Page 75 of The Road to Avalon
“How do you know him so well?” Archfedd asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “You talk to him like he’s an old friend.”
“He is,” I said. “A very old friend. I’ve known him since he was a boy younger than you.”
We waited quite some time, but it probably felt longer than it was. At last, the door opened and Gildas returned, his long, bony face solemn. He didn’t return to his seat, but stood surveying us out of his pale, hooded eyes. “Father Abbot has agreed to offer sanctuary to both of you. He told me to take you to our church straightaway. He fears your husband will know that you’ve come here to hide.”
I stood up, pushing my chair back across the flagstone floor with a loud scraping. “Come along, Archfedd. The abbot’s right. We’ve no time to lose.”
We followed Gildas, his robes flapping about his long legs as he walked, across the cobbled courtyard to the church at the far end. It was just a low, thatched building with a tiny tower on the top where a bell hung silent, and a rope dangling down by the plank door. A poor building, but probably one Christ himself would have approved of. Legend said he’d come here to Glastonbury as a boy, brought by Joseph of Arimathea. I liked to think that could be true, and that he would have liked what he’d seen.
Gildas pushed open the church door and we went inside, out of the bright summer sun and into a gloomy hall devoid of seating of any kind. Clearly monks either stood up or knelt on the flagstone floor for prayer. At the far end, a low altar, draped with a richly embroidered cloth, stood almost up against the whitewashed walls, and behind it hung a huge wooden cross with the figure of Jesus carved as part of it, stark against the whiteness.
Gildas went up to the altar, and knelt, crossing himself and muttering a short prayer. Archfedd’s fingers also sketched a cross, but I didn’t move. If I’d ever believed in God, I didn’t now, not after what had happened to my sons. What kind of cruel god would let that happen to two innocent young men?
Gildas rose and came back to us. “There’s a small storage room at the back of the church. This way.”
In the shadows to the left of the altar, he pushed open a low, narrow door that even I had to duck to get through. We found ourselves in a stuffy, windowless room barely seven feet square, with a low roof that sloped steeply to the back. Thick dust covered the floor, and in a corner, someone had stacked a pile of lumber and a few dry bundles of thatching reeds.
“I can’t have two women in our church during our services,” Gildas said, with a hint of apology. “By rights, we shouldn’t have women here at all. But Father Jerome insisted you should be allowed to stay. Said you were an exception. So, when we’re at prayer, which is every few hours during the day and night, you’ll need to shut yourselves in here, I’m afraid. Father Jerome was adamant that this was to remain a place of worship free of women during prayer. Wearemonks, after all.”
Archfedd wrinkled her nose. “It’s not very clean.”
He glanced at her. “I’ll have one of the lay brothers come and clean it out for you and bring a couple of pallet beds and some blankets. And lamps. You’ll be supplied with food from our kitchen, but you’ll have to eat in here, alone. It’s the best we can offer.”
It would have to do. I turned toward him, plastering a grateful smile onto my face. “Thank you, Gildas. My daughter and I very much appreciate your help.”
Archfedd remained suspiciously silent.
Chapter Thirty-One
We didn’t havelong to wait before Arthur found our trail. Probably, when he’d discovered our absence, he would have thought at first that we’d gone for a normal, early morning ride. It would have taken half the day, and our lack of reappearance, for him to work out we’d run, but most likely only seconds to decide we’d have headed to Ynys Witrin.
He arrived halfway through the afternoon, accompanied only by Cei. At least he’d had the sense not to bring Medraut.
Two lay brothers had swept out the far-too-hot storage room and killed the family of mice nesting in the bundles of thatch, to my relief. Then they’d carried in two narrow pallet beds and a bundle of blankets, and found two rickety wooden stools for us.
To this unprepossessing collection they’d added a smelly leather bucket, for the “necessaries,” as they called it. Lovely. We’d have to keep that delightful object in our tiny, unventilated room with us throughout every service, and the smell of it was already making me nauseous. Only the thought of having to put my nose closer to it as I bent over put me off throwing up.
By the time Arthur and Cei arrived, we’d already sat through Sext and Nones and our tiny chamber had taken on the strong stench of the bucket as though it never intended to relinquish it.
The door of the church stood open to let in light and some much needed fresh air. Archfedd and I were sitting together just inside, when Arthur and Cei appeared in the open gateway at the far end of the courtyard. Hoping they hadn’t seen us, I yanked Archfedd back into the shadows and she clutched onto me, trembling.
We had a good view of them as they approached the abbot’s office door. They were going to be surprised when they met Gildas in there and not Jerome. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “You’re safe in here. Gildas won’t let them take you back. He’s my friend, not your father’s. In fact, I’m sure he still nurtures a grudge against your father because he killed his brother.”
“Like he killed my brother,” Archfedd muttered, her brow lowering as she scowled. “He seems to make a habit of killing people’s brothers.”
“Gildas’s brother merited having his head cut off,” I said, then regretted it.
Archfedd’s body stiffened. “Practice for what he did to Amhar.”
I refrained from commenting. The door to Gildas’s office opened, and Arthur and Cei went inside. What wouldn’t I give to be a fly on the wall in there.
We waited in the shadows beside the door, the stools now tucked back against the wall out of the way. Could we trust Arthur to honor the law of sanctuary? He was High King, after all, and, as he’d said in justification for Amhar’s execution, he had to be seen to be upholding the law. That thought went a long way to boosting my confidence as I stood peering out, clutching Archfedd’s hand tight in mine.
At last, the door from Gildas’s office opened again, and he came out with Cei and Arthur. They headed our way.
“Further back inside,” I said to Archfedd, suddenly seized by the fear that if they could pull her outside, she’d lose the claim to sanctuary. We retreated toward the altar, still holding hands.
Gildas halted in the oblong of sunlight at the door, holding out his arms to either side to keep Arthur and Cei from entering. “This is far enough. You shouldn’t enter.” His voice held calm authority, and Arthur and Cei didn’t try to push past but stood peering into the gloomy interior, their eyes probably blinded for a moment after the brightness of the day.
