by Candace Robb
But at the moment she must get her aunt to bed. The poor woman sat with chin on chest, snoring softly. When Lucie waked her, Phillippa clutched her sleeve. ‘How is he? Would you like me to sit with him?’
‘Tildy is with Daimon now.’
Phillippa looked confused. ‘Adam the steward’s son? He is unwell?’
‘Who did you think I sat with, Aunt?’
‘Nicholas. You have not been up with him? Is no one with him?’
Michaelo glanced up from his prayers, gave Lucie a sympathetic look.
Phillippa had come to help Lucie nurse her first husband in his final illness. ‘Nicholas is long dead, Aunt. You are at Freythorpe Hadden. Daimon is your steward.’
‘Of course he is. I knew that,’ Phillippa snapped. She fussed with her crooked, wrinkled wimple.
‘Let us go to bed, Aunt. We have much to do tomorrow. Tildy will take care of Daimon tonight.’
‘She is a good girl, Tildy.’
Phillippa’s calm smile bothered Lucie more than her confusion. Her aunt had been in charge of this house for so many years – it was unnatural for her to smile so after the events of the evening.
As they crossed the hall, Tildy was leaning over Daimon’s pallet, spreading more covers over him.
‘I shall be down here with Dame Phillippa tonight, Tildy. I can hear if you call.’
Tildy nodded, but did not look up from her charge.
Lucie woke towards dawn, surprised that she had fallen asleep. Phillippa was not in her bed. Hurriedly dressing, Lucie ran out into the hall. Tildy dozed in a chair beside Daimon. Michaelo slept on a pallet just out of the light of the fire. Two menservants slept nearby. Harold must be on watch. Lucie checked the chapel. Empty. Where could her aunt be? When Lucie was small her aunt had told her to run into the maze if a stranger frightened her. They would lose themselves among the tall yews, and she would have time to run out the other way. She had spoken of the maze last night. Lucie hurried out into the pale dawn. The smell of damp ashes reminded her of the ruined gatehouse. She paused, cocking her ear. Slowly she walked towards the maze, still listening. As she drew near the entrance, she heard voices from within. Or beyond. She held her breath. As a child she used to stand here, just so, listening for her mother. She felt a chill. The voices grew louder.
‘I promise you, Dame Phillippa,’ Harold was saying. ‘It will be our secret. But you must rest now. The early morning air is not good for you.’
Slowly Harold and Phillippa emerged from the maze, her hand resting on his arm. The sight of her aunt did not comfort Lucie. Her headdress was askew and torn. Her thin white hair fell round her face in greasy strands. Her eyes were large and dark, like those of a cat just in from the night’s hunt. Smudges of dirt on her cheeks and nose matched her crooked, muddy hem. This was not the Phillippa who brought Lucie up.
‘Aunt Phillippa! What has happened?’
‘I fell in the maze,’ Phillippa said, glancing up at Harold.
He nodded. ‘I heard her cry out.’
‘Why were you in the maze?’ Lucie asked.
‘I wanted to see if it is still possible to go through the proper way.’
‘Why would it not be? Just last summer you taught Gwenllian how to find her way through it.’
‘I forgot.’
How much of her forgetfulness was an act, Lucie wondered as she followed the two into the hall. She was thankful Phillippa wished to lie down. Lucie needed a moment to close her eyes and calm her heart.
Six
THE CAPTAIN’S TALE
Owen and Jared climbed out of the valley in which St David’s nestled, a valley so deep that the bell tower of the cathedral was invisible from the sea – indeed from all but the highest hills surrounding the city. They walked slowly, pausing here and there, hoping to trip up clumsy pursuers. Iolo, Sam, Edmund and Tom were scattered about, two ahead, two behind, watching for a ripple behind the bait. At the rocky crest of the ascent Owen felt invigorated by a sharp, salt-laden wind. Gulls shrieked above, waves crashed against the rocks below. Gradually, as the two descended towards the harbour, the rumble and creak of several ships at anchor in the high tide off Porth Clais, the port of St David’s, joined the harmony.
What Owen most needed was to talk to Martin Wirthir, find out what he knew about Cynog, how involved the mason had been in the Lawgoch efforts. When last Owen needed to find Martin Wirthir he had climbed Clegyr Boia, a mound just beyond St David’s walls. Martin had a hiding place within the ruins of the ancient fort atop the mound. Owen doubted that the Fleming would be there now. His friend’s best defence was invisibility and he rarely stayed in one place for long; but he kept a watch on Clegyr Boia so that he might know when someone sought him there. And who it was who sought him. But if Rokelyn’s guards were shadowing Owen, he might lead them to a man they would delight in capturing. It would not make Owen’s life easier, either. How likely was it that Rokelyn would believe Owen and Martin were merely friends, not political cohorts?
So Owen was testing Rokelyn’s word, seeing whether the archdeacon would have him followed to Porth Clais. Then he would know whether he might seek out Martin Wirthir.
Captain Siencyn was not on the waterfront. In fact, it was quiet for such a clear morning. Some fishermen far out at the westernmost edge of the inlet sat on the shingle working on their nets, two children played nearby under the gaze of an old man who avoided Owen’s eye. Not far away, a woman stood quietly, looking out to sea. She wore a heavy cloak, the hood thrown back. Her hair was tightly braided about her head. ‘That is Glynis,’ Jared said. ‘She is rumoured to be the mistress of Piers the Mariner.’
‘God go with you, Mistress,’ Owen said in Welsh, hoping that might put her at ease. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the roar of the sea. ‘Would you know where I might find Captain Siencyn?’
The woman turned round, nodded up the rock face. At first Owen saw nothing, then his eye made out a stone building tucked into a ledge.
‘The path begins just behind you,’ said the woman. She did not wait for his thanks but, picking up her skirts, hurried away towards the fishermen.
‘Seems we have sprouted horns,’ said Jared. ‘The folk were warmer a few days past.’
‘Before I arrived.’
‘Aye,’ Jared said absently. He was staring up the cliff. ‘That cottage? Is that where she pointed us?’ He did not understand Welsh.
‘It is.’ Owen studied the steep, winding path that led to it. Ever since losing the sight in his left eye he had disliked walking narrow ledges. His accuracy in judging depths and distances had improved in ten years, but the doubt remained. When would not quite perfect not be good enough? Why was God so sorely testing him?
‘Captain?’ Jared called down, already halfway up.
Owen began the ascent. The path was not as precarious as it looked from below. It was well worn, with deeply indented footholds. He avoided looking down and, within moments, was on a ledge on which scraggly tufts of grass valiantly stood up against the salty breeze. The cottage seemed a tentative structure, three walls of loosely piled rocks enclosing the hillside, a sod roof sagging above them. Smoke drifted out of the cottage’s low door and numerous chinks in the rocks.
Jared bent, peered in the door. ‘Captain Siencyn,’ he called.
‘Who wants me?’ a man grumbled in reply.
Jared stepped inside. Owen followed.
The room within was faintly lit by a smoky fire and a lantern near the door. Blinking against the smoke and the sudden dimness after the bright daylight without, Owen felt he was a target for anyone whose eyes were adjusted to the gloom. He gradually picked out a large man seated in the middle of the room, bootless feet propped up on a stone so close to the fire it was a wonder his stockings were not scorched. To one side of him lay a large cat, to the other side the remnants of a meal. Behind him stood an incongruous wood-framed, cloth-draped bed. How had he brought it up that path, Owen wondered. Captain Siencyn slowly raised his head, n
odded lazily. The firelight gave his heavy features a menacing look. The frown he cast towards Jared did nothing to soften the effect. Then suddenly he grinned, causing a dramatic transformation. He looked almost boyish.
‘Jared, lad. You have saved me the bother of a journey up, over and down.’ He spoke English, with no Welsh accent. With his Flemish name he was likely from the area round Haverfordwest.
‘Captain Siencyn, this is Captain Owen Archer,’ said Jared, stepping aside.
‘Is it?’ Siencyn thrust his head forward, squinted up at Owen. ‘The patch, aye, they did tell me that about you.’ He shifted his feet from the stone, hooked one foot round a bench nearby, dragged it towards the fire. ‘Sit. I have something to tell you.’
Owen shifted the angle of the short bench so it might still be close to his host, but not so close to the smoky fire. Jared withdrew to the doorway.
Siencyn shook his head at Jared, tucked his feet back up to warm.
‘How soon do we sail?’ Owen asked, bringing Siencyn’s attention back to him.
‘I shall not be sailing,’ said Siencyn. ‘You must find another ship.’
‘You want more money,’ Owen guessed.
The man shook his head. ‘It has naught to do with money. I shall not be sailing for a time.’ He stuck out his chin as if daring Owen to protest.
‘Is this about your brother?’ Owen asked.
Siencyn’s feet hit the floor. ‘Why do you ask about my brother?’
‘He is accused of murder. It is the talk of the city.’
Siencyn sniffed. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper.’
‘I am glad to hear that. Perhaps we can still come to an agreement.’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘You agreed to carry us.’
‘Why should I sail with someone who will not answer my questions?’
‘Archdeacon Rokelyn wants to know why Cynog was executed. But I would rather depart for England.’
Siencyn grunted. ‘Those beady-eyed churchmen. I thought you looked like a man would be no fonder of them than I am. Aye, they have locked Piers away. For want of a scapegoat.’
‘You say your brother is innocent?’
Siencyn smirked. ‘Not a word oft used to describe my brother. But I cannot think why he would hang a man, much less that mason.’
‘Then why did they choose your brother as a scapegoat?’
‘He is a fool for a woman, that is why. But this time a greater fool than usual. He was seen in the dead man’s room a day or two before the hanging.’
‘With Cynog?’
Siencyn snorted, causing the cat to raise its head. ‘Piers was searching Cynog’s room for proof his lady had been with the mason. He would hardly invite Cynog to accompany him.’ Siencyn petted the cat, calming it.
Owen noticed that the man’s hand trembled slightly.
‘Cynog was your brother’s rival?’ Owen asked.
‘He sees all men as such.’
‘But he searched Cynog’s room.’
‘And how many others has he searched without being caught?’
Siencyn’s behaviour struck Owen as inconsistent. Hostile, then co-operative, specific then vague. He slurred the occasional word to give the impression of being in his cups, but his eyes were sharp and his breathing steady. The hand was most likely nerves. ‘So your brother was caught in Cynog’s room. What happened then?’
‘He went off and drank himself into a stupor is what happened then. While the black eye and the bloody nose turned lovely colours. He is subtle, my brother.’
‘Did he prove her untrue?’
‘Nay. And he looked so pitiful she forgave his distrust with a coo and a kiss.’
‘Someone did not forgive him. Someone must have told the archdeacon about your brother’s trespass.’
‘Aye. They say, too, that the murderer tied the noose to the tree with a sailor’s knot, and thus is Piers proved guilty. We are almost surrounded by water here. Is my brother the only sailing man about? Pah.’
‘If Piers did not murder Cynog, who did? Does he know? Does he suspect another?’
Siencyn shook his head. ‘He cannot save himself with that, more’s the pity.’
‘Enemies? Someone who wants him to suffer?’
‘That would be too complicated for simple folk.’
Owen abandoned that thread. ‘Do you have a plan to free Piers?’
‘I might. Meanwhile, I shall not make it worse for him. Rokelyn has forbidden you to leave before you discover Cynog’s murderer. To help you depart would endanger Piers.’
‘You pretended you did not know for whom I was working.’
‘It is wise in such times to test a man’s honesty.’
‘Such times?’
‘Now who is playing the fool? Owain Lawgoch is gathering an army of unhappy Welshmen, financed by the King of France. Any one of you might be traitors to King Edward.’
‘And not you?’
‘King Edward of England welcomed my countrymen to this fair land. Why should I betray him?’
‘Men have their own reasons for supporting such causes.’
‘Treason is punishable by death. To me that is reason enough to avoid it.’ Siencyn squinted at Owen. ‘But mayhap, being Welsh, you see it otherwise.’
‘You tire of my questions,’ Owen said, rising. ‘Send for me if you change your mind.’
‘About treason?’ Siencyn asked with a smirk.
Owen did not intend to be provoked. ‘About sailing,’ he said flatly.
Siencyn laughed. ‘Fare thee well, Captain Archer.’
Jared had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself as they descended to the beach.
Owen had made a mess of that discussion, allowing Siencyn to control it. And more disappointment followed. He had hoped to find Glynis before she conferred with Siencyn, but she was nowhere to be seen and it seemed no one in Porth Clais knew where she was. Some even denied that she had been on the beach earlier.
‘I would wager it is not Piers for whom they are lying,’ Owen muttered as they slogged back up the hill towards St David’s.
Edmund joined them, looking equally disheartened.
‘So what did you see?’ Owen asked, expecting nothing.
‘A vicar played shadow for a time, but returned to the city when you disappeared into the captain’s hut.’
‘Good.’ Some luck at last.
Edmund scratched his head. ‘Good? I thought you would worry.’
‘Rokelyn will know that I am hard at work. Did you recognise the curious vicar?’
‘Simon, secretary to Archdeacon Baldwin,’ said Iolo, who had joined them so silently all three spun round, drawing their daggers. He grinned. ‘I did not think that such bad news.’
Jared cursed him.
Owen paused at the top of the cliff, looking down into the valley of St David’s, remembering the argument he had overheard the previous evening. ‘Why does Archdeacon Baldwin care where I go?’
‘It may have nothing to do with the archdeacon,’ Iolo said. ‘Father Simon is the self-appointed Summoner of St David’s. Bishop Houghton has not bothered to oust him.’
Meaning he watched over the morals of clergy and laity alike. And hence Rokelyn called him a weasel.
Edmund laughed. ‘So he thought to catch you in a tryst with a fair maiden, Captain.’
‘I should be a fool to think that.’ Owen regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. Edmund bowed his head and looked away. An apology might only make it worse. They had reached Patrick’s Gate. ‘Just Father Simon?’ Owen said. ‘No other shadows?’
Iolo and Edmund shook their heads.
‘I am off to talk to Piers the Mariner,’ said Owen. ‘What have you learned about him?’
‘You were right about Rokelyn’s servant,’ said Iolo. ‘Eager to help a countryman. He says Piers was put off a ship for thieving. He swears he was blamed for another’s crime, but no one will hire him. Except his brother.’
‘And now he has been wrongly accused again? He must think himself ill used, indeed.’
‘We have our man, eh?’ Edmund looked hopeful. They all wished to be on their way.
‘That is not the point,’ Owen said, gently this time. ‘Archdeacon Rokelyn wants to know on whose orders Cynog was executed. Find Tom and Sam. See whether any others followed me.’
Piers the Mariner was not in Bishop Houghton’s official gaol – that was in the dungeon of Llawhaden Castle, a hard day’s ride from St David’s. Piers was confined in a windowless room in the undercroft of the east wing of the bishop’s palace. Not a dungeon, then, but a dark, damp, unpleasant place all the same. He looked much like his brother but slighter and shaggier, the latter no doubt the result of his imprisonment. He sat cross-legged in the corner, flipping a spoon from one hand to the other. An oil lamp sat on the floor beside him.
‘I like to see the rats coming,’ he grunted in greeting. In English.
Owen greeted him in Welsh, explained that he wished to help Piers if he was innocent. Piers cursed, again in English.
‘You do not speak Welsh?’ Owen asked, still in his own tongue.
‘Is that why I am here? Because I prefer to speak English? For pity’s sake, I know you can speak English. I have heard of you, you know. You were to take ship home with my brother.’
Owen leaned against the door, judging it the cleanest surface in the cell, crossed his arms.
‘Getting comfortable?’ Piers growled. ‘Shall I send for refreshments?’
Detecting the smell of ale in the noisome mix of sweat, damp, urine and rat, Owen said, ‘You have had some refreshment already, eh?’
‘Father Simon is generous with drink, if naught else.’
‘I thought perhaps your wayward lady had been here.’
‘Wayward? Is she?’ Piers tried to sound indifferent, but failed.