A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online

THE GATE
    T he road from Haverfordwest wound through gently rolling countryside. The scent of early blossoms mingled with salt air. Owen drank it in, feeling as if he imbibed a heady wine. ‘In all my travels, no place has ever smelled as sweet to me.’ He had forgotten how much he loved this place, riding towards the sea and anticipating the moment at which it spread out beyond the cliffs. He had come here so long ago, from the north that time, proud to be considered man enough to escort his mother and his baby brother on a pilgrimage. His heart had been light, his faith strong. Suddenly the sea appeared, white-capped and unending, just beyond the cliffs.
    ‘Glory be to God the Father,’ Sir Robert cried, ‘that I have lived to experience this holy place. Michaelo, does this rekindle your ardour?’
    Brother Michaelo huddled deeper into his hood. ‘I for one do not enjoy a brisk wind from the sea. Water is not the element that kindles the spirit.’
    ‘Be comforted,’ Owen said, ‘St David’s Cathedral and the bishop’s palace are in a valley protected from the sea.’
    ‘Praise God,’ Michaelo muttered. ‘Though I do not much prefer damp.’
    Geoffrey wagged a finger at Michaelo. ‘You must cease this game of contrariety else God might decide that you are too critical of His creation to deserve indulgence.’
    Michaelo sniffed.
    Owen reassured them all. ‘We shall be in St David’s by mid-afternoon, God willing.’
    Sir Robert smiled. ‘Would that I had the years left to make this journey twice.’ It was said that two pilgrimages to the episcopal seat of Menevia, St David’s, were equal to one to Rome: Roma semel quantum bis dat Menevia tantum. ‘But perhaps one is enough to thank God for bringing my family through the pestilence.’
    As they approached St David’s they joined a crowd of pilgrims coming from Nine Wells and all in the company dismounted, but Sir Robert. When he moved to do the same, Owen forbade it.
    ‘You have been unwell. To ride is more of a penance to you than walking is to many we have passed.’
    ‘Age brings many blessings,’ Michaelo said.
    ‘And much humiliation,’ Sir Robert retorted.
    ‘It is good for a pilgrim to be humble.’
    Owen did not join in their argument, and it soon died.
    Geoffrey came alive in the crowd, speaking to as many of the pilgrims as he could, asking whence they came, their purpose in the pilgrimage. He was disappointed that many spoke only Welsh.
    Now they saw many Welsh, the women in starched white veils folded up at the front like bonnets, the men in light wool cloaks and long shirts, often bare-legged. All went by foot. Sir Robert towered above the crowd, his face stony.
    At last the elderly pilgrim dismounted at the edge of a rough-and-tumble row of houses that led towards Tower Gate, the pilgrims’ gateway to the city of St David’s. Sir Robert wished to descend on foot to the cathedral. He invited Owen, Geoffrey and Brother Michaelo to accompany him, while the other men took the horses round to Bonning’s Gate and through to the stables at the bishop’s palace. Owen judged it a reasonable walk for Sir Robert. The city was little more than the cathedral close, comprising the church, the cemetery, the dwellings of those connected to the cathedral either as clerics, administrators or servants, and the hostelries for the pilgrims. The four made their way slowly through a throng of people whispering and jostling one another. There were townspeople as well as pilgrims, judging from their garments.
    ‘Have we forgotten a feast day?’ Sir Robert wondered. ‘God forgive me if I have.’
    Michaelo shook his head. ‘St David’s Day is past. We are in Lent, but not so far.’
    Owen’s attention was drawn to a clutch of men who huddled about a point just without the gate. He lingered long enough to hear that at dawn the porter had found a body there. Everyone must now expound their theories and dire predictions.
    ‘It must have been brought