A Gift Of Sanctuary (Owen Archer Book 6) by Robb Candace

Author:Robb, Candace [Robb, Candace]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-01-10T16:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

THE DUKE’S RECEIVER

A fresh wind cooled Owen as he rode towards Cydweli. Below him on his left the marshes shimmered in the afternoon sun, the winter-browned grasses shivering in the wind. In a few months it would be a green sea of grasses loud with birdsong.

Near the mill outside the town, Owen dismounted, ran his fingers through his tangled hair, and tucked his weapons into the pack on his saddle, remembering the gatekeeper’s concern about armed strangers in the town. He felt guilty to have ridden his horse so hard and then to have left him standing in the cold shadow by the south gate, but Owen wished to stop in the tavern before he returned to the castle. And if fortune smiled on him and he won the taverner’s confidence, he would tarry even longer in the town. He hoped to be directed to the house of Roger Aylward, the Duke’s receiver who had been injured defending the exchequer. He wished to hear the man’s own account of the incident that had sent four armed men off to St David’s, John de Reine’s destination. Though it was possible that Aylward, too, would tell a tale to hide the truth, Owen hoped that would not be so.

But first he wished to learn all he could about the receiver. At home, when Owen needed information about townspeople, he slipped next door to the York Tavern. Bess and Tom Merchet heard much while pouring ales and feeding wayfarers. The midwife Magda Digby was also a dependable source of information, as, too, was Owen’s wife Lucie, who heard much – and intuited more – in her apothecary shop. He sorely felt the lack of the four of them at present.

The inn looked much like any other, far less imposing than the York Tavern, but the stone threshold had been polished by the feet of many patrons. Owen ducked through the open doorway, and then beneath beams blackened by years of smoky fires, one of which now burned dully under a rancid-smelling stew. The fare in this tavern was not up to Bess Merchet’s standards, that was certain.

Barefoot, skirt tucked up into her girdle, a young woman knelt on the floor scrubbing a long board that likely served as the top of a trestle table. She glanced up at Owen’s greeting, then scurried up and disappeared into another doorway.

A thin, sour-faced man appeared soon enough, eyeing Owen with cautious curiosity as he set down a tray full of drinking bowls. His sleeves were stained with food and drink.

‘Would you be the taverner?’ Owen asked in Welsh.

‘From the castle, are you?’ the man said in English.

Owen was disappointed. He thought a Welsh taverner might be more co-operative. But perhaps this one would be more impressed by his being one of the Duke’s emissaries. ‘Aye. I am recruiting archers for the Duke.’

The man screwed up his face, nodded. ‘I remember now. Captain of the old Duke’s archers, they say, and from these parts.’ He tilted his head, looked Owen up and down.

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