A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb

only stand there smiling to put a stranger at ease. When the servants had ceased their fuss and slipped away, the bishop entered, making the sign of the cross towards Owen. ‘God be with you, Captain Archer.’ Houghton spoke in Welsh.
    Owen was surprised – though Houghton had been born nearby, in Caerforiog in the parish of Whitchurch, he was of old English stock. He was the first Englishman Owen had encountered to extend the courtesy of speaking the native tongue to a Welshman. Owen bowed low and replied in Welsh. His speech was embarrassingly halting. He had become more careful of his words since he left this country, and he must now not only search for phrases in his rusty Welsh but also weigh and consider each word.
    The bishop motioned for Owen to be at ease. ‘Presently we shall sit and have some refreshment while we talk of your journey and your mission, but first I would explain my purpose in commanding your presence without the courtesy of allowing you to rest from your journey.’ His voice, soft and with a raspy character, seemed at odds with his appearance. ‘The Duke of Lancaster has spoken highly of your work for him and Archbishop Thoresby. God sent you at a time when I have great need of your talents. We have had a most unfortunate incident today. I do not like to think of it as an omen, but––’
    ‘There was a body.’
    Houghton’s pleasant countenance darkened. ‘Someone told you of it?’
    ‘I heard people discussing it.’
    The bishop relaxed. ‘Of course. I suppose it is to be expected. Well then, as you may have heard, this morning the porter discovered a body without Tower Gate.’
    ‘A violent death?’
    ‘The sort of wound that – well, you must be accustomed to it. I am sure you have heard many theories about why you lost your eye.’
    ‘My sight, my lord. I still have the eye.’ Owen supposed he meant divine retribution for some sin, as with the tale he had heard at the gate.
    Houghton squinted at Owen’s patch. ‘Do you indeed? Well, they would make a moral tale of that, too.’ Heavens but the man jabbered. ‘My clerk will show you the corpse. You can be the judge of the condition of the body.’
    ‘I––’ Owen shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must disappoint you. I am here––’
    ‘As my guest,’ Houghton said in a louder, firmer voice. ‘And representing the Duke of Lancaster. I am quite certain he would expect you to assist me in this.’
    The sudden assumption of his compliance momentarily robbed Owen of speech. Was this to be his lot in life, ever to drop to his knees and sniff out any pests that discomfited the nobility? A clerk appeared behind the bishop – not the same poor, overheated lump of flesh who had shown him in.
    ‘Ifan, this is Captain Archer, a man who has solved many problems such as ours for both the Duke of Lancaster and the Archbishop of York. Show him the poor soul below. I shall await you here.’
    Owen bowed. ‘Your Grace.’
    The young clerk bowed to Owen and motioned for him to follow. They crossed the room, slipped behind a hunt tapestry on the east wall, through a door and down a narrow passage into a tower lit by wall sconces, descending stone steps to an undercroft that echoed as a guard moved from the shadows barking a challenge.
    ‘It is Ifan, with an emissary from the Duke of Lancaster,’ the clerk announced.
    The guard took a good look at Owen, nodded. ‘You may pass.’
    ‘You have had no trouble?’ Ifan asked.
    From whom, Owen wondered, if the victim was dead. Pilgrims staying in the other wing of the palace?
    ‘All is quiet, God help us,’ the guard said.
    The clerk led Owen into a room lit with many candles.
    The warring scents of beeswax, incense, smoke and decaying flesh assailed Owen. ‘He has been dead some days.’
    ‘We have done our best to mask the odour.’
    ‘There is nothing hides that stench.’ Owen approached the well-lit table on which the corpse lay beneath a loose shroud. He