manage to feed his men well, stews generously meaty and fatty, breads hearty and fresh, and seemingly unlimited ale. It was a wonder more of the castle’s inhabitants had not shared the fate of the chaplain. ‘I should think you would find this food simple compared to that at court,’ Owen said.
    Geoffrey wrinkled his nose. ‘I am ever suspicious of a heavily spiced dish – what sins are hidden with such effort, eh? Now your lord, His Grace the archbishop, he knows the value of fresh, simple foods.’
    ‘I would thank you not to call him my lord.’
    Geoffrey studied Owen silently for a moment. ‘Forgive me. And the constable made you Lancaster’s man.’
    ‘Do I look anyone’s man but my own?’
    ‘Everyone is someone’s,’ Geoffrey said, smiling at Owen’s growl. ‘And you were fortunate enough to have a choice, so they tell me.’
    When Henry of Grosmont died, Owen had been given the opportunity of going either into the service of the new Duke, John of Gaunt, or John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and then Lord Chancellor of England.
    ‘Do you regret choosing the archbishop over the Duke so many years ago?’
    ‘I chose the man I thought it would be most honourable to serve. Perhaps I was a fool.’ Owen shook his head as Geoffrey opened his mouth to tease. ‘And yet I cannot say with any surety that your Duke is worthier.’
    ‘You would do well to court him. You must forge a new alliance. John Thoresby looks pale of late. He behaves as one making his peace with God, preparing for the next world. What will you do when he is gone?’
    What indeed? Thoresby was seventy-five – a venerable age, and a vulnerable one. But Owen did not wish to confide his doubts about his future to Geoffrey. He was not yet so good a friend as to be trusted with such knowledge of Owen’s insecurities, too in love with his own wit to resist using